Date: Mon, 31 Jul 2000 05:55:38 -0700 (PDT)
From: Wishus Teglin <teglin@excite.com>
Subject: Three Weeks to Heaven, book 2, chapter 6

Three Weeks to Heaven
Book Two, Chapter Six

by Teglin and Michael
teglin@excite.com

Special thanks to Michael in this Chapter 6.  In a moment of true
inspiration he wrote to me about his vision of Wishus, and his love for
that boy.  I just had to make that the basis for what Teg would say.

FOREWORD:

As with Book One of this story, I am indebted to Ganymede for my
inspiration to write.  His stories remain the best in the boylove genre.  I
wonder how many men have come across one of Ganymede's stories, and found
their innermost feelings and dreams validated, and thereby have come to
embrace their love for boys as the positive good that it is.

And again, this is dedicated to the boy, wherever he may be, who needs
love and care.  In short, dedicated to all boys, anywhere and everywhere.

Copyright 2000 by Teglin.  You may freely copy this boylove romance
and distribute it.  Please have the courtesy not to alter it in any way.


WARNING:

This boylove romance contains descriptions of sexual acts between men and
minor boys.  Their sexual relationships are very important to the story, as
part of their love-making, but it is their spiritual relationship that I
wanted to explore even more, as the very essence of boylove.

If this story is illegal where you are, or for your age, or the concept
of a man/boy relationship offends you, don't read further.



Chapter 6


I took the two high steps up into the coach, then turned through the door
into the long aisle, and surveyed the possibilities.  Most seats were
empty.

It was hot, and even with most of the windows open, the air was stifling.
I hoped they'd get the train moving quickly.

And keep it moving!

When I left Joey and Tonio, a little less than 36 hours ago, I had 600,
maybe 700 miles to travel back to Wishus, and four days to do it in.  I
knew it was impossible.  I might kill a few horses trying, but a trip that
long never goes smoothly.  Remembering his tears, making cold, white trails
down his pale cheeks, and the helpless fear in his eyes, when we parted, I
couldn't bear to disappoint my boy.  I would have indeed tried the
impossible, but a different solution had been brewing in my mind for
several days now.

One good way to get by an insurmountable obstacle.  Go around it.  So I
nearly rode my horse into the ground going north, instead of west.  North
to a railhead, in Kansas.  Got to Wichita by the next evening.  Had to idle
away 12 seemingly interminable hours waiting for the next train west.
Every minute of that wait, I wondered, was I doing the right thing?  If I
had gone the other way, I would at least be doing something!

Oh man, when that train pulled in, I was a bundle of raw nerves.  I sprang
up, rushed to oversee the loading of my horse into the stock car, made sure
he would have what he needed to recover from my rough treatment, and then
strode in unnecessary giant steps to the passenger coach.

Now, seeing the insides of the coach, I realized I had more interminable,
idle hours on my hand.  This was going to be pure torture.

No boys.  That was my first observation, as always in any new situation.
Look for the boys.  If there's a boy present, I want to be near him.  I
want to see him, hear him, joy of joys - talk with him!  Draw strength from
him.  Feed upon his spirit to get me through the long hours.

No boy.  If anyone saw me, they must have noticed the grim set to my lips,
and the deep intake of my breath.

Hmmh, two days of non-stop chatter and gossip with that schoolmarm-ish
looking lady on the right?  I could sit near her for company.  No doubt
she'd welcome it too.

I wasn't feeling generous.  Nobody was on the southern side.  Too much sun,
I supposed.  So I strode beyond the schoolmarm, up about three rows, to a
completely empty section, threw my saddle bags down, and sat on the right
side near the window.  No one nearer than her, no one to share in my
misery.

The coach lurched, then started silently forward, seemingly detached from
the iron-horse up in the front of the train.  I felt just as isolated.  I
was jittery, nervous, fearful.  I just couldn't let Wishus down!

This was not like me.  I'm usually not mean-spirited or nervous.  One makes
his choices in life, then lives with them.  I had to leave Wishus to go
after Joey.  Now I had to make this circuitous, but most likely to succeed,
route back to him.  So be it.

Calm down Teg.  Your boy will be ok.  He IS ok.  It won't be a crime if
you're one day late. Or two or three.

Ok.  Two full days to go.  Twenty-four hours on this train to the Mogollon.
One day in the saddle, back to the Valley.  It could be done.  It must be
done!


------------------------


Wishus felt his hardness, and the tingling need centered in his groin, even
before he felt the sharp pang of hunger in his stomach.

Oh God!  He felt good!

It was morning again!  A bright, clear morning, by the looks of it, through
the chink in his rock slab-covered door.  Later than he usually awoke.  For
some reason he had gotten such a good sleep!

Blindly he swept his palm across the underside of his little dick, then
grasped it and squeezed hard.  It resisted with all its blood-filled
tumescent strength.  The electric sensations swept through him.  He smiled,
breathed deep of the body- warmed air inside his enclosed tower, then
sprang up.  He looked down and giggled, watching his little penis flip up
and down wildly for a moment, then coming to rest at attention!

`Ok, I'll take care of you in a minute!  Hold on!  First we have to get
something to eat.  I've never been this hungry!"

He felt the hunger actually feeding his strength, rather than a draining
it, as it had a couple of days ago.  He knew the reason.  All day
yesterday, he had sat down by the pond, where Teg and he had played.  Going
over and over in his head all the possibilities.  In the end he was just as
certain as ever he could be, that Teg was on his way here even now.  That
it didn't matter whether it was three weeks already, or one day to go, or
two days over!  Teg would get here.

He had taken a quick plunge in the cold waters of the pond.  That
invigorated his body.  He had even caught a fish in the stream!  His
fishing pole was burned along with the cabin, and the string, but suddenly
it had dawned on him - why couldn't he wait just where Teg had taught him
to put the hook?  Dang if it hadn't worked!  He had flipped a very nice
sized trout right out onto the bank.

He made a mess cleaning the fish, and lopping off the head.  Then, perhaps
he wasn't going to win any awards for cooking, but the two charred slabs of
white, flaky meat had tasted better than any meal in his life.

He was suddenly just so filled with hope, and he felt so strong and clean.
He had his first erection in two days too!  Quickly he had headed back up
to his tower, closed himself into his room, sought the bed, and lost
himself into the familiar dream of making love with his man.  A vision of
Teg's mighty penis hovering stiff and potent over his body, was his last
memory of the night, before drifting off to sleep.

One look at his grocery supplies and he knew that this was the day.  No way
he was going to go back down to the Valley and wait patiently for another
fish to wander into his hands!  He still had the two cans of tomatoes, and
the grimy can of salt pork.  All three were destined for his stomach, right
now!

The tomatoes first.  Squatting next to the slab of rock that he called his
kitchen, he took one of the swollen cans, and placed his knife point right
on the top.  Gingerly he pounded the handle with his balled up fist.  Gas
suddenly spewed from the vent.  He fell back in alarm.  None of the other
food cans had greeted him like that.

He raised one brow in surprise.  The smell that wafted to his nose was
sweet!  His mouth watered.  He hadn't tasted anything really sweet in ages!
Were tomatoes sweet?  Not to his recollection.  But these apparently were.
Kind of .  sickeningly sweet, actually.

Getting back up on the balls of his feet, he started carefully edging
around the lid, to remove it.  Halfway around he pried it up, and there was
his feast.  Succulent, brownish red globes of tender tomatoes, in a rather
gooey looking juice.

Gingerly he dipped one index finger into the sauce, and brought it to his
tongue.  It was indeed sweet.  Pretty overpoweringly sweet!  A bit pungent
too.  He shook his head involuntarily as the scent wafted up into his
nostrils and his sinuses.  Not quite the taste of tomatoes, as he
remembered them, but ..

Wishus plunged his fingers back into the can and brought out a dripping
chunk and plopped it directly into his mouth.  Food!  Forget the taste!  It
was food, glorious food.  Ravenously he practically sucked the rest of the
can into his gullet, hardly bothering to chew.  Just feeling the most
richness, the tangy sweetness, overcoming his senses, filled him with such
inner satisfaction!

Quickly he repeated the whole process and downed the second can completely.

His stomach gurgled.  It was a pleasant, fulfilled sort of gurgle however,
but he suspected it meant he was going to have some gas later on!  He
giggled again, feeling on top of his world.  Teg was on his way back, he
had a full belly - at least it was getting full!

One more can.  The salt pork.

He eyed it somewhat more suspiciously.  That moldy growth around the lid
had bothered him for several days, but what the heck.  He had heard Auntie
one day saying that a little mold never hurt anyone.

He stood up, wondering for a moment - did he really need to eat that can
right now?  He arched his back, throwing his hands up in the air, and
stretched.  Oh how he felt so good!  The sun drenched his body in it's
life-giving rays, but it was still early enough in the morning that it
wasn't too hot.

He could feel his dick growing hard again, as if it was being fed the vital
juices from his newly filled tummy.  He fingered it gently, pressing his
hooded glans between the pads of his thumb and middle finger.

Should he?  Right here and now?  Another jackoff, just standing right here
in the glorious sun, kind of like in thanks for such a good morning?!

Then he felt the rumble in his stomach again.  Hmmh.  Dick.  Stomach.
Dick.  Stomach.

Oh what the heck!  He could have another great cum right after eating that
pork!

Squatting over his cutting slab again, he examined his last remaining can.
First step, get rid of that mold!  He half turned his body, still balancing
on the balls of his feet, and rolled and scraped the edge of the can in the
dirt.  He pressed hard, to get it clean.  It dug into the dry, packed floor
of his porch, and a chunk of the caked dirt flaked up.

"What's this?" he murmured, espying something buried there in the dirt,
just below the surface.  It was rounded, smooth, and had a soft, orangish
color to it.  He dug at it, still using the can, then reached for the
knife.  Carefully, he pried the object up, and saw that it was a small,
polished stone, about the size of the tip of his little finger, and there
was a hole bored through it.  Like a bead, to make a ..

Wishus stopped.  He felt stunned.  He had just pried up something precious.
He knew it!  Something from the Shaman who had once lived here!  Something
magical perhaps.  Well, at the very least, something priceless because it
did come from whoever used to live here!

He cupped the little polished orb in his palm.  The color almost blended
with his flesh, it was so soft in tone!  Not quite orange.  More like
. like the coral color that he used to see back East.  Like the beads made
from the coral, that grew in the ocean off the East Coast!  Tenderly, he
brushed it free of all the dirt.  Then he wet his thumb, and washed the
little gem.  It was perfectly smooth.  Polished smooth, of that he had no
doubt.  It gleamed softly in the direct sunlight, not reflecting back
glaringly, but soaking in the sunlight, and somehow . oh, he didn't know
how to describe it, but it was just so beautiful.  It really must have been
treasured by his Shaman.

Were there more treasures like this buried here?  He carefully took the
knife again, and started digging deeper, and all around the spot where he
had found the bead.  The earth yielded easily, revealing several more
little globes of color.  Some were not coral, but lighter-colored, like
ivory.  Each one he pulled out was much like the others.  Polished,
rounded, with a hole bored through.

For a necklace, he knew.  The Shaman had once wore these beads around his
neck, or his wrist, as a bracelet.  Why had he dropped them here?  Why had
they lain here through the long years, buried?  Why had he found them now?
It was indeed, almost magical.  Mysterious.  As if he were meant to hold
this can just so, and dig it into the soil just so, just here!

Wishus felt so excited.  He forgot all about eating, or even about jacking
off, but as he dug for more of the little stones, his little penis still
stood out hard and erect from his body.  He squatted like that for half an
hour, digging and thrilling to the discovery of each of the priceless orbs.
He knew what he had to do.  He was going to make a necklace too!  He was
going to wear it, and feel all it's magical power.  It was like a promise
from the ancient Shaman.  Like a wonderful reward for him, to make it
through all the days after the fire, to be here for Teg, when he returned!



------------------------



Two hours closer to Wishus, maybe 24 more to go on this train.  I sat like
stone, staring out the window.  Feeling aroused.

Feeling guilty.

I was getting closer to him, and images kept flicking into my mind.  One
moment I smelt his hair.  The next I felt his hand in mine.  The next, I
let my tongue rest so lightly against the tip of his tightly puckered
foreskin opening, and tasted him.

I wondered, was I just horny?  Was it right that all I could think of now
was his flesh?

The images returned time and again.  I fell into them, day dreaming the
minutes away.  Each time, I pulled back from the dream, into the real
world, wondering.  Was I returning only so I could once again taste my
boy's flesh?

My boy!  What did that really mean?

I would return.  I would take up residence near the Knight's farm, so that
on occasion I would be in Wishus' presence.  So I would always be near, if
he needed me.  So on occasion we could . make love.

Would that be enough?  For him?  For me?

Another hour passed, along with mile after mile of empty prairie lands.
There was nothing to mark the progress, nothing to lend me assurance that I
was truly on my way back to Wishus.  Truly going back, for him.

For him.  For me?  How could I doubt what we had?  How could I doubt what I
could offer him?  How could I doubt what he meant to me?

Did I doubt?

Time.  Like the endless time of this journey.  That's what we needed, time
to understand what we would mean to each other.

NO!  Forget all that.  You already know, Teg!  Forget the doubts.  Don't
let society's restrictions, or unearned guilt, stand in the way.

Think of his flesh!  Revel in thoughts of his flesh!!  Realize what his
flesh means, and is.

His hand in mine.  Softness.  Tenderness.  Each small digit unmuscled,
unroughened by work.  Miniature.  A complex thing of beauty.  Why does it
excite me?  How does it excite me?  It wants to be held.  Needs to feel my
stronger, work-hardened grasp.  It offers innocently, aware of my strength,
but totally unafraid.  I hold it, and pass to him some of my strength,
safeguarding him, nurturing him.  We form a union.  Just the touch of
flesh?  Merely a stimulus to make me hard?  No, oh so much more.  And
that's why I do indeed become hard.

More time passed. My doubts gave way.  The long hours, the long miles were
no longer torture.

As if in a dream, I turned half-sideways in my seat and called quietly
across the intervening seats, "Ma'am?  May I ..  Teglin's the name, ma'am."
I nodded to her, as the schoolmarm looked at me in surprise.

I saw how pleasantly surprised she was, probably hoping for some
companionship.  Her eyes opened wide, pleasant and expectant, then she must
have sensed my need, sensed that some great or unusual mood or emotion had
overcome me.  Her eyebrows shot up, questioningly.  Yet she smiled still,
willing to help, sensing I needed some form of help.

I felt like my eyes must have been glazed over, so inwardly focussed was I
at that moment.  I felt this burning need to complete a task.  I had to
somehow permanently record what I was feeling, what I had learned, sitting
here hour after hour in this train.

"Ma'am, may I ask if you have some paper, perhaps a pen and ink, that I
might borrow.  I need .."

I paused.  How to express what I needed to do, to this stranger?  I need to
write down why I exist!  I need to define love.  I need to write about a
boy!

She understood already.  Must have been my crazed look!  "No need to
explain, Mr. Teglin," she waved me silent, and started rummaging in her
things.  "I do have exactly what you need, and you're welcome to it.  I
fully understand.  I truly do.  These daunting miles offer a lot of time to
think, don't they?"

"They surely do, ma'am."

I gratefully took the paper and pen as she handed the forward.  I hoped I
gave her a sufficient smile of thanks.  "I really want to thank you, ma'am.
This is ... well, I'll be able to repay you at the first major stop, I
hope."

"Think nothing of it, Mr. Teglin.  Go ahead, get your thoughts on paper
while these lonely, quiet miles cooperate with you."

I nodded again, tried to smile my thanks again, then turned back to the
task.

At first I held the pen hovering motionlessly over the paper, then finally
it just flowed, and flowed.


My Wishus,

A poet named Elizabeth Browning once wrote to her beloved., `How do I love
thee?  Let me count the ways.'

Oh Dear Wishus, I'm no poet, but just now, feeling so far away from you,
and desperate to be by your side, I dare to take up Mrs. Browning's
challenge, and ask : How?  Why do I love thee?  Surely, in the answers, I
will feel you drawing closer, till next time I hold you in my arms

I see you, Wishus. I witness beauty, defined, In your presence, I feel the
divine.  I touch you, and my devotion begins.  Each spot of your body is a
shrine.  I can't imagine a single spot that I would not like to hold and
kiss through eternity.

I love your green eyes with those golden flecks, so deep that I can look in
them forever, bathing in their verdant richness, feeling forever refreshed.
I love your almost transparent, silver-gilt eyelashes, long and dainty, oh
so elegant, below your silken eyebrows.  Both like fine settings for the
treasures within.  What did I see first, Wishus?  Your hair, the line of
your shoulders?  Perhaps those first, but forever will I return to your
eyes, for one more glimpse into the goodness and love shining there.

I love your golden-blonde tresses, sun-drenched into a cascade of many
colors, yet each alone, and altogether - pure gold!  I love to bury my face
deep into your hair, smelling your scent, and feeling as if I were able to
sink into your body.  With every turn of your head, with every motion of
your body, your tresses bounce and float and whirl, the living material of
your energy.  I follow them almost hypnotically, each scyntillant curl,
each golden strand.  Whether you're at rest or play, I can see your moods
in your lovely, golden hair.

Your sweet little nose!  I laugh!!  Like your ears, so childlike still in
form.  You are indeed still a child.  Touched by sadness, even tragedy, yet
untouched by bitterness or reproach.

Your wet, red lips.  Your eyes close, and I seek your pursed lips as the
new focus of my being.  We kiss, and I join with your godhood.  I taste
your lips with my tongue, feel their smoothness and softness, and feel your
tongue, rougher, probing, yet pliant, seek mine.  We kiss - we exchange the
very fluids within our bodies, knowing such an intimacy that only true love
can grant.

Yes, those wet, red lips, forming into a smile, or a plaintive frown.  The
one is a glorious reward, perhaps for something I've done!  The other is a
reward too, for when you show me your sadness I know you trust me to help.
Through those lips comes the sweet music of your voice.  I remember still
when you first told me your name, and so soft, light, and lilting was your
voice that it might have been the breeze.  Oh Wishus, through your lips,
you breathe, and sustain life for us both.

I laugh again!  I love your precious little ears, my playthings.  I can
kiss them, trace their whorls with the tip of my tongue, or chew ravenously
on your delicate lobes!  You laugh too!  Your ears are like magic, for I've
found that I can whisper directly into them, telling you how I love you so,
and suddenly you'll turn your face toward me, kiss my lips, hold me so
closely, and murmur softly, with your flute-like voice: "I love you too".

Eyes, nose, lips, chin . hair . I could rhapsodize about each finely
sculpted part of your fair visage, but how wondrous is the art of the gods
when altogether I behold the face of Beauty.

Your perfection is expressed in so many forms, Wishus.  My God how I see it
your beautiful little hands! Pale-pink nails, fingers so thin that it seems
that there are no bones inside, yet filled with strength!  I always marvel
at your hands, miniature versions of mine in form, but so soft and tender.
Able to impale a cricket upon a fishhook, yet just as capable of giving me
a caress.  I love your soft palms, traced with fine lines.  Palms shaped
just right to fit in mine, or to so softly cup my manhood as we make love.
Palms, fingers, capable of drawing my hands to cup your little manhood too.

I love your arms and your shoulders, so classically wrought.  Smooth and
long, rounded by the grace of youth, not yet burdened by muscles, or work.
Still a boy's arms and shoulders, to be held in a man's protective embrace.
Then I can lift your arms, and find that secret, hidden place, those
ultra-sensitive little caves under your shoulders, where I can tickle you
to tears (would I do that!?) or breathe in your boyscent.  That you will
sometimes let me dwell there shows your trust for me, and your love, your
willingness to be known by me, as by no other.

How I love to hold you by your shoulders, and let my hands slide down your
back, feeling the jutting ridge of your shoulder blades.  Or I pull them
forward, and trace the lines of your collar bones.  It's here, along with
your little hands and feet, and wrists and ankles, that I can actually feel
your little frame.  Someday as I hold you there, I'll feel how you've
grown.  Will it thrill me any less, to have been with you through all the
years to come?  To have been part of your nourishment?  To have fed your
growth?

Just as sensitive as your armpits, are your precious little nipples, that
get erect every time I kiss them.  Sure, I tickle there, and along your
sides where each of your ribs can be traced, or on your taut little tummy,
but it's not your giggles that I love so much as the glaze that comes over
your eyes when I caress you there instead! Your chest, your tummy, must be
connected to some nerve centers deep within you, because when I run my
palm, or my lips . or my tongue . there, you arch your back, your neck juts
up, your head goes back, your eyes roll up, your eyelids flutter
involuntarily . you begin to moan.  Your nipples are almost like your
little penis!  Not as true in becoming so hard and rigid, as a symbol of
your love, but a sure sign of each thrill you feel, and of the passion that
steals over you when we are together.

It's a wonder to me, than when I closely examine your pinkish-coral colored
aureola, it's almost like looking within your body, so thin and delicate is
your skin there.  I see the blue of your veins as if through a window.

In the same way, I can slide my gaze down, down, to your navel, and see
there remains of veins that once linked you to your mom.  I love the little
remnant of baby fat around your navel - a cushion for my head as I worship
below, or above.

I love to lay also with my head on your chest, because when I put my ear
close to it, I can hear your heart. If I do this when you are deep in your
sleep, in the quiet of night, I can hear the very passage of air into and
out of your lungs, then I can breath it in to my own..

I love your back, with skin so smooth and silky, long and flat, firm with
your young muscles, the whole white expanse divided in the middle where I
can see and feel your very vertebra.  The curve of your back, from your
shoulders, down, down and in, and then out to the two little dimples over
your buttocks!  Designed by the gods for your man's embrace!  The broad
expanse of your back narrows to your waist and your boyish hips, every
contour and line so fluid and graceful that it would defy measure.

I love when you lie on your stomach.  I imagine someday you'll let me rest
my head in the arch of your back.  There I will gaze down your body,
towards your legs.  Your buttocks will look as if they were hills,
perfectly rounded and formed.  Designed by the gods, to be sure.  If ever
there is a temple to boylove, it should be patterned after the form of your
buttocks.  All the more fitting, because of the inner sanctum hidden
between your cheeks.

Perhaps as I lie there, your little bottom will become chilled, and I will
warm them with my caress.  Softness.  That's what I will feel.  Your bottom
represents all your softness.  There's something on the other side that
grows hard and mighty and strong - your bottom will always remain
infinitely soft to my touch.

I lift my head, and see beyond your buttocks.  Your strong thighs, the bend
of your knees, your sleek calves.  All so utterly smooth, and covered in
the most delightful, tiny, thin and delicate whitish blonde hairs!  They
reflect the sunlight only when I see them at just the perfect angle.
They're so long!  Some as much as a quarter of an inch long, yet invisible
to they eye when not backlit by the sun, or the glow of a nighttime fire.
There's some powerful aphrodisiac in those hidden hairs that cover your
legs, and your arms!  I can't define it yet.  Perhaps symbols, like your
erect penis, of your manhood?  I just know that I love to feel them.  I can
close my eyes and feel the softness of the skin over your legs, and just
the angel's breath hint of all those little hairs.

I love your ankles, because they are so thin that I can close my thumb and
middle finger around you there, and I'm reminded how small and fragile you
are.  Mine to cherish, hold, protect, provide for.

I love your little feet.  If the human foot is Nature's masterpiece of
delicacy and complexity, combined with such enduring strength, then your
feet are the mold which the gods use for us all.  Such cute, long and
slender toes and pink nails!  I want to pay homage to your feet.  I imagine
licking the sensitive skin of your soles, especially along your arch.
You'll probably giggle, and unlimber your little toes!  You'll wriggle them
around and separate them - easy targets for my probing tongue.  I'll cup
your heels in my palm, as I make love to your feet, feeling so close to
you, because this, my Wishus, is my rightful place!  At you feet!  Serving
you through time.  It is what I live fore.  It is why I am here on this
Earth.

Your feet . they bring you to me, whenever we are separated.  Here's a
promise.  Whenever you are at rest, or whenever I can do so without
disturbing your purpose, I'll kiss and caress and care for your feet, in
appreciation.

Oh!! I'm sure you're asking, why has Teg roamed over my whole body, telling
me how and why he loves me there, yet he has skipped over my little peepee?
He seems to take such pleasure there!

I answer simply enough.  We are talking about the center of my universe,
after all.  Your penis, and all that's hidden there below.  Hidden from all
other eyes but mine.  Treasures known only to me, and given by you, freely.

I do love your little penis, Wishus.  You know I do!  There are so many
reasons.  The perfect and undeniable and never to be doubted symbol of your
love for me.  When it becomes hard I know you are thinking of me, wanting
me.  Whether hard or soft, I love it because this is the part of your body
that can give you the greatest pleasure.

I love when your dick is at rest.  It looks so fragile.  Soft beyond
description, but I'll try to describe that softness anyway.  Soft like your
voice?  I mean so feathery light, velvet?  Soft like air - is there
substance to the smoothness of the skin that covers your inch long shaft?
Or of the foreskin?  So soft that it molds itself to the contours of your
glans, within?  Then that foreskin hangs down beyond, and tapers to close -
infinitely soft, yet still unyielding in its strength, protecting,
covering.

Then when your little penis is erect!  Still it's soft!  Your skin
literally glides over the tumescent flesh beneath!  And stretches to
contain your hardness - your foreskin looks like it will burst over the
swell of your glans.  Hard!  Yet so soft!  What a wonder is your erect
penis!  Virile, pointing up and out so straight, pulsing with your hot
blood.  I love the way you flex it and it slaps against your pubis.  Then
it stands at attention, your taut muscles holding it pointing up towards
the sun, just at an angle off your body, unlike mine, which points heavily
straight out.  Your youth, compared to my manly pride - we make a perfect
combination of expectation and realization of all that it is to be
gloriously male!

You've always been hard for me, Wishus.  Swelled with desire.  I'm going to
catch you unawares, whenever I can, take your flaccid little member in my
hands or mouth, then feel it being filled with blood that just left your
heart, metamorphosing from the most fragile thing on Earth into the solid
symbol of boyhood. I want to see your long, pink foreskin, looking rough
and wrinkled on the outside, as your tool expands within, then try to slip
my tongue in between it's silken smooth inside, and your glans.

I've just had a peek at your glans.  Your foreskin protects it still.  I've
seen that it can be engorged and purple with rage, as it peeks out the
tight enclosure of your frenar band when I jack you off.  I'd love to see
it pink and glistening too, when not so excited.  Someday I'll be able to
pull your foreskin all the way back over your dickhead, like I'm undressing
you again.  It's surface will be slick, mirrorlike, and sensitive beyond
your wildest dreams!

I can picture it.  That lovely spot where the retracted foreskin creates a
"V", at the bottom side of your penis, around the frenum. This will be the
most sensitive spot on your whole body, with millions of points of
pleasure. I will be able to drive you to orgasm just by touching you there
with the tip of my tongue.

I love your piss-slit!  Just at the tip of your dick head.  Even now I can
pull your foreskin back that far, and squeeze gently - your slit opens a
little, allowing me to look inside your urethra, and it feels like I am
looking into your little body.

If the skin of your dick is lighter than air to the touch, then how could I
possibly even sense the magical softness of your ballsac?  What a marvelous
little appendage, pliant, retractable, expandable, surrounding the two
precious little ovals inside.  I love to knead this flesh, to pull and push
and stretch and scrunch it into any shape - unless you become excited . or
cold!  Haha!  Remember when we jumped into the pond?  The magical flesh of
your scrotum tightened into a hard little protective shell, pushing your
balls high up into your body to keep them warm.  Yeah, I think your ballsac
has a mind of its own.  I'll bet I could warm it with my lips and my
tongue, and coax it into dangling down again, loose and vulnerable.

When your sac is pulled up taut and wrinkly, it's easy to see the little
ridge which divides it into two parts. It's like a trail of raised skin,
which actually starts under your frenum, goes down under your dick, across
your ballsac and leads directly to your anus.  This narrow ridge, sometimes
so faint, white and pink, can become rigid and aroused, and flare to a
reddened color, when I rub it.  I want to move my tongue and my lips slowly
along this path, to follow it, lick it, love it, all the way below your
ballsac, to your perineum.  I'll press there, harder, Wishus, and massage
you to ecstasy.  The pale, pinkish white skin there, which never sees the
light, will so slowly give way to the more rosy, then slightly brownish,
corrugated skin around your anus.  Another of Nature's marvels.  So many
tiny nerve centers there, as if calling to my finger tip, or my tongue, to
home in there ..

My home!  Your buttocks do hide my home.  I want to live there, bury my
face there.  Enter you there.  How do I explain that!?  I can't.  Yet..

How to explain that what most people think of as dirty, I think of as
almost holy?

Part of it is that you open yourself there to only me, Wishus.  It is a
hidden place, private . except to me.  The scent that I smell there, is for
me alone.  Pungent.  Musty, even when you've just washed.  It's the
sweetest of perfumes, intoxicating, intimate.  And the taste . again, for
me, alone.  The skin around your anus is slick and soft, secreting your
special lubricant mucous..  I want to taste it, as I would want to drink of
the most priceless elixir.  I can only imagine now, but what if I probed,
to loosen and separate the folds of your skin there, leading down,
funneling down, into your body!  Someday I wish to enter there .  with my
tongue, with my . well, some things I cannot write of . yet.  There are
some things you and I have yet to learn, about love.  Perhaps I can simply
make another promise now, dearest: at your secret, private opening, someday
we'll learn how to join in that union we have spoken of.

Your body.  My temple.  What I've written here is like my prayerbook,
Wishus.  I hope you realize now what loving your flesh means to me.  I'm
going to read this to you when we next meet, and again, and again, through
the years, as a reminder.  I'll sing my devotions again, whenever I might
seek to renew my vows to you.  Perhaps it will also serve to remind you of
my love, any time you feel lost or lonely or afraid, as I do now.

Your Teg


------------------------



The two strands of coral and pearl beads lay stretched upon the wide, flat
stone that Wishus often used as his table.  He stared at them in wonder.

He'd done it!

How painstakingly he had unraveled threads from his bedraggled nightgown,
rolled them together into long strands, then carefully strung the beads.
He had measured the diameter of his neck, and made one strand twice as long
for Teg.  There had been just enough beads . as if indeed, the Shaman of
the Tower had left them here for this very purpose.

Time had stood still as he worked - almost.  Only the occasionally rumbling
in his tummy, and the creeping shadow of the canyon wall across his porch,
had marked the time.  Now, to his amazement, he judged it to be
mid-afternoon.

At first he had felt full and completely satisfied with his morning meal.
Then the gurglings started in his stomach.  It was such a strange feeling,
at moments making him feel bloated and satiated, at others making him feel
hungry again.  Nothing to intrude upon his task at hand, though.

Now he took the shorter of the two strands, and held it draped across his
palm.  He felt like he should somehow mark this moment - the moment when he
put it around his neck.

"Ok now," he uttered aloud, rudely breaking the total silence in his
canyon.  The sound shocked him, seeming out of place somehow.  He stood,
looking about as if someone might have been disturbed, then walked to the
brink of the porch.  Below was the rest of his city, and the sweep of the
forested canyon below, to the small stream at the very bottom.

He felt so alive!  For days now he had gone nude, but for his crude leather
moccasins.  He hadn't even put those on this morning.  So he stood there,
the very center of his private world, tall, sleek, browned from head to toe
by days in the sun.  Naked to the universe!  Nothing hidden.  Proud.

More softly now, just above a whisper, he incanted words drawn from deep in
his soul, "Teg, I made these necklaces as symbols of our love for each
other.  I'm going to fasten these beads around my neck now." He draped the
strand below his chin and pulled it up tight around his neck, like the
chokers his mom used to wear.  That was the look he wanted, the look of
possession, of captivity.  Of being held, claimed.

"This means that I am yours forever, Teg," he said, as he finished tying
the knot to hold the strand in place.

He looked off towards the East, towards the far wall of the canyon, BEYOND
the far wall, trying to summon up the image of Teg riding towards him even
now.  Raising his hands in supplication, his voice rising now too,
plaintively, yet still not tearful, as it had been on days past, he begged,
"Wherever you are now, Teg, please hurry to m .."

The pain hit him like a sledge hammer, right in his tummy.  It took his
very breath away, in its intensity.  He doubled over instantly, even as his
knees began to collapse.  He had just enough sense to reach out one hand
steady himself, or he would have tumbled down the ledge onto the roof of
the dwelling below.  His other hand clutched vainly at his stomach.

He wanted to scream out, it felt so bad.  Like nothing he had ever felt
before!  The pain wrenched at his insides, tearing at him.  Then he felt it
rising, the bile seeking escape.

"Oh, Teg, I .," he tried to plead through clenched teeth, but his stomach
convulsed, and retched, and he could only steady himself on both trembling
arms over the edge of the ledge and let the sickening poisonous mix from
his stomach spew up into his mouth and nostrils and out in a stinking,
reddish stream.

The awful stink and the wretched filth made him pull back on trembling
limbs.  He crawled, barely able to prop himself up.  It was as if his very
life force had spewed out with the vomit, and he felt suddenly so weak.
And afraid ....

Surely, if he could ... just make it ... into the Tower, to lay down ....

Again he felt the bile rising, and didn't even have time to scramble back
to the lip of the ledge - the filth shot out and he felt the muscles inside
his stomach tightening and convulsing.  It hurt so bad!

He wanted to scream out against the pain, but all he could manage was a
weak little moan.  His forearms collapsed and he fell into his own vomit.
He just lay there, eyes wide open in abject terror, staring off to the
east, unable to move.

All he could think of suddenly, was an image of Teg riding back down the
trail into the valley, to find nothing but emptiness.

`I'm going to die,' he suddenly knew, with certainty.  He had never felt
any pain remotely like this.  `Teg's going to come for me, but I won't be
here for him.'

In agony, he collapsed completely onto the dry dust of his Tower porch, and
feebly cried into the dirt.


------------------------


With my Ode to Wishus carefully folded and tucked away in my vest pocket,
over my heart, I should have felt a lot better.  Several hours well spent,
and now it was apparently mid-afternoon.  A few more hours had passed,
bringing me that much closer to my boy.

In fact I was feeling pretty self-satisfied, when ... something just came
over me.  Something tugged at my consciousness.  Something worried me.
Some presentiment of doom.  I wasn't where I needed to be, damnit!  Somehow
I just knew that Wishus needed me right now ...and I wasn't there for him.

I wanted to stand.  Shout.  Scream out my frustration.  My muscles tensed
for it, but I sat like stone.  There was no use in that.  I wanted to cry,
tear the arm rest from my bench, smash out the window next to me.  Yeah,
that would accomplish a lot too.

I breathed deeply and clenched the arm rest instead, seeking to release my
useless tension.

`I'm coming, Wishus!  I'll be there ... soon.  Please, please, hold out
till then, dearest!'