Date: Tue, 14 Nov 2006 16:30:39 -0600
From: Timothy Stillman <comewinter@earthlink.net>
Subject: Timmy's Been a Bad Boy

			 "Timmy's Been a Bad Boy"

				    by

			     Timothy Stillman



(for S. and M., fine writers, kind friends, who never fail to help me
raise a smile,  this story is warmly dedicated)

"Timmy's been a bad boy," he told me, eyes downcast. His chin poked
down into his neck. His blonde hair was askew, forelocks fallen over his
eyes. He stood inside my door, and traced the toes of his Keds around the
carpeting in a semi-circle. He was wearing a light gray jacket, blue
jeans, and red cambric winter shirt. He had snow on his shoulders. He was
like a limp coat hanger. He breathed heavily. Then sighed.

"I'm here to take my medicine." And he tried to look up, brushed the
hair out of his eyes that were dark brown. He was the most beautiful
entity in a world of fools who could not see how wonderful and rare a boy
he was. He was the day inside himself. He was not aware of his beauty.
The crystal face. The dagger shaped chin. The full mouth that looked
especially kissable on a boy his age.

I put my hands on his little shoulders. I felt his warmth. I looked at
the snow through the glass door. It was really coming down now. Soft and
thick flaked. Later today, we would go out into the gray/blue day and
make a snowman. But now, Timmy needed me. My name is Clare. I am
eighteen. Timmy is 13. And younger looking than that. He has a kind of
milk taste to him. He looks as always forlorn. He has not had a happy
life. Till, he says, he found me. He is British and I am Australian. I
love him and he loves me.

So I say, in mocking terminology, "And just what has little Timmy done
today? Thrown a snowball at the preacher? Built a snow penis in the lawn
of the class prude? What, Timmy?"

"Just^×" and he sighed again, and he rubbed his hand over his crotch. I
took that as a sign he wanted the front door closed. After closing it, I
turned to him, and said, "I guess we need a spanking, don't we?"

"I guess^×so^× sir" he said, and his lower lip was a trembleo. And the
music was little Timmy. I knelt to him and looked up at his face. His
eyes were closed. He took this far too seriously, though I would have him
happier soon. There was a tear coming from his left eye. I held it on my
hand and touched it to my tongue. It tasted pure and cold and Timmy.

"So, Mister Peep-Eye," I said, brushing the hair further back from his
forehead, "I guess you need some discipline." And he nodded ever so
slightly. So I took his big cowboy belt buckle with the steer being roped
by a cowboy on it, and unbuckled it from his thin waist.

I did this slowly, and turned my hands into the very tip of his jeans. I
felt the warm boy. The flat stomach. The promise of warm pulsing boy
throb down below him. Down in the Venus of Timmy. He stood backward,
leaning backward, as I opened his jeans, and he put his hands on my
shoulders, which were also slight, but larger in comparison, as I
unzipped him. He was wearing his Superman underoos. I smiled. He was
always too big for them, that Christmas gift last year from me, and would
only, giggling, wear them when he came to see me. He could be a real minx
for me. Dancing in them. Slowly slipping them down, just for a second and
then dancing away, then back to me, and slipping them slowly down again,
for more seconds, and then^Å

I was slowly bringing the zipper down and seeing his little penis growing
hard, a few inches, and magic time, as I eased the Underoos of blue and
red down and his little hard on popped up and stared me in the face with
its foreskin bulging with boy. How could anyone not be turned on by that
extraordinary boy device? Warm and pulsing. Veiny and tender and
delicious to touch or to mouth entering.

"Would you like me to touch it,  Timmy?" I asked, with some mischief in
my eyes.

"Could you pleasesir?" The last two words ran together. He was a shy
boy. And an inventive boy.

"First you have to tell me what you did bad today."

He shook his head, no. So I backed up on my heels from him. His pink
conch shell penis and BB ball testicles now away from my touch. Reaching
forth for my touch again.

"Wait^×" he said. Looking at me. Now I was on eye level with him.
"Don't you want to^×"

"Want to what, Master Timothy Esquire?" I said, pretending I was his
schoolmaster.

"You know---" And he brushed his eyes, opened them a little more, and
moved his hard on a bit, jiggling it without touching it.

"Paddle you?"

"Please, sir, if you don't--mind?" He said, doing a perfect imitation
of Mark Lester as Oliver Twist.

I stroked my chin. Considering. Hmmm^ÅWell all right.

"I think you better take off all your clothes, Timothy. I think you
better take them off right now. I am going to sit on the couch and watch
you."

"Yes^×yes sir." And he began doing just that, as I moved to the couch,
and watched. The house was warm. The fireplace was crackling with a good
fire. He walked to the fire, to warm himself, especially his cup cake
buttocks, as he took off his jacket and his shirt, stripping slowly,
knowingly. His boyflesh was soft and girlish.

His birdcage thin ribs shown through. His nipples were so pale it was
hard to see them. He stuck out his crotch for me, and smiled, guiltily. I
maintained a stern look on my face. Inside, I was happy and laughing. As
he knew I was. And he wanted to make me that way. My hard on was raging
in my jeans.

He was against the fires of red, a pale boy, tilting to blonde body, and
he moved his tiny hands to his penis and he massaged it for me; oh god,
how I wanted to touch him, and everything of him, but that could wait for
later. He bent over and took off the socks and his Keds, pulled his jeans
down. His thin legs and his slight calves were trembling from the cold,
and from excitement. And, sad to say, guilt.

I told him to turn round, to let me see his rosy butt. And he smiled a
coy smile.

He turned, as if in a pirouette, placing his gold pale hands above his
head, long arms straight up, his hands palms together as if praying, for
he knew I wanted him to be a dancer. He turned totally around with
agonizing slowness. Then there he was with his rosy rear, hot from the
fireplace glow, and I knew now he was ready; God knows I was.

So I said, with as much forcefulness as I could muster, "Timothy, what
did you do to be a bad boy today?"

"I can't say." His voice low and muffled.

"What, Timothy? Was it something horrible?"

He nodded. His back was a swan's back. I could not wait to feel its
smoothness as my hand roved up and down it as I swatted him. I told him
to turn round and watch me as I stripped. As I did, he said, "It's very
large, sir."  And amazed.

Of course it wasn't, the reg. Six inches, but he said it to make me feel
big. I sat down on the couch, naked; excited that he had yet again
watched me become bare, as I had watched him become bare.

I said, "Timothy J. young rogue, come here now. And I mean business."

He walked his needy forlorn nakedness so delicately toward me, as if
presenting jewels of great cost on a flying carpet of himself.

I thought he was compounded of a dream or it would all blow away like
smoke from the chimney into the gray dark winter and thus gone forever.
It would, one day, probably soon, but this I dared not think about,
because of how it hurt my heart. I heard a few cars mushing through the
thick snow outside. It was silent otherwise. Quiet. Like we were inside
an aspirin bottle full of cotton. Safe and protected. In gentle pretend.

I patted his left flank. I said,  "You know the drill, mister." He
said, "Yessir."

And I made my lap, my hard on sticking straight out, as he lay his naked
stomach on my legs and his abdomen, and his groin, and he was hot, as if
with a fever. I watched his back that somehow on this small boy seemed
longer than it should, his dimpled buttocks were creamy and dreamy and
ready for my hand. They were rosy from the fire. They looked good enough
to eat. Butter, please, for these rolls?

He rested his head on his arms and covered his face with his hands. As if
it were truly going to hurt.

His long hair hanging down again. He squirmed his body onto me, my penis
against his groin and his stomach, as I started to paddle his butt with
my hand, gently, and he said, "Please sir, harder. I deserve the
business." And I tapped a bit harder. He moved his whole body forward
and backward. I watched his back, his shoulders, his spine, his buttocks
as they squirmed, then all of a piece, moved forward and back, at the
tempo of my hand. His tiny hard on, on me, moving, his balls tight,
moving. A sea of sexuality in my lap.

I tapped him again. He opened his mouth, he breathed hard, his body
swayed, his swan back moved like he was having sex, flowing boy sex, in a
merboy body that was somehow still partially under the sea, coming in a
way, out of himself, flowering in a very real way, about his hip area,
this image for some reason.

He said, "Whip me, so I will know you love me."

I hit him a bit harder, not to hurt, his buttocks were a little fleshy
and beautifully round, and he sighed and moved all of himself on my legs
and on my groin, his hairless body against my pubic hair, my penis moving
when he did. Our penises touching. Fire. The room was patchy cold, patchy
hot. We were as fevers.

"It looks like I'm being fucked, doesn't it, sir?"

This was a new one. I had thought it of course, but never said it.

I remembered I had been taught as a boy that masturbation would send me
to hell. So I thought I would escape the punishment if I masturbated
without touching my penis. I had a fluffy rug in my room. I had a mirror
I would place beside me, and rub myself to dry orgasm on it, looking at
myself, thus learning unwittingly how to fuck. The devil is in the
details.

 And indeed it seemed that way. The  fish gasping out and in O of his
mouth. The pushing of his body that was not of his doing, back and forth,
like a sea of little boy flesh, the waves, the tides in and him, him the
sea, and I the moon, controlling him, mirroring him. The way he rubbed
his eyes. The way he loved to cry sometimes, he said, because it made him
feel better, and knowing what he faced out there and at home, I
understood he had much to cry about.

"Yes, Timmy, it looks like you are being fucked. It feels like you are
being fucked by another boy as you lie bare on my lap, and he is pushing
it in and you are loving it and you are lost in Heaven because it feels
so good; being controlled; being counterbalanced by another boy's cock
in you, as he holds your hips, now." Like I was doing. Like I was
pressing down now on his left buttock, as I stroked his right one.

"Is it rosy, now, sir?"

"Yes, Timmy, it is." From the fire alone. I could never hurt Timmy. He
had been hurt a lot in his life. This was the only way he could grant
himself expiation to make love with me. It was also much fun for both of
us. I wished sometime he would ask if he could spank me. I never had been
spanked as a boy. I now wish I had been.

"Will you forgive me, now, sir?"

"Depends on what you did to be such a bad boy." I rubbed the cool cream
from the jar I had on the lamp table, into his buttocks, round and round
with my hands. He always loved that because it was so cool and soothing
"after my beating."

 He was rubbing now in earnest his little cock on my leg, as I held him
with both arms, bent over deeply to hold him as he masturbated on me,
hard and growing, as I pushed on his bare buttocks, " whispering,
"come, baby, come for me, come for me hard hard hard" as I held him to
my legs and my groin and abdomen, feeling the all of him as I could, as
he rubbed a few more times, and then gave a huge relieved sigh, and a
great dry cum. I had to get off, and soon.

He trembled into a shudder on me. I held him in my arms.

I said, after some time, while he had begun lying still again, "What did
you do to be such a bad boy, young sir Twist?"

"Well," he said, sleepily. And a long pause, as his left hand reached
for my cock and started to tickle the tip of it.

"Well, sir?" I prompted, stretching out my legs as he crawled off me
and to the couch and lay with my cock in his face as he stroked it and I
looked at his buttocks as he moved his rosy ass up and down for he knew
that turned me on so.

"Well, Timothy J. Bartheleme?" My words slipped as he tickled me.

"You know that boy who's been giving me the business?"

"Yes. Tommy." I paused. He drew away from me a bit. This was serious.
Tommy was the school bully. And he loved to make treds on Timothy the
most, because Timothy was the frailest and most scared of all the boys in
school.

"I---I^×hit him this morning. He threw a^×snowball---with a rock in it
at me^×he clipped me^×and it made me so damned^×sorry, sir^×mad that I
chased him down, threw him in the snow. I hit him," and Timothy said it
in almost hectic antic terms, also terrible fear underneath, "right in
the mouth and knocked a tooth out and his mother saw it and she called my
mother and it's going to be awful--- don't make me go home."

And he cried in my arms as I hugged him deeply and truly and felt his
entire body tremble. I put my chin on the top of his warm hair. We would
get through this somehow. We would get through this.

He raised his face to me, as I kissed his eyes, one, two, then again. He
was crying really hard now.

"Timothy," I said, "listen to me. I am your friend now and forever.
We'll run away if it gets bad, if you can't take it anymore. I'll
protect you. I'll never let anyone hurt you."

And he did something he had never done before. He raised up on his
slender arms, with his thick black banded clock watch on his left wrist,
lifted up on his arm and elbows and I saw his bony chest so tender, and
he kissed me on the lips. First time ever. And I kissed him back. For a
long time.

He asked later if I would like to fuck him. He said he knew the position.
That he had figured it out for himself. I thought, then, he has indeed
been practicing.

So he told me to get off the couch. I did, as he lay on his stomach on it
and spraddled his legs and smiled bravely aside at me. Seeing his gentle
body in silhouette in the dim orange light of the living room, in the
crackle red gold of the fire, in the blue gray of the day coming through
the thick curtains, I knelt to him, kissed the dimples above his hips,
and then lay my face next to his.

And said, "Now, let's just dream. That's for later. `K?"

And Timothy, somewhat relieved, proving with me yet again, that he did
not have to do any favors to keep a friend, said sleepily,  "Can we
build a snowman?" Drifting to sleep..I was sleepy too, and said "sure,
Timmy, sure." He closed his eyes, and my arms were around him. I was
groggy, but stayed awake. Him safe bundle boy within my arms.

I protected him. And would. For as long as I could. And as long as I knew
how.