Date: Tue, 14 Feb 2012 09:59:08 +0000
From: Ivor Sukwell <isukwell@hotmail.co.uk>
Subject: We Are Such Stuff As Dreams Are Made On part 1

This story contains man/boy and boy/boy sex; it is pure masturbation
fantasy, so you advised not to read it if those activities are not your
`thing'. You should not continue beyond the title if the laws that apply
where you live prohibit the reading of such material, be that on the
grounds of religion, culture or age. If you choose to continue after this
warning, then that is your choice and if you make that choice I hope you
are not too disappointed.

The story, as will become very obvious very early, is pure fantasy, and
none of the characters exist outside of the imagination of the author.

NOTE: I have attempted to reproduce the sounds made by teenagers in west
London and some of the spelling may cause problems to readers who are not
accustomed to English as it is spoken there. If you try to pronounce words
as they are spelt then it should make some sense. Even though I have made
this attempt I must say to the purist that I did not find it possible to
reproduce all the swallowed consonants, strangulated vowels and glottal
stops that are a common, everyday feature of this particular variety of
English. Even Professor Higgins may have had a problem!


We Are Such Stuff As Dreams Are Made On
A Story by Ivor Sukwell


Edward Thomas was sixty when he discovered he was an alien.

Edward Thomas didn't have extra fingers or toes, his skin was a normal,
Western European white, and his blood was definitely red. For sixty years,
or at least those years when reason functioned, so perhaps we should ignore
the first few, he had considered himself to be a perfectly normal member of
the race that inhabited West London. Normal, that is in the general sense
-- there will be those who consider his fifty year old sexual preference
for boys to be other than normal.

He had few friends and just as few acquaintances -- contrary to the
popular, media hyped belief regarding men who like boys, he was not part of
a world wide circle of like-minded, predatory men who lusted after,
indulged in and exchanged young male flesh for their depraved pleasure. The
few friends he did have tended to call him, with a certain wry amusement,
by his initials -- ET. The amusement was because no more seemingly normal,
totally boring and obscure person would be easily found. ET only really
became alive and blossomed in the company of an adolescent male.

Edward Thomas discovered he was an alien when he was lying in bed in his
two bedroomed, semi-detached, West London suburban estate house, idly
thinking of boys as he usually did before drifting off to sleep. His
fantasy was to imagine himself living in a huge country house, an
eighteenth century country home, and to populate that house with boys from
his past. A harmless, if somewhat eccentric, fantasy.

Little in the way of logic dictated his selection; it included boys Edward
Thomas had loved (there were a few, one in particular), boys who had been
exceptional in bed and boys who had been disappointing there. It included
boys he had done no more than feel and boys he had fucked; boys he had
briefly enjoyed and boys he had simply lusted after. The selection was
never the same two nights running and sometimes he limited himself to five
or six, and at other times Edward Thomas would be greedy and fill the house
with twenty or thirty. Always he would select one to share his dream bed
for the night, and usually fall asleep imagining it was the boy's hand that
was cupping his balls and fondling his prick.



The night Edward Thomas discovered he was an alien Edward Thomas had chosen
only one, a dark haired, well built, incredibly sexually compliant boy of
thirteen. Edward Thomas had sampled his delights but a few times, but he
was one of those that would always stay fresh and vivid in the memory.

The boy had a perfect body, perfect, that is, for the tastes of Edward
Thomas. Normally, if that is the correct word, he liked his boys a year or
two older, when physical development had left pre-pubertal boyhood way
behind and rampaging hormones would drive an adventurous boy into any
available bed. Firm bodied boys with flat stomachs and long legs; boys
whose genitals were developing to a full adult size but still retained
their youthful glory and their almost perpetual hardness. Boys that would
have made Michelangelo or Caravaggio reach for their sketch pads after
their hands had reached for the boys. In brief, Edward Thomas liked
adolescents.

This boy, though only thirteen, was clearly an adolescent, an athletically
built adolescent. When they cuddled standing, Edward Thomas could just rest
his chin on the top of the boy's head, and when he was naked, the boy was
perfection. For his age, broad shouldered and deep chested, with firm,
shapely thighs and an uncircumcised cock that, when hard, had already
reached almost five inches. Most wonderful of all was that the only hair on
his perfect flesh was clustered at the very base of his impressive young
teenage prick, a tiny growth that signalled sperm would flow. But not the
spreading, ball covering growth that so frequently spoiled an older boy's
beauty, and detracted from the oral pleasure Edward Thomas so liked to
indulge in.

The most impressive feature of the boy was his kissing; for the most part
he liked to have his body indulged in, rather than to be active with his
own hands and mouth, but that did not apply to kissing. The boy was an avid
and skilful kisser, a man could kiss his soul away in that boy's mouth. He
enjoyed being felt all over, kissed and licked all over; he liked to be
sucked and fucked and he liked to be caned.

The first time Edward Thomas had got the boy naked he had noticed the
fading stripes across the boy's buttocks, and, though not a caner himself,
his cock hard, for some reason, stood up even more than usual when
presented with a naked teenage boy. Shyly he had asked about the marks and
been told, with no embarrassment, that he'd be told later if he still
wanted to know, but that now the boy's body demanded attention. Since
Edward Thomas himself was only nineteen at the time, his body also demanded
some attention and he temporarily forgot about the marks and got down to
enjoying flesh.

As always in these nightly, pre-sleep fantasies, Edward Thomas recalled in
detail. He had driven across to one of the less affluent parts of West
London to collect the boy from school, collect him an hour before the end
of school, the boy obligingly skipping his last lessons in order to give
ample time for sexual gratification. He'd taken the boy home, undressed him
and enjoyed him. His memory was particularly vivid tonight, perhaps it was
the extra brandy he had allowed himself before retiring, because he
imagined he could actually feel the boy's cock in his mouth, the final
dribbles of his orgasm coating his tongue.

He allowed the boy's now sensitive prick to slip from his lips and rested
his head on the boy's hip, thirteen year old cock just inches from his
nose.

"Why you get the cane, then?" he asked, expecting to hear it had been a
school punishment.

"Me bruvver."

"Your brother?" Edward Thomas moved his head, looking up flat boy stomach
and smooth boy chest.

"He canes me when I has to fuck me sister," the boy explained. "Don't like
fuckin' her, but she wants it an' me bruvver makes me."

"Why?" was all Edward Thomas could think of saying.

"'Cos they know I've got a boyfriend."

The sister was fifteen, the brother almost two years older and the boy had
been forced to fuck her since he was eleven. Unable to resist this tale of
family woe, Edward Thomas clambered up the bed and went for the boy's mouth
with his own. Unhesitatingly the boy's lips parted to accept tongue and
faces mashed together until Edward remembered he hadn't shaved for a couple
of days and his stubble was probably unpleasant for the boy.

"Nah," the boy dismissed the apology, "That's alright; me boyfriend's got a
beard."

"Who's your boyfriend, then, Brian?"

The boy sniggered, "Vicar," he giggled, "First fucked me when I was ten."

Edward's amazement must have been obvious because the boy carried on, not
at all bothered about revealing his sordid background.

"Was in the choir, weren't I, an' he musta fancied me, cos he started
keepin' me behind after practice."

Edward was now softly kissing a thirteen year old nipple, which the
thirteen year old boy seemed to enjoy.

"Then he cuddled me, told me I was special an' kissed me. Got me to open me
mouth an' everythin'."

"And you didn't mind?"

"Fuckin' loved it," the boy giggled. "Loved it even fuckin' more when he
got me trousers orf!"

Edward could not resist the temptation to allow his hand to go in search of
cock, the boy's cock.

"Started goin' to bed wiv him after choir an' he did all sorts a stuff to
me, even gettin' `is tongue up me bum. Loved that! Then he said I was a
naughty boy for lettin' him do stuff like that so he spanked me."

The boy's cock was hard again now, so Edward moved downwards once more.

"Didn't you mind?" he asked before taking boycock into his mouth once more.

"Nah; hurt like fuck when he did it wiv a ping pong bat, but I can take
about a dozen now `for I starts to cry, an' about twenty `for I has to make
him stop. He fucked me after he'd spanked me, an' that hurt more than the
fuckin' spankin'!"

"But he's still your boyfriend?" Edward came off cock long enough to ask.

"Course; love it, don' I!"

It must have been a dream because the conversation sounded real, not
remembered, and the boy's body felt warm and hard against him, and he was
certain, as things faded into nothingness, that he had the taste of spunk
in his mouth.

He woke when it was still dark, but perhaps he didn't wake, perhaps it was
still part of the dream, because he knew he wasn't alone in the bed. He
could feel another presence, feel the radiated body warmth, and when he
held his breath and listened, he could hear the steady, slow breathing of a
sleeping person.

Cautiously he stretched out a hand and his fingers encountered naked flesh,
sleep hot. Carefully and slowly his fingers explored and he realised he had
discovered a leg, a thigh to be more precise. The skin was smooth, hairless
like a young boy. Could the boy of his night time fantasy actually be
there? Here, in bed with him?

 His mind reeled at the impossibility of it, and when it had finished
reeling, it decided that this must still be a dream. If it was a dream,
then it might as well be enjoyed to the full, and his hand wandered up and
over boy thigh to find soft boy genitals and fondle them. The fondling was
greeted by a little grunt as sleeping dream boy welcomed a dream hand
caressing his possessions.

When he woke again it was light and the boy was still in his hand, but no
longer soft, and, moments later, no longer asleep.

"What the fuck?" the boy grunted as he woke to find himself naked and hard
in a man's hand in a strange bed. "What the fuck's goin' on? Who the fuck
are you? Wot `m I fuckin' doin' `ere?"

"Don't know," a dazed Edward Thomas almost whispered as his eyes roved
round a room that was as strange to his waking, but still half asleep, mind
as it was to the boy whose hard cock he was still holding. "I know who you
are," he managed, "You're Brian, but where the fuck we are I ain't got a
clue!"

"You musta picked me up last night," the boy rationalised; being naked in
bed with a man was far from being a new experience for him and not one, in
itself, to cause him any major concern; but he was not in the habit of
spending the night with men who casually picked him up. Far too much
explaining away to do when he eventually got home.

"No," Edward rejected the suggestion, "I did not go out last night,
and...." he looked carefully round the large room, "This is not my house
and this is not my bed."

"You fuckin' bonkers?" The boy was both startled and worried.

"I don't know." Edward was being serious. He looked at the boy, his face so
clearly remembered, and, even more clearly remembered was the cock in his
hand. Edward never forgot a boy's cock; he might forget facial details, but
he always remembered every single thing about a boy's cock.

"I know you," he said slowly, "Your name is Brian and............." he
paused because this was the impossible part, "I had you when I was
nineteen."

"Yer fuckin' mad!"

"Probably, but that was when I had you. I picked you up from school, you'd
skipped the last couple of lessons and I drove you home. You were wearing
PE shorts instead of underwear and you had cane marks on your arse."

"What the fuck.....?" That memory was common to them both, much fresher for
the boy of course, it, for him, had only happened yesterday.

"Nah," he shook his head in denial after a long thought, "Remember him, had
a Ford Prefect, but he didn't bring me here; an' he took me back home
after." Strangely, the boy had made no move to remove the hand from his
cock.

"It was blue," Edward said.

"How'd you know? You follow us or sumfin'? Grab me when I got aht his car
an' drug me or sumfin'?"

"No, nothing like that. I just thought about you before I went to sleep,
remembered having you forty years ago."

"Fuckin' nutter!" the boy snorted, though he still did not object to the
hand that was slowly stroking his hard, teenage cock. A realisation
suddenly hit him; "I was thinkin' about him suckin' me when I had me wank
last night." He finally got the last part of Edward's remark into his
brain; "Forty years ago? I'm fuckin' thirteen, not fifty free!"

"Believe me," Edward said with fervour, "You would not be in my bed if you
were fifty three!"

Silence followed while man and boy struggled to come to terms with the
impossibility of the situation, before the boy, practical as only teenagers
can be, asked,

"You gonna do that prop'ly, or what?"

"Oh, properly, I think," Edward actually managed a smile, and went down to
suck out the boy's morning spunk.

Orgasm produced and gratefully consumed, they decided the only logical
thing to do was to explore their surroundings, but that brought up another
problem. The boy had no clothing.

"Wot yer done wiv me cloves?" he demanded.

"Not the slightest idea. I was not thinking about you dressed," Edward
said, wondering, faintly, if his dream had anything to do with this new
seeming reality. "I don't appear to have any either, but then, I always go
to bed naked."

"Can't go wandering around in the nude, can we," the boy protested.

"Why not? You look delightful naked, and I have a feeling there is nobody
else here."

It was summer and already warm, so the lack of clothing was not
uncomfortable, and it soon became apparent that there was indeed, nobody
else around.

The house was huge; an upstairs investigation revealed another eleven
unoccupied bedrooms and an enormous stairway led then down to an equally
enormous hall. A big room off the hall was obviously a lounge, but with a
feature that brought a comment from the boy.

"Fuckin' weirdo's livin' here," he remarked, "Wot's the fuckin' point of
havin' a big black paintin' on the wall?"

"Not a painting, it's a plasma telly."

"A wot?"

"A television." Edward found a remote and switched it on.

"Ain't never seen no telly like that," the boy snorted.

"No, you wouldn't have. They weren't made forty years ago."

"Fuckin' forty years ago," the boy snorted again, "You ne.............."
his voice trailed into silence as the date and time appeared on the screen
as a news broadcast began. "Shit!" he whispered. Other electrical items in
what was evidently, to Edward's eyes at least, a house furnished for the
twenty first century, told the same story, it was the fifteenth of August,
two thousand and eleven.

They found the kitchen, the oven clock giving the same date and time as all
the others, and Edward made tea for them both.

"Might as well take it outside while we try to work things out," he
suggested and the boy meekly followed him into the garden. Garden? It was
huge, more like a park than a garden; in fact it was a park, the sort of
park that was attached to big country houses.

"This fuckin' all yers?" the boy asked, his voice a mixture of squeak and
breathless awe.

"I don't know," Edward answered truthfully, but he was beginning to
wonder. He had spotted a Citroen Traction on the gravelled drive, a car
from the nineteen forties that he had always lusted for.

They sat, naked, on a bench, sipped their tea and smoked a
cigarette. Edward had found a packet of his usual brand, along with a
lighter, on the table in the kitchen. Too many things, too many things to
be explained away. He needed some evidence, something that would tell him
what he was now suspecting was true.

Just as they finished they heard the sound of a car engine coming up the
long driveway, and hid their nakedness behind bushes. A Post Office van
came into sight, stopped, and a mailman delivered post before driving away
again. The van, more than anything else, convinced the boy that all was
most certainly far from normal, he had never seen a vehicle like that in
his life before. It was only an ordinary Renault Kangoo van, but that
design was well in the boy's future.

The post needed to be inspected for clues, but the letters, as Edward had
begun to suspect would be the case, were all addressed to him, at `Boyhard
Manor, nr. Zeal, Devon.' The house was his -- this was, somehow, his dream
future, and the house, he realised now that he was fully awake, was so very
like the fantasy where he indulged in the dreams of his past boys.

"Fuck me," the boy breathed, realisation of a new reality finally breaking
through, "Yer ain't gonna send me back, are yer? This is fuckin' amazin'."

"You want to live with a man my age? A man who can't keep his hands off
you?" Edward said it with a depreciating smile, he knew no thirteen year
old boy would give an answer of `yes' to those questions.

"Fuckin' right I do!" the boy exclaimed, his eyes alight; "Don't give a
fuck if yer sixty, you fuckin' know how to kiss an' suck!"

Edward's heart gave a flip and several thumps.

"Talkin' of fuckin'," the boy went on, "Yer ain't fucked me yet. Wanna do
it now, out here in the open?"

"Go on, please," he insisted when he saw the hesitation on Edward's face,
"Yer can cane me first if yer want. Ain't never bin caned an' fucked in the
open."

"I can't do that!" Edward was shocked; he'd never even spanked a boy, let
alone caned one! There had been fantasies, though, and some very cock
hardening porn, and if this was all some sort of fantasy come real,
then.........

"If I do that, I will definitely not let you go back," Edward said on
impulse, "You will be my boy, and you will always stay thirteen." He had no
idea why he said that, keeping the boy the same age was not something that
was possible.............but neither was being here with him possible......

"Oh, yeh, please!" the boy enthused. "Please do it!"

"What about your vicar boyfriend? Won't you miss him?"

"No way," the boy dismissed the thought, "Gettin' too old for `im now
anyway, now I got `airs on me prick."

"Not many," Edward couldn't resist pointing out with a smile.

"Too many for `im. `E likes `em young; like I were when `e first did me."

"I prefer them spunking," Edward volunteered.

"Noticed," the boy grinned, and they both laughed; the situation was beyond
comprehension, but sex was something that they both understood.

"Get somfin' to cane me wiv, then," the boy demanded, "An' some stuff to
grease me arse wiv, an' let's have some real fun!"

"You don't really want me to cane you, do you?" Edward had never ventured
into that aspect of boy enjoyment; not beyond watching a few spank porno's
and finding that they did harden him for some reason, but he'd never
actually thought about doing it to a boy for real. Fantasy, perhaps, but
for real?

"Course I does!" The boy was surprised at the man's apparent unwillingness
to indulge in such an obvious way of enjoying himself with a boy before
understanding dawned. "Yer ain't never caned a kid before, have yer?"

Edward shook his head. The boy grinned, a lascivious, wide lipped grin that
showed his teeth.

"Yer gonna love it!" he declared, "Make that fick prick of yer's so fuckin'
hard you'll ram it in so deep I'll fuckin' taste it when yer shoots."

It was obvious the boy was so excited at the prospect of being caned and
fucked that Edward felt he had to go along with it. After all, he reasoned
with himself, if he was able, somehow, to keep young Brian, he would need
to keep the boy happy, and if this is what it took, well......

"Come on," Brian was urging him, "Let's find somfin."

A quick search of the immediate area revealed nothing that the boy thought
suitable; "Must be somfin in the kitchen," he said and headed back into the
house.

A rummage around soon produced a possibility, a wooden spatula with a wide,
thin head. Brian examined it and then slapped himself on the thigh.

"Fuck," he winced, "That's gonna hurt like fuck."

"Let's look for something else," Edward completely misunderstood the boy's
comment.

"Don't be fuckin' stupid," Brian looked at Edward in the pitying way that
only adolescents can look at adults; "Fuckin' perfect, in'it."

He tossed the spatula to Edward and went in search of something to grease
himself with, found a small tub of butter and hurried Edward back outside.

"Over there," he announced, that bench where we had tea."

He hurried across the lawn, waited impatiently for Edward to catch up and
then handed over the butter.

"Grease me up `for yer start hittin' me," he ordered, "Then yer can get
straight in when I've `ad enough."

"Won't I need to open you up a bit first?" All Edward's previous
experiences, and there had been a lot more than one, had involved the
careful preparation of the boy so the entry was not over painful.

"Don't be stupid," Brian said yet again, "Yer hits me enough I ain't gonna
notice yer goin' in, am I."

He stood in front of the bench, leaned forward and grasped the back, feet
apart enough to give him good balance.

"Grease me," he demanded and Edward duly applied a liberal amount of butter
to the boy's hole, making sure his finger eased some inside.

"No cheatin'," the boy giggled as he felt Edward's finger going inside him
just a little bit. "Yer wants to finger me yer can do it when we're just
playin'."

"That fing's gonna sting like fuck," Brian said to the trees ahead, "So
yer'll probly get me cryin' wiv about half a dozen, but yer don't stop till
I tells yer. An' don't stop if I starts yellin', `cos that'll mean I'm
really lovin' it."

`I don't really want to be doing this,' Edward thought to himself as he
stood, spatula in hand, eyeing the perfect white mounds of the thirteen
year old boy's arse. It was a lovely arse, firm and soft at the same time
as only a boy's arse can be; he could see just a little inside the crack,
not enough to catch a glimpse of hole, but enough to know it was waiting,
enticingly there.

He hesitated, not wanting to spoil the perfect beauty of those white mounds
of flesh, not wanting to hear the crack of wood on flesh, not wanting to
watch as those mounds turned from white to red, and. as he visualised that,
lust boiled within him and he swung the spatula hard at the boy's arse.

`Crack,' it was almost like a gunshot, loud in the otherwise silence. He
saw the pain flash through the boy's body, he saw the boy's head jerk back,
his knuckles whiten as he gripped the bench. He saw the flesh of those
perfect mounds quiver and he hit again, same buttock, same place.

Another gunshot, another backwards jerk of the boy's head and more
quivering of slowly reddening flesh. A third gunshot produced a loud gasp
from the boy, pain was getting through now, tears would not be long.

Edward changed aim and hit the other buttock with three more cracking
strokes in rapid succession and now the boy's snuffles were
audible. Snuffles, yes, but no tears, no sobbing, and that enraged
Edward. The boy had expected to be crying after six, but all he could
manage were a few snuffles. Was he not hitting him hard enough?

He hit again, with real strength this time and the boy's whole body jerked
and twisted, and after another of the same tears did flow. Surely the boy
would want him to stop now? But no such request came and the sight of the
now bright red arse did something to Edward. His cock stiffened and the
slowly boiling lust inside him erupted. If the boy wanted pain he would get
fucking pain!

He lashed again and again at his target, finding he was getting more and
more turned on by the sight of the boy's pain wracked body. Four successive
strikes, delivered as quickly as he could, made the boy convulse, twisting
and dropping to his knees, but with his arse still upwards, still a target.

Lustfully Edward slammed the spatula down and now the boy was yelling,
almost screaming as the blows landed. Somehow he struggled back to his
feet, taking strikes on his hip as Edward never paused. Back in place, on
his spread feet and gripping the bench, the boy gasped between his pouring
tears,

"Fuck me now!"

And Edward did. Pulling the boy's burning buttocks apart with his thumbs he
exposed the pink hole at the heart of the boy, glistening with melted
butter, and he rammed his impossibly hard, thick cock straight in with no
thought of the boy, no thought of the pain such an entry would cause.

Brian screamed, a long, loud, howling scream as he was penetrated, and then
he started ramming his fire-red arse back onto the cock that impaled him.

It was like no fuck Edward had ever fucked before. No gentle leading a boy
to a blissful paradise, this was raw, animal fucking. He was like a goat on
heat as he ploughed into the boy, ramming himself in hard and
thoughtlessly, and the harder he rammed in the harder the boy pushed back
onto him until the slap as their flesh met was almost as loud as the crack
of the spatula on bare arse had been.

Edward didn't spurt inside the boy -- he fountained. It felt as though his
entire balls were forcing themselves up and out of his prick, and when he
had finished he collapsed on the ground, too exhausted to stand.

The boy collapsed beside him, tears still coming from his eyes, mouth open
and panting.

"Fuckin' wonderful," he gasped between pants; "I'm yer fuckin' boy now."

"You didn't really enjoy that, did you?" a now rational again Edward asked
as they lay on the grass, the boy on his side because of his still burning
arse.

"Made me shoot twice when yer was hittin' me; an' anover when yer fucked
me, though I don't fink anyfink come out then."

It was, Edward realised, a complete explanation; this delicious young
adolescent was seriously into pain as a highlighter to sex.

"Won't have to do that to you every time, will I?" The prospect did worry
him.

"Nah, just every now an' again. Couple a slaps wiv yer belt `for yer fucks
me, that's all."

The boy grinned, a grin that was incredibly sexy on his tear stained face,
"Anyway, fuckin' loved it din't yer! `Mount a spunk yer shot in me yer must
a loved it."

"I did spunk quite a bit," Edward admitted.

"Fuckin' know yer did; still comin' out me arse like a fuckin' river!"

That was sexy as well, but Edward resisted the temptation to get up and
have a look. Instead he crawled to where they had earlier left the
cigarettes and lighter.

"If this is a dream," he said, thoughtfully blowing out smoke, "It's the
best dream I have ever had."

"Ain't no fuckin' dream," Brian averred, "Me arse hurts too much for it to
be a dream."

"Had dreams before," Edward said slowly, "Vivid dreams, but not many and
not since I was a teenager."

"Yeh, nightmares," the boy agreed.

Not nightmares, no, far from it, but now was not the time to explain them
to the boy. They had been awake for three hours and the sex had been
violent and exhausting. Edward was hungry, and when he mentioned this to
the boy, Brian could think of nothing but food. Any investigation of their
new reality would have to wait until they had eaten.

The kitchen revealed all that was necessary -- eggs, bacon and sausages
lurked in the huge refrigerator -- Edward going straight to it as though he
knew what it contained, and soon he had a full fry-up going, although he
did have to take some care as naked frying can be slightly painful. Brian
ate standing up, sitting on his abused arse being something he would not be
doing for quite a while. After feeding they went outside again; even in his
two bedroomed, suburban home Edward spent as much time as he could naked,
indoors and out, and the boy was rapidly adapting to the pleasure of having
air caress his flesh.

Getting the boy to carry a tray with tea for him, coffee for Edward and
cigarettes for both, Edward led the way to a summer house that was beyond
the trees and bushes that bounded the lawn. He knew the summer house was
there, went there without thinking, and, again knowing where he would find
them, pulled out two sun loungers for them to lie on.

The boy was standing, watching him, still holding the tray.

`Waiters should always be naked boys', Edward thought as he looked at the
thirteen year old, genitals dangling soft and enticing.

"Yer does fuckin' live here, don't yer," the boy said, his tone
accusing. "Yer knows where all the stuff is. This fuckin' place is fuckin'
yers, in'it!"

Edward shook his head, not in denial, more in confusion. He lay on a
lounger and took his coffee from the tray, resisting the temptation to fill
his other hand with young, soft, teenage cock.

"I told you about going to sleep, imagining you were in my bed," he said to
the boy who was carefully arranging himself on the other lounger, trying as
best as he could to keep his battered arse out of contact with the
material. "You, as you were in my past; not my real bed though, but my bed
in my dream mansion," he waved an arm indicating all around, "This is my
dream."

"Don't make no fuckin' sense," the boy said, lighting a cigarette.

"No, it doesn't," Edward agreed, "But I had you when I was nineteen, and
that was over forty years ago. Explain that."

But the boy couldn't and didn't try to.

"My friends, the few that I have, or had, call me ET; perhaps they're
right."

"Yer what?"

Edward smiled, slightly sadly; of course, ET would mean nothing to this
boy, that film was well into his future.

"Forget it," Edward shook his head, "You wouldn't get it. That film came
long after your time."

"Yer are a fuckin' nutter, ain't yer," Brian eyed the man suspiciously,
"Yer talks some well weird stuff." An adolescent mind change, one of those
instant ones that have no apparent reason, prompted him to ask, "Got a
swimmin' pool `ere?"

"I don't know," Edward pondered before answering; he had never imagined the
mansion with a pool -- his detailed imagination had never really gone
beyond places where he could have sex with boys and, not being a person who
had ever really enjoyed swimming he had never thought of adding a pool. "If
I did have one," he said slowly, thinking it through, "It would have to be
one that could be used all year round. There'd be a big, I mean really big,
glass conservatory with the pool in the middle. It would be heated, the
pool that is, and the conservatory, of course would have heating so it
could be used even in the middle of winter. And, of course," he completed
the structure he was imagining, "You'd be able to get into it directly from
the house, no need to go outside. From a bedroom, in fact, a downstairs
bedroom that I'd use in the summer."

"Yer just makin' that up in't yer," Brian stated, "An' what's a fuckin'
`conservatry' anyway?"

"A room that's built on the side of a house and made entirely of glass,"
Edward explained; the boy, coming from the background he did, would never
have come across such a thing, especially forty years ago. "It would be
south facing to make the most of the sun."

"Fuckin' go an' look then, won't we," Brian carefully removed himself from
the lounger and held out a hand to Edward; "Come on then; I don't know
where fuckin' sarf is, do I!" The boy's North West London dialect meant
that every statement ended like a question and glottal stops instead of
consonants were common. More correct pronunciation was reserved for
emphasis -- `I don't know' would usually be simply `Dunno', Edward liked
the way the boy spoke; somehow it added to his desirability, as if the
availability of his cock and arse were not enough!

Edward took the boy's hand and led him round towards the south
side. Walking naked, holding hands with a naked thirteen year old boy was,
Edward thought, wonderful beyond imagination. The boy presented a more
prosaic interpretation:

"Fuckin' good we don't have to put no fuckin' cloves on," he sniggered,
"Don't fink me arse could take fuckin' pants at the mo!"

Edward had a flash of remorse that he had allowed himself to get so carried
away earlier, but the boy sent that from his mind when he added,

"Best fuckin' canin' an' fuckin' I've had!"

As they rounded the side of the house the vast glass construction came into
sight, more like a large Georgian or Victorian Orangery than a
conservatory.

"Fuckin' `ell," Brian breathed, stopping in his tracks for a moment. Then
he tugged Edward's hand, wanting to rush closer.

The south facing front had the glass open, full length sliding panels that
opened the entire front to the summer air. Inside, where Brian immediately
charged, there was, indeed, a large pool and around it several
well-upholstered couches. Opposite the open front was the stone wall of the
house, open patio door revealing a room, the main furniture being a large
bed.

"Fuck!" the boy breathed, "Bet yer've fucked a few kids in `ere."

`Not yet,' Edward thought, `You will be the first!'

"Never seen it before," Edward admitted, "But it's just like what I thought
it would be."

Brian dived in, the water, he said, did wonders for his abused arse, and he
wouldn't need to dry himself, the sun could do that for him.