Date: Thu, 17 May 2012 21:42:48 +0100
From: Edgar Getting <edgargetting@googlemail.com>
Subject: Your Little Favourite

This story contains sex between a man and a 10 year old boy.  Don't read it
if that's not your thing.  The story is a work of fiction.  I understand
the difference between fantasy and reality and have no intention of
blurring that boundary.

I've decided to try this one written in the second-person.  I remember
reading Complicity by Iain Banks when I was a teenager, which had sections
describing grisly murders written in the second-person, and present tense.
It was a really effective way of drawing the reader into the story that
blew me away at the time.  It occurred to me that it might also work to
create a more immersive sex scene.

xxxxx

People have always told you that teachers aren't supposed to have
favourites, but it's inevitable really.  It's unavoidable human nature to
like some kids more than others, so really what people mean is teachers
aren't supposed to show favouritism.  That is, you can have your little
pets as long as you don't treat them any differently to the ones who annoy
the fuck out of you.

Every now and then, there'll be someone in your class who seems to have a
perfect combination of virtues, coupled with a suitably heart-rending back
story to ensure emotional attachment and a heightened sense of
responsibility.  When the teacher in question is a paedophile, then beauty
is normally (but not always) the deal sealer.

Jake is one of those boys.  When he came up into your class, you heard all
about his family life – the father in prison for GBH, the flaky mother
who claims to want the best for her boy but in reality thinks only of
herself, the teenage brother who likes to follow Daddy's example and use
his fists to get his own way.  And from all this, Jake sailed serene and
apparently unsullied, a well-adjusted boy who works hard and gets on well
with the other children and is an absolute pleasure to teach.  He's a
charming, inquisitive boy, with a winning combination of worldliness and
naivety.  He is thoughtful and helpful and enthusiastic.

It sounds too good to be true, but really you haven't overstated it.  Sure,
if he hasn't been sent to bed he'll happily stay up watching TV till 2 in
the morning and then be tired and moody the next day, and very occasionally
someone will test his patience and he'll fire off a merciless put-down, but
these are rare occasions.

And, of course, he is beautiful.  He has a flop of brown hair that
occasionally obscures his slightly startling blue eyes, and a somewhat
narrow face with prominent cheekbones and a sharply defined jaw line.  He's
very skinny, much preferring arty and musical activities to sport.  You
adored him from the moment you first saw him.

And that's before even you found out he could sing.  Until he came up into
your class, he'd never joined the school choir you run at lunch times, boys
being generally a bit nervous of joining such a girl-heavy club.  This is
especially true of boys who already have a growing awareness of the
differences between themselves and the burly, sporty, laddish boys in their
peer group.  But a bit of persuasion and he started coming (bringing a
couple of friends for moral support) so now you get to sit and gawp as he
makes love to your eardrums once a week.

When you receive an invitation to enter pupils into a primary school
singing competition, it's clear to you that Jake is really the only person
who could hold his own in that kind of a situation.  Regional auditions
confirm that, with the five or six other hopefuls from your school being
disappointed at the first round.  Jake, however, makes it through to the
nationals, to be held in one of those massive faceless exhibition centres
in Birmingham.

Well aware of Jake's mother's penchant for taking everything she can get
from well-wishers without giving anything back, you make it clear to her
that it's her who needs to take the boy to Birmingham, and are vague and
cagey about whether you actually intend to go yourself to support him.  You
know there isn't a chance you'd miss it, but a whiff of a free ride and
she'll be palming him off onto you for the day instead of taking
responsibility.  And you know perfectly well that what Jake needs more than
anything else is some kind of parental approval; that if his mother shirks
her duty, he'll interpret her lack of interest as a reflection of his lack
of talent.

xxxxx

Jake's been buzzing with excitement all week, and finally the day comes.
It's a cold day; snow is expected later.  You're literally just turning the
handle to walk out of the front door when the doorbell goes, and suddenly
you're face to face with a nervous Jake and a distracted mother.

"Oh!"  You can't quite think what to say.  "This is a surprise!  What are
you doing here?"

"I'm so sorry Mr Wilson, only something's come up and I can't get him there
in time for the start.  If you could take him up, then I'll come later when
I've sorted this out."

"Erm... how did you know where I live?"

"Oh, we saw you at the supermarket last week and noticed which house you
went in after."

Jake pipes in, "Mum, you make it sound like we were spying on him!"

She ignores him.  "So, is it alright if you take him then?  I'll be up in
time for the final, Jakey, I promise."

Jake rolls his eyes.  "If I make it that far."

You try the difficult task of giving her a disappointed teacher look,
without letting Jake see.  She is oblivious.

"So I'll see you later then.  Bye darling, sing well!"  She kisses Jake on
the cheek and swirls away, leaving him blinking up at you with the look of
someone who's just woken up and forgotten where they are.

Inwardly you're seething at her disregard of Jake's wellbeing, but it's all
smiles and support for Jake.  Damage limitation – make less of it and
maybe his trust in his mother won't be completely shattered.

He's dressed carefully, taken pride in how he looks, but it's obvious this
is his one good suit that has been wheeled out for every wedding and
christening over the last few years.  The jacket sleeves are too short, but
it's only noticeable because Jake's noticed, and is constantly pulling them
down.  One of the shirt buttons has been very carefully sown back on, but
the thread colour doesn't quite match the others.  He's polished his school
shoes, but you can still see the scuffs.  There's something slightly
pitiful about the way he's tried a little too hard to look smart.  You feel
if he'd dressed more casually he'd actually have looked better, but in some
ways the fact that he's clearly done all this himself adds to his
vulnerability.  Vulnerability is deeply attractive to you because you have
such fuzzy edges between wanting to look after a child and wanting to have
sex with him.

The car journey has long silences punctuated with bursts of gabbling talk.
Jake is nervous and it shows.  It's not clear to you how much of his mind
is thinking about the competition, how much about his mother, and how much
about everything else going on in his life.  When he does talk, it's
unconnected to anything of relevance – a funny name on a road sign, or
why KFC is better than McDonalds, that kind of thing.  The silences
lengthen as you get closer to the city, so to fill them you start with a
few vocal warm-ups.  You're using ones Jake's familiar with from school,
and this relaxes him.

xxxxx

The competition is broken into a series of heats before 5 singers make it
into the grand final.  Jake's first heat is unexpectedly early, so as soon
as he's registered he's whisked off to sing, leaving no time for any
pep-talk or anything like that.  Good thing you did some warm-ups in the
car, really.  He doesn't have time to get too nervous, so he sings well and
sails through into the next round.

This time you have about half an hour to wait, so you go through some
breathing exercises.  When Jake gets nervous, his body tenses up and this
can make his voice sound a little strained.  You have a hand on his abdomen
near the bottom of his ribcage and one on his back as he breathes, and this
contact with his slender torso nudges awake your dormant sexual desire for
the boy.  There's one glorious moment when you finish the exercise –
very briefly, half a second at most, Jake leans in to you, allowing your
arms to encircle him completely.  Blink and you'd miss it – already he's
moved away again and the absence of him feels like a hole in your being.

Cool it, Wilson, there's people watching.

After the second heat there's a longer wait.  While you're eating your
lunch Jake notices that it's started to snow, so you head out into the
little patch of grass where Jake catches snowflakes on his tongue.
Standing there, head back, mouth agape, you imagine what it would be like
to slide your cock over that pink little tongue, and wonder how much would
go in before he started to gag.

More heats, and Jake's performance deteriorates as he gets more nervous.
He calls his mother between each one, and you wonder whether this is adding
to his nerves, though you're not clear exactly why.  During one phone call,
you see Jake physically sag.  When he hangs up he tells you what you'd
known all along – his mum won't be coming up after all.  Blamed the snow
– apparently it's really coming down back home and she doesn't want to
drive in it.  Never mind me who'll be driving back in it later, or Jake who
was depending on her.

He reaches the semi-final, but gets no further.  He's bitterly disappointed
but does his best not to show it.  In another situation maybe Jake would
have come through, but the finalists were just a little bit more polished,
a little bit more in control of the raw materials than Jake.  Still,
there's always next year.

By now the hall has emptied somewhat as families of children already
knocked out decide to set off to beat the snow rather than stay and watch
the final.  You slip a comforting arm around his narrow shoulders and
ignore the part of you that's glad his mother's such a wash-out because it
means you get to provide comfort to him.  Let's not get into that moral
mangle now and just enjoy the moment.

Jake wants to stay to watch the final, so until then you head back outside
again to have a look at the snow.  You've never seen it come down so fast –
there's a real covering now and it makes you wonder what the journey back's
going to be like.  Already the cars trying to get out of the carpark are
having trouble.  There are a few other competitors out here too, making
snowmen and throwing snowballs.  Jake keeps himself separate from them, and
makes two modest snowmen, one taller than the other.  When he tells you
one's him and one's you, it makes you want to squeeze him tight, but you
just smile and ask him which is which.  This makes him giggle.

Back inside, you're aware of a complete change in atmosphere – people
are hurrying rather than strolling, frantically looking for coats and
children.  A rumour has gone round that the motorways are all closing
because of the heavy snow.  You head into the bar area where they've got a
rolling news channel on the screen, and you're confronted by images of
endless queues of abandoned cars, grounded flights and stationary trains.
Looks like the whole country's come to a halt.

As the realisation that no-one will be able to get home ripples round the
hall, the atmosphere changes again – the urgent rush is replaced with a
"we're all in it together" resignation, and people start to eye up sofas
they might want to spend the night on.

A tannoy announcement tells you that the exhibition centre's attached hotel
will provide emergency accommodation for the night for free (this gets a
cheer), and that the grand final will be postponed by an hour to give
people time to make arrangements.  You move with 90% of the rest of the
hall in the direction of the hotel and queue for absolutely ages before
being assigned a double room with a second pull-out bed.  Ordinarily,
sharing a room with a student would not be allowed, but under the
circumstances you have to make do.  You're lucky, actually – some
families are having to squeeze six into a room the same size.

The room is pretty plush and Jake thinks it's amazing.  You've only once
stayed in a hotel as good as this when you were dating that arse of a
stockbroker, so it's a treat for you too.  Once you've had a little look
around and called Jake's mum to let her know what's going on, you head back
downstairs.  You're pleased to see that Jake is grown-up enough to enjoy
the final without showing any resentment, and has some positive things to
say about the singers.  They were pretty amazing, you have to admit.

After the final, you have dinner in one of the attached restaurants, and
then sit in the bar area with a few other competitors and their families.
This time, Jake's less reserved and talks to some of the other children,
while you half maintain a boring conversation about snowfall with a dad,
keeping most of your attention on watching your angel interacting with a
couple of other fairly pretty boys.  Gays, the three of them, quite
definitely.  Odd how they sniff each other out like this when they're
probably not even aware of their sexuality themselves.

There's one slightly hairy moment when the dad of one of the pretty gays
asks you a question, and you're too busy imagining his offspring engaging
in a furtive three-way frot with his playmates to have heard what he said.
You bluff your way through and try not to look guilty.

After a while, the boys decide they want to go back out into the snow,
which is still falling.  It must be a good two feet deep now, you've not
seen it like this in England before.  They make a good go of it, but it
doesn't take long for them to be cold and damp and ready to head back
inside.  Three shivering boys are the cue to head back to hotel rooms for
showers and bed, so you all head off towards the hotel.  The boys agree to
meet up for breakfast, and finally you have your Jake all to yourself.  You
slip an arm around his shoulder as you cross the threshold into your room
and give him a quick hug.

He accepts this contact for a moment, and then slips out of your grasp to
look out of the window at the whitened city.  After a few minutes of
gawping, you hurry him into the shower and imagine with pleasure how he
looks in there, while idly flicking through TV channels.  You bone up at
the thought, but it's subsided again by the time he emerges, his slim clean
body looking so narrow and fragile and amazing, wrapped in the clean white
hotel towel.  There's a belly you'd like to kiss and no mistake.

He jumps up onto the bed and takes the remote from your hand, so you go for
your shower, getting yourself up to a full erection, loving the idea that
you're erect only metres from the boy.  You let it go down again before you
get out of the shower.

Get dressed?  No, let's do what Jake did and go back into the room in just
a towel.  Nothing overtly sexual, but it at least raises familiarity.
You're surprised but pleased to see Jake's not dressed yet – still
sitting up against the headboard flicking through channels, his knees
pulled up to his chest.

Hang on, let's move slightly, that's it, don't block the TV, but just a
little further and you've got a view up his leg.  You can only see thigh so
far (but it's creamy white and inviting – don't knock the thigh – but
maybe there's more to see).  You maintain the conversation so he doesn't
notice the stare, but that's it, a little closer to the bed, and now you
can see.

Gorgeous.  With his knees up, the towel's pulled wide enough to show the
small wrinkled sack of his scrotum, his balls looking tiny, floating in
that amount of skin.  And there, lying soft to one side, half in shadow so
you can't really tell how big it is, is his cock.

How long can you stand here looking without him noticing?  Maybe he's
already noticed?  But he's made no move to cover up so probably not.
There's a limit to how long you can stand in this spot making light
conversation before it starts to look odd, so with great reluctance you
have a last longing glance, and move across to look out of the window.  You
notice he's put his wet clothes on the radiator to dry (hence still being
in the towel, presumably), so you do the same even though yours aren't
particularly wet, and then sit next to him, leaning against the headboard.

"Anything good on?"

"No.  There's hot chocolate sachets on the table, am I allowed one?"

"Of course."  It surprises and amuses you that he feels he has to ask
permission, as if this was your house and not a free hotel room.

"Do you want one too?"

Not really, but you say yes to keep him happy.  He gets up to turn on the
kettle, and there's immense pleasure seeing the simple domesticity coloured
with the incredible sexiness of his lithe body moving around the hotel
room.  He starts to sing, and because he's relaxed and happy, he's singing
infinitely better than he did on stage.  It's a ravishing sound he makes
when the mood's right.

He brings the mugs back to the bed, and sits right up against you on your
left hand side so that your bare shoulders are touching.  You've never had
this kind of physical intimacy with him before.  By his age, they're
normally past the stage of needing a cuddle when they've fallen over or
fallen out with their friends, so this is a rare treat.

The conversation drifts from the competition, to school, to home, to the
competition again, and all the while you feel he's talking about his mother
without ever mentioning her name.  There's an undercurrent of unvoiced
resentment.  Are you making more of this than he is?  Possibly, but even if
it's unacknowledged, you're certain that her inattention will be doing
lasting damage.  In some ways it'll be better when he reaches adolescence
and can happily scream that he hates her, instead of meekly bowing to her
whims all the time.

He snuggles closer, and you're aware that you might need to shift your
position to hide any future erection.  You lift your knees slightly so that
there's a crumple of towel in your groin, and he mirrors your action,
leaning his leg against yours.  His towel has now slipped to about half way
along his thigh, so he's pressing skin against skin.

He wriggles his torso in closer still, moving his shoulder in front of
yours so that your left arm naturally snakes round behind his back to hold
him.  He's so slender, so warm, so beautiful.  He tilts his head back onto
your shoulder and gazes up at you and in his expression you can see that he
adores you.  There's a boyish crush in those eyes and you have the power to
decide what will happen.

Position of responsibility, Wilson.  Nip it in the bud.

But instead you give him a gentle squeeze and smile back, telling him with
your gaze that you adore him too.

He does something odd.  He asks if he can touch your beard.  He takes your
surprised silence as bad sign, and quickly adds "just `cause, you know,
I've never touched one before and I've always wanted to know what it feels
like.  Like, is it the same as the hair on your head, or different?"

"Erm, yeah, I guess you can touch it if you like."

Your beard is cropped close to your face, but he manages to run his fingers
through it, running up against the grain.  The sensation is exquisite and
you immediately see why chimps like to groom so much.  Odd that humans
don't, really.  It's one of the strangest moments of your life, but also
one of the most erotic.  While he reaches up to your face, you stroke his
clean, almost dry hair in response, tucking it away from his gorgeous blue
eyes, and smoothing it down over his crown.

Your fingers move from his hair, down his cheek and jaw line, and he
settles back into the crook of your elbow and allows his face to be
stroked.  It takes considerable will power not to kiss his waiting mouth,
but you're aware that for a 10 year old boy with a possibly unrecognised
crush on his teacher, jumping to kissing might be a step too far.

Right decision, Wilson, because he's suddenly embarrassed by what's been
happening, sits up and moves slightly apart from you.  He remembers his hot
chocolate and starts to talk about a film that's on telly in a bit.  He
goes to the radiator to see if his clothes are dry, and sees that only his
pants are.  They're green stretchy boxer briefs with a white waistband and
white seams, making them look a little like a football pitch.  Rather than
going back into the bathroom, he faces away from you and pulls them on
under his towel.  Only a glimpse, only a tiny glimpse, but you do manage to
see about a square centimetre of bum.  Tantalising.

He wonders around the room aimlessly, investigating drawers, fiddling with
the curtains, that kind of thing.  It gives you a wonderful opportunity to
admire his physicality; the careless grace with which he holds himself, the
thin torso and kissable belly, that small but beautifully shaped bum, on
hips so narrow yet so sensual.  You have a strong urge to kneel behind him
while he looks out at the snowy city and pull him towards you by the hips,
but for now your eyes make do where your hands and your lips would like to
be.

As he returns to the bed, you get up and put your own pants back on in the
same coy manner, and then hang both towels in the bathroom.  You sit back
on the bed a little distance apart from him, so that any further contact is
definitely initiated by him.

It doesn't take long.  He's perhaps getting chilly sitting in only his
boxers, so he sidles back alongside, and after a while leans his head
against your chest.  Again, your left arm slips around him, but you resist
the urge to stroke after the reaction last time.  You both gradually slide
from sitting to lying, abandoning all pretence of watching the TV, and just
hold each other.  He pulls the duvet over you both, and that is the cue for
him to snuggle even closer, turning his body to face you, and swinging his
left leg up over yours.

He's half lying on top of you now, there's a clear sexual element to this
contact, but you're mindful of scaring him again, so you fight the urge to
slide a hand down onto his bum.  He pushes things on, though.  Very slowly,
he lifts his head, and presses his lips against your chest, and then
returns to his starting position.  That was a kiss, Wilson, no question of
it.

You return it in the same slow manner, pressing your lips at the top of his
forehead by his hairline.  As you release, he tilts his head up, offering
his lips to you.  Very slowly, leaving plenty of time for a back-out if
necessary, you move your lips to his, and kiss his wonderful mouth.

He brings his body round so that it's entirely on top of yours, and kisses
you again, one hand in your beard and the other on the pillow beside your
head.  You slip your hands down the sides of his slender torso, relishing
the smooth warm feel of his skin, and onto the small, firm mounds of his
bum.  His pants fit the shape of his buttocks so snugly, they almost
enhance the sensation, making it feel cosy and warm in your fingertips.

As you gently explore his body, there is a slow transition, from long,
closed-mouth kisses, to a slightly open mouth, allowing lips to interlock
and nuzzle on their mates, to the gradual and tentative introduction of
tongue.  You are in this comfortable embrace for a surprisingly long time,
and Jake gradually allows his inhibitions to be broken down, and his sex to
be worked up.  As the kisses progress, so does his use of his body,
beginning with a gentle pressing, to squeezing his groin against your
belly, to rhythmic thrusting.

After a while, Jake lifts his head from yours, gives you a shy smile, and
then nuzzles in against your neck.  You feel him rubbing his face against
your beard, and when you kiss his neck he giggles at the tickles it gives
him.

You slide your hand inside his boxers, cupping his warm, firm little bum,
and squeezing gently.  He tips slightly onto one hip to allow your hand to
squirm round to the front, where you take hold of the amazingly warm, hard
smoothness of his sex.  You feel like you have magic in your fingertips,
the way it trembles in your grasp, the way the boy whimpers with pleasure
and thrusts into your hand.

With your other hand you slide his pants off over his bum, and he then
kicks them off onto the floor.  While he lifts his weight from you, you
slip your own boxers off too, and he settles back kneeling over your groin,
looking down at your erection.  This is your first chance to really see his
penis, and he yours.  He has a cock that somehow mirrors its owner in its
pale and slender elegance.  It is about 2 and a half inches long, standing
up proudly against the V from whose nadir it sprouts.  His foreskin reaches
almost all the way around the head, leaving a small circle of glans visible
at the tip.  The scrotum is loose, with two rather small balls looking
slightly at sea and detached from the penis.

You run your fingers over it, exploring what it has to offer, rolling his
foreskin back and forth and gently squeezing the tip.  You expect him to do
the same to yours, but he just watches it with detached curiosity, while
enjoying the slow wank you're giving him.

When you tell him he's beautiful, a delicious blush colours his cheeks and
he steps up a harder thrust into your hand, before lowering his hips so
that he's rubbing directly onto your erection.  He lies flat on top of you
while he frots himself against you, allowing for more kissing and nuzzling.

Your dicks are both slightly sticky with sweat, so that they catch and pull
against each other, which only serves to heighten the hotness you're both
feeling.  Your hands roam all over his body and backside while you pull him
in against you.  His hands stay mainly by your head, but occasionally move
to stroke your chest.

You roll onto your sides, and lifting his leg slightly, begin to thrust
between his thighs, across his perineum and into the bottom of his crack.
It gladdens you to think that you must be rubbing back and forth across his
hole right now, and he's so sexed up that he's not in the least freaked out
by it.  His own strokes take his cock up through your pubes, giving them a
slight pull each time.

Excited by your proximity to his bum, you put him onto his front and push
up and down his crack, loving the way his buttocks deform under the
pressure as your helmet runs up and down his narrow cleft.  It's exciting
for you, but there's not enough friction on his dick to keep him happy, so
he directs you to lie on your back again, and you resume your original
face-to-face, dick-to-dick position.

You can tell he's getting close, and so are you.  You run your fingers up
his crack, and in his current fog of hotness he moans with pleasure as you
press firmly against his tight little hole.  One finger slips in just at
the point where you reach orgasm, coating his genitals in the lubrication
he needs to up his thrust-rate and shudder through a dry climax of his own.

You remove your finger and kiss him deeply while he runs out his
after-strokes, slowing to a standstill and burying his mouth in your neck.

You hold this amazing boy close, relishing the sensation of his hot,
slender body in your arms.  You smile and tell him he's wonderful.  Which,
of course, he is.  He gives you a shy grin and blushes charmingly.

After a dozing cuddle, Jake rolls away from you and fetches some tissues,
which he uses to mop up the worst of the mess.  When he's done, you lean up
on one elbow and just stare at the amazing beauty you have beside you.
Lucky boy, Wilson, you're a very lucky boy.  Every inch of his body is
ravishing, every movement he makes is entrancing.  The narrow ribcage, the
dip from this down to his silky smooth belly, the penis now lying flaccid
at about an inch and a half off to the side, the little balls looking
almost lost in the loose skin of his scrotum.  And those incredible legs,
of a length and proportion guaranteed to make you worship every step he
makes.

You trail your fingertips over him, relishing the goosebumps you raise, and
best of all, watching his dick wake up and harden without direct contact.
You replace your fingers with your lips, kissing over his torso, gradually
dipping towards his groin.

You take his testicles into your mouth, pulling on them gently and swirling
them with your tongue.  You move to the base of his dick and lap around its
root, and lick up its length, before taking it into your mouth.  Jake's
reaction to the sensation is just as you hoped and imagined – a
surprised, whimpering cry, followed by a breathy "Oh My God!"  As you suck,
Jake's wiry frame stretches and twists in pleasure, and your hands maintain
a continuous movement over his belly as you suck him.

His cock feels hot and exciting on your tongue, throbbing and bucking at a
rhythm independent of the long slow thrusts Jake makes into your mouth.
Jake's hands rake through your hair as he pulls himself into you, all his
movements becoming more ragged as he approaches climax.

Ultimately you want to get into his bum, but you know he'll need working up
to this.  You want to get him to the stage where he associates things in
his bum with pleasure, so when he's really close, you lick a finger and
squeeze it in.  You give him a good prostate rub while you bring him up to
the peak.  He's so sexed up right now that he accepts and welcomes this,
which gives you hope for the future.  Not tonight probably, but not too far
in the future you'll be fucking him there.

Suddenly he tenses and becomes still, all except for that lovely dick,
which bounces in your mouth like a twanged ruler, as he shakes a dry orgasm
onto your tongue.  After a few seconds of stationary ecstasy, he exhales
deeply and collapses back onto the bed, arms outstretched and with a look
of amazed satisfaction on his face.

You come back up alongside him, kiss his mouth, and pull him into a tight
embrace.  He clamps his limbs around you limpet-like, and nuzzles into your
neck.

When he has recovered, his amazing blue eyes give you a knowing look, and
he walks his fingers like little legs down your torso and along the length
of your dick.  You're semi-hard at the moment, but as Jake takes hold of
you, the blood returns and you're ready for a re-match.  He wanks you
slowly, and then leans down to kiss up the back of your cock.  When his
lips reach the head, he points those beautiful eyes at you and gives you a
little smirk, and it's almost enough to make you scream.  This incredible
boy, his beauty, his sexiness, his lips on your cock.  It's a wonder you
haven't spunked on his face already.

He opens his lips and allows them to engulf the head of your cock, slowly
stretching to let it in, closing on the far side, and then there's that
little extra stretch as he passes the corona.  All the times you've
fantasized about seeing this sight, feeling these sensations, and here we
are on a snowy night in Birmingham and it's finally happening.

He holds you there, just the head in his mouth, and ripples his tongue
around what he's caught, and it's like being fellated by an angel.  He
sucks his cheeks in, accentuating those exquisite cheek bones, before
moving to take more of you into his mouth.

What have you done to deserve this, Wilson?  Who knows.  Who gives a fuck.

He backs off your dick and licks and kisses the shaft and the head, before
taking it inside again, setting up a rhythm for a few strokes.  Again, he
backs off, and kisses you for a few moments before having another go.  This
time the rhythm is maintained and he takes around half of the length in
each time.

This is good stuff, especially for his first time sucking.

That makes you think – is it his first time?  He hasn't needed any
direction, wasn't surprised when you spunked all over his belly the first
time – has someone else had him before?  In a paranoid hypocrisy you
wrack your brains to think who might have sullied your angel, who would
dare to commit the abomination that you are this minute committing.

Calm it Wilson, he's just a natural.  Nothing to worry about.

Eyes on the prize.

You try to keep your thrusting to a minimum, let him dictate the pace so
that he doesn't gag and get put off blow jobs permanently.  But as you get
closer, you can't keep completely still.  He notices this and pulls off to
ask if you're going to squirt soon.

Soon, you tell him, but not yet.  You promise to let him know –
obviously he doesn't want a mouthful of cum, and really you don't blame
him.

You tell him how amazing it feels, and he returns with even more gusto,
sucking hard, flicking his tongue over your slit, really trying to get the
best from you.

At the moment of no return you call out "Jake, now!", just a little too
late (probably deliberately, on a subconscious level), so that as he pulls
it out the first string of cum hits his lips with a little going inside,
the second sprays across his face, and only by the third spurt has he
directed it away onto your belly.

You cannot disguise the pleasure you gain in seeing him daubed like that,
your territory marked, your property claimed.  But that feeling lasts only
a moment and is soon replaced with adoration and respect for this
incredible boy.

He continues to wank you until you're spent, albeit with one had while the
other wipes the mess from his face.  He wrinkles his nose and spits out the
small amount that went into his mouth, and then reaches for the tissues to
clean up properly.

That done, he snuggles up beside you, one leg hooked over yours, and kisses
your lips.  You can smell your cum on his face, and it makes you hug him
even tighter.  You pull the duvet up and drift off to sleep.

xxxxx

Feedback is always welcome.  My email address is at the top of the page.

If you enjoyed it, you might like to see my other stories on nifty:

http://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/caravaggio-boy

http://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/teacher-turned-babysitter

Edgar Getting