Date: Sun, 10 Aug 2014 09:21:07 -0700
From: very tas <verytas33@hotmail.com>
Subject: Boyfriend chapter 1

This story is fiction.  It belongs to me, the author.  If you're too young
to be reading this, Get Out!  Otherwise, I hope you enjoy!  If you really
like it, it would mean so much to me if you sent me an email letting me
know, at verytas33@hotmail.com

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1.

The first thing I need you to know is that I think I love you, too.  But I
also need you to understand how much that thought terrifies me.  The only
thing love has ever gotten me was hurt, and I swore to myself that I would
never let myself get hurt again.  I promised myself I'd never fall in love,
then I would never again have to feel that sort of pain.  Then you came
along and...  Fuck!  Why do you have to be so wonderful, so fucking
perfect?  Why can't I get you out of my mind? Why can't I force myself to
just forget you, like I've forgotten countless others over the years?  What
makes you so different?  The only thing I can think of is that I'm falling
in love with you.  I can't help it.  I've tried everything to stop it from
happening.  It's always been easy, before you.  When things seemed to be
getting serious, I could always find some reason that it wouldn't work.
There was always something I could pick-out about him, something wrong,
something to hate.  Then you came along and...  Fuck!  I made a promise to
myself, never to let this happen again.

      I had a shrink once tell me that our feelings are simply there, that
we have no control over them and therefore, we should never regret them.  I
thought she was full of shit.  But now, I'm starting to wonder if she was
right.  She also told me that it would make me feel better if I opened-up
and talked about my feelings.  I told myself that was a bunch of shit too,
even though I knew she was right.  There are things I've never told anyone.
Things I've been ashamed of for years.  Things I've tried to forget, and
even though I was sometimes able to fool myself into believing that I had,
I never could.  And for some reason, the more I've gotten to know you, the
more I've been thinking about my past.  Memories that have been buried-away
in the deepest, darkest, dustiest parts of my mind for over twenty years
are resurfacing.  Oh sure, they've popped up here and there over the years,
however it's never been too much of a problem to shove them back down and
lock them up.  But then you came along.  At first, I thought that you just
reminded me of someone I used to know.  Someone I thought I loved.  Someone
I thought loved me.  But the more I think about it, the more I'm realizing
that you aren't anything like him.  Well, that's not entirely true.  I
can't deny the similarities, even if it is easier to focus on the
differences.  And the biggest difference is that I actually can tell that
you care about me.  When you told me you were falling in love with me, I
believed you, I honestly and truly believed you.  When he first said that
to me, while a part of me so desperately wanted to believe him, that in a
way I did, I still had my doubts.  At the time, I chalked it up to my
horribly low self-esteem.  I didn't love myself, so, I reasoned, how could
anyone else love me.  Not too much has changed in all these years.  Right
now, I'd have a much easier time telling you that I love you, than I would
telling the same to myself.  Although all these years later, I do know that
I'm not completely worthless.  It might be uncomfortable to tell myself, `I
love you."  But I usually don't have much of a problem saying, "Hey, I
really do like you."  I'm working on it, and one day I'll be there.

      This letter is actually a part of my healing process.  That shrink
also told me that I should write about my past, even if I never showed it
to anyone.  Again, I thought she was full of shit.  Yet here I am, pen in
hand and two paragraphs on the page.  Whether or not I'll ever give this to
you, well, time will tell.  I'm not even sure what all I should put down
here.  I mean, memories are flooding back to me by the minute, hell, by the
second.  Things I haven't thought about in years, hell, in decades.  I'm
not sure if my mind has ever been this chaotic.  There's only ever been one
point in my life when I wondered if I was headed for a nervous-breakdown.
I'm feeling that way again.  The difference between then and now is that
now, it's happening at the beginning of the relationship.  Then it was as
the relationship was ending.  In fact that was at that point when I
realized that I was not completely worthless, and decided not to kill
myself.

      Now don't get me wrong, I'm not feeling suicidal.  Even back then, I
had thoughts, but I don't think I ever could have done myself in.  I
considered lots of different things.  I was in a bad situation and I knew I
needed to get out, away from him, but it took me years to realize that.
Three years, actually, and another nine months before I got out.  I did a
lot of things in that time, and not all of it was bad.  It was a classic
roller-coaster ride.  There were both high and low points.  And at first,
there were more highs than lows, at least that's how I remember it.

      I remember the first time I saw him, like it was yesterday (although
the older I get, the more I feel like I can remember yesteryear much more
easily than yesterday).  He was, well, he was tall dark and handsome, even
if he leaned more toward the more the rougher side of handsome.  He was
also, in my eyes anyway, grown-up already.

      Ok, with that line, I suppose I have to get to the real truth.  When
I sat down to write this, that was the one rule I made to myself.  Be
complete honesty.  After all, if I decide not to give this to you, then
there's no harm done.  But if I'm not honest with myself, then I know I
never can be with you, or anyone for that matter.  Maybe I will burn this
when I'm done with it.  Maybe I won't.  I'll decide that when I'm finished.
In the meantime, well, now I realize I'm, stalling.  Like I said, there are
things I'm not proud of.  The first of which, is saying that I was thirteen
when it all started.  He was four years older, and at that age, there was a
much more pronounced difference between us.  I still saw myself as a little
boy and I saw him as a man.  His name was Sam.  And he was, well, shit, I
don't even want to put it down on paper, it sounds so bad, but I'm being
honest here...  He was my step-brother.  I know I told you about growing-up
with my mom and step-father, and I also know I've never mentioned having a
step-brother.  I've never told anyone about Sam, not in a long, long time.
And even when I did mention him, it was only a quick, shallow comment.

      His father and my mother had been married almost a year, when it
started.  In that time, I developed quite a crush on Sam.  He barely seemed
to notice me.  He visited every-other weekend and spent a couple weeks at
our house during the summer.  I saw him as everything I wasn't.  He was
big, strong, smart and funny and confident.  I was the epitome of a
ninety-eight-pound-weakling.  I always felt different, awkward, and it was
rare that others found the same things amusing that I did. By the time I
first met Sam, I already knew I was gay.  I'd figured that out a few years
before.  But knowing something and accepting something are two completely
different beasts.  The only time I seemed to feel completely comfortable
with myself was when I was alone with my thoughts, in bed at night.  You
know that I'm more of a night-owl, than a morning-person, and I have been
for as far back as I can remember.  I used to spend hours laying in my bed
and thinking.  And while I thought, I played with my dick.  When I was real
young I just played with it.  I didn't know anything about cum or climax.
It just felt good to touch myself down there.  That all changed soon after
I turned ten.  One night, I didn't stop when everything started to feel all
tingly, and even though I was terrified I was going to piss myself, I kept
my fingers moving and...  I'd never felt anything so incredible.  I don't
remember how many times I got myself off that first night, I just kept at
it until my dick was sore and I was so tired I couldn't stay awake any
longer.  The next morning, I realized I'd rubbed my dick raw and that
night, I discovered (necessity is the mother of invention) how to use spit
and lotion for lubrication, as I rubbed my sore little dick.  I was still
too young to actually shoot cum, sometimes I produced a small amount of
clear drool.  By the end of the year, however, the clear drool had turned
cloudy, and soon after, it would pump out in big globs.  And by the time I
really started shooting cum, I also discovered that thinking about sexy
things made it feel even better.  And quite soon after that, I realized
(not surprisingly) that thinking about sexy things involving other guys was
better than thinking about girls.  I tried, once in a while, when the guilt
was, for whatever reason, really bad, to think about girls when I
jacked-off.  But even then, when it came right down to it and I just
couldn't push myself over the edge, I'd think about another boy and shoot.

      I know I'm kind of wandering here, I started that paragraph with
every intention of getting into what happened between Sam and I, and ended
it jacking-off.  There are just so many things running through my mind
right now, it's hard to focus on any one.  I guess the point I'm trying to
make up there, is that I started fantasizing about Sam a year before
anything ever happened.  So by that first time, I'd already imagined, many,
many times...  Well, it wasn't the same as what I imagined.  Although,
there were times...  Shit!

      Another thought just popped-up, something I think I should mention,
before I really get started.  I do remember masturbating and fantasizing
about both being forced to do things to other guys, and forcing other guys
to do things to me.  And even then, I had a rationale for my nasty
fantasies.  Classic gay-repression.  You remember what it was like, back
when we were kids.  You heard the names thrown around by the other guys,
`Faggot,' `Queer,' `Cocksucker,' and do you remember the way those words
were used.  I knew that's what I was, but it isn't who I wanted to be.
Only at night, alone with my thoughts, could I be who I really was.  To be
truly exciting, to get myself off hard, I had to believe my fantasy could
be true.  And I had a hard time imagining that most of the guys I
fantasized about would ever be attracted to me (that whole low self-esteem
thing again).  So, I remember some of my earliest fantasies, after hearing
in history class about how back in the day Slaves were forced to do
anything, "...and I mean anything they were told to do."  Now don't get me
wrong, I'm not one of those kind of people, I was a confused boy who
fantasized about having a slave to suck his dick.  I also fantasized about
myself being the slave, and being forced to suck my master's dick.  Not all
my fantasies were like this.  I could believably imagine myself and some
fantasy partners cuddling and kissing, making love, as opposed to fucking.
But there were certain guys, most of them bigger and stronger than me, men
rather than boys, who I could only believe would want to use me, after all
I certainly didn't have anything to offer them, other than a couple hot,
wet holes.  Just like there were other guys, usually smaller and weaker,
who I'd imagine forcing myself on.  Sam was big and strong and so (in my
eyes anyway) manly, that I'd imagined him raping me dozens of times before
it ever happened.

      There, I said it.  Sam raped me.  But, I think it really was what I
wanted.  I've wrestled with that idea for over twenty years, giving it way
more thought than I'd like to pretend.  While I often do wish my first time
had been different, there are other times when I wouldn't have had it any
other way.  And the older I get, the more I can see the relationship from
Sam's point of view.  Even though I saw him as grown-up back then, I now
realize that he was still almost as much of a boy as I was.  I've often
thought about what I'd do if out roles were reversed, I was the older and
he was younger, and I caught him doing what I was doing...

      Ok, I know, I have to get to the story.  So here goes.  And if you
actually do end-up reading this, know that this is the hardest thing I've
done in ages.  I know I could never actually speak the words to tell you
this, but maybe after writing it all down, and assuming you do read it,
maybe I'll be able to talk about it.  But, please don't expect too much, at
least not at first.  It's going to take me a while to assimilate the fact
that another human-being knows these things about me.  It is a big-deal for
me to put this much trust into someone.  Ok, now on with my tale...

       It was a Friday morning late in the Fall I feigned illness so that I
could stay home from school.  I knew that Sam was going to be visiting that
weekend and I figured I could spend all day Friday jacking-off and
hopefully wear myself out, so maybe I wouldn't be popping little boners the
whole time he was around.  I went into my parent's room so that I could
sneak a peek at some of my step-father's porn-mags, which I'd found hidden
in his sock-drawer.  Though most of the magazines he had showed only
big-breasted women, there were a couple that had naked guys along with the
girls.  Those were the ones I liked the best, as I could stare at the guy's
tight, muscular bodies and their big, hard cocks while I jacked-off.  So
while I was searching through my parent's dresser, I opened the drawer
where my mother kept her `unmentionables'.  And for some reason, looking at
all the sheer, lacy undergarments made my already-fairly-stiff little dick
become hard as steel.  I really didn't think about what I was doing, as I
pulled a pair of panties from the drawer (they were pink with a bit of
white lace around the hems) and felt how soft they were in my hands.  Then
a thought crossed my mind.  The silky softness felt great against my
fingers, I had to wonder how the satiny fabric would feel on the hot skin
of my stiff little prick.

      Well, it felt incredible.  And before long, I'd stripped-off my
shorts and t-shirt and had put on my mother's panties, as well as a pair of
her nylons and one of her bras.  I don't know what had gotten into me.  Ok,
so my hormones were going wild and it seemed anything at all could make me
horny.  I could make my little hard-on twitch inside the silky underwear
and it felt almost as great as it did when I stroked myself.  I was a bit
small for her clothes.  They hung off my body somehow, though quite baggy.
It wasn't even noon yet, and I knew that my parents wouldn't be home till
well after five o'clock, so I figured I had several uninterrupted hours
alone in the house to play.  After choosing a short skirt from the closet,
and a sheer blouse, I found a pair of high-heels to complete my outfit.  I
stared at myself in the mirror and became even more turned-on than I think
I ever had been.  Other than my short-hair, the beginnings of an
Adam's-apple in my throat, and the obvious bulge tenting in the front of
the skirt, I could almost imagine myself as a girl.

      Now, before I go on, I have to say that while I had wondered what it
might be like to be a girl, it was almost always when I was fantasizing,
wondering what it would feel like to be fucked by a man.  Like I said, I
had some bizarre fantasies as a kid.  I wondered what it would feel like
for a girl to have a guy between her spread legs, his big cock inside her,
humping and pumping and...  But that was just my thirteen-year-old mind
trying to figure-out the ways of the world.  Even though I sort-of liked
the way I looked, and I know I loved the way I felt, wearing women's
clothing, I honestly never really imagined myself as a girl.

            But the boy in me sure as hell was turned on my the image in
the mirror.  I could almost imagine trying to seduce the image, the girl I
saw in the mirror.  My dick was as hard as it ever had been.  It felt so
incredible throbbing against the sheer material of the panties I wore.  And
after a moment or two, I had to close my eyes and think about my math
teacher, a mean, old, ugly hag, who's image never failed to soften my
little erection a bit.  By squeezing the right muscles and taking active
control of my breathing, I was able to stop the tingling that had started
deep in my belly.  And, well, I also thought about how I'd clean-up the
mess, if I spurted inside my mother's panties, so that she wouldn't ever
figure-out what I'd done.  No longer able to stare at myself in the mirror,
I went downstairs, almost tripping on the steps in the pair of high-heels I
was wearing.  After I made sure that all the curtains were closed and no
one could see into the house, I decided to fix myself lunch.

      It was strange.  I mean, there really is no way to move around in a
skirt and heels without feeling a bit feminine.  I sat with my legs crossed
and sipped my milk with my pinky-finger extended.  I took little girlish
bites of my PB&J sandwich and chewed each one carefully.  My hands moved
with an over-exaggerated flourish and I giggled while moving and shaking my
head, pretending I had lots of long hair to toss around.  After I finished
eating, I wandered around the house, trying to get used to walking in heels
and feeling the soft garments slide against my skin as I moved.  I was also
trying to keep myself from touching my dick for as long as I could.  I
still had at least four hours before anyone would be home, and I didn't
want to wear myself out too soon.  But it was becoming more difficult by
the minute, knowing that I probably had three or four good orgasms in me,
I'd have to pop the first load at some point.  Still, I also knew that I
was more excited than I could ever remember, and when I did get myself off,
it was going to be more intense than any time before.  I knew that the
longer I wait before making myself come would make it even that much more
intense.  And I also knew that once I'd shot my wad, I was sure to fall
into that guilty-funk I always did, when I made myself shoot a big load
(though I knew I'd get over it quickly, I still didn't like laying there
with semen dripping down my body, lying to myself, swearing over and over
that I was going to start fantasizing about girls instead of guys).

      My dick never got soft, as I walked from room to room, feeling more
and more like a girl as I did.  Like I said, I never wanted to be a girl.
But being dressed like one, wandering around the house in a skirt and
heels, well, it really turned me on.  Every time I saw my image in a
mirror, or reflected in the blank tv screen, I felt a throb between my
legs.  It didn't take me long to realize that it was easier to walk in the
high-heels on the kitchen's smooth linoleum than on the carpet covering the
floor in the rest of the house.  However, there wasn't a whole lot of space
in the kitchen, so I got bored quickly.  Then it hit me.  The only part of
the house where I hadn't meandered was the basement, with its open, smooth
concrete floor.  The wood stairs leading to the basement were easier to get
down than the carpeted stairs leading to the second-floor of the house.
And when I heard the echoing click-click-click as I walked across the
floor, well, I had to think about my hag of a math-teacher for a minute, to
keep everything under control.

      It was a full, open basement, with lots of boxes and furniture and
stuff stored along the walls.  With all my mom's stuff and all my
step-father's stuff moved into the one house, there wasn't enough room
upstairs for everything, so the rest was in the basement.  I was getting
better at walking like a girl, as I moved around the big, open room.

      When I first saw the box, with my mother's name on it in black
magic-marker and underneath written, "Old clothes," I felt my stomach flip
and had to squeeze tight between my hips to stop myself from getting too
excited.  I tore the box open and just stood back looking at my find and
trying to keep my body under control.  I decided that considering my
discovery, I should go back up to my parent's room and take-off the skirt
and blouse I was wearing, then come back down to the basement, and pick a
new outfit from the box.  I knew that when I finally did get myself to
come, I'd surely spray my load from here to Kansas, and everything near-by
would be coated in spunk.  I couldn't get cum all over the clothes I was
wearing without having to clean them, so mom wouldn't find-out.  With these
clothes, however, it didn't matter, she'd probably even forgotten they were
down there.

      That decision paid-off in a few different ways.  Firstly, these
clothes fit my mother before she'd put on a little weight.  The outfit I'd
taken from her drawers and closet was rather baggy on me, but everything in
the box seemed to fit me perfectly (well, except that I had nothing to fill
the cups of the bras).  The first thing I grabbed was a skimpy, little pair
of red panties and slid them.  There was barely enough material to them to
cover my balls and hard dick.  The bra I picked was black, and it took me a
while to figure-out how to clip it.  I dug a bit deeper into the box and
pulled-out something that was made of sheer, almost-see-through, ivory
satin, that felt so incredible against my fingers, it only took me seconds
to step into the slip and pull it up over my body.  I'd never felt anything
like it.  I decided to not think about my math-teacher and see what
happened.

      I found a pair of thigh-high nylons that had a few runs in them, but
it didn't matter to me.  In fact, I put another runner in one of them with
the nail of my big toe, as I realized you couldn't put them on like a pair
of tube-socks.  In another box I found some old shoes, purses and (I
couldn't believe I'd forgotten about them) three old wigs my mother used to
wear.  Within minutes, I was going back upstairs wearing the panties and
bra (the cups of which I'd stuffed with two silk scarves I found), the
thigh-highs and the slip, as well as a pair of heels (with about another
inch of heel than the other pair I'd been wearing), a long blond wig on my
head and a pair of white gloves on my hands.  And for some reason I grabbed
an old black purse, which I tucked under my arm.

      The first place I went was to the first-floor half-bath/laundry-room
which was the only room on the main-floor with a full-length mirror.  Other
than the obvious bulge between my bony hips and the slighter bulge below my
chin, I could have passed for a girl.  I liked the way the high-heels made
my legs look.  The my calf and thigh muscles were forced to flex a bit, and
I turned to see that my butt was more shapely with the heels on my feet.  I
shook my head and felt the long hair on my shoulders and upper-back.  I
walked back and forth, as best as I could in the small space, staring at
myself in the mirror and finally, allowing myself to touch my hard dick,
although only on the outside of the slip and panties I wore.  I was so
horny I knew that if I really wanted to, I could make myself pop within
half a minute.  But that wasn't what I wanted.

      It was a little after one o'clock.  I figured I had at least four
hours left before anyone got home.  So if I played-around for three hours,
that would give me an hour to clean-up and make sure I left no evidence of
what I'd been up-to.  I was a bit shocked to see the wet-spot form through
the panties and slip I wore, more surprised that I hadn't started leaking
pre-cum earlier.  Watching the spot grow, the red from the panties becoming
even more visible through the sheer satin slip, made me even hotter.  I
pressed my hips forward a bit so I could get at my balls a bit better and
rubbed them, occasionally stroking one hand up the shaft of my dick,
forcing more clear pre-cum from the tip of the head.  Before long, my
dickhead popped out of the panties and within a few seconds the sheer
fabric of the slip had been saturated.  I my little dick-head was almost as
red as the pair of my mother's panties I wore.

        I went for as long as I could without touching my dick.  But when I
finally did, it took a minute or so before I exploded.  It was the best
orgasm I'd ever had.  My legs got so shaky that I couldn't keep my balance
in the high-heels, so I had to support against the washing-machine.  I
watched myself come in the mirror, the wetness spreading all over the slip
and panties I wore, soaking through the sheer fabric, wet and gooey.

      It took a while for me to get my breath back and I decided to go up
to my bedroom for the second-round.  The high-heels were hurting my feet
and, while I thought about taking them off, I remembered hearing girls
always talking about how badly their shoes hurt, so I figured I'd suffer
too.  My legs were still feeling a bit unsteady, and I took my time going
through the kitchen, knowing that the carpeting in the next room was more
difficult to manage in heels.

      I'd taken three careful steps over the carpet when I heard a voice
and nearly shit myself.