Date: Thu, 25 Aug 2005 18:20:09 -0400 (EDT)
From: r <rw4uij@excite.com>
Subject: The Arranged Marriage 1

The following story is a work of fiction set in the format of reality. Any
resemblance to real people is entirely coincidental in nature. The events
portrayed are not meant to accurately reflect persons in towns, cities, or
countries referred to in the story. If sexual scenes involving male to male
relationships offend you, then you should not read this story.
Additionally, if you are under 18 years of age, in most states and
countries, you are not allowed to read this by law.

Please send feedback to rw4uij@excite.com



The Arranged Marriage

Part 1 of 3


It's the Monday of the first week of the summer vacation, and I'm hanging
around downtown in the mall near the Cathedral, feeling as low as I've ever
felt. I'd been looking forward to this summer with such expectation, but
now there's nothing. I ruined everything.

My mobile rings, taking me by surprise -- who could be ringing me? As I
reach to answer it my breath catches in my throat. The call is from
Kazza. . .

* * * * *


Kazza walked into my life about two months ago. It was a few days after a
big high-school swim meet; I'd come third in my event and had stood on the
podium, still dripping, as the bronze medal was hung around my neck,
thinking life couldn't get any better. . .  but it did. Waiting for my bus
after school a few days later, I saw him walking up to the bus stop; a
tall, handsome black guy of about my age. As we climbed aboard, he turned a
radiant smile on me, his shining white teeth illuminating his deep black
face. The bus was crowded and I felt the heat of his body next to me, and
when I got off the bus, there he was next to me.

His voice was deep and throaty, a French lilt to his English. "I will meet
my friend at Starbucks by the Cathedral. . .  it is close to here?" And
again that captivating smile; those teeth.

I walked him there, shyly answering his questions, and when he insisted on
buying me a coffee to thank me for showing him the way, my heart leaped and
I accepted.

Normally, I'm too shy to make friends quickly, but with Kazza everything
seemed different, so welcoming. The moment I told him my name was Richard,
he called me Ritchie, giving me a private nickname like a secret promise of
friendship. He told me his name but it was impossibly long; so he just
smiled and said, "For you, Ritchie, you can call me Kazza." He told me he
was here alone, only his second time out of Africa, and that he was lonely.

Eventually my shyness caught up with me and I made my excuses and left, but
that night, alone in the apartment, my mind was full of visions of that
tall African guy, slowly undressing him in my thoughts as my hand grasped
my cock and I jerked myself to sleep.

We always seemed to be bumping into each other after that, and eventually
started to hang out; I'm too shy to have many friends at school, and rarely
express myself other than when I'm swimming. I don't have the easy way the
other guys have with girls, and am too inhibited to make friends with the
guys I've fantasized over. . .  but with Kazza, it was as if we were made
for each other, it was all so easy to sit and talk about everything and
anything.

We discovered neither of us had ever known our mothers, and that our
fathers were distant -- Kazza's because of 'affairs of state;' mine because
he works the night shift as a security guard at a factory, and only comes
home to sleep in the day; I hardly ever see him.

Kazza, I learned, was a year older than me -- 18 to my 17 -- and was stuck
here for a few months 'on family business;' I realized he needed a friend,
and in his reflected friendship, I realized I needed a friend too. He said
he was insecure about his English, and even made me spend a whole day
trying to understand him only in French. It was hopeless, but I was happy
-- I'd do anything for Kazza

So we hung out, and I learned to laugh and I learned to like myself more as
I came to like him more.

Then I won through to the finals of the state swimming meet, and Kazza came
to support me; no one ever came to support me before. He filmed the whole
thing on his video camera, and his presence there was enough to drive me to
do better than ever before. As I stood on the winner's podium, I sought him
out in the stands, his video camera trained upon me, and when I waved,
holding up the gold medal, he waved back.

But the next day, when we met at Starbucks as promised, I ruined it, like I
ruin everything good that's ever happened to me. I was so happy, so looking
forward to seeing more of him through the summer vacation, that I let my
hand fall onto his leg as we talked, and, as my fingers started to creep
along his muscular thigh, I looked into his handsome face, smiling and
hoping. . .

But his expression changed, and he firmly removed my hand from his jeans
and shook his head.

"In my family," he said, "we only make love with our wife. We are not like
you. Before we marry, we do not make love. After we marry, we make love
only with our wife. You may not touch me there."

I ran from the cafe, and ran and ran, and when eventually I got home I
threw myself on my bed and wept. I ruin everything I touch, I thought, and
now I'll never see him again.  But even so, I know he wants me; I've always
known. In all the months since I felt him pressing against me in the bus,
he's always been hard. There's always a bulge in his jeans, always
straining; I know he wants me.

Since then, I've cried myself to sleep most nights, alone in the empty
apartment, my father working, not knowing me.

* * * * *


I answer the phone. "Kazza?"

"Ritchie? Ritchie, where are you? I need to ask of you a favor. . . "

"I'm down in the mall. . .  Kazza? Look, I'm sorry. . . "

"Hey, Ritchie, you shouldn't have run away. We must talk. But now I really
need to ask of you a favor. Can you come to the Cathedral?"

"The Cathedral? I can be there in a few minutes. But Kazza, I just want to
say how sorry. . . "

"Don't worry, Ritchie; it's all my responsibility. You'll come here, now?
Please come, quickly."

The line goes dead, and my heart leaps. Maybe, maybe, I can make it up with
Kazza after all. I know I can't have that. . .  the secret desire I lock in
my heart. . .  but I can still be his friend.

I run toward the Cathedral. If he needs a favor, I'll always be there.

He's waiting at the bottom of the Cathedral steps as I run around the
corner toward him.

"Ritchie! You came." His arm falls on my shoulder and squeezes me. "I knew
you'd come."

"Kazza? Look, the other day. . . "

"All forgotten, my friend; Ritchie, my only friend. . .  I need to ask of
you a favor. . . "

"Kazza, just say the word! That's what friends are for, right?" I look up
into his face -- he's a lot taller than me, but then so are most guys my
age.

"I have a problem, Ritchie, and you're the only person I know here, know
well enough to ask." He smiles, a bit tentatively, as he starts to lead me
up the steps of the Cathedral, his arm around my shoulder. I'm acutely
aware, as always, of the bulge in his jeans, and as always, feel myself
responding.

"I think I told you I was here on family business? Well, one of my brothers
is to be married, and I've been making the arrangements. The wedding is to
take place here, this Cathedral." He smiles down at me. "Do you remember?
It was when I first came here that I met you, Ritchie. . . " His voice
trails off, and I feel my heart lunge; he remembers.

"Usually," he continues, "before a wedding, there's a. . .  I think you
say, 'wedding rehearsal'?"

I've never thought about it before, but I suppose even weddings need a
rehearsal. "Like, practicing where everyone has to stand and what to say
and stuff?" I suggest.

"Yes! It's all been planned, everything ready, and the reception on
Saturday and everything," he beams that glorious smile. "But there is no
bride!"

"The bride isn't here?"

"So we must go ahead, but we need someone, please Ritchie, we need someone
to be the bride. Ritchie; I've spent all my time with you, I don't know
anyone else I can ask. . . "

"You want me to go in there as if I was your brother's bride?"

He nods. "I can't do it as I am the best man. So please, Ritchie, help me
here. I came to this country to arrange a wedding, and now it seems I can't
even arrange this."

"Kazza! I'd do anything for you! You know that! Just tell me what to
do. . . "

"I knew I could rely on you, Ritchie." He looks seriously into my eyes.
"You'll be my brother's bride?"

"Of course, Kazza. Whatever you want."

* * * * *


At the big doors of the Cathedral, a flustered priest is wringing his
hands.

"What are we to do?" he gasps. "The Cathedral is booked again from three
o'clock! Is there no sign of the bride?"

Kazza produces his most stunning smile. "Don't worry, Father. My friend
here will be the bride, and we can continue."

The priest looks at me doubtfully. "It's most out of the ordinary. . . "

"Don't worry, Father. Ritchie really wants to do this."

The priest draws me to one side. "Are you sure about this?"

"It's fine, sir. I'll do what's needed. Just lead the way," I answer.

"It's all so strange," the priest mutters. "I've never had instructions
like this from the Bishop. I really don't know. . . " But he sighs and
leads me inside the Cathedral.

It's very dark in there; I can hardly see a thing.

"Because it's so unorthodox," the priest states, "I'll need you to sign
this before we proceed." He points to a huge book.

Kazza steps over to look at it.

"It's OK, Ritchie," he tells me. "They need to know who was present, that's
all; just some bureaucracy, nothing to trouble us," he concludes, and puts
a pen in my hand. I feel the weight concealed in his jeans pressing into my
back as he pulls me in front of him.

I can scarcely see the book, but the priest shows me where to sign, and
then rushes off to get into position.

"You sure you want to do this?" Kazza asks, as we look into the darkened
building, and I feel that swelling as he leans over me.

"I'm happy just to be with you," I tell him.

"Right! Me too, Ritchie! This can be fun for us." He moves next to me and
takes my arm.  "First, as there's no one to give the bride away, I'll play
that part too. We shall walk down the aisle, with you on my arm." He gives
me a conspiratorial look. "Who'd have thought you and I would end up
walking down the aisle together. . . "

Suddenly, I'm back in Starbucks, experiencing his rejection of me, a
hundred times more painfully.

"But, I think we both can dream, can't we?" he smiles, and all the hurts of
the last few days are wiped away like a summer's shower.

"Lead me down the aisle, Kazza," I smile. "You're the best; you really
are."

As we enter the nave of the Cathedral, an organ starts swirling the bridal
march. I can see, somewhere in the gloomy interior, the priest standing at
the alter-rail, and a rather lonely-looking black guy, dressed in jeans and
a white tee, waiting there, anxiously looking over his shoulder. There's
also a couple of older guys, obviously from Kazza's country, hovering
around with video cameras.

"Slow down, Ritchie," Kazza whispers. "This is one of the reasons people
need to rehearse; you're walking much too fast. Imagine yourself in a white
gown with a long white veil and bridesmaids and stuff. Walk slowly."

So, slowly, Kazza and I walk down the aisle, my arm resting on his, my
white hand in his strong black hand, the heat of his body engulfing me.

"Couldn't the guys with the cameras have done this?" I whisper -- I don't
know why I'm whispering, really.

"They have to find the best angles; the video of the wedding is terribly
important for everyone from my country who can't be here," he whispers
back.

As we approach the alter-rail, I get my first look at the
groom-to-be. "He's so young," I gasp.

"My little brother," Kazza states.

"But he's only like 14 or 15 isn't he?" I whisper.

"Actually," Kazza whispers back, "he hasn't turned 14 yet, but he's big for
his age. That's what the priest was going on about, it's so unorthodox and
everything. But in my family, when a boy, you know, reaches puberty, a
marriage is arranged for him. It's like a law for us. But you needn't worry
about that." Again, I feel Kazza's hand on my own, and the warmth emanating
from him. "You see, because he's so young, he's going to be nervous about
the wedding. . .  saying all the right words and everything. That's why I
need your help so badly."

"I understand, Kazza. I'll do what I can to help you."

"Thanks, Ritchie, I knew I could count on you. Help Issa as much as you
can; he'll be so nervous."

Eventually, we are at the alter-rail; Kazza is on one side of me and the
groom-to-be on the other, and the priest in front of us starts the order of
service as the guys with video cameras walk around filming, working out the
best camera positions.

"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today. . . "

I kinda blank out the priest's words and glance at Kazza's brother.

He's got his brother's looks, although he's still half a child; and
although I can see he'll be as tall as Kazza one day he's only about my
height now. Like Kazza, he's very black -- a deep, rich blackness, glowing
with strength. His hair is very short, tightly curled. He's slim and
gangly, his arms and legs way too long, like a colt.

He's evidently really hyper; I suddenly realize the poor kid must be
acutely embarrassed. Here he is, only 13, forced by the customs of his
country to face an arranged marriage, and standing next to him at the
alter-rail, instead of his bride-to-be, is some white guy he's never seen
before. My goodness, he must be burning up in embarrassment.

Every time I glance at him he's looking at me, and I realize that the poor
kid is desperately horny, like he hasn't gotten off in weeks. He can hardly
keep his hands off his jeans, and the swelling down there is painfully
obvious, painfully painful. Poor kid; he's gotta wait till Saturday, I
guess, but there's no way he's gonna get there; this kid needs to jack off,
like now.

Kazza nudges me in the ribs, bringing me back to the priest's words.

"Again," the priest sighs. "Do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded
husband?"

Kazza points to the card in front of us, with the order-of-service printed
out, and nods for me to play my part.

"I do," I answer.

When it's his turn, the kid next to me also says, "I do," but his words are
so stifled in embarrassment the priest makes him do it again before he gets
it clear enough.

The priest is looking at me.

"Repeat after me: I. . . " He glances at Kazza. "Sorry, I didn't get the
name. . . "

Kazza responds immediately. "Richard Frederick Davies."

The priest continues. "Repeat after me: I, Richard Frederick Davies. . . "

"I, Richard Frederick Davies, take this man, to live as his wife in the
holy estate of matrimony; I vow to submit to him, serve him, love, honor,
and obey him, in sickness and in health, and, forsaking all others, keep
myself only unto him, so long as we both shall live."

How did Kazza know my middle name, I wonder, as the priest gets the boy
standing next to me to repeat his lines. No one knows my middle name. . .

The priest looks at Kazza. "The ring?"

Kazza pulls a ring out of the pocket of his jeans; he's so hard, inside
that denim. . .

The priest blesses it, and then tells Kazza's brother to place the ring on
my finger. The poor kid drops it, and I feel his embarrassment burn
again. We both fall to our knees to look for it, and we reach for it at the
same moment. I feel a surge of electricity as our fingers touch. Standing,
I put the ring on the palm of his hand. Poor kid, this must be the most
embarrassing experience of his life.

The priest turns to him and continues. "Repeat after me: With this ring, I
thee wed.  With my body, I thee endow. . . "

I feel the trembling fingers of the boy, taking my left hand, trying to fit
the ring onto my finger. "Don't worry," I whisper to him, "It'll be over
soon." He looks at me, and smiles eagerly. "Soon?"

"I now pronounce you man and wife," the priest intones, and I see he too
feels the absurdity.

"You may now kiss the bride."

The boy leans over and places a chaste kiss on my cheek.

"Oh, come on, Issa!" Kazza whispers. "Can't you do better than that? Your
bride, standing next to you, married to you. . .  Show a little passion!"

And suddenly I feel a surprisingly powerful hand on my neck, forcing me
down, pulling me to him; and then his lips are touching mine and his tongue
is touching me; and although I've never been held in an embrace like this
before, it seems my lips just respond automatically, letting his tongue
into my mouth while my own waves and wavers against it. . .  I grab his
shoulders to keep my balance.

"If you guys can take a break," Kazza eventually interrupts, laughing, "you
next have to process down the aisle. . . "

The boy finally releases me and I feel again the overwhelming intensity of
his need.  This kid won't make it to Saturday.

"You take your bride's hand," Kazza tells his brother. "Place your arm
under the bride's, and put your other hand on the bride's hand."

The boy tries to follow the instructions, and eventually we start marching
down the aisle. "Slow down, slow down," Kazza hisses. "Of course you guys
need to be in bed like yesterday, but you gotta walk slowly; let everyone
watching see how much you love each other."

The boy slows his pace, and we walk down the aisle, the video guys catching
every moment. I feel I should make conversation, somehow make this kid feel
at ease. "Your name is Issa?" I ask. "I'm Ritchie." I realize only Kazza
has ever called me that, but it seems the best I can offer.

The kid looks at me. "You're my wife," he says, and there's a look of
hunger and desire and ownership.

I realize it'll take a while for him to get his head sorted out -- he's
pulsing with sexual energy and just has to jack off; by Saturday, when his
real wedding happens, he should be sorted out.

* * * * *


As we step outside the Cathedral, I notice it's started raining.

As always, Kazza is in control. "The limo is waiting down there," he points
to the bottom of the Cathedral steps. "Imagine it's a beautiful day and
there's a crowd of people taking photos." He looks at his brother. "Take
your bride down the steps; be careful not to slip."

The boy's lean black fingers have a tight grip on my arm, and although
we're getting soaked in the rain, he walks slowly and carefully down the
steps.

Someone throws confetti over us, and it sticks to our clothes in the rain.

Kazza is holding open the door of the limo. "Let the bride climb in first,"
he orders. "Now go round to the other side and get in."

Then Kazza climbs in too, and the limo sets off.

"It's not far; we have the bridal suite at the hotel." He smiles at us.
"But these things are planned so the other cars would get there first, with
the guests and the camera guys and everything, and although today it's just
us, we still have to take a long route round.  Gives you two a chance to
get to know each other."

I look at the boy sitting next to me. The rain has soaked his clothes, and
you can see the outlines of his body clearly; he'll be as muscular as his
brother one day, although at the moment he has all the angularity you'd
expect of a nervous 13-year-old. Still his body quivers; the huge bulge in
his jeans made more prominent by the rain. Big bulges must run in the
family, I suppose. I absent-mindedly pick some confetti off his jeans.

"I've booked the suite for the whole week, so you can stay there until the
reception on Saturday," Kazza tells us. "By then you guys will be so used
to married life you'll have forgotten what all these nerves were about." He
smiles warmly.

"Kazza," I say, "I think you're taking this a bit too far. . . " but
suddenly the boy puts his arm around my shoulder and pulls me toward him.
Again I feel his lips coming close to mine, but I break free and look at
him. "Back off, kid; get a grip."

He looks questioningly at Kazza, who just nods at him, encouraging him, and
again he comes to kiss me, this time holding my head too firmly for me to
break away.

I struggle against the embrace, but as the limo rounds a corner I lose my
balance and slip down along the seat, and the boy is on top of me, his body
pressing me down and pinning me in place as he kisses me.

Eventually the limo halts and Kazza tells his brother to stop.

"What the fuck are you playing at?" I shout at the boy.

He looks so hurt. "But you're my wife," he murmurs.

I round on Kazza, angry with him for the first time since we met, but he
holds up a finger to stop me from shouting at him. "Let's get inside;
there's some champagne waiting for us, and we can sort it all out. But
please, both of you, don't make a scene in the hotel foyer. There are so
many people around."

He jumps out of the car and takes my arm to help me out, holding firmly
while his brother climbs out too. What a sight we must make -- the confetti
sticking to our wet clothes, sticking in the boy's hair, and mine too, I
suppose. People are staring at us.

"Quickly," says Kazza, his hand still holding me firmly. "Just come with
me."

He leads us across the lobby and into a plush elevator -- thankfully we're
alone in it -- and pushes the button for the top floor.

I knock some of the confetti off my clothes, seething with anger now.

Kazza leads us to a door marked "Bridal Suite," and pushes us inside.

The room is luxurious, with sofas and tables covered in starched white
cloths, and there's a bottle of champagne in a cooler on one of the tables,
with three glasses.

The boy sits heavily on one of the sofas and starts fumbling to untie the
laces of his shoes.

"Will you tell me what's going on?" I demand, as Kazza expertly pops the
cork and pours three glasses.

"It's quite obvious really," he smiles. "You and my brother just got
married. Now we're going to drink a toast to the bride and groom, and then
you're going in there to start your new life together." He points to some
double doors leading into another room, and I can see in the subdued light
a huge four-poster bed.

He gives a champagne flute to his brother, who has taken off his shoes and
socks and is unbuckling the belt of his denims, and then gives one to me.

"Stand up, Issa." The boy comes next to me. Kazza raises his glass: "To the
bride and groom," he declares.

Neither of us responds, so Kazza just repeats, "To the bride and groom."
This time, the boy clinks his glass against mine. He takes a long sip, puts
the glass back on the table, and pulls off his soaking tee.

"Kazza," I begin. "This joke has gone far enough. It's not funny anymore."

"Ritchie, it isn't a joke. When did anyone say it was a joke? Sit down,
have a drink, relax."

I just stand there, but he firmly pushes me to sit next to his brother on
the sofa and stands in front of us.

"What the fuck are you playing at?" I demand, angrily. "Is this your way at
getting back at me for what happened last week?"

Kazza looks angry too.

"Ritchie, whether you realize it or not, you just got married."

"Of course I didn't!" I snap.

"Well, we can check the video later, if you're in any doubt; but you made
your wedding vows, you swore in the Cathedral to be my brother's wife; you
signed the register in the sight of the priest; you're wearing my brother's
wedding ring. To me, it's quite clear that you are my brother's wife."

The boy reaches over me and roughly pulls off my sneakers.

"But, I don't want to be the wife of a 13-year-old boy! I don't want to
marry him!"

"But you did marry him. . .  It's not about want or don't want, it's about
the legal facts."

"Will you stop it," I snap at the kid, who's trying to unbutton my shirt.
He looks offended.  "You're my wife," he states flatly.

I try to rise, but Kazza pushes me back down. "Think about it, Ritchie. I
asked you to go into the Cathedral and be my brother's bride. You said
you'd do it, quite enthusiastically in fact. You said the vows. You're
wearing his ring. Accept the facts."

"This is crazy. I don't want to be someone's wife. I can't be someone's
wife. It's crazy," I shout.

Kazza looks at me. "Wouldn't you have wanted to be my wife?" he asks
softly.

I hesitate just too long as I realize what he said.

"So, you can't be mine, because I am married already and can only make love
with my own wife. But I have arranged for you to be my brother's wife,
instead. I know you will be happy," he smiles. "I can see that he is."

The boy seems to decide it's time for him to resolve this, as he suddenly
takes me by the chin and starts kissing me again, half climbing on top of
me to stop my struggles, holding my head firmly. I try to seal my lips
against him, but he prizes them open and starts embracing me hungrily.

As I struggle against him, I feel the warmth of his lean body on mine, and
the urgent hardness of his groin as it grinds into mine.

No one ever kissed me before; my shyness and awkwardness around girls, and
my secret, unexpressed longing for guys, have prevented that. I realize the
kiss is wonderful, that despite everything my mouth is responding to the
boy's urgent attentions. My hand falls on his bare back, and I feel the
warmth and that electric tension within him.

By the time he releases me, my shirt is lying on the floor next to his and
my jeans are unbuttoned and open.

"Now," Kazza announces. "It is time for you to move next door. I shall come
back tomorrow, when the marriage is consummated."

I know I should fight now; the boy and I are the same size, I reckon I
could make a go of it, but Kazza is much stronger, and against the two of
them I'd have no hope.

The boy grabs my hand and starts to pull me to my feet, but Kazza stops
him. "Come now. You expect your bride to walk?"

The boy smiles nervously. "Sorry, brother, I was forgetting."

He pushes one arm under my knees and the other under my shoulders, and
manages to pick me up. I'm not tall, and although I have a muscled body
from the swimming, I'm not heavy. Even so, it's quite an effort for him to
lift me, and he sways a bit.

"That's right," Kazza croons. "The groom carries his bride over the
threshold."

The boy makes it as far as the bed but basically drops me there, panting,
and then he grabs the legs of my jeans and pulls them off. I squirm on the
bed a little, trying to move away, but he places a hand on my chest to
steady me. I hear Kazza close the double doors, and I think I hear a key in
the lock.

In the subdued light, I look up at the boy standing there, as he
deliberately unbuttons his denims.

"Oh my God!" I gasp, as the jeans fall to his ankles, and I see him
naked. "Oh my God!"

* * * * *


During those long, lonely evenings at home, with my father out at work,
I've of course surfed some of the sites on the net, I've seen photos and
videos, I've visited sites dedicated to hung black hunks and studs, and
I've carried those memories in my mind as I jerk myself to sleep.

But nothing I've seen could prepare me for the sight in front of me now.

Maybe it's because he's just 13, with his long lanky limbs and slim
undeveloped chest, but he seems unbelievably huge. I know enough to see
he's cut, and the broad head looks immense. But it's the shaft that is so
scary -- no long thin pole here, just a steadily thickening, menacing stake
of hard shiny black muscle that widens all the way to the base. There's no
hair on his body, and only a small patch around the base of his shaft --
it's surreal to think he's scarcely more than a child, but that thing
towering up there, beyond his navel -- it must be twice the length of mine,
and at the base is at least as thick as my wrist.

I squirm over the bed trying to get away, but he catches me by my briefs
and pulls me back to him. He's drooling in need, but remembers to look for
the jar of grease waiting in readiness next to the bed. He still holds me
firm with one hand as he coats himself thickly with grease, and then he
rips my briefs from me and jumps between my legs.

"No!" I moan. "It's not possible. I can't do this! I don't want to do
this!"

But he leans over me and kisses me, and I feel the weight of that shaft
resting on me.

Then, purposefully, he grabs my legs and forces them apart. He maneuvers
the head against my hole, and tries to push forward.

I've read enough stories on the internet to know he's meant to loosen me
with his fingers or something, but he doesn't seem to care about that. When
it doesn't at first go in, he grabs it and aims it, and pushes again.

By now I'm screaming in panic, desperately calling for Kazza to come and
stop this.  Obviously the boy can't get that thing inside me, but he can
cause permanent damage in the effort.

But Kazza doesn't come to save me, and suddenly the head has found the
entrance and is pressing in. "Nooooooo!" I scream, but the boy just glances
up at me from his concentration, and grins. He looks so young.

Then he pushes again.

I try to squirm away, but he's got the head inside me now and uses one hand
to pin me back on the covers, while his other hand grabs my knee and forces
my leg to move and give him access. All the stories I read talked about
stopping to let me accommodate the size, but he doesn't. He just goes on
pushing, slowly, steadily, and that immense muscle begins to disappear
inside as I watch incredulously. He doesn't pull out or move back and
forward -- evidently he's going to try to get the whole thing inside. But
it's not possible -- the way it continues to thicken all down its length --
there's no way he can get it in.

It seems to take an hour of slow steady pressure, and by the time I feel
his wiry hair pressing against me I no longer have the strength to scream
and shout, although my tears are incessant. This is agony.

Once he's inside me, he stops for a moment and leans forward to kiss my
tear-stained face. And then he starts up, withdrawing a little and then
pushing back in, slowly withdrawing more and more each time before driving
it forward again. Now the pain is incessant and unadulterated, as he
finally works himself into a full-paced fucking.

It seems to go on and on, and in addition to the pain in my ass my legs are
in agony as he forces them wide open. He's totally immersed in his
movement, staring hard at his cock as it moves in and out of me.

And then I feel him becoming more tense -- his thrusts lose their rhythm
and become wild and uncontrollable, and then he lets out a great bellow and
falls on top of me, his cock still quivering and pulsing inside of me.

Eventually he releases my legs, and as they fall to the bed a few inches
slip out of me, but there are many more still planted inside, and there's
no sign of it softening. I feel one of his fingers stroking my face,
pushing the tears away, and then he whispers.

"So that's what it's like! They told me it was wonderful, but made me wait
until today.  It's better than I even imagined."

I'm too exhausted and traumatized to be angry with him. "So, that was your
first fuck?"

He raises himself slightly to look at me, annoyed. "My first time to make
love; my first time to, to, you know. . . "

"You've never cum before!" I gasp. "Never jerked off?"

"We don't make love before we marry," he states simply, and he wipes a tear
from my cheek. "But now I'm married, I can make love whenever I want."

Well, that explains some of that nervous energy, I suppose.

He raises himself off me a little and feels my chest, soaked in sweat. "And
you, did you make love too?" he asks. "Kazza says the wife enjoys it as
much as the husband. . .  It didn't happen?"

"No, Issa, it hurt too much."

"Then we must try again," he states, and one of his hands reaches down to
grasp my knee and pull it up.

"No, Issa, no! Not again, please."

He looks determined. "Kazza said the wife would enjoy it too. Maybe I
finished too quickly? This time, I will last longer, I promise."

He's true to his word, and lasts a lot, lot longer. There's sweat pouring
down his body, a look of fierce determination in his eyes, but he won't
stop. I reach down to touch myself; maybe if I can jerk myself to climax
he'll be satisfied -- but he slaps my hand away.  "Mustn't touch. It's not
good to touch. Husband and wife make love until both are satisfied," he
gasps, and gets going again.

It's no use -- I'm in too much pain. He can't hold off forever and shudders
and whimpers as he cums, but all I feel is agony.

He looks cross, frustrated, angry. "The wife must enjoy it too!" he states,
and suddenly he looks like a petulant little boy who can't get his new toy
to do what he wants. I see his brow furrow and his lip tremble. "The wife
must enjoy it too!"

Then he clearly remembers something he's been told, and he pulls his still
erect cock out of me.

At last I'm free of that intense pain. I hate to think how much I must be
bleeding down there, but at last it's over.

But it isn't over. He rolls me onto my chest, grabs my hips and pulls me up
toward him, immediately entering me again. "No! Issa! No! Stop it, please!"
I moan, but he grabs my shoulders and pulls me up onto my hands and knees,
and then starts to push inside once more. "The wife must enjoy it too!" he
gasps, like a maniac, and starts fucking me furiously again.

There's no strength in my body now; my arms give way and my head slumps
forward.  But he grabs a handful of my hair and pulls me back up.
Evidently, he's been told to do it on all fours, and that is the way it
shall be.

I thought the first time took hours, and the second even longer, but this
is now getting ridiculous. I realize he can probably keep going all night,
seeing as he's never even jerked off before, but I start to worry if this
is going to kill me.

He keeps a painful grip on my hair, and now the pain there matches the pain
at my back as he continues to fuck. I hear him gasping for breath, feel his
sweat on my back; but my cock won't respond to my silent prayer. I hurt too
much to cum; it's impossible.

I see our reflection in a full-length mirror on the wall. His body is so
thin, just a child; his legs too long for his body, his arms with just the
hint of muscle as he grabs my hair.  He has high, round buttocks, and sweat
swirls down his back towards them, as they piston back and forth in cruel
determination.

After his third orgasm -- the third of his life -- he slumps over me, and
then pulls me over so we're lying alongside each other, still joined
together by that insatiable, enormous cock.

I realize he's crying; he wants so much to do what he's been told, but he
can't.

I twist round a little so my face is near his, raise one hand and stroke a
tear away.  "Don't cry! It's not your fault! You tried as hard as you can!
Don't cry!" But still he cries, just a little boy now, with a broken toy
that won't do what he wants.

I lick a tear from his cheek, and he cries all the more. If only I can
soothe him enough to let me go, maybe I can escape; but how can I soothe
him?

My tongue licks again at his tears, and slowly moves toward his lips. We
embrace deeply and slowly; none of that animal urgency he showed before, in
the Cathedral, in the limo; just a tender, loving kiss, trying to soothe
away his hurt.

His hand strokes along my side and touches my breast. His fingers explore
my body, twisting and tweaking at my nipple, and my kiss becomes more
erratic and passionate.  He raises himself to watch this effect as he
tweaks at my nipple again, and then once more we kiss.

"So that's how to make the wife enjoy it too," he murmurs.

I'm rolled onto my back again, my ankles on his shoulders as he thrusts
deep inside me.  His fingers play with my body as his tongue explores my
mouth. "This time will last forever," he promises me proudly, "and you will
enjoy making love with your husband."

It seems like many hours pass before his words come true -- the morning sun
is sneaking through a gap in the drapes before my dick explodes and my cum
coats us both, and shortly after, he too groans in protracted joy, and
falls heavily upon me. In moments, he is asleep, still proudly impaled
within me, and I too surrender to sleep underneath him.