Date: Thu, 10 May 2001 08:26:52
From: guess who? <spunkmachine@hotmail.com>
Subject: Pablo story

PABLO WAS THIRTEEN YEARS OLD

by Bambino


Author's disclaimer: The following a work of fiction.  All characters are
purely fictitious; any resemblance to real persons is purely coincidental.
Although this story describes minor boys involved in consensual sexual
activity, it bears no relation to real events and as a work of literature
is protected under the First Amendment to the Constitution of the United
States of America.

The author retains the copyright on this work.  Distribution or posting of
this work without the author's permission is a violation of that copyright.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


Sunbeams filtered through the Venetian blinds of the bedroom, painting
zebra-stripes of alternating light and shadow across the boy's face; from
the street outside came shouts and splashing of the neighborhood children,
playing in the hydrant.  Pablo opened his eyes and squinted them shut again
almost on the same instant; he stirred a lazy arm and let it fall across
his face, to shield away the glare.  He'd overslept again, far into the
morning.  That tended to happen now that his mother worked on Saturdays,
and wasn't home to wake him up.

In a shiftless torpor, Pablo stretched his legs, fanned out his toes,
flexed and wiggled them.  Growing accustomed to the daylight, he let his
left hand slip from his forehead to the pillow, tucked it under his pelt of
unruly black tousles.  For a few minutes he lay lazing and drowsing,
blinking languidly up at the ceiling through half-lidded eyes.  He had, in
fact, awakened at the usual schoolday hour, roused by some inner alarm
clock set by long conditioning, only to nod off again into a dreaming doze:
a weekend habit.  And again he had dreamt of Joselito Santos, in what
lately seemed to be becoming a pattern.  Only lately.

Pablo's wide, velveteen-shadowed lip curled into a frown as he considered
the provocative content of the dream.  What did it mean? Dreams were funny
things.  His uncle, Rafael -- his mother's notorious brother who used to
live with them -- had told him that if he slept on his stomach he wouldn't
have nightmares....  But the dream, like the others before it, hadn't been
a nightmare -- in fact, it hadn't been even remotely unpleasant.  A
pleasant dream -- not quite as pleasant as the 'wet' ones -- but pleasant
enough.

With his left hand still pinned under his head, its right counterpart
drifted absently down under the sheets, slid across the slender midriff,
with bold stealth, almost by a will apart, like a wild jungle cat guided by
its own exploratory instincts.  Still only three-quarters conscious, Pablo
entertained a kind of waking dream, in which his right hand became a
furtive creature of the savanna, cautiously investigating the complex and
varied landscape of his young body.  First he traversed the flat, taut
terrain of his belly, sliding over a dimpled sequence of shallow dips and
rises, hollows and gently rolling mounds of firm topsoil -- very pleasant
underfoot -- over the solid bedrock of youthful muscle.  Passing the navel,
the hunting beast skimmed lower, to where the abdominal knolls give way to
a sensitive expanse sloping smoothly down to a fringe of wiry black scrub,
a curious little bushy thicket which marks a sudden dramatic rise to the
topography.  Here the beast made a catch; it clung to its prize with feral
tenacity....

Pablo opened his eyes, which had somehow fallen shut a second time.
Reluctantly relinquishing his grip on his penis, he threw aside the covers.
Sunlight instantly splashed across his naked body in patterns of dazzling
gold, deep bronze, muted copper; lying on his back and twisting sinuously,
Pablo resembled a young tabby cat in a mood of cozy playfulness.

It was from Uncle Rafael that he had learned, among other things, the joys
of sleeping nude.  "Real men sleep in the buff," his uncle had sworn
firmly.  "You want to be a man or a boy?"

"A man!" Pablo had dutifully answered.  Whether or not anybody had ever
heard of a ten-year-old man, they both believed in him.  And later, amid
caresses and embraces in the dark, his uncle had whispered, "You are a man,
Pablito.  Tonight you became a man."

The memory was vivid, but it all seemed an eternity ago.

Crossing his feet at the ankles, Pablo gazed down at his exposed self,
watched his penis come fully erect: a wonderful elemental process, like
dawning of the sky or the blooming of a flower.  He resisted the urge to
help the process along with an encouraging hand; he would let it occur in
nature's own sweet time.

A gentle ballooning, and Pablo's penis plumped and lengthened, a pulse at a
time, until it stood up tall and firm.  He liked the way the round, shiny
head reared from the scruffy folds of its protective sheath, which
stretched taut and disappeared as the organ swelled to its fullest reach,
almost to his navel.  He also liked the way the color of the skin faded
from cocoa-brown to cafe con leche as it expanded over its hardening
core like a sausage casing.

It had grown a lot in the last year -- more, it seemed, than it had ever
grown in all the years before.  The growth had been mostly in the way of
thickness.  He knew he had a big dick, and he'd known for a while, since
even before Uncle Rafael told him he did.  Nevertheless his uncle's
compliments had been quite a boost to the blossoming juvenile ego.  He had
told Pablo that even if his dick didn't grow any more, it was already big
enough for any man to be proud of.  And the best news of all was: it would
grow more.  He was only thirteen -- his birthday had barely passed.  It
would keep growing until he was sixteen or seventeen.

This morning, looking down his nose at his big dick, Pablo wondered when
his body would start catching up.  He was still so short and puny -- not
yet five feet tall.  If not for his faint moustache and husky, crackling
voice, people would have still taken him for a little kid.  All the other
boys in his seventh grade class stood at least a couple inches taller than
he -- and it didn't matter if he had a bigger dick to make up for it, since
unlike height it didn't show (unless you were looking at his crotch, where
you might notice a promising bulge).  His height didn't help in sports,
either, where he could have really used a growth spurt in every direction.
He made good in baseball and even soccer, and he was an excellent swimmer
-- but in boxing, where Pablo's heart was, there wasn't even a weight
category light enough for him.

Lost in his vague morning thoughts, Pablo absent-mindedly twirled a lock of
his kinky black pubic hair around his finger before once again wrapping his
palm around his now fully awake cock.  The stroking began.

At the foot of the bed lay a rumpled white garment, a trifle of white
cotton, where Joselito had lain only yesterday.  Pablo interrupted himself
a second time to pull himself upright and pick up the garment, letting it
hang loose: a pint-sized T-shirt, the kind that came in a package with
matching briefs.  Pablo let Joselito's T-shirt fall, completely covering
his face, and inhaled with all avidity.  Yesterday afternoon Pablo had used
the T-shirt to sop up his own cum, and little Joselito, outraged, had
refused to wear it until Pablo washed it.

The cotton fabric still reeked faintly of his own pungent juices as he
breathed in deeply, but Pablo, now earnestly stroking off, thought that he
could detect fleeting snatches of the younger boy's fresh, clean scent
under the heady rancid aroma of leftover sperm.  Such a cutie, Joselito
Santos.  He laughed like any other boy; his eyes were like other eyes, his
mouth like other mouths, his little butt no rounder and firmer than other
little boys' butts... but his spunky and adorable mannerisms made him
absolutely unique: the single Joselito Santos in all the universe.  Pablo
had already dallied with lots of boys, from school, from the
neighborhood....  All in some way were unique, but Joselito only recently
had started to get his first 'tingles.'  He still hadn't quite gotten the
hang of beating off all the way to a satisfying finish every time like
Pablo could, but then Pablo had already been able to squirt the juice for
at least a couple of years.  He wasn't quite sure.  He knew that he had
started early.  It didn't matter, anyway.  The important thing was the
feeling you got at the end, not the stuff that came out.  That's what he
had promised Joselito the first time he had played with him: the best
feeling in the world.  Joselito had made him promise before he consented to
take out his little penis and let Pablo manipulate it.  And from the
unmistakable, unforgettable reaction that spread across the younger boy's
face as his body went stiff and his little toes curled, Pablo knew that he
hadn't disappointed Joselito.  If anything, the younger boy's expectations
were far exceeded.

Pablo stroked faster, squeezed tighter, clung fervently to the image of
little Joselito's ecstasy-stricken face that lingered in his mind's eye
from yesterday afternoon and, more recently, from his dreaming.  Cute
little adorable spunky Joselito, already so tough and sweet and wild, with
his lovable little two-inch dick and sweet little angel's ass...

That did it.  A rush of hormones flooded Pablo's bloodstream and he began
pounding his dick with a vengeance.  There was no stopping the natural
progression of events that had been set into motion by his fierce action.
He was bound for the big pay-off and he knew it was only moments away.
Often he wondered why he thought and dreamt about boys instead of girls.
The other boys in class were more or less girl-crazy, but he jacked off
thinking about Joselito, who was not only a boy but half his age.  Maybe,
he thought, he would turn out like Uncle Rafael after all -- he knew the
words.  Gay, homo, maricon....  Is that what I am? he wondered.

At the moment he couldn't be bothered with those concerns.  Becoming tense,
he strained to recall the Joselito's exquisite configuration to his tightly
lidded eyes, to withdraw the savor of his perfume from the discarded
T-shirt, to evoke the little boy's frantic gasps of pleasure, his furious
breath in his ears, while Pablo rapid-stroked his taut little penis for him
between two fingers.  Opening his mouth and doing some heavy breathing of
his own, Pablo strove to summon the scent of Joselito's hair, the taste of
his mouth, skin, smooth marble-sized balls, back to his tongue....

Intermittent trembles began to wrack his body between intervals of stiff
tension, giving way to a violent chronic shuddering, his thighs and
buttocks working in and out with the rhythm of his pumping hips.

He had entered the home stretch.  The tension mounted... mounted... mounted
to a thunderhead of intensity -- and then the pleasure, the
mind-annihilating pleasure, exploded through the core of his pubescent
dick.  A convulsion shook him from head to foot, dislodging the T-shirt
partially from his face, revealing his teeth bared and clenched in a
grimace.

"Ufffhhhh!" puffed Pablo as he ejaculated.  Hot milky sperm burst forth in
three, four, five consecutive rapid jets, splattering an abstract pattern
of pearl-write splotches against the writhing, satiny brown skin.  He felt
a stray clot splash as far as his neck and threw back his head into the
pillow, arching his back and squeezing his eyes shut in a teeth-grinding
wince for this sweet taste of heaven he wished would go on forever.  His
fist jerked spasmodically up and down to work out the last precious
orgasmic kinks, as the after-blow of his boyish load ran over his brown
knuckles, puddling in his navel.

At last his fist slowed and relaxed.  For several minutes he sprawled prone
among the rumpled bedding.  His hoarse panting graduated to a deep sighing,
at last subsiding to regular respiration.  The warm, salty-sweet reek of
fresh adolescent semen rose into the cramped air of the little bedroom.  He
lifted his head from the pillow and looked down at the abundant aftermath
of his pleasure.  What a mess! The scattered load coursed down the side of
his torso, forming little rivers in the hollows of his ribs where the
clear, runny fluid started to separate from the white creamy mass.

A mindless, satisfied calm settled over the boy.  He lay inert, still
clutching his penis, now a spongy, slimy slab of softening flesh.  Its
coating of semen had grown cold, and it felt like a big banana slug in his
hand.

Masturbating had made him drowsy again.  He needed a quick shower to rinse
off and wake up, or maybe he would just go out and join the neighborhood
kids in the hydrant.  Momentarily he thought to hear Joselito's voice
within the chorus of calls and giggles, a sweet meaningful note he would
recognize amidst a thousand, a hundred thousand voices.

Putting the defiled T-shirt to further use, he wiped off the webs of semen
between his fingers, the sticky mess all over his body.  The T-shirt was
his now.  He would never wash it, never give it back to Joselito.  It was a
sacred token to him now, an object of worship, a holy shroud.  He'd keep
using it to soak up his loads until it grew starched and crusty, and then
he'd keep it in his treasure chest.  If Joselito asked about it again, he'd
say he lost it.

Another Saturday with the house to himself -- to share.  It was going to be
another scorcher -- both indoors and out.  Joselito and he would make a
little heat of their own.  Slipping from the bed and standing naked, he
yawned and stretched, a full five feet or so on his tip-toes, his muscular
little body silhouetted before the sun-streamed blinds.  The glorious
vision was wasted on an empty room, with no inspired painter to preserve it
in moody chiaroscuro.

Now he was sure that it was Joselito's laughter he heard.  His heart beat
all the quicker for his certainty.  Pablo took a moment to thank God that
the boy he loved, the boy for whom he would go to the ends of the earth,
was only just outside his front door.  Then he put on a pair of shorts,
stepped into his flip-flops and went outside to play.


-- Bambino 2001