Date: Mon, 05 Apr 2010 21:44:05 -0700
From: dingalingo@hushmail.com
Subject: Love is Blind

This is a work of erotic fiction containing graphic descriptions of 10
year-old boys engaging in sexual acts. If depictions of young love are not
your cup of tea or are illegal where you are, then don't read further.

Note to the reader: This story contains considerably more story line than
most erotica and if you are impatient with story line, you might just skip
down to the chapter entitled "ALONE AT LAST" below.

This story is copyrighted - © 2010.  I can be reached at
dingalingo@hushmail.com All rights reserved.


* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *


PLAY BALL



"Strike two!"

Although that game 10 years ago was already special because it was the
championship game, neither I nor anyone else could possibly know that it
would conclude by shaking our small midwest town to its very foundation.

The batter, a kid from across town, cursed under his breath at his miffed
swing and thumped the plate angrily with the end of his bat. He was stocky
and had jet black hair and a bad complexion. Jason was his name. Almost 12,
he was an infamous asshole and bully and I was glad that next season he
would be forced to move up to Little League Baseball because of his age.

"Watch your mouth," the umpire growled at Jason's curse, clicked his
counter to record the strike, and settled back in his crouch behind me.

I was catcher for Plainview's AAA Mustangs. My name is David. I was 10
years old as I crouched behind home plate in full catcher gear that
day. Chris, also 10, was on the pitcher's mound, and he had a wicked set of
throws at his disposal. For preteens, we were good. Really good. Chris'
best pitch was his underhand "submarine" pitch. It was a true underhand
pitch - not just a low sidearm, and the lack of traditional wind-up
confused many batters. So flummoxed did it make most batters, that their
swings were frequently retarded looking chops that made the crowd howl with
laughter. There was a cost, though. It hurt Chris' arm a lot, and he rarely
used it.

Still in my crouch, I tossed the ball back to the mound as Jason mumbled
"suck it," disrespectfully back at the ump, and knocked nonexistent dirt
clods from his cleats.

With a home run off this pitch, Jason could win the game for his team. The
count was full; three balls and two strikes. It was the bottom of the
ninth. We were ahead by one run, and the tying run was on
third. Over-the-fence homers were rare in our age group, but Jason was one
of the rare ones that could do it.

For a home run, though, hitting it over the fence wasn't necessary because
most home runs in AAA baseball are inside-the-park affairs that feature
cute but clumsy kids chasing the ball after missing an easy catch in the
outfield, like a Keystone Kops routine. Our infield, anchored by Chris and
I, was pretty tight and played well but our outfield was typically manned
by the less skilled kids, and if the ball made it past the infield anything
could happen.

Fate can be cruel to kids. Some are gracefully athletic but most are
awkward and barely in control of their growing bodies. All were welcome to
play, though, and the better players worked hard to make up for the errors
of our teammates. There isn't a little league team in America that isn't
the same. That dynamic teaches sportsmanship and tolerance for others that
aren't as skilled as you. Your teammate may suck, but he's YOUR teammate
and your friend. For most kids, it teaches sportsmanship. Some people like
Jason were immune to the character-building benefits of the game. Jason in
particular found every excuse to belittle and humiliate others, and seemed
to derive personal satisfaction from seeing them fail.

Chris could intentionally walk Jason and easily strike out the next batter,
ending the game. But Chris was facing his nemesis. Jason was the most
successful batter in the league and Chris the best pitcher. It was a
personal grudge match. If Chris intentionally walked him, Jason would taunt
him for years as a coward.

Jason particularly hated Chris because he was NOT a coward. He was the only
kid in our age group who refused to be intimidated by Jason's
bullying. Chris was fearless, though not in a reckless way. His self
confidence was simply rock-solid and not based on either an inflated or
deflated self image.

Chris didn't want to walk him and I figured Jason probably didn't want to
get get walked, either. Surely he was hoping for a pitch across the plate;
one he could connect with. There were no more good batters left in the
lineup after him, so this was his team's only real chance to tie or win the
game. The crowd cheered and anticipation crackled in the air like one of
those static globes in science class.

Knowing Jason was likely to swing for the fence, I dropped three fingers
into my crotch and tapped my inner right thigh, signaling Chris for an
inside slider. Chris shook his head "no." I shrugged inquisitively. The
pitch was scripted for just this scenario. He had something else in mind
and he stood on the mound silently, his right hand on his knee and his
gloved left hand holding the ball behind his back, examining Jason
coldly. We were the only pitcher-catcher team in the AAA league to use
signals because Chris was the only pitcher in our age group with enough
skill and control to throw specific pitches. Other pitchers our age mostly
just hurled the ball as fast as they could and hoped it somehow made its
way to the vicinity of the plate.

I never called for Chris to throw a submarine pitch though, knowing it hurt
his shoulder for days after. It was up to Chris to decide to unleash his
nuclear weapon. Most people think of a true underhand pitch as a slow pitch
in comparison to overhand or sidearm, but his was anything but slow.

I knew it was coming.

I settled into my crouch and bit my lip in anticipation of a hard-pitched
submariner. Honestly, sometimes it stung when that pitch hit the middle of
my catchers' mitt where the padding is thinnest. But I knew it hurt Chris
more. For a brief moment in mid-pitch his shoulder would leave it's socket,
which allowed him to briefly - and painfully - defy the normal limits of
his musculo-skeletal structure.

Chris removed his hat, revealing wispy sun-bleached hair, and wiped his
forearm across his sweat-streaked face. He was extraordinarily handsome, he
was athletically lithe and graceful beyond his years, and he was my
lover. His young body turned me on tremendously, and I spend many nights
thinking of him naked, and many hours naked together in our treehouse in
the woods. I suppose he was no more handsome than many other 10-year-olds,
but I worshipped him and at that moment on the mound, he looked like an
Adonis.

As he squinted and shifted his green-eyed gaze from the waiting batter to
me, he licked his lips in a slow, full circle. It was a signal with two
messages: Submarine pitch coming (I knew that already) and, "I'm gonna suck
your wiener after the game." (I also knew that already.) I smiled and
licked my lips in return. Check on both. My small, hairless cock stirred in
my cup like Pavlov's dog as Chris straightened up and threw his arm
forward, then backward, whirling it up and over his head, then lunged
forward with his left leg, letting the ball fly in a dead-straight line for
the middle of the plate as it reached the bottom of the sweeping arc. From
the corner of my eye, I could see various players' parents, brothers and
sisters lean forward in anticipation. Sometimes umpires called a balk on
Chris for his submarine pitch, but in fact he fulfilled all the rules of
wind-up and delivery, however unusual the process.

As this umpire would later tell the story (for this particular pitch, in
this particular game, was to rise to legend status in Plainview), he was
very familiar with Chris' submarine pitch and even if it was designed to
surprise, it was technically legal. If it was deployed against an
inexperienced 9 year-old, perhaps the ump would have considered it a dirty
move and called a balk anyway. Deployed against this notorious bully, the
ump had no problems and in that instant felt satisfaction that the
foul-mouthed asshole was about to get burned.

It only takes one short sentence to say that Jason was caught off balance,
stutter-stepped toward the rear of the plate and swung wildly at the fast
pitch. But a lifetime of separate dramas was contained in that second if
you were just able to see it.

For me, everything slowed down and time stretched out as if my mind had a
slow motion button and someone pushed it. It seemed my senses were
heightened, and I could isolate and examine everything around me, frozen in
time.

In the back row of the bleachers off the first base line, my older brother
Lenny scammed on a girl in a halter top that was straining under the load
of grotesquely large breasts. Later he would claim to have seen the pitch,
but his eyes were glued to the double-D's. Two rows below them, a cup full
of soda fell from the hands of Chris' dad as he spontaneously applauded his
son's famous pitch.

A bank of individually held video cameras in the front row swiveled
comically in unison, as if choreographed by Busby Berkeley.

My senses were flooded with the smell of fresh cut grass, popcorn, raked
dirt, and mink oil rubbed into my leather padding. I loved the smells of
baseball. I loved baseball period. Even when my team lost, which was rare
that season, I would invariably walk away with a deep sense of satisfaction
just for having played, like leaving the dinner table sated after a feast.

Dirt splattered my leg and chest pads as Jason's backward-sliding left foot
plowed up dirt. He was too far back in the batters box, out of position and
off balance. He was going to miss the ball. We were going to win. I knew it
even as his bat was leaving his shoulder for what would surely be a wild,
desperate swing.

As the ball hung frozen in the air, I could see forward in time to my
triumphant leap into the air while hugging Chris on the mound. It was going
to be a dramatic win. The championship game. One to brag about for
years. My mind flashed forward more, to that afternoon when we would make
love in our tree-house. Ours was true young love, even if it was limited
physically by our prepubescent bodies. We had never ejaculated, and had no
concept of it yet. I had seen my brother masturbate and shoot a load, but I
didn't associate that with the intense feeling I experienced whenever Chris
sucked me. They were dry orgasms, and I didn't think of it as anything but
a very desirable sensation that made me tingle and shiver. Sort of like a
piss shiver but times a hundred.

My penis stiffened in my cup, bending uncomfortably against the hard
protection. The ball approached my open glove on a rope. I calculated the
trajectory and realized I would not have to move my glove an inch. This
pitch was like a laser. The drinking cup was still in mid air in front of
Chris' dad, dark brown soda sloshing over the rim in a graceful arc frozen
in time. The Double-D's jiggled, causing Lenny's eyes to bulge like
saucers.

The other team's third base coach jabbed his finger at home plate and
barked, "GO," launching the young redhead from the bag with a freckle-face
grimace, his helmet flying off the back of his head. This was it;
everything was riding on this pitch. On this swing of the bat.

I bit my lip in concentration, following the ball on its last few feet
toward my glove. Jason grunted with the effort of his swing. I was vaguely
aware that he was much closer to me than he should be, and his swing was
much too late.

At the instant the ball hit the pit of my glove with a solid smack, a
different sound filled my ears. I'd never heard anything quite like it
before. It sounded sort of like a branch breaking. A big branch, snapping
right behind me.

The lights went out.



TURN ON THE LIGHTS

I don't think I dreamed of Chris while I was asleep, because I was
disappointed when I woke up that a dream wasn't still fresh in my
mind. Waking up in the morning was one of my favorite things, because I
usually dreamed of Chris at night, and the foggy seconds when first
awakening brought those images freshly to my mind. I looked forward to
those waking moments.

But this morning, no captured images filled my mind's eye. As if I had been
in a different kind of sleep, without dreams. Something was different. I
opened my eyes and thought it must still be dark outside. The room was
pitch black.

I slowly became aware of strange sounds and sensations. Electronic
beeping. Distant footsteps echoing on linoleum floor. The sheets were not
my usual bedding. They seemed stiff and tight. Tucked in. I never tucked in
my blankets. It felt like I still had my ball cap on, and I reached up to
discover that my head was covered in tightly wound cloth. I felt my eyes,
thinking for a moment they were covered by the cloth too. They weren't.

"He's awake." It was my older brother, Lenny. "Hey, David," he said
cautiously.

"Hi, sleepy head." That was my mother's voice. But why were they sitting in
darkness in this strange room? I was confused.

"Where are you?" I asked. "Turn on the light."

After a pause, my mother sobbed, and my brother said quietly, "I'm right
here, bro. Can't you see me?" I could hear distress in his voice, like he
was scared, and that frightened me. My big brother wasn't afraid of
anything.

Fog quickly settled around me, depressing the fear that threatened to push
me into panic. A nurse pushed sedative into an IV taped to my hand.

When again I woke, I kept my eyes closed, hoping for the familiar sounds,
feels and smells of my room. I was disappointed to find only the odor of
antiseptic and that cold, distant sound of footfalls on linoleum. I felt a
breeze on my cheek, and could hear birds chirping in the summer outdoors,
through an open window. The sound of car wheels lazily slipping by on
asphalt. I loved the sounds of summer, but not now. I was terrified to open
my eyes.

When finally I did, the blackness stayed. I knew that birds only sing like
that in daytime, so it wasn't night. It FELT like daytime. I could sense it
in a thousand indescribable ways. It even smelled like daytime. But it was
dark. I held my hand in front of my face and couldn't see it. A short,
desperate sob forced itself through my lips as the reality hit me.

The sound of footsteps entered my room and I could hear items being moved
and soft humming. Something with wheels being pushed? "Mom?"

"Oh, you near scared da life outta me!" It was a man's voice. "Yo momma's
over talkin' to da doctors. You OK? I'll call da nurse." A button clicked
over the head of my bed, and a distant bell chimed. I smelled a distinctive
lemony smell. Furniture polish? The man smelled like the furniture polish
my mother used. How odd that my mind would be grasping onto things like
that, at a time like this.

"Where am I?" was the only thing I could think to say, more to confirm what
I already suspected than out of real curiosity.

"Da hospital." Came his reply, now next to my bed.

"Why?" Was the only thing I could think to ask. My mind was still foggy,
and my speech scratchy and slurred from the drugs. "Why am I here? Did we
win the game?" I asked sleepily.

"Don't know about no score, but you won awright," the man said. "All I know
fo sho' is you got knocked good on da head wit a bat. Cracked yo skull open
like a walnut." He paused awkwardly, as if he had said too
much. "Sorry. Been hardly nuttin' else on TV fo two whole days. You
famous. Be here fo a while, I 'spect."

I didn't know what to say, so I didn't say anything. We won. We were
champions. The thrill of it escaped me, though. My drugged mind processed
what the man said. A blow to the head. Did that cause me to be blind? Was
it temporary? I hoped. I sat dizzily forward in the bed and tried
desperately to see something. I detected flashes and streaks of light, but
I soon realized they were just phantoms probably caused by stray electrical
signals. As my mind turned inward, I suddenly felt claustrophobic. Panic
rose quickly as the sensation of being trapped in my head closed in on me
like a coffin. My heart pounded painfully in my chest, and I struggled to
get back to my hospital room as vertigo sent my body circling drunkenly.

The sound of water sloshing on the floor snapped me back to the present. As
I regained my sense of balance sitting up in my bed, I warned myself never
to do that again. Never go inside. Never. Stay outside your head, in the
world at all costs or you won't come back. I focused on the sound of the
water, which suggested the man was mopping. So, he was a janitor. That
explained the furniture polish. I concentrated on every sound and made
mental pictures to match the sounds. My heart slowed and I calmed down. I
knew with certainty I had just narrowly escaped something terrible, only
much later realizing that it was a coma was trying to drag me into
oblivion.

As the janitor hummed and cleaned the bathroom to my left, I thought of the
game. I remembered the dozen or so video cameras focused on that last
pitch, and imagined the different angles that the TV news had available to
them, to show my being hit in the head with a bat. I felt foolish and
embarrassed. What an amateur move, to let a batter bean me. It was the
unspoken nightmare of all catchers. I couldn't recall the moment of
contact, though, as hard as I tried. I remembered catching the ball, and I
thought I remembered hugging Chris on the mound, but maybe that was a
different game.

It occurred to me that our habitual after-game sex session didn't happen,
and I felt a twinge of indignation for it. All through the game, Chris had
been making "innocent" little grab-crotch motions while looking directly
into my eyes, as if adjusting his package in his jock strap. Only he was
doing it to drive me crazy. Of course, it worked. He knew it would work, it
always did. He could cause me to pop a boner at will, with just a glance,
and he did it for amusement. Not that I minded that much. Or at all,
actually. I only really hated it when he would do that right before I had
to stand up and give a book report in front of the class or something. He
would look right at me, grab his crotch, and squeeze. Boing! My little
pecker would jump to attention like Gomer Pyle and he would smile. Gotcha.

The nurse arrived and without a word injected more sedative into my IV. As
I slipped back into sleep, the janitor's humming receded and an image of
Chris appeared before me, smiling lovingly, and I felt comfortable as
dreams of his smooth, hairless body and heart-stopping smile washed over
me. When Chris smiled at me, his eyes smiled too, and when he looked at me
with unmistakable love in his eyes it never failed to fill me with
wonderment that he felt that way toward me, and that I could see it written
so plainly on his face. I felt undeservedly lucky. Sometimes I looked at
myself in the mirror for a long time, trying without success to see what
made him love me.

Some time later, I awoke to the sound of a TV in my room and my brother's
voice talking my mother. It was still dark, and I savored the lingering
image of Chris' hard 3-inch circumcised cock in my mouth. I could still
feel and taste the phantom member for a moment. His penis always had a
unique, pleasant smell and taste, and I hated to let it go and fully awake,
but I sighed and cleared my dry throat as I lifted my legs to hide the
erection that always accompanied dreams of my lover.

"Good morning, David!" My mother sang, in an artificially happy voice that
failed to mask her concern. I heard Lenny try to speak, but his voice
caught in his throat. He was plainly at war with his emotions, and fighting
hard not to cry.

I touched my eyes with both hands, hoping once more to find something that
would explain away the darkness. Nothing. Mom tried to chock back a sob,
then she lost that battle she began to cry as she stroked my face.

She held my shoulders and begged me repeatedly to see her face, as if she
could will me to, but she had no such power. As my brother cleared the frog
from his throat and swore softly in the background, I realized they were
scared for me. I wondered if I was dying, and recalled how I almost lost
myself inside my own mind. But I felt fine now. My head hurt, but other
than that I felt fine. They needed to know that.

"I'm OK, mom. I'm OK," was all I could say. A sense of guilt swept over me
that my stupidity was responsible for my mother and brother being so sad.



REUNION

Sadness turned instantly to elation as a familiar voice burst into the room
and cried, "David!" I leaned forward toward the sound of Chris' voice. My
head swam dizzily and I listed to one side, but I thrust my arms out to
receive his embrace. My left arm flailed wide, but at least it responded.

He fairly flew onto the bed and was half lying on me as we hugged. He tried
to speak but only despairing, choked sounds came from him. I could feel his
hot tears on my cheek, and I squeezed him hard and asked, "Can we be alone
for a minute? Please?"

"Oh, Jeez," said my brother. Whatever emotion he was grappling with was
suppressed, and he was his old self. I could imagine his eyes rolling. For
a while now, he had made no secret of his suspicion that Chris and I were
gay, but he kept his disdain mostly to himself. Although he sometimes
ridiculed us as queers, he would have been as embarrassed as us if people
knew. In a small town, people would wonder: if one son was a homo, then the
other...... No, Lenny would keep our secret. He may not like it, but there
was nothing he could do except taunt us about it in private. I was his
brother, after all. And Chris was almost like family. As much as he played
at being disgusted by our very existence, he couldn't help but love us in
his own way. At least we weren't lisping flamers.

"Sure, honey." My mother said. "Come on, Len." They retreated out of the
room as Chris sobbed uncontrollably on my shoulder, repeating, "I'm
sorry. I didn't mean to..." His crying broke my heart, and I begged him not
to.

"Stop. It's not your fault." I forced his head up, and felt his face with
my hand. It was awash with tears, and I found his lips and met them with
mine as fluid from his nose ran down and combined with tears to form a
salty wet kiss. "What happened?"

He straightened up and used his sleeves to wipe tears from his face as he
described in a shaky voice how his submarine pitch surprised Jason, who
lost his footing and hit me on the back of the head with the bat. He sobbed
uncontrollably as he described how I fell forward onto home plate,
instantly unconscious, with blood pooling around my head. Jason let out a
loud reflexive laugh that was clearly caught by all the camera microphones,
as people looked on in horror.

Chris got a dark look in his eyes as he described how the evil spawn's only
concern was that he was interfered with and should get to bat again. Even
as people rushed to help, Jason loudly protested that he would have hit a
home run if "that kid's head hadn't got in the way." Chris' anger broke
down to tears again as he related how his father rushed my unconscious body
to the hospital as the umpire administered CPR in the back of his SUV and
Chris held my blue lifeless face in his hands, terrified by the blood that
flowed unabated from a gaping wound on the back of my head.

I felt hot tears run dowm my cheeks at the thought of Chris being hurt and
afraid. I held his face and kissed him on the lips again. "I love you."

"Oh, god!" He sobbed. "I'm sorry. If I hadn't thrown that pitch...." He
broke down again, and threw himself into my lap with his arms around my
waist, crying uncontrollably. His father entered the room and held him by
the shoulders, helping him sit upright as his body shook.

"It's not your fault, Chris," I pleaded through my own tears and
sobs. "Please tell him its not his fault."

"He's been awake for days. I need to take him home." From the weary sound
in his father's voice, I could tell he had been up with him every minute,
comforting an inconsolable son. "Come on, son. Come on. You have to get
some sleep."

"Get some sleep, Chris. I'll be fine," I said, but he broke from his father
and flung himself back into my lap, wrapping his arms around me tightly. I
petted his hair as we both cried, then his father extracted him from our
embrace and led him from the room.

As their footsteps receded, my mother and brother returned. Emotionally
exhausted, I laid back into my pillow. My head was throbbing, I needed to
be alone, and I acted as if I was out. Before long, a nurse came and said I
needed to rest, so they left and I drifted into a fitful sleep,
half-dreaming of Chris' soft lips and smiling eyes, then starting awake as
his angelic face turned sad and cried. I dozed, cried in desperate need of
Chris, and dozed again. I don't know for how long. A few times I was aware
of a bedside machine whirring automatically, pumping pain medication into
the IV, and blissful unconsciousness taking me away.

The local papers kept the story on the front page for days, micro-examinng
every aspect of the tragedy, and spinning off one controversy after
another, mostly demonizing Jason and placing his family under a
microscope. As his ridiculously indignant protests of being robbed of a
home run increased, the outrage over his behavior grew, and dozens of young
people came forward to recount how he had bullied them. I felt for his
family. The press made a vain attempt at concealing Jason's identity
because of his age, but it was pointless. In a small town, everyone knew. I
imagined his family were normal people, cursed by the birth of a bad seed.

They suffered horribly under the harsh light of merciless scrutiny, and it
got worse by the day as Jason refused to be silenced. What should have been
just a horrible accident was turning into an ugly witch hunt, but that was
no ones' fault but Jason's. He wouldn't let it go. No matter how many video
captures were shown to prove that the pitch was not a balk, and that he had
stepped out of the batters box, he stubbornly and publicly denied the
reality and claimed he was the true victim, having been robbed of the home
run and championship. The media circus threw Plainview into unaccustomed
scandal as the controversy grew out of all proportion.

Chris came to see me every day, either by bike or with his dad, and when he
wasn't there, I pestered my mom relentlessly with inquiries about when he
was coming.

As much as I longed for him, his visits were frustrating because
circumstances conspired against us being alone. A steady stream of
well-wishers, media, team mates, and friends seemed never to slow down. I
desperately wanted to kiss him, and I could feel his heartbreak every time
he would squeeze my hand before he left. Finally one day I couldn't bear it
any longer. With only my mother and Chris present, I pulled Chris down and
kissed him deeply on the lips and said, "I love you."

My mother was silent as Chris embraced me and said, "I love you, too."

When he got up to leave, I could hear her hug him and, as he wept softly,
she said, "you have to be strong, Chris. David needs you."

Mom began to pick Chris up and give him a ride to the hospital every day,
which was very cool. It was a long bike ride for him, and his father didn't
understand why Chris got hysterical if denied a daily visit. After a week
or so of this, mom suggested to Chris' dad that it would save her gas and
driving time if he came to stay with her at my house. We'd spent so many
nights at each others houses on sleep-overs that we were both considered
members of the others' household anyway, so he said "yes," reasoning it
might help to salve Chris' grief. Mom told me that his dad was very
concerned about Chris' emotional state in the wake of the accident, and the
move did seem to calm him down.

After they arrived we would chat a while, then my mother would make an
excuse to leave "for a minute" and close the door behind her, leaving Chris
and I alone. I found out later that she sat in a chair in the hall guarding
the door, guaranteeing our privacy and even denying doctors and nurses
access. Because my condition had been improved from "critical" to "stable,"
they didn't challenge her. I don't know what was going through her
head. She seemed at once to be in complete denial of reality, but still
acting deliberately to give us time to be alone. Trying to figure out what
she was thinking made my head hurt.



ALONE AT LAST

The first few times alone, we kissed passionately and felt each other up,
but went no further for fear of someone barging in. Once, Chris quickly
pulled back the covers and gave my bald cock a few furtive sucks, but to
get caught red handed "homo-izing" would be the ultimate, unthinkable
horror so it was very brief.

Then it became clear that we had guaranteed privacy for as long as we kept
the door closed, and Chris let me undress him and feel his body over every
inch as I remembered what it looked like. You don't realize how dominant
your vision is among your senses until it is removed. In my mind's eye I
could picture him perfectly, but it took a while for my hands to form a
tactile 'image' of him that matched that memory.

It seemed like it had been forever since I had made love to him. Of course
at the time, we didn't think in terms of 'making love.' It's only in
retrospect that I put it in that context. Although we had only engaged in
mutual masturbation, petting and oral sex, it was frequently tender and it
felt like making love. For the most part, though, our sex was not so much
cuddly-romantic as extremely horny, with the objective of having fun and
getting off. We had no idea, yet, about anal sex. It never entered my mind,
anyway. It would have seemed gross if it did. The first time we kissed, we
were six. After we had sucked each other one day in his hot and dusty
attic, he unexpectedly kissed me. It was a tentative peck on the lips. I
had a sense that boys weren't supposed to do that, but I quickly gave him a
peck back, and it seemed OK. He smiled after I did, and it felt very good
and very right to make him smile so I did it again. It was then, looking at
his dusty face and smiling eyes, that I felt the first tug of puppy love
for my best friend. Kissing made the wiener sucking that we frequently
engaged in seem more OK, too. As if it somehow legitimized the ritual, and
made it less "dirty."

I traced every contour of his face as he stood beside my hospital bed. I
had never paid a lot of attention to his ears. Now as I massaged his
delicate ear lobes and traced their outline, I felt a surprising new kind
of arousal that didn't come from my penis, but from deeper in my gut. I
fought the urge to plunge my tongue into his ear, and continued a methodic
exploration of his face, nose, lips, then chest and shoulders. We'd tweaked
each others' nipples teasingly before, but as an erotic feature on his
otherwise smooth chest, they took on a new importance to me. I spent a long
time on them, and they reacted by tightening into hard knobs which caused
Chris to pant heavily as I rolled them between my fingers.

Although I'd petted his belly on countless occasions as we lingered next to
each other after sex play, my concentration was always elsewhere. Now, my
focus was on his belly to the exclusion of all else. I was so aroused, I
felt feverish and feint. Despite our many previous sexual encounters, this
experience felt fresh and excitingly new. Sitting on the edge of my bed
with him standing before me, I kissed his smooth belly and navel
passionately, refusing to lower my lips just a few inches to his twitching
penis. He thrust his cocklet up toward my lips several times, but I
playfully retreated just out of reach. His gasping breaths were so loud I
could imagine them being heard throughout the hospital, and I had to
caution him about making too much noise several times. He was on the brink
of losing control. So was I.

Wanting to save his twitching cock and tight, hairless balls for last, I
turned him around and explored his lightly muscled back, and then his
buttocks. Up til then, our buns had been mostly an object of leverage,
grasped in order to drive our dicks together with maximum force. Of course
when we spooned naked, nestled in an old U.S. Army sleeping bag on the
floor of our fort, his buns felt delightful to my loins, but I had never
spent time on them specifically. His buns dimpled in at the sides when he
flexed them, and the feel of the firm globes in my massaging hands was
nearly addictive.

When I explored his crack with delicate fingers, he clenched his cheeks at
first, but I insisted I wanted to feel every part of him. He teasingly
said, "homo" and I slapped his ass with a loud smack and we laughed. When I
resumed my examination, he reluctantly opened his legs wide and leaned
forward, and for the first time I fingered his tender butt hole. The detail
I could feel in the ribbed outer opening was incredible. As my mind and
fingers formed a 3D map of his anus, he alternately giggled and moaned. For
someone who just a moment ago didn't want his hole touched, he was enjoying
my exploration tremendously.

This was new territory. After a few moments, I noticed him squatting
several times as if to make my finger penetrate the tight hole at its
center. The idea seemed alien, and I ignored the hints. Finally he took my
hand up to his mouth and sucked my index finger into his mouth, wetting it
thoroughly with his spit, and then pressed it to his hole. I finally "got
it" and slowly circled his hole, moistening it, and then gently pushed my
finger inside. I didn't want to go deep in case I touched a turd. He moaned
too loudly and his hole puckered and opened as if trying to suck my finger
deeper. I took my time, sliding my finger in and then gently out again,
feeling the difference between the puckered outer skin and the smooth inner
membrane of his anus. It wasn't gross at all. In fact, this fresh element
of our lust was extremely exciting. The repetition of my shallow
penetration was driving Chris insane, and I felt like a devil as I
deliberately teased his hungry bunghole. I could do this forever. Chris
kept squatting, trying to get more finger inside. I kept it at one knuckle
and he gasped in frustration.

I felt butterflies in my belly like this was our first tentative sexual
encounter. My penis was jerking up and down of it's own accord in time with
my heartbeat, making the front of my hospital gown tent, then
recede... tent, then recede. I ignored my cock's desperate pleas for
attention. My fingers had never been such a source of sexual pleasure
before. They felt like ten individual penises, almost capable of orgasm on
their own.

After a few minutes reaming my finger up to the first knuckle, it was
getting dry so I pulled it out suddenly to get some spit on it, and Chris
was so shocked that he cried out.

"Ah! Put it back!" He gasped, and without thinking, I quickly ran my finger
into and out of my mouth, tasting the vague essence of his
anus. Surprisingly, I didn't mind. I put my now wet finger back to the
first knuckle, and he positively purred with pleasure and
satisfaction. Slowly, I pushed it deeper, and Chris was forced to grasp his
knees in order to stay standing. His knees shook, and I could feel his
entire body begin to shiver as I penetrated his tight inner sphincter. The
tight ring around his anus pinched and pushed and pulled like it didn't
know if it wanted to shit my finger out or gobble it up. I hit me that
Chris' butt hole had as much sexual personality as his cock did, but it was
shy and hid deep in the cleft of his ass cheeks. Well, it's hiding days
were over.

"Oh, god!" he nearly shouted. "I'm peeing!"

"Shhhh," I whispered and reached around to grasp his cock. Sure enough I
could feel short streams of liquid erupting from his penis. It was indeed
urine. Chris has sprited pee when he climaxed a couple of times before, and
as I continued to work my finger in his hole, I used the urine as a lube to
jack his 3" hard penis until he stopped shaking.

The pee and poop-hole action wasn't nearly as gross as I would have
imagined, but it was just gross enough that we went into the shower to wash
off briefly, then crawled into the hospital bed dripping wet. His cock
never went down, nor did his desire abate after his pissing
orgasm. Overcome with lust, we abandoned my detailed exploration of his
body and thrashed in the bed like animals, screwing each others' mouths in
the 69 position with violent intensity until we shook in powerful dry
orgasm together. Normally, one or two orgasms would have sufficed, but
Chris was insatiably horny. Our cocks showed no sign of shrinking as I
straddled him and we played with both our eager boners, squeezing and
rubbing them together.

I loved the feel of our smooth, pale penises touching. We had done it since
we were four, when our parents frequently went out together and we shared a
babysitter. She was probably 11 or 12, and before the parents were out of
the driveway and until the minute they pulled back in, she engaged us in
nonstop sexual escapades. She was a little nympho and took pride
demonstrating for us the variety of household objects she could slide up
her vagina. It kind of creeped me out and probably helped to sour me in the
pussy department, but her one redeeming thing was that she taught Chris and
me how to suck each others' dicks, and it didn't take long before we
discovered that it was one of the funnest games little boys can play.

Chris reached his hand under my ass, and without preamble inserted his
middle finger to the hilt. We were so wet with sweat and water, it slipped
in with just a bit of resistance. It burned for a moment, but pleasure
quickly mingled with the pain and I nearly fainted from the incredible
sensation and collapsed onto his chest, my head on his shoulder as his
finger probed in and out of my ass. As I bit into his sweaty, salty
shoulder, I felt a desperate need to have his cock in there instead of his
finger, and I reached down between my legs, grasped his cock, and aimed it
toward my hole. His finger vacated the moist space, and in one plunge my
ass was filled with his penis. Not only was there very little pain - his
penis being not much larger than his finger, but I immediately sat up
straight to grind it in to the hilt, greedy to feel every bit of it in my
anus. I tried to grind his whole body into my ass. For an instant, I was
afraid I had gone too far even for us, and had crossed a line into total
homo-izing. It was too late now, and the thought was driven from my mind by
a wave of pleasure as he pushed deeply into me. Well, as deep as a 3" boner
can go. To me it felt like a horse.

"Jesus you feel good!" He gasped. Nothing in my young life propped my self
esteem more than Chris telling me I made him feel good. Hearing him say
that was the central focus of my being. It gave me purpose. No matter what
else may go wrong, Chris would say, "that feels good," and somehow that
made me feel secure.

"Oh, yes." Was all I could utter. Relief flooded over me. If I'd crossed a
line into unspeakably icky perve-osity, at least Chris was there with me,
and we would figure out what it meant later. We quickly established a
rhythm, with me driving down as he drove up to meet me, the bed squeaked
loudly, and the chromed metal rails on the bed banged in pace to our
rhythm. We were beyond caring.

The sensation of his penis in my ass was phenomenal. How had we not tried
this before? I had daydreamed many times of our bodies merging together in
some vague way, and the fantasy was coming true. Not in an unspecific
daydreaming way, but in a totally unexpected and real way. If we had
discussed doing this beforehand, we would have both rejected the idea as
gross, but right then I felt like I was born to hold him in my ass.

All too soon we both came again, and as the tingling and uncontrollable
convulsions shook us, I pressed my lips into his mouth, sucking his tongue
out in an effort to get as much of his body into mine as possible. Sucking
his tongue was also a first, and he didn't seem to mind. In that instant,
his body became mine, and mine his. There was no line that we could not
cross, and nothing about our bodies would ever seem gross again.

As the shaking stopped, his penis finally softened and slipped gently out
of my anus of it's own accord. I gasped as the head squirted out, and we
laughed at that and I rolled off him and rested my head on his arm, wishing
I could see his penis. I hoped it wasn't covered in poo.

"I didn't poop on your dick, did I?" I asked.

He raised his head to look, then plopped it back down on the pillow and
said, "I don't think so. I can wipe it off, anyway."

He gulped loudly. "My teeth are vibrating," he said, and I kissed him in
affirmation, running my tongue over his front teeth. We were both spent,
and further exploration would have to wait.

"I love you." We both said it at the same time, then naturally, "Jinx!" and
we wrestled and tickled one another for a minute, giggling like 5
year-olds.

It wasn't until the previous summer, when we were nine, that our sexual
relationship became more than just boyhood horniness and curiosity. Our
feelings blossomed into a deep love although we would have punched anyone
who suggested it. Boys don't fall in love. That summer we debated for days
whether it was OK to say "I love you" to one another. We finally agreed
that it was OK, and that it didn't mean we were fags. We tried it out, and
it felt right. After that, our kisses became deeper and more romantic than
the dry pecks we had shared for a few years, and that felt right, too. We
joked that, although we were definitely NOT gay, we were without a doubt
the perviest pervs ever, and if we ever got caught they would probably burn
us at the stake.

With all trust barriers gone, we shared not just our bodies, but our
deepest thoughts and fears with each other, and also just rough-housed a
lot like any other best friends. We had both lost a parent, and that shared
tragedy seemed to make us closer. That summer of our ninth year, on
sleep-overs, we would frequently talk until the sun came up, without once
getting bored or experiencing an awkward pause. People saw us together
constantly and never questioned the idyllic friendship we had. Our being
side by side was as natural in our small college town as the sunrise.

In my hospital bed, I rolled back on top of him for a while, our soft,
satisfied little wieners nestled side by side between us. This was our
favorite position. Not only were we cuddling, but our dicks were cuddling
also. Little miniature versions of us.

When Chris finally opened the door to my room, mom returned and acted as
though nothing had happened, and I was terrified that she could smell my
poop on Chris' dick. As days passed we established a routine: she would
guard the door for a while, then chat with Chris and I endlessly, laughing
with us, remembering stories of our early youth together when my mom and
his mom were best friends. I guess it had hurt too much for her to talk
about it up until that time, and now it came flooding out, and she
remembered the good things rather than the sadness. Chris particularly
enjoyed hearing stories about his mom. His dad didn't talk about her much.

I wondered what she went through after losing both my dad and Chris' mom
within just a few short months of each other, when I was 5. Maybe her
ability to selectively disassociate from reality was a defense
mechanism. She knew about Chris and my intimacy, and yet refused to
acknowledge it consciously. I'm positive that if I had told her graphically
that Chris and I were lovers, her mind would have simply refused to process
the information.

Like, if I went right up to her and said, 'hey mom, Chris just fucked me in
the ass and it felt great!' and she would respond, 'that's nice dear, now
wash your hands - dinner is ready.'  And yet she actively went out of her
way to guarantee us intimate time together. Trying to figure mom out gave
me a headache. Don't get me wrong: She was a good mom. She was not some
unstable psycho mother. She just had this ability to put some things in a
box and pretend it didn't exist. I guess I should feel guilty that I took
advantage of that. But what was I going to do? NOT screw around with Chris
when she left us alone? Right.



THINGS TURN UGLY

I spent less time in my hospital room, my days filled with tests, physical
therapy for some lingering motor nerve deficit, and large machines taking
endless pictures of my brain. Soon it became obvious to all that my vision
loss was permanent, but my condition was upgraded again to "good" and
attention turned to managing my blindness. The First Baptist Church of
Plainview sponsored seeing eye dog training, and they presented me with a
frolicking 6-month-old black lab pup named Grady. When Grady and I were not
training with his harness, he would sleep at the foot of my hospital bed
with one paw constantly in contact with me. This wasn't a trained behavior,
but a natural pack behavior which made Grady a born aid dog. He knew his
place was at my side, and if I so much as twitched a toe he was aware of
it.

One Saturday as we held hands watching cartoons Chris went rigid as a
board. Grady growled alarmingly, perhaps sensing a malevolent presence, or
perhaps queuing off of Chris' reaction. Jason Turner walked through the
door. I was probably the only person in Plainview who blamed myself more
than him for my injury, but that didn't mean my dislike of him had
changed. After my injury and the escalating controversy which he stoked, he
was isolated more and became even meaner and angrier than he was before. I
wondered why he was there, speculating to myself that his parents must have
made him, in a misplaced effort to defuse the situation.

He reluctantly said, "hey, how are you doing." His surprise appearance
threw my mind into turmoil. He acted in forced casualness like it was just
another unremarkable day, and I found myself unable to answer as my ears
began to ring and vertigo swept over me. He exuded arrogance and audacity,
and his presence was like fingernails on a chalkboard. The silence must
have been awkward as I squeezed Chris' hand tightly and held Grady by his
collar.

Chris growled, "get out," and Jason perfunctorily turned toward the door.

I - and Chris - could plainly hear him say, "fags" as he left.

Chris bolted out of the bed, but I held his hand firmly and pulled him back
as Jason left the room, unaware that he had just avoided having his ass
kicked. He may have been bigger and two years older, but he was no match
for Chris. On the baseball field, or off. Chris pried my fingers and broke
loose from my grasp, but my mother intercepted him, wrapping him in a bear
hug. I could hear him struggle and growl like an animal at Jason's receding
back, but she held him fast. The animal sound coming from him was new, and
frightening. I'd never known him to be violent in any way.

Jason was found face down in a local pond the next day. His face and head
had been so severely beaten with a rock found nearby that they only ID'd
his body because his parents reported him missing. His face was
unrecognizable. I held Chris tight as we listened to the story on the TV,
and my mother didn't say a word.

Chris quietly and sadly said, "I didn't mean to," and mom shushed him
urgently and turned off the TV. After a long silence, she gravely told
Chris to come with her to walk Grady. They were gone for a long time, and I
was near panic out of concern for Chris. He obviously did it. My mom's
cousin was Plainview's police Chief and he visited several times that
afternoon, but rather than take Chris to jail he cautioned us to talk to no
one and to call him immediately if any out-of-town reporters began to ask
questions. He confirmed with mom that there was money enough from my
father's life insurance to pay for a good lawyer if one was needed, and he
coordinated a rock-solid alibi for Chris that involved several prominent
citizens of Plainview. Chief Boldt pledged to Chris that he would be
OK. "Nobody can touch you. You remember what we talked about, and keep your
mouth shut no matter what, understand? Don't even tell your dad."

Chris quietly said, "Yes, sir." In small towns a Chief's job is less
finding out who did a bad thing, than protecting otherwise good folks - and
the town - from unsavory publicity because of it. There had been enough
scandal already, and one child killing another child could literally ruin a
town like Plainview. "Listen to me," ordered Chief Boldt, holding Chris by
the shoulders. "That demon should never have been born. If you hadn't done
it, someone else was bound to, sooner or later, and God knows how many more
kids he would have hurt." Chris nodded his head in understanding, and the
Chief continued, "there's no point in anyone else getting hurt, especially
you, so you need to put this out of your mind. Understand?"

"Yes, sir."

Chief Boldt pulled Chris to his broad chest and held him. "You're a good
boy, Chris. Your momma would be proud of you." He held Chris at arms length
again, and concluded firmly, "You're going to make a fine man and do this
town proud. You need to put this behind you and take care of your friend
here."

Chris never said another word about Jason's violent death, and I don't
think he felt any more guilt over it than if he had stepped on a bug. I'm
glad. The guilt Chris heaped upon himself for his imagined complicity in my
injury was almost more than he could bear. It seemed my injury scarred him
more than it did me.

Chris was the gentlest boy you would ever meet, even though he was a
natural athlete and an aggressive competitor. He was very sociable and one
of the most popular kids in town, and no one asked him where he was the
evening of the murder. Early witness accounts said they saw Jason with a
blonde boy by the lake around sunset the night of his murder. They later
revised their statements, and any mention of a blonde boy was erased from
public memory. Chief Boldt repeatedly suggested on the TV that a vagrant or
crazy had stumbled upon Jason and beat his brains in during a drug-induced
rage, probably brought on by the kid's notoriously smart mouth. So firmly
and frequently was that scenario repeated, that it became scripted fact,
and everyone parroted it religiously as the ironclad truth. If any
reporters smelled a cover-up, they could find no leads as the town closed
ranks. Jason's family briefly cried "foul" over the complete lack of an
investigation but they quickly let that drop, probably hoping that the
scandal around their son's malevolent character would be buried with him.

On the day of Jason's funeral the hospital was flooded with visitors who
made a statement by being there instead of at the monster's funeral. It was
rather macabre and made me feel uncomfortable, but mom said the townspeople
needed to do it, and told me to accept their visitation gracefully. When
the grave was vandalized after a high school football game that very night,
the family had him dug up and cremated. They never collected his ashes, and
the story was told that eventually Chief Boldt claimed the plain tin can
that held his remains and emptied it unceremoniously in the city dump. He
never denied that story. It became part of the town mythology that any
ground that held Jason's body would forever refuse to grow grass, and for
generations to come adolescents would make that myth a reality and prove
their bravery by defying the evil one's ghost and salting the site of his
first grave. Eventually that plot was x-ed off the grave yard's plan with a
notation that no one was to ever be interned there again.



HOMECOMINGS, HEROS AND HUMMERS

My rehabilitation lasted about three months, and the slight limp and
numbness on my left side faded away. The only lasting effect appeared to be
blindness, and the doctors said there was nothing more to be done. On the
day of my release from hospital, it seemed like half of Plainview was at
our house for a welcome home party. I clung to Chris's arm as the Baptist
choir spontaneously broke into sang in the dining room and a never ending
river of townfolk hugged me and welcomed me home.

The event was exaggerated out of all reasonable proportion, but it seemed
the town once more needed it more than we did. It provided much needed
closure to an ugly and tragic summer. The umpire who saved my life on the
way to the hospital was the guest of honor, and the mayor announced the
ballfield would be renamed after him. The focus on the umpire made him
embarrassed, but it put a positive veneer on things and drew attention away
from the darker side of events. Things were returning to normal in
Plainview.

When the crowd subsided and the last guest finally left, Chris led me by
the hand to my room, and it became obvious that something was up that I
wasn't aware of. When I sat on the bed it didn't sag as it usually did.

"It's a new bed." My mom said. I was silent. My old bed was fine, but
whatever. I cocked my head, trying to fathom what was afoot. There was an
air of anticipation in the room.

"I knocked down the wall between your room and the spare bedroom. Now
there's enough room for Chris," Lenny said with pride.

It took a minute to sink in. New bed. Bigger room. Enough room for Chris...

"No way!" I shouted, bolting off the bed. "Really?"

"You know it!" Chris said, and lifted me up in a bear hug. "I live here
now!"

We hooted and kissed and jumped up and down, mom applauded, Grady barked,
and Lenny dutifully carped, "jeez, how gay can you get."

It was a happy homecoming to say the least. As I tentatively
re-familiarized myself with my... OUR altered bedroom, I found my old bed,
now Chris' bed. There was two feet of space between them. I estimated that
space would shrink to zero rather quickly. When mom bought the new bed it
was for him, but Chris declined and claimed my old one. He'd been sleeping
in it for the past two months, and refused to let mom change the sheets
because they smelled like me.

"They must be ripe by now," I quipped, and with that we fell onto the bed
and wrestled for a while and then, winded, we stopped as Chris sat on top
of me with my arms pinned at my sides. For a few long seconds, only the
sound of our breathing could be heard and then Chris leaned down and kissed
me passionately for a long time. The events of the day left my conflicting
emotions in tatters, and they finally broke. I was happy to be home, and I
was deliriously happy that Chris was going to stay with me. I was painfully
sad that I would never see his smiling eyes again, and tears of joy and
sadness ran down my cheeks as we kissed.

"What's wrong, David?" Chris asked, his lips still touching mine. While I
spoke, his lips continued to sensuously brush across mine, and then he
comforted me by kissing my face and eyes repeatedly in the same soft,
tickling way. After a minute, he stopped, sat upright as he straddled me,
and said, "Who knows, maybe that ain't so bad. Maybe when I'm 16, I'll have
one of those hideously ugly pizza faces and you won't have to look at it."
And with that the wresting match was on again and my sadness evaporated.

"Hey... stop... Seriously... stop..." I said.

"What?" He asked, still straddling me. I had a hard-on in my pants and he
was sitting on it. I gave a short thrust with my hips and shuddered,
causing little fireworks to explode before my eyes. But that wasn't why I
had him stop.

"That thing you were doing. With your lips on my face. That felt really
good. Do it some more."

For a long time, Chris gently played his lips across my face, then he
unbuttoned my shirt and continued the delicate and extremely erotic lip
massage on my neck, chest and belly. His lips danced delicately, not quite
kissing, and every now and again flicking his tongue out. I couldn't
believe how good it felt, and told him so. Encouraged, he continued to my
waist and ran his tongue lightly under my pants line as he unzipped my fly.

With my pants opened in a V, he continued brushing his lips lightly over my
smooth lower belly. When his tongue slipped under the elastic of my briefs,
I was ready to go wild and rip my clothes off, but I resisted. I kept
forgetting to breathe, and felt light headed as he slid my briefs and pants
down to my knees and kissed my thighs all over until I could feel his
breath on my rhythmically twitching hard-on. When his lips finally grazed
faintly across my penis, I had to clench my teeth to keep from waking up
the entire house.

My voice quivered, "Oh.... God.... that's.... good...." He had only lightly
brushed my shaft, and I was beginning to come.

With his lips, he gently grasped my penis and lifted it from my belly by
its super-sensitive head. Slowly and delicately, he worked it into his
mouth and slid his lips over the helmet. I was gone in delirium, and unable
to control my body as my hips bucked and by balls contracted into a tight
mass. I was having one of the best orgasms in my young life. His warm mouth
simply enveloped and held the head of my cock, and he moved in unison to
the thrusts of my hips so that his mouth did not move on my cock. The
orgasm didn't fade, but grew stronger, and when he mercifully sank his lips
to the base and began a steady strong sucking from tip to base, I erupted
in convulsions of pleasure that I didn't know were possible. Rather than
subsiding, my first orgasm was overtaken immediately by a second, and my
cock engorged to a length and girth it had never achieved before. Then in
an instant, I was over the top and it felt like I was on a roller coaster.
My cock was pulsating, and Chris was moaning with the pleasure of my
throbbing cock in his mouth. When I could stand no more, I grabbed his head
and gasped, "No! No more. It's sensitive!" Reluctantly, he let my still
throbbing dick slide out of his mouth, and when the head exited I gasped in
one final spasm of pleasure/pain.

It was my turn to comment that my teeth were vibrating, and I lay
completely spent, unable to do anything but try to catch my breath and
occasionally twitch as small after-orgasm shocks shot through my softening
penis.

When I came to my senses, Chris was sitting beside me rubbing his hand up
and down my inner thigh. "Did I do that to you?" he asked in innocent,
prideful wonderment.

All I could say was, "fuck," repeatedly between panting breaths, then "I
feel like I've run a race." I quickly gulped in some air as he bent down
and kissed me deeply then sat up again.

"Do me." We switched positions, and with my pants still around my ankles, I
gave him the treatment he had given me. He was a bit noisier than I had
been, and it gave me great pleasure to send his body squirming all over the
bed as I brought him repeatedly to the brink of, but not quite to orgasm by
playing my lips gently over him. When he released while I finally sucked
his cock into my mouth exactly as he had done to me, it was a long,
shuddering orgasm that produced a small squirt of urine in my mouth. I
didn't stop, and I don't think Chris knew he'd done it. He lost control of
himself just as I had, and I didn't mind. I wouldn't want him to do it on
purpose, but I wasn't going to let a little bit of salty pee stop his
pleasure. I was well used to the taste of his pee, having sucked his penis
hundreds of times over our young lives. With his cock sliding firmly
between my lips, his penis pulsated more dramatically than it ever had and
his head seemed to double in size. He desperately tried to get his cock out
of my mouth, and I knew exquisite pain was mixing with pleasure on the
heals of his first orgasm. I refused to let it go, and he began rocking his
hips violently as a second orgasm quickly built and exploded through his
body. When he could truly take no more, he begged me to stop and rolled
into a ball. I was so turned on that I feverishly buried my head into his
midriff in hot pursuit of a final lick and kiss of his hot cock. I wanted
more - I couldn't get enough of it.

Drained of our last reserves after a very long day, we fell asleep in each
others arms with our shoes on and our pants still around our ankles.

As we showered together the next morning I held Chris from behind and
soaped his bare penis as I rubbed mine up and down his sippery butt
crack. He lifted his leg and I slipped inside, gently fucking his ass as
warm water spilled over us. In contrast to the out-of-control passion of
the night before, this fuck was slow and luxuriant. I nuzzled his neck as
we both came gently. That quickly became my favorite way to make love to
his butt hole. Wild, lust-crazed sex is great, but everyday gentle sex is
like the bread and butter of love.

Summer was over, but our love was just finding its wings.

* * * * * * * * * * *


You are welcome to contact me at dingalingo@hushmail.com