Date: Wed, 31 Aug 2011 10:59:23 -0700
From: Zack McNaught <zackmcnaught@hotmail.com>
Subject: Love or Sex, or Something Like Them - part 2

Disclaimer: this story, because it is one of love and passion, reflects the
physical union of two teenaged boys who fall in love. If you think it is
wrong to read this, I suggest that you don't. If it is illegal to read this
in your country of residence, I can only suggest you do one of two things:
(1) take the risk, or (2) move somewhere a bit more understanding.

Cheers,

Zack

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Love or Sex, or Something Like Them (b/b (13/15), mast, oral)

Part 2

We sat in the shade of an oak tree in the corner of the school playgrounds,
near where it met the fields beyond. The crumbling red brick wall was still
warm from when it had been in the sunlight earlier, but now the great
glowing orb had moved along its celestial track a little, and no longer
bothered this little patch of our world. Tiny little red spiders scuttled
back and forth over the surface of the bricks, and in the tree above us a
squirrel was industriously removing acorns for later use. My feet dangled,
not quite reaching the floor, and I gently kicked my heels against the
wall. There was near silence around us, the other kids long since gone home
- far in the distance a lawnmower droned on, and there was the high-pitched
chatter of birds above our head in the canopy, but that was all. We had
retreated here to talk, at his request, though for the moment conversation
had stalled.

James sat next to me with his eyes still reddened from his tears, and
looked out over the playground. I didn't know what to say to him - he
looked like he needed to hear something nice but I didn't know what would
help. I kept my mouth shut instead.

"I'm... I'm sorry, Zack," he said after what seemed like hours of
silence. "I shouldn't have reacted like that. Sorry."

I kept my silence because I still wasn't sure what I could say.

"I suppose I ought to be honest with you, if you haven't got it
already. Zack, I'm gay too. I guess if you're here at the school for long
enough you'd find out anyway, but lots of the younger kids don't really
know. Or understand. It wasn't easy, but perhaps I didn't have it as hard
as you. For fuck's sake!" he suddenly shouted, pounding his fist into the
dirt at the base of the tree. "Why the fuck would they do that to you? No,
don't answer that. Don't answer that."

We lapsed into silence again. Eventually, though, a thought occurred to me.

"Did they beat you up, too?"

He laughed, but there was no humour in it.

"No, but you're not a million miles away from it."

He must have seen the puzzled look on my face, because he began to explain.

"Two years ago I had a best friend, Matt. We were really close, but not
boyfriends or anything. He was really nice to me, we'd been best friends
since we were really little. I used to think about him in a naughty way
sometimes, you know, how you think about people when you... you know..."

I did know, and blushed furiously, looking down at the ground.

"Yeah," I said in a whisper.

"Anyway, I kind of thought of Matt like that sometimes, but I also just
liked him a lot. But then he got ill with leukaemia, and they said he was
going to die. I was gutted about it, and I went to see him when he was in
hospital one time. He was really ill and they said he might not live much
longer, so I figured it couldn't hurt to tell him what I was feeling. He
was lying there with his eyes closed and there was one of those machines
bleeping and everything. I started to speak to him, but he just lay there,
so I figured he was pretty out of it or something. I just told him
everything.

"Then I went home. My mum got a call the next day to say he died during the
night. When I went to the funeral, his mum came over and gave me this piece
of paper with my name on it. Matt wrote it to me before he died. It just
said 'I don't love you like that, sorry. But you're still my best mate'."

James paused for a moment. His voice was cracking, tears visible again in
the corners of his eyes. He took a few deep breaths and looked away,
brushing the back of his hand across his eyes. When he spoke again his
voice was more stable.

"I got really messed up by him dying. I started getting really angry, and
they had to send me to this psychiatrist bloke. I was talking to him, and
he said I should write a diary about how I felt. He thought it would make
me feel better. So I started doing it, and I even stuck in the note from
Matt. Then for some stupid reason I brought it to school, and when I got to
the end of the day it was missing. I looked around everywhere for it.

"Anyway, the next day I came in and I was walking across the playground and
all these kids were looking at me strangely, walking away from me, or
laughing. I didn't get it until I came round the corner and over there," -
he pointed to the far corner of the playground - "Marc Williams, who's a
complete wanker, was reading my diary out to everyone. I just went mad. I
ran at him and his friends held me away while he just waved the book in my
face.

"I don't remember a lot after that. Someone said I must have had a
blackout. Apparently I broke one of the boy's arms, and knocked the other
one out with my elbow, and then started on Marc. He's still not right,
can't see properly out of his left eye."

I stared open-mouthed at James.

"I know I shouldn't feel good about it," he said, smiling, "and actually I
feel pretty shit for hurting them like that, but after hearing what
happened to you I feel better. Maybe it's some kid of justice."

"Did you get in lots of trouble?"

He grinned ruefully.

"Lots and lots. I nearly went to a sort of kids' prison, but Mr Clarke was
amazing, managed to get them to change their minds, promised them that he
would make sure I never did anything like that again. I'm on some mad pills
now, which calms me down, so I don't feel like hurting anyone anymore."

I moved slightly away from him, and he noticed, laughing.

"Oh, shit, Zack, I was kidding! I'm not on drugs or anything! I never want
to hurt anyone anyway, it was just that once."

He went to punch me on the shoulder, and then changed it into an
arm-around-the-shoulder hug.

"It's OK, mate, I won't hurt you. Especially not you."

There was something in his voice I couldn't quite decipher. It wasn't until
much later that I worked out what it was. Right then all I could think
about was the feel of his arm around my shoulders.

---

I wandered home in a bit of a daze, feeling disconnected, feeling as though
there were a veil between me and the rest of the world. Everything that had
been said in the last couple of hours whirled around my head, sending my
thoughts flying off on a thousand different tangents. I couldn't think
logically, and couldn't get a handle on what I was feeling.

"So, what was it about," Aunt Jane asked as I fell into a chair at the
kitchen table, dropping my bag to the floor next to me. For some reason I
didn't feel like talking about it, and so I lied.

"I mentioned to the headmaster that I liked cricket, so he wanted me to
meet the cricket coach and talk about trying for the team and stuff."

In fact, Mr Lescott, the games teacher, had taken me aside in PE one day
(since the damage had healed enough for me to take part) and quickly made
the assessment that I would fit straight into the team at third or fourth
in the batting order, and might even get a crack at the school first team
in a year or two. Thanks goodness I had hidden that from my aunt.

"Ok, right," she said. She looked a little unconvinced, but there had been
an official call from school telling her I would be late home, and she made
no attempt to challenge my story. "So, are you going to play?"

I shrugged, knowing that I probably would.

"I think so. We'll see."

"And you're well enough for it?"

"Yup," I replied, nodding.

"Well, that's good. Maybe you'll make some good friends that way."

---

I saw him next in the playground the following day at lunch time. I smiled
at him, feeling myself blush for some reason, and he half raised a hand in
greeting, the corners of his lips curling slightly, but nothing more than
that passed between us. It was as if we both understood that whatever
conversations we might have in private, when in school it was best to
remain distant.

There seemed to be no such boundaries outside school, however, and as i
began my walk home, which was usually a solitary affair, I heard my name
being called and stopped and turned. It was James, and he sped up slightly
to catch me.

"Can I walk with you?" he asked.

"Um... sure, yeah. I thought you lived the other way, though," I replied,
to which he offered a shrug.

"I can go this way, just takes a couple more minutes longer to cut across
the fields at the back."

We began to walk, not talking but definitely in step with one
another. Then, slowly but surely, a conversation sprang up, started from
some chance conversation or other. We were off, chattering away, laughing
with each other. The journey flew by, and as I said goodbye to him and
turned up the path toward the house I was beaming to myself.

Aunt Jane was out until the early evening, according to the note on the
kitchen table. I knew I should have got straight on with my homework, as I
was meant to do as soon as I got home, but having the house to myself was
always an exciting prospect. At thirteen I was quite the little nudist, as
long as no-one could see, and I loved to run around the house with not a
stitch on, my hard little dick bouncing and waving in front of me as I
went.

I took full advantage, locking the door so I would have early warning of
Aunt Jane's return, and quickly stripping. Very leisurely, taking full my
time in my solitude, I walked around the house with a hand idly toying with
my dick. My chosen spot to complete the ritual on this particular afternoon
was the warm little reading nook which had been created out of some dead
space at the top of the stairs.

Sunlight spilled across the centre of my body as I lay with my head and
feet in the shade. As every boy does at that age I inspected myself,
checking for new hairs (there was only a scattering at that age, for I was
very much a late bloomer) and generally being pleased with my little
spike. I decided it looked nice, and I liked the way I could peel my skin
back and it would stay there, bunched behind the ridge. I pulled at my
sack, too, amused by the way it shrank and went even more crinkly when I
got a hard-on.

There was, however, only a certain degree of time-wasting I would allow
myself before the pressing need for orgasm overwhelmed my desire for
exploration. My hand moved quickly to its favoured position and I closed my
eyes to concentrate more clearly on the feelings. My mind drifted to
fantasy, and I dredged up my usual images - the guy I'd seen in the showers
at the swimming pool, his short, thick dick sticking out from amongst
water-straggled pubes; the boy I'd seen only holiday running around naked
on the beach; guiltily, the rather magnificent erection of the man whose
forwardness in the toilets in the park had frightened me so badly. And,
suddenly, something new. James' face. Oh shit, James' face, smiling at me,
and then in an instant I was there, my balls firing precious, tiny droplets
of almost clear cum onto my body with astonishing force.

I ran naked to the bathroom, hoping the droplets would remain adhered to
me, and wiped myself clean with toilet paper. My dick, still hard as a
nail, looked up at me accusingly.

---

He began to walk home with me each day, and I began to enjoy it very
much. There was a sense that even had there not been the common bond of our
alternative sexuality that we might have been friends, had there been any
reason for us to have met. But, unspoken as it was, there was that
connection, there was something we shared. He knew something about me which
I hoped none of the other pupils at our school knew about. I didn't
consider for a second the thoughts people might harbour when they saw us
walking home together, the conclusions to which his classmates might
jump. They were aware of his sexuality if not necessarily mine. I just
enjoyed his friendship for what it was and tried to ignore the growing
sense that something much more significant was happening to me.

Thoughts of him became a masturbatory staple. I imagined all sorts of
things which had no basis in reality - what he looked like naked, how big
he was, what it would feel like to have him suck me, and what it would be
like to suck him. The last surprised me, because though I knew of blow-jobs
the thought of a man giving one had, for some reason, never occurred to
me. It was something a woman did to a man, and that was that. And yet I
found myself imagining what it would feel like, and taste like, and smell
like. I smelled my own hand after I had masturbated, and wondered if his
dick would have the same scent.

But that wasn't all. I wondered what it would be like to hold his hand as
we walked down the road, how people would react. I wondered what it would
be like to kiss him. And, after the hug he had given me in the school
corridor with no-one else around, I wanted to know what it would feel like
to have his arms around me again.

Quite simply, I was one rather lovesick little puppy.

---

It was a Friday afternoon, and we were chattering away as usual as we
approached the front gate of my house.

"Zack, before you go in..." he started, as I began to say goodbye.

"Yes?"

"Um... my brother, Tom's in a cricket match tomorrow. It's for the county
youth team. It's over at Cray's Park, you know, the cricket pitch bit
around the back. Want to go and watch?"

I had nothing better to do, but even if I had, I would have cancelled in a
heartbeat.

"Really?"

He grinned at my enthusiasm.

"Yeah, if you want to."

"Yeah, that would be great!"

"Cool. My dad's going to take his car, so we'll pick you up. Don't know
what time yet. Can I call you later and tell you?"

I nodded eagerly, and told him our number, which he wrote on one of his
exercise books. I watched him to the corner, where he disappeared with a
wave, and then practically skipped into the house.

---

I thrilled at the sound of his voice on the phone that night. I think it
was possibly the first time I'd ever had someone call just to speak to
me. The conversation was short and broken - we kept talking over each
other, and the excitement was plain to hear in our voices. By the time I
had replaced the receiver there were butterflies kicking up a storm in my
tummy, and a smile so broad on my face that it threatened to unhinge the
top of my head.

Morning could not come too soon.

---

I was ready painfully early, and paced around the house in excitement. I'd
catch Aunt Jane's eye every so often and she would smile indulgently at me,
as if she knew something I didn't. I suppose she did, at that - she can't
have failed to miss the signs of my infatuation, even if I didn't realise I
was showing it quite so clearly. I had dressed in my favourite shorts and
Global Hypercolour t-shirt, and made a real effort with my hair. It was
hardly subtle.

When the car finally arrived, only a matter of seconds after the agreed
time, I was fit to burst. I ran out, nearly forgetting the back of snacks
and drinks I had carefully assembled. James was getting out of the back of
his dad's rather flash looking Ford Sierra, and waved me over. I crammed
into the middle seat in the back, and buckled in next to James' brother,
who was a year older than him. James followed me back in, crushing me
between himself and his brother, our bodies touching, albeit innocently,
along the length of arms, hips and legs. Even before I had finished being
introduced to his mum and dad, who were in the front, I had managed to
attain a quite sensational erection.

It was hot and stuffy in the back, and not that comfortable, but by God I
never wished that journey to end. James' hand landed on my bare knee,
sending my head swimming, and I heard what sounded like a snort from his
brother. I looked across at the elder McKinley to find him looking out of
the window, but even with his face turned away I could see the smirk
there. In an act of defiance, the most I could muster, I pressed my leg
even harder against James', and felt his fingers squeeze my knee. Oh, had I
only stayed there a few minutes, with the friction of my shorts on my
awkwardly confined erection and his hand upon my leg, I would surely have
attained the ultimate pleasure.

---

My passion for cricket was only ever going to be improved by the events of
that day. My love for the game was strengthened by other feelings, feelings
so strong that I wonder now how I didn't pass out from the force of them.

We found a spot, James, his mum and I, on the grass bank. His dad took Tom
off to join the team and get changed and help with certain activities the
nature of which I was entirely unable to define, but which I've since
learned involved lots of chatting to the other dad's of the younger team
members, and drinking beer. I'd got a strange, slightly repulsed look from
the man when we left the car, and I wondered perhaps whether he didn't like
me at all. In retrospect, I knew that he hated my very existence, because
he understood, even if I did not at the time, that I represented the very
real affirmation of his son's deviant sexuality.

His mum was a different soul entirely, a much more accepting person. She
rather doted over James, and whilst she clearly understood just as her
husband did what I represented to him, she saw me differently, as she might
his first girlfriend. I caught her looking at me with a silly smile on her
face several times, and she would just turn away and blush.

The match? God knows. I spent the whole time talking to James, laughing and
joking around, generally having the best time I could remember having. The
day passed so quickly that I wondered where it had all gone, and, tired
though I doubtless was, my enthusiasm remained late into the afternoon.

When I thought the day couldn't possibly be improved, I heard James ask his
mother if I could stay over for the night. he hadn't even asked me, but
that didn't seem to mind. He knew I wouldn't say no. He'd done well, asking
his mum, because even though she initially refused, he was able to quickly
change her mind. Acceptance wouldn't have been so forthcoming had he asked
his father, I imagine.

With the arrangements made, all that remained was to drop by my house,
inform my aunt that I was going to be absent overnight, and pick up some
pyjamas. Then straight back into that hot, stuffy seat between the McKinley
brothers, to a scowl from Tom and a warm smile from James, and off to
heaven for the night. I mean, his house... oh, you know what I mean...

---

The funny thing was, as soon as we were through that front door and he was
showing me his room, I knew we were going to do something that night, once
everyone else had gone to bed. And it made me strangely calm. I felt grown
up, adult all of a sudden, able to understand what was happening. I hadn't
expected to feel that way. All day I was so excited that I could barely
eat, my tummy a constantly churning mass of nerves. But now, as the
acceptance dawned in me that we were definitely going to be doing sex
stuff, it seemed so much less frightening. Still exciting, of course, but
the excitement of anticipation, not the nervous fear of the unknown.

The evening passed pleasantly enough, James' brother leaving fairly early
to meet friends - he was at an age where he could ride a scooter, and
relished his freedom. His dad spent the time looking uncomfortable, but
said nothing about the arrangement, and I rather enjoyed the power I held
over him, the ability to make him feel awkward in his own home. In
hindsight I can recognise that as the seed of the militant gay activism
which made me a rather bitter man in my early twenties.

We retired to bed early, and suddenly the calmness I had felt all evening
evaporated. Though we knew that something must happen in that big double
bed of his, still it wasn't something which was out in the open. I went to
the bathroom to change, and by the time I returned he was under the
covers. I got in on the far side of the bed, and there existed between us a
gap, a barrier. I had no clue what was to happen next, and now those nerves
were back in earnest.

We spoke in hushed tones, of the day, of things on TV, or at
school. Anything to avoid what was really going through our minds. The
conversation was strained, because our minds were elsewhere, and eventually
we just lapsed into silence. After a few moments of staring at the ceiling,
he turned to face me.

"Zack?"

"Yeah?"

"What do you think about when you... when, well, you know... when you do
it?"

"Oh! Oh. Well. I....  uh...."

"Sorry, you don't have to tell me, it's OK."

"No, it's cool. I just... I haven't ever talked about it before. Um, well I
think about men."

The admission was so much stronger than any I had made before, because
unlike simply stating I was gay, it was in fact affirming it. My heart
pounded in my chest and my head swam. James laughed slightly, a nervous
chuckle.

"Me too!"

I laughed too, not because it was funny, but because talking about it made
me so thoroughly nervous that it was laughing or running away, and I so
desperately wanted to stay.

"Um, Zack. Um... there's something else. I think about someone else. Please
don't be freaked out, OK?"

"OK."

"I.... I think about you sometimes."

It came out in a rush, as if he wanted to say it before he could stop
himself. A strange warmth flooded through me at his words. I felt suddenly
alive in a way I'd never before felt. I looked at him, his eyes full of
concern, and a wave of desire passed over me, washing away any barriers to
speaking my mind.

"Me, too. I mean, I think about you when I'm doing it."

He smiled at me, and then without saying another word he closed the
distance between us. His eyes met mine, our noses almost touching, and then
with a slight twist of his head he moved forward and kissed me. I didn't
know how to kiss, but I was quick to learn. He shifted further across the
bed and I could feel his hand snaking beneath the covers towards my
hip. Desperate for his touch, I turned toward him, and as I did so his
fingertips brushed along the length of me, closing around and grabbing it
in a fist through the cotton of my shorts.

I pulled away, gasping for air as he toyed with me. Squeezing my eyes
tightly shut, I savoured the feeling of the first time a lover had ever
touched me in that way.

"God, you're hard," he whispered as he continued to rub me up and down. "I
am too. Want to feel it?"

My eyes flew open and I nodded, perhaps a little too eagerly. But, I
realised, I wanted nothing more in the world than to feel his hard dick
right then.

---

It was so thick, and warm, filled my hand so thoroughly and so
completely. So much bigger than my own, and yet it felt right; it felt as
though it were made for my fingers to curl around its girth, to feel the
intense heat radiating from within, to squeeze the spongy exterior and feel
the responsive firmness beneath. I marvelled in the easy way the skin
slipped back from the head, and in the length my hand could travel down it,
and back up. I wondered at the glistening pearl of liquid which formed at
its tip, and the groan of pleasure I could elicit from James simply by
smearing this slippery essence across the gleaming purple skin with my
thumb. I liked its scent; it smelled of boy, and smelled like my own. I
dared not touch my tongue to his flesh, though. That still seemed a step
too far, though something from within, a voice of ever-growing volume was
compelling me to try. I had heard all the stories of how wonderful it would
feel to receive, and I wanted to give James that pleasure, and yet I was
constrained by my fears of what might happen when the thing was in my
mouth. Would I choke? Would he shoot in my mouth? No, it was too risky. So
I sat and I watched, legs tucked beneath me and my skinny little arm gently
tugging up and down.

When he asked me to, I sped up. With a frantic, panting explosion of energy
he came, firing globs of his sticky, lumpy semen all over his tummy, my
hand and even the grass upon which he lay. I smiled to myself, knowing the
gift I had given him. I was curiously satisfied that he was satisfied, that
he was happy, and that it was my doing. I sat back and watched as the
object of so much recent fascination deflated before my eyes. Even when
resting it seemed impossibly large to my young eyes.

He pounced on me, pushing me down onto my back with a hand in my chest. His
other hand, free to do his dirty work, forced its way into the elastic
waistband of my shorts. It wormed its way within the confines of my
little-boy underpants, and grabbed at the tiny spike of flesh which seemed
suddenly so pathetic when compared to his own. His hand turned round and
suddenly pulled down, forcing shorts and pants below my knees to tangle
with my clumpy trainers. I tried to sit up and watch what he was doing, but
a firm hand in my chest prevented it. Submitting willingly to whatever
torture he may have in store, and turned into a quivering, desirous wreck
by his strong-handed approach, I lay back and closed my eyes, letting my
mind concentrate solely on the feelings he induced.

Oh God, his lips. Those were his lips on my legs, and then my tummy, while
his hand held me. It didn't move up and down, his hand, but just held my
boyhood in a firm grasp, pulling it this way and that as he kissed ever
closer to my groin. Then the release, the cold rush of air as his fingers
let go, and then suddenly heat and wetness and suction - oh God, the
suction - and sensations my young body was incapable of
processing. Overload, total sexual overload, like fire burning in my
groin. My dick strained so hard with the pleasure that I thought it must
have broken, or at least been sprained. A strange, intense fizzing started
in the very tip of it but spread in a warm glow across my body until I was
suffused with it, overwhelmed by it, overtaken by it, overcome. And then it
hit; sharp, stabbing pleasure disguised as pain, a jolt which sent my
muscles into spasm. I cried out, unable to prevent myself, begging him to
make it stop. It was too much.

I sobbed, my tears soaking the shoulder of his t-shirt as he hugged my head
to him, consoling me, whispering in my ear that he was sorry, that it would
be OK. I felt such a fool for being such a baby, but he consoled me and I
let him do so, for the closeness it forged between us. He hugged me. No-one
hugged like he hugged me. There was pain in the tip of my penis, but as the
minutes passed pain faded to reveal its true colours: unaccountably intense
pleasure. I wanted it again, that pain; I needed it, I ached for it. For
God's sake I needed it again!

End of Part 2

More to come, including the really naughty bits. Patience, grasshopper. But
in the meantime, feel free to encourage me to write, by writing to me:
zackmcnaught@hotmail.com. Also on Twitter: @zackmcnaught