Date: Thu, 20 Oct 2011 12:08:30 -0700
From: Zack McNaught <zackmcnaught@hotmail.com>
Subject: Love or Sex or Something Like Them - Part 3

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, anal)

Part 3


Sleep released me from its grasp. Memory, falteringly at first, came with a
sudden rush back to me, pinning me to the bed. I looked across. James slept
still, his naked form lying uncovered on the bed next to me, dick soft
across his hip, a few dark encrusted smears marring the otherwise
unblemished skin of his tummy. When I shifted I realised that I, too, was
naked beneath the covers.

I became instantly aroused. Feeling almost as if it were my right to do so,
I leaned over him and just observed it. I touched it, and it twitched. I
grabbed it and it swelled beneath my fingers, until it stood proudly, so
large that I wondered if I would ever be half the size. Even at thirteen I
was barely pushing three and a half inches, and that was only if you
included my foreskin. His must have been twice that, and many times as
thick. It didn't smell so nice now as it had the day before.

He shifted in his sleep, but kept his eyes shut. My hand continued to rove
up and down, and I watched in delight as the foreskin peeled back, came
forward, peeled back, came forward. I could feel something inside me egging
me on, daring me to try what it would feel like in my mouth. I leaned
forward, urging myself to go through with it, building up the courage until
with a sudden rush I opened my mouth wide and plunged it over the head of
his dick.

It filled my mouth so utterly, so completely that I almost panicked. But
then I began to understand how to move my tongue around it, how to relax my
jaw so there was more room. Suddenly it felt so right to have it there, so
comfortable. I loved its bulk, its heat, the smoothness of its skin. It was
alive between my lips, twitching. Saltiness seeped from the tip of it, and
I learned that I loved the taste. And then, as I bobbed my head up and down
and sucked on it, as he had done to mine, I felt it harden even
further. The head was thrown into stark relief, the ridge around it
hardened and flared, and then salty, gooey warmness was in my mouth.

I pulled back instinctively, letting what had entered my mouth fall from it
onto his belly, spitting the last of it out. The taste wasn't abhorrent,
but I couldn't stomach the thought of swallowing it, even though I knew he
had swallowed mine.

I looked up a his face, and he was watching me through hooded eyelids.

"I'm sorry," I said, though what it was I was apologising for I couldn't
tell you. Perhaps it was the innate feeling that I had invaded his
privacy. But he just smiled down at me and said,

"It's OK. Thank you. That was a nice way to wake up."

I moved up and lay my head on his shoulder, putting my arm over his chest
and my leg across his body, too late realising that it lay directly in the
damp pool of semen on his stomach.

"Ewww!" I said, and he laughed.

"Better clean that up," he said, pushing me to the side and getting up, his
still half-hard dick swaying about in front of his hips. He returned to the
bed with an old pair of boxers.

"Lie back and open your legs so I can wipe it off," he said with a smirk on
his face. His actions suited his words, and then he tossed the boxers aside
and began to stroke my legs, fingers growing ever closer to my balls with
each upwards pass. I pushed my hips up, desperate to have him touch me, but
he continued instead to tease me. Frustrated, I leaned up, grabbing his
head and dragging it down to my crotch, pushing my dick into his face. He
pursed his lips, refusing to open them, and I laughed as I tried to force
my way in. Eventually my stomach muscles gave out and I collapsed back onto
the bed, resigned to not getting my dick sucked that morning.

James, finally seeing that the joke had gone too far, relented and sucked
me into the silky-smooth, hot, wet confines of his mouth. He already
understood how to get me off, and in moments I was feeling the aching
tingling in the tip of my dick, and the painful straining as it pumped what
it could into his mouth in rapid-fire volleys. There was so little of it
compared to his voluble emissions, and yet I felt guilty that he was so
happy to swallow it down.

We lay back down, though there was no romantic snuggling - we lay apart on
the bed, still naked, staring at the ceiling. We were content for now,
though I could feel a resurgence tickling in my groin as I thought about
what we had just done.

"I've never done that with another boy before," I admitted.

"Me neither!" he answered.

"But you knew what to do," I said.

"Don't tell anyone this, OK? I've seen a hard-core porno video."

Now, allow me to explain to you the impact of such a statement in
pre-internet days. I've already hinted at the moral standards of the day,
of the knee-jerk reaction of broadcasters to any furthermost of what was
seen as a thoroughly permissive society. To have seen a hard-core
pornographic movie at the tender age of fifteen was a proud boast
indeed. It was also something which would get a nice boy like James into an
awful lot of trouble. But right then, to me, it just added a little to his
hero status.

"Whoa! What was it like?"

He shrugged.

"Mostly it was lots of guys doing it with girls at the same time. They did
everything you can imagine. And some other things you wouldn't believe."

"Like what?"

"Well, they did it up the bum for one. And some of the girls had it in the
bum and their fanny at the same time."

"Up the bum? Why would they do that?"

He shrugged.

"Don't know. They seemed to like it, though. They kept asking the guys to
do it harder."

All this talk was making me painfully stiff, and as I reached down to
squeeze and twist my little dick I noticed that James' had stirred
again. He, too, had glanced across.

"Getting horny again, mate?" he asked.

"Yeah. You are, too, though."

"Yeah, well... Hey, want me to stick it up your bum?"

He laughed, because he was kidding. Except, and here's the bit I could
never explain in a million years, suddenly I knew I wanted him to do it. I
actually wanted him to stick it up me. He looked across and saw that I
wasn't laughing.

"Oh shit, sorry mate, it was only meant to be a joke. I thought you'd
laugh."

"No, it's fine, it was funny. It's just... I... no, forget it."

"No, go on. What were you going to say?"

I blushed furiously and shook my head. I couldn't tell him what I was
thinking, that I really did want to feel what it was like to have his big
dick pushing in me.

"OK, fine, don't worry about it. Want to wank off?"

That got my attention, and we sat up opposite each other, cross-legged, and
went at it. Out knees touched, but other than this subtle (and thoroughly
electrifying) touch, there was no contact. I went at mine, and he, his. The
sight of him pumping his hand up and down on his big fat dick was enough to
make me curl up in painfully strong orgasm in no more than a couple of
minutes. It was dry, because I'd already been there in James' mouth once
that morning, and he hardly did any better, shooting a single droplet up
into the air to splatter on my leg. We fell back on the bed again, this
time done for a good while.

---

It was late morning when I strolled into the house. My aunt looked up from
the drawing in which she had been absorbed and smiled at me.

"Did you have fun?"

I nodded, not trusting myself to respond without bursting into a fit of
giggling brought on by sheer excitement. I was full to bursting with
thoughts I could reveal to no-one, except, perhaps, and I thrilled at the
thought of the word, my boyfriend. My lips still tingled with the last kiss
he had given me, so brazenly out in the open, taking the risk we might be
seen just for the thrill it gave us. Oh, and the way my dick responded to
every thought of him! I promised it the sweetest rapture if it would remain
dormant for but a moment!

I struck out on a different tack entirely.

"Aunt Jane, do you have a spare notebook or something?"

"What kind of notebook. Drawing or writing?"

"Writing."

"Well, there's nothing in the house. Plenty of drawing ones, but they're
rather expensive and a waste for writing in. What are you doing, starting a
diary?"

I blushed - she'd hit the nail on the head.

"If you want that kind of book," she continued, assuming that she had
guessed correctly, "you'll need to go down to the bookshop on Harris
Street. I happen to know Mrs Kindel has opened up today for a special visit
by some horror writer or other, even though it's Sunday. I'm sure she'll
have something. Just tell her to put it on my account, she knows who you
are."

I dropped my bag in my room and wandered at a leisurely pace down to the
book shop. It was, indeed, packed to the gills with people all vying for
the attention of a rather harassed looking man, who sat behind a table
which bowed under the weight of a hundred or so hardback copies of what I
could only assume was his latest work. I managed to squeeze my way past the
crowd, who had occupied the front half of the store, and wandered over to
the corner which was given over to stationary. I loved that corner - I had,
and still have, an obsession with notebooks of all types. I rifled through
what was available, searching for the one which would be just right. The
problem was, when I found it, it was way too much - in those days, nine
pounds was a relative fortune, even if the book was leather-bound and made
of the most beautifully textured paper. I was wistfully handling it when a
voice came from behind me.

"Lovely book, isn't it?"

It was Mrs Kindel, the elderly owner of the bookshop who, simply because
she loved books so much, had never quite given up being a librarian in my
school library as well as running her shop.

"Oh, yes," I agreed. "But I can't afford it. Nine pounds is way too much."

"Well, how much do you have to spend?"

"I don't know, really. It's meant to go on my aunt's account. But I didn't
think I should spend that much."

She smiled at me. "No, you're probably right, that is a lot to spend on a
notebook. What do you want it for? Starting a diary?"

What was it with middle-aged women seeing straight through me? I nodded my
head almost mechanically.

"Let me have a look," she said, and I handed over the book.

"Ah, just as I thought!" she exclaimed, with a twinkle in her eye. "Susan
was meant to mark these down, and she must have forgotten. Now, how much
was it meant to be? Ah, that's right. Three pounds, I think."

Only much later did I understand the kindness Mrs Kindel had done me that
day.

---

Back in my room I tried to work out how to begin writing a diary. I
supposed there must be entries for every day detailing what I had done and
what I was thinking, but though I knew this was a secret document, I still
couldn't bring myself to write down what James and I had done. Instead, I
decided I had to be neutral. The first entry read thus:

"Sunday 31st August: Had great day with X. Think I'm in love. Didn't think
it would be like this. X is so cool! Very sexy. Did stuff lots. Want to do
it again. Off to do it now!"

And that's it. I put the book down and, with thoughts of James swimming in
my mind, went to work on my already sore little dick.

---

Meeting in the playground was strange after all we had done that
weekend. There was a crackling tension between us, and words which
desperately wanted to be spoken but could not because of the people around
us. I wanted to just be with him more than anything else, but the politics
of the playground made that impossible. I was a second year, he was a
fourth year, and the strange limitations placed upon us by an unspoken code
meant that spending time together in this environment was simply 'not
allowed'.

We walked home together, though, as we always did, and chattered away about
this and that, lowering our voices to talk about sex stuff. It was our
favourite topic, of course, and we both had great difficulty in hiding our
obvious arousal from other pedestrians.

When we arrived at my house I was grateful to see my aunt's car missing,
meaning that we had at least a little time alone together. James didn't
hesitate to accept my invitation, and as soon as we were sure the coast was
clear he pushed me backwards onto my bed and knelt in front of me, pulling
down my school trousers and blue jockeys so that he could slowly and
lovingly fellate me. I returned the favour passionately as he stood in
front of me, his knees trembling with excitement as, with hands on my head,
he pumped in and out of my mouth, setting the rhythm. Knowing that I
wouldn't feel comfortable swallowing his load, he pulled out in time to
send it splattering across my chest and into my naked lap while I watched
his jumping, spitting monster with abject fascination.

Each day it became our routine to make each other orgasm at least once in
the confines of my bedroom, becoming so bold as to do so even when my aunt
was in, greeting her as casually as we could before racing upstairs to
relieve the tension we had been stoking in each other's bellies the whole
way home. She must have known, of course, but said nothing of it. Perhaps
she was at least glad I wasn't getting some girl knocked up.

It was a mark of how comfortable I felt in the house that I was willing to
ask my aunt if James could stay over the following Saturday night, using my
stay at his house as a lever. But there was no need, for my aunt
unhesitatingly agreed, and then proceeded the next day to shock me further
by suggesting that she might herself be out late, or indeed all night, as
she had a date.

I began to understand, even in my youthful ignorance, why she was so
accepting of James and I - she had, herself, found someone whom she might
come to care for, and she understood the feelings I was having. We sat down
at the dinner table on the Thursday evening, and suddenly, for the first
time it became possible to talk openly and freely.

"So, who is it then?" I asked, the reference none too obscure.

"Shouldn't I be doing the interrogating?" Aunt Jane replied, though there
was a twinkle in her eye which suggested she was joking. "No, fair's fair,
I suppose, and you did ask first. He's another artist from the gallery
where I'm showing at the moment. He's a Russian, and his name is
Yevgeny. He's been living in England for about six years."

I was slightly taken aback - the Cold War was extinct, of course, and
relations with Russia were certainly improving, but the Russians were still
not our best friends back then. There was still a little of the old
prejudice in me, it seemed, and Aunt Jane noticed immediately.

"Oh, come on, Zachary, you can't be too surprised. After all, you're dating
some old man."

My eyes flew wide in shock. Adults weren't supposed to talk to kids like
that, were they?

"He's not that old! He's only fifteen."

And that's when it hit me quite what I had just said. I had, for the first
time, out loud, confirmed to my aunt what we both knew had been going on
secretly in the background. And, I think, it confirmed something to me:
James was, even if we'd never said the words to each other, my first
boyfriend.

We sat in silence for about fifteen or twenty seconds, and then from the
sheer relief of a tension unbound we burst into laughter. Proper,
uncontrollable, belly-aching laughter. When finally, after several aborted
attempts we had controlled our giggles, we sat and looked at each other
over the table. She reached out across the wooden surface and took my hand
in her own, gently squeezing. In her eyes was a depth of love and pity I
had never before seen.

"It'll be OK, Zack. I'll make sure it's OK this time."

Without asking my consent, she got up and went to the sideboard, and
returned with a wine glass to match her own. She poured me a deep glass
from the bottle of red on the table.

"I think you're man enough to have a drink with your meal now."

I went to bed with my head spinning with thoughts, emotions and not a
little drunkenness.

---

Aunt Jane was just leaving the house when James was turning up on Saturday
night. They met in the driveway, and exchanged a few words. When he came
through the open door, he said,

"You know, that aunt of yours is pretty cool."

"What did she say?"

He grinned and shook his head.

"I can't tell you that. But she's cool."

"Fine, I'll make you tell me!" I said, pouncing on him and dragging him to
the ground, trying to get him into some sort of wrestling hold. I didn't
have the strength to master him, but he supplicated anyway and lay beneath
me, gazing up into my triumphal face.

"You're still not getting it out of me," he said, and we both dissolved
into fits of laughter at his unintended double-entendre.

"Not even if you put it in me?" I asked, still laughing. But the laughter
died quickly away on both sides. I was sat astride his chest and began to
slide down until my backside was over his crotch. He was, as I was, already
hard, and I settled my bum on the stiff, thick rod beneath the fabric of
his tracksuit trousers, thrilling at the feel of it there. He flexed it and
I gasped as a sudden jolt of pleasure ran through me at the swelling
between my cheeks.

"Would you let me?" he asked, voice broken with nervous excitement. My head
swam. I felt dizzy with anticipation of what I was about to say.

"Yeah..." I breathed, no louder than the quietest whisper.

---

He seemed like a giant above me, his nervously smiling face starkly
outlined against the bright light on the ceiling behind his head. He was on
all fours above me, knees between my spread legs, hands planted on the bed
either side of my shoulders. We were naked, except, for some reason, our
socks. My limp dick lay shrivelled on my lower belly, my balls drawn up in
a tack sack beneath, the skin prickling. I looked down the length of his
body to where the thick rod jutted from his thick mat of dark pubes, its
length glistening with cooking oil, the only lubricant we could find. He
knew somehow, perhaps from the film he'd seen, that something like it would
be needed. His fingers had already pushed into me, spreading the stuff on
the inside. We decided it might be good to get me used to something
smaller, but even his fingers had felt uncomfortable. But wonderful, too,
and that's why I hadn't back out.

He leant down and kissed me, and then one arm disappeared from beside me on
the bed, reaching down between our bodies. I drew my legs up instinctively,
and as he lowered himself over me I felt the blunt tip of it running along
the crease of my backside. I gasped at the contact, and he smiled down at
me, running it back and forth until I was wriggling my hips beneath
him. Then he stopped and just held it still, looking down between our
bodies to make sure he had it in the right place. I felt a dull pressure,
and then suddenly the sensation of something massive intruding into my
body.

I gasped and clenched my teeth, but held his shoulders and wrapped my legs
around his torso, digging my heels into his backside, urging him
forward. It did hurt, oh God it hurt, but at the same time I desperately
needed it. There was no pleasure, but a fulfilment I couldn't describe, and
that made any pain I felt pale into insignificance. He pushed until I felt
I might die from the intrusion, and then stopped. I looked down and was
dismayed to see him only part way inside.

"I don't think I can fit it all in," I whispered to him, nervous that he
would think me an insufficiently able lover. But he smiled down, and there
was genuine affection in his eyes.

"It doesn't all have to go in, you know."

I nodded, and then closed my eyes as I felt him pull out and re-enter.

Long, painful minutes passed as he withdrew and pushed hard into me once
more. I wondered if it would ever become easier, if I would ever be able to
let him have sex with me properly. But I realised that something was
beginning to happen. I was beginning to grow looser, and his strokes
easier, and, I saw as I looked down between us, deeper.

He thrust and thrust above me, growing ever more urgent in his movements,
eyes tight shut, a look of concentration on his face as he ploughed into me
rhythmically. He began to sweat. His breath came in short gasps. His hips
slapped against my own, his penetration of me complete. I could feel it
plunging deep inside my bowels at each thrust, until with a shudder it grew
thick in my ravaged passage, stretching it to its very limits, and I felt
the twitching of him as he came.

He collapsed, exhausted on the bed beside me, hand snaking across my
shoulders to roll me towards him so that he could smother my face with
kisses.

I lay in his embrace, too exhausted and abused to feel anything but a deep
desire to turn back the clock and change my mind.

---

I awoke two hours later. He was gone, but I could hear the bath running. It
seemed strange to me that he would feel comfortable enough in my house to
take a bath, and in the middle of the evening, too. It was half past eight.

He wandered back into the room and looked down at me. There was something
in his look, something different to the lust he had shown me before. He
helped me up out of the bed, and only then did I realise how shaky my legs
were. He lowered me into the steaming water of the bath when I was unable
to do so myself, and then sat on the edge as the water soothed parts of me
I didn't know could ache.

"Um, Zack..." he started uncertainly. I barely heard his timid whisper
through the fog which had descended over my senses. I blearily opened my
eyes and tried to focus on him.

"Yeah?" I croaked.

"Are you OK?"

I nodded very slightly.

"Hurts, though."

"Yeah, I thought it would. Sorry... Uh, there's something I should tell
you."

"'kay."

"I didn't learn any of that stuff from a porno movie. When I was about ten
I had a friend called Max. His uncle used to do all this stuff with him,
and Max told me about it once. He used to hate it, and eventually his uncle
got thrown in jail for it. But I knew about it all because of him. I don't
know why I didn't tell you that before."

I just lay with my eyes closed and thought about what he had said.

"Did you know it would hurt?" I asked eventually.

"Yeah. Sorry."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I really wanted to do it to you. Sorry, I understand if you hate
me. I shouldn't have done it."

I didn't have the energy to tell him that I wanted him to do it, that the
regret I had felt straight afterwards had morphed into a desire to feel him
in me again. How could I explain the desire I felt to repeat the act again,
and again, and again, even though it would hurt? I sensed rather than saw
him rising to leave.

"Please, don't go," I whispered, laying a damp hand on his leg, feeling
goosebumps rise beneath my touch. He paused, and sat back down.

"I thought you would want me to leave," he said. I shook my head.

"No, stay, please. Help me out of the bath. I want you to hug me until I
fall asleep."

He pulled me from the water, and then he dried me, and dressed me as one
would a helpless child. Then he lay me down in my bed and spooned up behind
me, the delicious warmth of his body held along the length of my own, the
soft tube of flesh which pressed against my bottom a welcome reminder of
the passion we had shared, now given way to a gentle, loving embrace.

As I slowly drifted into slumber, I thought I heard him whisper something
to me. I asked him to repeat it, for I had missed both words and
meaning. He shifted slightly, and I felt the warmth of his breath on my ear
as he whispered to me,

"I love you."

I grabbed his arm, squeezed it tightly about me and fell into a deep,
dreamless sleep.

END OF PART 3

More to come; feel free to encourage me to write, by writing to me:
zackmcnaught@hotmail.com. You can also follow me on Twitter for story
updates: @zackmcnaught