Date: Sat, 15 Feb 1997 05:40:57 -0800
From: tantalus <tantalus@mailmasher.com>

WARNING: The story that follows is a piece of fictional literature intended
for the enjoyment of mature adults. It is not intended for minors, or for
anyone who might object to its contents. Its content deals with the sexual
awakening of two underaged boys. Please do not read this story if you think
the content might offend you.

THE VOYAGERS' SUMMER

A Memoir

by

Sean de Roche

When I was eleven years old my cousin, who was
thirteen, took it upon himself to teach me the finer
points of masturbation. Since he was himself a
connoisseur, I couldn't have been in better hands-- so
to speak. Under his tutelage I got intensive hands on
experience and got my first glimpse into a new world
of intense physical sensation. I learned something
about the potential of my body, and others, for
pleasure. In that long-ago summer, I became an
apprentice to delight.

The "first time" was in his bedroom in the attic of
his parents' old farm house. That room was my cousin's
refuge, his fortress, his chapel of privacy and
solitude in a family dominated by three older sisters.
One night, in the huge old oak-framed double bed which
he shared with me when I visited him, he knelt over me
and showed me how to use Vaseline on my erect penis.
Slowly and gently he smoothed the cool gel onto my hot
flesh and we watched as it dissolved into the slick
basting that made it his favorite. He showed me how to
hold myself, how to squeeze, how to vary the rhythm of
up-and-down strokes that caused tingles of pleasure to
use my spine as a marimba of sensation. He taught me
how to prolong the final rush of pleasure and how to
make the climax last as long as possible by holding
the throbbing orgasmic member tightly just below the
plum of the glans and squeezing and jiggling gently
during the climax.

Of course, my cousin was not an altruist. The tuition
for this precious knowledge was my service to him that
summer as apprentice, acolyte, body-slave, and bed-
boy. But I am grateful for my education that summer,
and do not resent the servitude to which I was put on
that sweltering, sun-drenched summer so long ago. I
owe my omnitumescent cousin a very real debt of
gratitude for that sweaty, breathless, clandestine,
golden time. In this present atmosphere of quick
accusations of molestation and sexual abuse and im-
moral usury, I am happy to say that I was a willing
and eager participant in our games and tutorials in
that attic room, and the barn, and the woodlot, the
swimming hole, and all those other remembered places.

No hand before his had ever touched my private places,
save perhaps my mother's when I was a baby. Certainly
no hand had ever touched my aroused member, nor
brought it to its crisis of delight. I had never
before seen an erect penis except my own, never
touched a penis other than mine in any condition. Of
course I had masturbated myself, many times. But it
had always been a secret, solitary, and almost grimly
furtive thing, certainly not the richly embroidered
and frankly joyous ceremony that Billy and I explored
together.

I will confess that I was nervous and frightened that
first time when Billy squatted beside me on the big
rumpled bed and pushed the elastic band of my
undershorts down far enough for him to have access to
my secret places. Later, nervous and afraid, but not
enough of either to tell him to stop or to take myself
off the bed and leave the room, I lay there with my
hands self-consciously clasped behind my head in a
caricature of casual, debonaire disinterest while the
vaseline melted and Billy began that inaugural slow
massage of my penis. Oh, that was a thrilling, scarey
time!

I won't pretend that I wasn't aware of what our elders
would have thought of what we were doing had they
known. We both knew that what we were doing was
"wrong" according to the various adult authority
systems to which we were subject. But Billy seemed to
see what we did in a different light. To him we were
simply scratching a harmless itch. From much later I
remember a passage from Henry Miller, something on the
order of, "To me sex was like a drink of water."
That's the way it was for us that summer. If you had
an itch you scratched it; if you were thirsty you took
a drink; if you were hot you jumped into the swimming
hole; if you were horny or bored you jerked off.
Except that there was practically no solitary
masturbation that summer that I can remember, at least
not on my part. We had discovered the pleasure of
giving pleasure to another, watching him in the throes
of it, and having him return the favor. We would have
considered a solitary handjob a waste of opportunity
and a violation of the unspoken pact we had made with
each other. We were voyagers together on a new sea of
exploration and discovery.

I remember his words that first night: "Let me show
you something you'll really like!" We were dressed in
our usual bedtime attire: jockey shorts and nothing
more. His room was directly over a big storeroom on
the floor below and his parent's bedroom was on the
other side of the house on the ground floor, so we
were able to tussle and carry on pretty much to our
hearts' content after the official bedtime. As usual I
had lost a wrestling match and lay on the rumpled bed
with my arms pinned under his knees and his butt bear-
ing down on my heaving chest. I expected the usual
penalty of an interminable pink-belly or a session of
fiendishly prolonged tickling, to which I was acutely
and almost painfully vulnerable, but instead he let me
go and got off of me. It was then that he squatted
next to me, his knees close up against my right hip.

Those were his exact words: "Let me show you something
you'll really like." And then he reached down and took
the waistband of my underpants gently between the
thumb and forefinger of each hand and stretched it
down so that my small testicles in their smooth
hairless pouch rested in the vee of the taut elastic
like marbles about to be launched out of a slingshot.
I raised up on my elbows to see what was happening,
but I did not protest or try to stop him. I think I
knew what was about to happen. It was scarey, but I
was ready so long as I had to do nothing but acquiesce
and be acted upon by my bigger, older, wiser cousin. I
remember the deliciously pleasurable sense of help-
lessness as he leaned over me and took me into his
hands. It was a warm feeling of the utmost
satisfaction and well-being, entirely separate from
the feelings his fingers soon began to cause between
my legs.

His fingers quickly overcame my nervousness and within
a very few minutes we were both looking down on my
first "shared" erection. I raised my butt to help him
skin off my underpants and free myself from the
pressure of the waistband pushing up against my
testicles. He shifted himself on the bed and spread my
legs apart so that he could squat between them and get
at me more comveniently. I felt more open and
vulnerable that I had ever felt before in my life.
"How about this?" he said, as he lightly drew his
forefinger and middle finger, held in a relaxed
victory vee, back and forth on that supremely
sensitive area immediately behind and beneath the
testicles. I can still remember the liquid sibilant
sound of the hiss that the sudden velvety pleasure
drew from me. "Pretty good, huh?" I said nothing and
lay there with my eyes closed and the sheet clenched
in my fists while his fingers moved back and forth
again and again and my pink-helmeted penis bobbed
tightly up and down over my lower belly. It seemed
important to Billy that I say something, that I join
with him in what was happening with some outward token
of acceptance of the rites of initiation he was
offering me. "Doesn't that feel great?" he asked. In
retrospect I can almost hear a heavy, previously
tightly locked door creak open on its unused hinges
when I finally said, "Yeah! That feels real good!" He
seemed to take my first words as a signal of
agreement, complicity, partnership, and he brightened
visibly when I spoke them. "I know lots more!" he
said. That was when he jumped off the bed and brought
the jar of vaseline out of its hiding place. And thus
did our Arcadian summer begin.

My cousin was taller than I by about four inches and
heavier by at least fifteen pounds. His shoulders were
broadening and his sun-browned torso tapered down to a
solid and firmly muscled abdomen that I admired and
envied. His chest was just starting to develop the
hard flat pads of muscle around his nipples and he
liked to flex and pose like the musclemen in the
magazines we sometimes leafed through at the drugstore
in town. I thought he was a kind of ideal. It would be
wrong to say that I worshipped him, but I certainly
envied him his physical beauty, which at the time I
saw not as beauty, of course, but , like all boys that
age, as Power. I was at the beginning of that stage of
life characterized by long introspective periods spent
in front of the bathroom mirror, and I saw the hard
and tightly muscled body of my cousin as a worthy
model of what I would like to someday have, if only I
could. I was a good three or four inches shy of five
feet and about seventy pounds of newly fledged doubt
and self awareness. I think it must have been a
tremendous tonic of delight when Billy leaned down
over me that night and said "Jeez, you sure got a
humongous hard-on!" Maybe it was actually only about
four inches long, but the way he made me feel it could
have been a foot long and I felt like a towering giant
super-stud.

His penis fascinated me. I had seen it often before,
since we were both pretty uninhibited around each
other. We often skinny-dipped in the swimming hole and
sometimes took tandem showers under the makeshift
garden hose set up in the basement of the house. But
now, its size, shape, and sensitivity represented a
cornucopia of experimentation for me. The first time I
touched it when it was fully erect, and felt both it
and him react to the pleasure my fingers gave, I felt
a rush of joy go through me like a big gulp of ice
water on a parched throat. That joy impelled me to try
to be an enthusiastic and attentive student, and I
was.

Billy could ejaculate and I couldn't. He told me that
for several months he had been able to "shoot," as he
called it, or "squirt," or "pop." He was proud of that
ability, and I was enormously envious of it. I thought
it was probably the greatest thing that a guy could
do, to be able to squirt a liquid projectile out the
tip of your penis at the exact moment you felt the
greatest thrill a guy could feel. It was a magical
capability, and I felt that I couldn't possibly wait
for nature to invite me into this wonderful club. But
until that miraculous moment came to me, I at least
had access to Billy's capability. More than mere
access, I discovered that I had a very real measure of
power and control over this mysterious process of
pleasure and fluid ballistics.

We became experts at using and exploiting the peculiar
individual characteristics of an extraordinary variety
of lubricants. Vaseline, KY, soap and water, spit,
cooking oil, butter, face cream, shampoo, mineral oil.
We tried everything. Our creative minds ranged and
probed like Leonardo's. We studied the possible
variations of combinations of lubricants and types and
degrees of friction and pressure. Our cocks were the
experimental test tubes of man's unquenchable thirst
for knowledge! And, oh, the tales that I shall not
tell!


I have remembered that summer with awe and affection and nostalgia for
almost forty years. My cousin died last year, too young by far. On the
family occasions that we were together, Billy and I would sometimes
privately refer to that summer with winks and broadly humorous references,
but we never talked about it seriously.  We had been voyagers together in
the realms of discovery.  And even in today's atmosphere of resurgent
prudery, I can still see it as a time of purity, innocence, and sweet,
sweet pleasure beyond the reach of hypocrisy or repression. I wouldn't
trade that summer for anything.

-end-