Date: Tue, 1 Mar 2005 00:34:10 +0000 (GMT)
From: roy p...... <sunbeamtb@yahoo.co.uk>
Subject: Wanker part 2

There wasn't going to be a part 2, but, well, I have a fertile
imagination. It's all in the mind, like dreams. Read on, dream,
and enjoy. Tell me if you did, please.


				     2


The next morning, halfway along the second street of the first
half of his paper round, Mike began to wonder if the boy would be
there at all.
Yesterday, as he'd walked his two last streets, he'd become
annoyed that it had happened. Yes, it had been nice, very nice in
fact, but it was queerstuff, and he didn't do queerstuff.

He'd got home after the round, walked into the kitchen where his
mother had already cooked the bacon and warmed the beans for his
breakfast, and was about to crack his egg into the frying pan.
"Leave it a minute, mum!" he heard himself saying. "I've just got
to -"
and he ran upstairs to his room and closed the door.
There are times when a boy has to, NOW, and this was one of them.
He pushed his tracksuit bottoms and boxers down, halfway to his
knees, took it in his hand and rubbed like fury.
He arched his back, threw his head right back, screwed his eyes
tight shut and gritted his teeth hard. It seemed never to have
been so hard, so large, so - hot.
It took seven seconds. The feeling didn't just wash over him,
swirl up and down his body as usual, it hit him hard, head on.
Like he'd walked out in the road and been hit by a bus.
He relaxed a bit, slowly, opened his eyes and looked. It was
running down the wall! That was seven feet away, the other side
of his bed!
Mike watched in disbelief as what looked like half a cupful of
watery white custard slid down the wall, leaving a damp patch an
inch and a half wide on his Star Trek wallpaper behind as it
went.
He jumped towards it, landing on his knees on the bed, and he
grabbed his pillow and tried to mop it up, off the wall.
He rubbed the pillow round and round on the wall, then lifted it
away and looked.
The liquid was gone, but now, the damp patch was nine inches wide
and a foot long! He looked at the pillowcase, a white one with a
red Ferrari on it, and it was wet and dirty-grey where he'd
rubbed the wall with it. Shit!
Mike looked down to his lap. It was still hard! Red, wet and
hard, pointing up, pointing at the damp wallpaper.
He touched it with a finger, it wobbled to one side, sprang back
and twitched, throbbed up quarter of an inch towards his stomach,
then back. Every heartbeat, it throbbed. Cautiously, Mike wrapped
his hand round it again. It wanted more!
Mike jumped backwards off the bed, stood with his legs open and
rubbed it again, ever so slowly, watching it carefully. He
remembered the feel of that boy's hand, the soft cool skin, the
tight grip when he tried to stop him, the sensuality of it all.
Mike didn't know that word, sensuality, but he knew what he felt.
And he knew it was good. Mike was lost in a world of self-
pleasure. Not a good hard wank, his usual strum-till-it-comes
stuff, but a softer pleasure. A softer hand.
He held it lightly, trying to imitate the boy's touch, and got
close, but not completely there. He unwrapped his hand, held it
with two fingers under and thumb on top, yes, that was new, that
fanned his flame.
The peak was near, but oh, so slow coming. Nice.
Mike inched towards it, two fingertips running the vein
underneath, the thumb hardly touching, lifting off on some
strokes, just tickling on others. It came closer, closer, closer.
The muscle behind it, inside him, closed slowly, opened, closed
slowly. He felt it, every minute contraction, every push it gave
to the liquid that oozed from the slit. It oozed, formed a drop,
and fell to the floor. It left a thin string, a lead-rope for the
next one. The third, last, hung from the string, suspended, three
inches below its escape hole. Mike watched, mesmerised.
Beautiful.
Sex wasn't like that, Mike thought. You WANKED, you FUCKED, they
were HARD things, not soft, not - beautiful? Or were they? Should
they be?
He flicked his cock, and the drop fell to the floor, joining the
other two. He smeared them into the carpet with his shoe.
Pulling his boxers and tracksuit up, he opened the bedroom door.
"Put my egg on now, mum!" he shouted.


So would he be there? Part of Mike wanted him to be, part of him
not. He wasn't going to do it again whatever, it was queerstuff,
gay, and no way was he gay.
There was definitely NO stirring in Mike's boxers this morning.

Just inside the park, not quite halfway to the bushes, is a
bench. The boy was sitting on it. A small dog on a lead jumped
and yapped as Mike approached.
"Hi!" the boy said. Mike bent and petted the dog. "Hi!"
Mike sat next to the boy. Not a conscious decision to sit, it
just happened.
"Nice dog!"
"No it's not. It smells, and it shits an' pisses everywhere. I
can't play in the back garden now, too much dogshit everywhere."
"Oh."
"Walkin' it's an excuse, to get out, come to the park, to see
you."
"Oh." A pause. "Why to see me?"
"I like watching you."
"Why?"
"Feels good."
"What feels good?"
"Getting' hard watchin' you."
"I'm not queer!"
"You don' have to be."
"Are you?"
"S'pose so."
"You said you weren't."
"I lied."
"Oh."
The little dog tried to jump up on Mike's lap. The boy yanked the
lead, cruelly, to pull it away.
"How long you been watching me?"
"Months."
"I've never seen you."
"You didn't need to."
"Oh."
The boy turned his head to Mike and studied his face.
"I come an' watch you walk across the park. It turns me on. I
loved it in the summer when you wore the short shorts and tight t-
shirt, I hid in those bushes and wanked off as you walked past. I
watched the day you lifted your shorts leg  and pissed up the elm
tree. Then the day I watched you wank up the bush, I just had to
meet you."
"Oh."
"So now you know. I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry."
"But you're not -"
"No. But you've done me no harm. Do you think about me when - you
-"
"Yes."
"Oh. Do you picture you an' me - together?"
"Yes."
"And do we -"
"Whatever I want to imagine, we do it."
"Oh." Another pause, during which Mike looks at the boy's face,
into his eyes. "Do you love me?"
"Yes - no - I don't know, I watch you, I don't know you."
"What do you want to do now?"
"Kiss you."
"Oh."
Mike looks at the boy again, closes his eyes and leans towards
him. Suddenly, he opens his eyes again, making the boy jump. "I'm
still not queer!"
He closes his eyes again, and puckers his lips.
He feels the boy's face on his, not a quick peck as he'd
expected, like grandma's kiss, but a hand-behind-the head, open
mouth hard kiss. A tongue pressing on his lips. Mike jumped, and
gasped. The tongue slipped in his suddenly-open mouth. Mike's
eyes were wide open, he could see the boy's eyes were closed, his
arms up over Mike's shoulders. Mike was also aware that he was
hard, rock hard. He jumped back. The boy fell forward, onto
Mike's chest.
"Sorry!" Mike said.
"S' O.K."
The little dog, its lead dropped, walked away.
"Sacha!" the boy shouted, and ran after it. The dog ran off.
Mike jumped up, left his paperbag and ran after them. At the
clump of bushes, the dog ran past, then turned to run around the
bushes. Mike ran the other way and met them heading towards him.
He fell to his knees, slid along the ground, and grabbed the
dog's lead as the dog darted away, and held it. The boy ran up to
Mike, gasping, and looked down at him holding the lead and
smiling.
He bent to take the lead. Mike took the outstretched hand, and
yanked it. The boy fell over. Mike rolled onto him, pressed his
lips on the boy's, and kissed him hard. Tongues wrestled between
teeth. Hard cocks ground together between clothes. The boy pushed
Mike up, away.
"You aren't queer!" the boy said.
"Try me!" Mike laughed, and rolled their cocks together harder.