Date: Sat, 23 Oct 2010 06:37:52 -0400
From: jonkent@post.com
Subject: YOU NEVER CAN TELL    Gay  Young Friends

Disclaimer: This short story has some pretty graphic sex scenes, and they
may not be legal where you live, or you might not be old enough to be
allowed to read them where you live. Although the story has lots of
literary merit, and although the characters in the story are completely
fictitious, and although you may really enjoy the story, it's best not to
break the laws where you live. So what you have to do is leave this story
right now, go someplace else, find something that's legal for you to
read. Or, if the weather's nice, you can always go, find some friends, and
do what boys (and girls) of your age should be doing.


YOU NEVER CAN TELL
by Jon Kent

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," I whispered.

"Yeh, there is," he said.

"Nothing," I repeated.

"Yeh, there is. You don't really like me."

"Well, maybe this'll sound a bit weird," I began.

I was with Jack. He was on my bed, naked. Come to think of it, I was naked,
too. It was also the first time we'd been on my bed naked. In fact, it was
probably the first time Jack had been on any bed naked - at least with
another naked boy beside him.

"Go on. tell me. Am I doing something wrong? Tell me how to do it right."

Jack was eight years old. I was twelve years old. So I guess it was up to
me to show him how to do things right. He was only eight but he was a quick
learner. "What is it?" he insisted. "Tell me. Do you really like me?"

What was not to like? Jack was cute. No, that's not the right word. Jack
was handsome. No, that's not it either. Jack was beautiful. Can't think of
any other word. Long blond hair. Mine is long but dirty blond, I think you
call it. Jack had big brown eyes. Mine are grey on cloudy days, blue on
sunny days. Jack's nose is short and straight. Mine is short and a little
bit upturned. Jack has a strong little body. Mine is long and skinny.

"Well?" he insisted, his fingers playing with my balls.

"I like you. I really like you. It's just that..." - how could I put it and
not sound weird - "do you think you could maybe stick your finger up my
bum? I know it sounds a bit weird, and I wouldn't ask if it wasn't..."

"Which finger?" Jack asked, as if he were asking me what flavour of fruit
gum I wanted.

"Mmmm, it doesn't matter. You choose," I said, glancing at his
fingers. "Well, maybe the middle one."

Jack wriggled down the bed. "Open up." I felt the tip of his finger pushing
at my hole. I felt him push harder, and harder. I watched him as he brought
his finger to his mouth, slip it between his little pink lips, and give it
a serious sucking. For a moment I wondered if sucking Jack's middle finger
would feel as sweet as sucking his cock. No, it couldn't be as sweet as
that.

He went back to his work. A push here, a twist there, and he was in, up to
the knuckle, and then all the way in. He started wiggling his finger
around, the tip reaching to explore the greasy walls of my anus.

"Does that feel nice?" he asked.

"Great," I grunted. "Do you think you could try two fingers?"

"Yep," Jack said. "Then it's my turn. Deal or no deal?"

As I said, Jack may only be eight years old but he is a fast learner.

"It's a deal," I grunted.

I was happy. Feeling guilty but happy. O, not guilty because of what we
were doing on the bed. Guilty because of Uncle Nigel. I was on the bed
enjoying myself when I should have been thinking of Uncle Nigel. Though in
a way I was. Since it was Uncle Nigel who'd told me I was a fast learner,
too. He wouldn't be telling me that again.

Uncle Nigel fell off the roof. Mum said he'd been trying to climb through
the dormer window after losing his keys. He was probably drunk. Anybody
could have told him he'd never get through that dormer window in the
attic. I used to stand there, naked, peeking through the dormer
window. Uncle Nigel used to stand behind me, naked, with his finger up my
jacksie. He'd teach me the names of the different birds while he was
wiggling his finger up there. To loosen me up. Then he'd take his finger
out, reach it round to my mouth, and I'd suck on it for a bit. Some of you
might not know the word 'jacksie'. It means arse, backside, ass, batty,
back crack. Like if I was holding a big cucumber, I might say, "You
wouldn't like this up your jacksie." Well, maybe you would. I wouldn't. I
don't really like vegetables. I think jacksie is Cockney Rhyming Slang but
I can't figure out what it rhymes with.

Uncle Nigel fell off the roof. He broke his leg. He also broke his neck,
which was more serious. Not that it was fatal. What killed him was not
being able to move or even cry out for help. That was last Wednesday
night. Remember? The lowest temperature for a January in the past 50
years. That's what my Dad told me. When the milkman found Uncle Nigel, he
was stiff, all over, and frosted. It's not as cold as that now and I guess
they've got a digger to dig the hole for Uncle Nigel. A hole. I think Uncle
Nigel would like that, going into a deep hole, I mean. But it's hard to
feel sad when I'm lying on the bed, naked, with Jack, naked, and he's got
two fingers up my jacksie. Wait a minute. It's not two now. It's
three. That reminds me a lot of Uncle Nigel, but I still can't feel sad. Is
there something wrong with me?

Uncle Nigel wasn't the first to see me naked - apart from my mum, I
mean. That was Alfie. Alfie and I have been friends since... since ever I
remember, I guess. We grew up about five minutes away from each other, and
we're still growing up at the same distance, I guess. Alfie has got long
hair, too, but his hair is just down to his collar. Jack's hair is half way
down his back, and mine is right down my back. Anyways, Alfie was the first
person not related to me to see my penis, erect, I mean. We were same age
as Jack, eight years old.

"My dick's bigger than yours," said Alfie.

"Look the same to me."

"No, they're not. Press them together and we'll see," suggested Alfie.

He was right. His dick was bigger but not by much. And mine was definitely
fatter than his.

"My pee hole is bigger than yours," claimed Alfie, adding, "Let's check and
see."

We peeled back our foreskins and pressed the little mouths together. It
looked like they were kissing.

"Seem the same to me," I said.

"Guess so," said Alfie, "but I've seen a much bigger dick than ours."

"You have?" I asked.

"My dad's," said Alfie proudly.

"You've seen your dad's dick, standing up?"  I was impressed.

"Yep," he said. "Mum was having a drink out of it."

"Your mum was drinking pee out of your dad's dick?" I gasped.

"Don't be stupid," Alfie laughed. "It wasn't pee she wanted. It was man's
milk."

"What the fuck is man's milk?" I asked.

"Shit, Charlie, you know fuck all."

He paused and gave me his 'Alfie's thinking' look.

"Lie down," he said. "There's nobody around. Father O'Malley won't be here
for ages. Lie down."

I sat down on the thick blue carpet in the vestiary, then stretched myself
onto my back. I could feel Alfie undoing my snake-belt, then scrabbling
down my grey shorts, followed by my less-than-white undies. It felt weird
lying there with my shorts and underpants around my knees. But that's what
Alfie told me to do, and we hardly ever argued about anything. I felt his
fingers move up and down my penis which was as hard as a milk bottle. At
first he couldn't get the foreskin to go far back, but as he moved the skin
back and forwards, the head seemed to get slippery and the skin slid back
and forwards easily.

So what?

I'll tell you fucking so what. I could feel my skin start to tingle, not
just the skin of my dick, but the skin of my tummy, my chest, my neck, my
face. At the same time there was a pressure building. I'm not sure where
the pressure came from, but it made me clench the cheeks of my arse. You
know when you're desperate for a shit but there's no place to have one, not
even any bushes, and you clutch the muscles of your bum really tight. It
was a bit like that. But not the same. because the tighter it felt, the
better it felt. And my bum began to lift off the carpet of its own
accord. I mean I didn't make any effort but my hips and my arse started to
rise and fall. Then Alfie stopped.

"Keep doing that," I hissed.

"Wait a minute," he whispered. "Try this." He ran his fingers round the
slippery head of my cock, and then brought his fingers to my lips. "Go
on. Lick my fingers," he instructed. I licked his fingers, ran my tongue
round them. "That's not pee," I whispered.

"I know it isn't," whispered Alfie. "It's man juice, man milk. Well, it's
not really man milk, not yet. We're too young to make real man juice yet,
but it's there something."

"For what?" I asked.

"Get up," Alfie told me. He took my place. He pushed down his shorts and
his underpants, gleaming white. He stretched out on the blue carpet. I'd
been on my back. Alfie was on his front. I noticed he had freckles on his
bum. He reached round and pulled the cheeks of his bum apart. I peered
in. I knew where his hole was 'cos the skin was slightly browner than the
skin around it. If he had freckles there, I couldn't see them.

"Put it in there," he whispered.

"Put what in there," I asked.

"Your prick," he instructed. "Shove your prick up my jacksie."

"What for?" I asked.

"'Cos it will feel nice."

"It won't fit," I said.

"Yes it will," he said.

"No way," I said.

"Wanna bet?"

"How much?"

"50p."

"Okay," I said.

"Deal?" he said.

"Deal," I said.

I think I would have lost the bet. I wouldn't have minded that much. Alfie
was right. I only got the head in, but it started to feel nice, very
nice. I'm not sure why it felt so nice but I guessed it would feel even
nicer the deeper I got inside Alfie's jacksie, when...

"Hey, cut that out, you little fuckers. This is a fuckin' church."

We both twisted round. It was one of the cleaning ladies. One of the old
ones with a wrinkly face and a big wart on her nose. She looked like Oliver
Cromwell in my history book. "Get the fuck out of here, you little
perverts." I'd no idea what a 'pervert' was until I looked it up in my
dictionary, but I knew it wasn't a compliment.

We scrambled to our feet, yanked up our underpants and shorts, and
high-tailed it out of there. Thank fuck we were in shorts. When we finally
got into the graveyard, we stopped, panting, breathless, but we still
couldn't stop laughing.

"Do you think she saw what we were doing?" I finally got out between gasps.

"Who the fuck cares?" laughed Alfie.

"But she'll probably tell Father O'Malley," I protested.

"Who the fuck cares?" repeated Alfie. "Father O'Malley's a fuckin'
pervert." Then he added, "For Christ's sake, Charlie, you don't know very
much, do you?"

It was only when I got home and looked up 'pervert' that I had any idea
what Alfie was on about. When I figured it out, I realized I had a major
problem. It was Thursday. I had confession on Friday, and I had Father
O'Malley. I made a deal with God. I promised I wouldn't put my cock in
Alfie's jacksie if He (God) didn't snitch to Father O'Malley on me. I even
kept my promise, for a few weeks at least, but I'm not sure if God kept
His.

Uncle Nigel's funeral was embarrassing, at least it was for me. Sitting in
the church, I got a stiffy and I couldn't get rid of it. My flannels made
it worse. You dress up for a funeral. I don't know why. I mean the guest of
honour is past caring about what you wear, but said we had to dress up to
show respect to Uncle Nigel. He was her brother so I guess that makes
sense. Dressing up meant wearing my grey flannel trousers, my school
trousers. They're made of a light cloth that's so thin that everything
shows through, especially a hard on. Not like our good old
corduroys. They're easy to bunch up, and they're so thick you wouldn't even
you had a prick, let alone a stiff one.

What made it worse was all the pictures of Uncle Nigel that came into my
mind, pictures of me and him. Me, naked, sitting in his lap while he,
naked, showed me porno on the net while he played with my hard on. "You
like having a hard-on, don't you?" he'd whisper in my ear. Even at eight
years old, I thought that was a pretty stupid question. Of course I liked
having a hard-on. What normal eight-year-old boy wouldn't? And I knew Uncle
Nigel liked having a hard-on. I could see it standing up between my legs,
making my own three-incher look tiny by comparison. Pictures. Playing
ride-my-little-pony on Uncle Nigel's big double bed. Him, naked, stretched
out on his back. Me, naked, straddled across his hips with his big stiffy
jammed in the crack of my backside. Me, holding onto his shoulders, my
sweaty hair falling into his face, as I rode up and down so that his big
cock rubbed between my bum cheeks. That would end up with a real mess. Not
my fault. I couldn't cum yet. I learned that word from Uncle Nigel. To
'cum' doesn't mean to get some place like when you spell it 'come'. 'Cum'
means when your man-juice, or boy-juice, squirts out of your hard cock and
goes everywhere. Uncle Nigel used to fire his cum between my bum cheeks or
right up my sweaty back until I was big enough to take it you know where?
Then we'd go to the bathroom and do other stuff until I got that great
feeling.

Having a hard-on in church that was hard to hide was bad enough. All them
pictures in my mind was even worse. But worst of all was realising I was
sort of happy Uncle Nigel was gone. I'm not saying that Uncle Nigel's
falling off the roof, breaking his neck, and dying of exposure was a good
thing, but when I thought about it in a certain way, I had to admit it
solved a problem. I didn't mind spending time with Uncle Nigel but I wasn't
really happy when he started sharing me with his friend Dan. When Dan came
along it was back to the basement. That's where Uncle Nigel taught me there
was nothing to be ashamed of in having no clothes on. That's where he
taught me to enjoy my body, and to enjoy his. That's where he taught me how
to find stuff on the net, and how to masturbate, which is the official word
for making yourself, or someone else, cum. That's where he took pictures
and vids of me, of him, doing stuff so we could look at them afterwards and
do more stuff. Uncle Nigel was an ace photographer. He'll be missed at
weddings, funerals, and such. I wasn't long after Uncle Nigel won me over
that we moved to his bedroom, but when Dan arrived it was back to the
basement. Don't get me wrong. The basement wasn't a dump. It had a sort of
bed thing you could raise to different angles and heights, and it had its
own walk-in shower room, and it had its own mini-cinema screen. But I
didn't like it. If I was going to take a shower, I liked to take it in my
uncle's bedroom.

Uncle Nigel joked he didn't like stinky boys in his bed., so I'd take a
shower in the bathroom next to his bedroom. I'd come back to his bedroom
wrapped in a beach towel. Sometimes he's have me take off the shower before
climbing onto his bed, but unusually he'd unwrap my body, slowly, as if he
were opening Christmas present. I'd lie on my right side, he on his left
facing me. He always decided what would be done, when and how. He'd pull me
to him. I could feel his hard cock pressing against my tummy. He'd kiss me
and tell me how special I was. I felt special. I felt I'd been picked
out. Of all the boys he'd picked out me. He'd run his hand through my hair,
down my back until he reached my bum, then he'd pull me deeper into
him. One hand would stroke my bum while the other drifted round to my
front. His fingers would hold my stiffy. "You enjoy this, don't you?" he'd
whisper. "Tell me you like it," he'd say.

"I like it," I'd whisper back. There were lots of times like that until Dan
came along. Then things changed. I wonder if Uncle Nigel regretted sharing
me with Dan. I couldn't ask him then. I can't ask him now.

That night - it must have been a Thursday because I'd been to the Cubs. On
Thursdays, after the Cubs, I always went to Uncle Nigel's. I stayed there
until mum picked me up at nine o'clock. Mum was glad I always had a shower
at her brother's because that saved having one at home before bedtime. That
night Uncle Nigel and Dan were in the living room. "This is a friend of
mine. His name's Dan. He just got here. He needs a shower. You can take
your shower with him in the basement shower. Let's go down." I didn't
argue. I never argued with my Uncle Nigel. When you're nine you don't argue
with the grownups, do you? They know best, don't they. I'd taken showers
with my uncle before. He washed my back and I washed his. Then we did the
more private bits. The bits Uncle Nigel said were beautiful, too. When he
asked me to take a shower with his friend Dan, I nodded yes because I knew
that was the right answer. I knew the answer 'no' was not the right answer.

By the time I got my clothes off, Dan was in the shower waiting for me. He
was a bit older than my uncle and a lot hairier. His dick hung down from
its bush of hair like a big soft banana. Dan turned the water on and began
soaping me. The soap got in my eyes but I could feel his prick growing
against my balls, my dick, my belly. It grew till is passed my belly
button. I thought it was going to reach my nipples. Uncle Nigel had his
movie camera ready and began taking pictures. Dan turned me every which way
as if I was a rag doll. Then I felt his big stubby finger poking at my bum
hole. I clenched it a bit but he kept stroking the little opening, stroking
and pushing into the second knuckle. "Turn him round," said Uncle
Nigel. "Bend him over. Finger fuck him. I want some of this."

I guess that was the beginning of the end. I trusted Uncle Nigel. I trusted
him to protect me. But he didn't.

"Get him on the table," said my uncle. When I got the soap out of my eyes,
I was on the table, stretched out, face down, bum up. Uncle Nigel was
pushing his prick into my jacksie. Dan was feeding me his big penis. I was
choking a bit. The head of his dick was huge and my mouth was full of soapy
bubbles. I was coughing and spluttering. It didn't make any
difference. They kept fucking me at both ends. They were laughing, tell
each other how good it was, what a great fuck I was. "You got any more like
this one," I heard Dan ask. "Yeh, got a couple," answered my uncle, "and
one of them's even younger than Charlie. Don't you just love the Cubs?"

Later that night, when I was lying in my bed, I kept asking myself if it
had all been a bad dream. In the end I told myself that's what had happened
- a bad dream. But my jaws and my bumhole were so sore, I couldn't sleep. I
knew it wasn't any dream. And if you ask me when the beginning of the end
started, that was it.

It was two days after Uncle Nigel's funeral that Oscar punched me in the
face. It was a bit of a surprise because Oscar and me are friends, not
close mates, not like me and Alfie, and not really friends, but not
enemies, and that makes all the difference, so it was a surprise when he
punched me in the face, in my own bedroom, too. He'd even tried to comfort
me about Uncle Nigel. What he actually said was, "I know he'd want you to
be happy for him," which didn't seem to make any sense at all, so I didn't
say anything back. It came into my head while they were lowering Uncle
Nigel into his hole, and in a way I was glad it did because it took my mind
of the erection I was trying to hide. It's funny in life some things go
down while other things stay up. But anyway I was glad what Oscar said came
into my mind 'cos it took my mind off my hard-on, and even better it got
that fuckin' stupid song out of my head.

The song in question was Katrina and the Waves' 'Walking on Sunshine'. I
heard it the morning of the funeral while I was taking a bath, and it stuck
in my head all day. If there's a song you don't want stuck in your head
during a funeral it's 'Walking on Sunshine'. Shit, it's back in my head
again. Even in the church when we were plodding through 'Abide With Me' and
'The Old Rugged Cross', Katrina and the Waves kept breaking through and I
sat there humming '...and don't it make you feel good?' My gave me a couple
of queer looks, the last thing I wanted with the hymn sheet cunningly
placed over my lap and stomach rather than up in front of my face. Anyways,
it was a surprise when Oscar punched me in the nose in my own bedroom. I
thought he'd come around to get a note of the homework. Even though
somebody might not be your friend, we all help each other out when we need
to know what homework was set for the weekend.

We were up in my bedroom. I was reaching for my Planner to find the
homework note. There was a tap on my shoulder. I turned round. Kapow!
Oscar's fist connected with my nose. Down I went. When I looked up at him
from this fresh perspective - one hand cupping the blood dribbling from a
nostril - I saw Oscar's lovely features contorted by rage and anger. I say
'lovely' because that's the best word. Oscar is lovely. Tall, slim, blond
hair, dark eyelashes, nice nose, flawless (one of my big sister's words)
skin, and long legs. Also I'd never seen Oscar angry, even though we'd been
in the same class for two years. Nor had I ever heard what he said next.

"You piece of shit," he said.

"I think you've broken my nose," I burbled.

"I should break your fucking neck, you piece of shit."

It seemed Oscar was keep to establish I was a piece of shit. I admit I'm
not always fragrant but for the life of me I couldn't think what I'd done
to deserve the tag from Oscar..

"I don't know what it is you think I've done, Oscar," I spluttered, "but
whatever it is you think I've done, I promise you didn't do it. And even if
I did it, I didn't mean it."

"You've fucked my little brother."

Ooops.

Oscar's little brother is Jack, ah yes but, no but...

"I haven't... not yet anyway."

Fuck it. Why can't I keep my big mouth shut? Where did that 'not yet
anyway' come from? Talk about signing your own death warrant. I closed my
bloody nostril, closed my eyes, and waited for the kicking I richly
deserved. Not for fucking Jack 'cos I hadn't done that - yet - but for
making such a stupid mistake. Wasn't I a good Catholic boy? I'd had lots of
practice in confessing just enough and here I was spilling the lot. Talk
about throwing out the baby with the bathwater. I'd just thrown out the
fuckin' bath as well. Sorry for the expletives (bad words) but fuckin'
Katrina is back in my fuckin' head... "I'm walking on sunshine and don't it
feel gooood?"

I waited for a kicking that seemed as inevitable as three Hail Marys and an
Act of Contrition when...

"It's me you should be fucking, not my little brother.. Jack's just a
spoiled brat. He always gets his own way."

Doth mine ears deceive me? Is that light at the end of the tunnel, and it's
not the 3.45 from Victoria thundering down on me.

I opened my eyes and looked up. Oscar was reaching his hand down to me. I
took it and let him pull me to my fight. "You're nose is bleeding," he
said. Statement of the Fucking Obvious but none the less welcome for
that. He stepped in, gently moved my hand away, and - I'm not making this
up. - started licking the blood away. For once the word 'awesome' was
appropriate. I stood there and let him lick away. I could feel Katrina
subside as my prick swelled within my boxer shorts. It wasn't that long
after breakfast. I was still trying to get dressed. It was a Saturday
morning. And then he was kissing me. Then we were kissing each other. All
the way. With blood and spit all mixed together. I discovered Oscar not
only has long legs but a freakishly long tongue, what you might call a
'tonsils tickler'. Ever the optimist, I pressed myself against him and
discovered he was as hard as me. After around one zillion years, I pushed
him back, gasping,

"Why didn't you ask?" I asked.

"'Cos I'm so fuckin' shy," he whispered.

I did a quickfire calculation.  Saturday morning. Mum and Big Sis out
shopping. Dad off to the Bookies. House empty. Mine all mine.

"Well, I'm not," I said.

I backed Oscar towards my bed, then shoved so he fell backwards onto the
bed. Then I lowered myself onto him, and we started frenching again. I slid
down his body and pushed his jumper and t-shirt up. What amazing skin! Now
I really understood what 'flawless' means. Skin like creamy ivory. And
another surprise. His nipples. My nipples are like little starfish, and
they don't go hard when they get teased, tweaked or sucked like it says
they should in porno stories. And they're not really sensitive. But Oscar's
nipples were plump, sort of sticky out. Not weird or anything. Just a bit
like plump raspberries. I ran my lips and tongue up and down his body from
his nipples to his little belly button, an innie for the record. It was
great but a bit frustrating because I couldn't reach everything, so I
yanked at his jumper and t-shirt till he got the message. He half sat up
and I yanked them over his head. I tossed them across the room. He fell
flat on the bed again. I was happy to see he didn't close his eyes. I
yanked off my t-shirt and pressed myself against him. Back to the
frenching. That didn't last long because I wanted all of him, every last
inch. I slid down his body again and worked open the belt and the zip on
his jeans. I heard him kicking off his trainers. Oscar raised his bum from
the bed, and I worked down his briefs (M&S) and his jeans in one go, and
tossed them across the room, and...

Fuckin' hell. Oscar was big. Down there, I mean. His dick must have been
seven inches, if not a little more. It was thick, too. And creamy, and
ivory, at least until the head where it got red and purplish. The head was
already stick out of the foreskin, which is a good sign 'cos tight
foreskins are very boring. There were a couple of little blue veins that
started at the bottom of the shaft and ran round it till they sort of
petered out as they reached the head. The pipe thing - is it called the
'urethra'? - was thicker than mine and looked like it could pump out a
flood of cum. There were a few wisps of blond hair above Oscar's dick but
nothing on his balls. Can you get a dick that big before you get through
puberty?  (Make a mental note to check this out).

"You now," whispered Oscar.

It only took me seconds to wriggle out of my t-shirt and boxers. No time to
get my socks off. I slid back up Oscar's bed, kissing and licking as I
went. I avoided his hard-on 'cos I had the feeling if I made any
mouth-contact with it he's shoot his load all over us. I wanted to take
time, to make it last, to get him out of his head, so that he'd be up for
anything, literally speaking. I didn't know if Oscar knew anything about
fucking. It's not that easy, not when you're twelve years old. It can be
incredibly tight down there. It takes work to get it loosened, to get it
slick and greasy, to get it to relax, to open up. I'm not as big as Oscar
down there but I knew it was gonna hurt him if I went in without preparing
him first. And my fingers and my tongue are not as long as Oscar's but I
knew what I was aiming at - his prostate. It might be tiny, it might be
hard to find, but I knew where to look, I knew what it was for, what it
could do, and I was gonna get it to do it, but first I wanted to explore
every inch of his body, and I mean every inch. What' had he said? "It's me
you should be fucking, not my little brother." He was nearly right. I knew
what I should be doing. Fucking both of them.

You're probably thinking I know about stuff like the prostate because of
Uncle Nigel. That's partly true but you've got to give credit to
Dr. Watson, too. It was Dr. Watson who introduced me to my prostate, and I
was only seven when he did it.

Mum took me to the doctor's that day and left me there. It wasn't child
neglect because we'd had the same family doctor for years. In fact, it was
Doctor O'Reilly who delivered me so I wasn't bothered about waiting in the
waiting room. Then my number came up. Confidently I knocked at the doctor's
door. "Come in," said a voice I didn't recognise, but I did recognise it
wasn't the voice of Dr. O'Reilly whose Irish was thicker than Father
O'Malley's.

"Ah, young man, what can I do for you?"

There are some questions that aren't really questions so I didn't make any
kind of answer. "Let's see," said the doctor. "It's Charlie, isn't it?" I
nodded. He'd got that right. "Charlie Anderson." He'd got that right,
too. I nodded again. He scanned a sheet in his hand. "Well, Charlie, this
won't take long," and "By the way, where's your mother?" That question
needed an answer. "Shopping," I said. "No problem," he said, and "Let's get
on with it, shall we?" I nodded again.

What a nice man. His voice was warm, sensitive, reassuring. A man I could
trust.

"Well, if you just like to drop your trousers, we can get started," he
said.

"Sorry," I said.

"Your trousers. Just drop them. Don't be shy. I've done this lots of
times," he added.

"Mum said you'd just want to have a look," I said.

"Yes, I do, Charlie," he said, "but I can't really have a good look if
you've got your trousers on. Don't worry. It's the normal procedure."

Like everybody else, I've learned that 'doctor knows best', so I undid my
snake-belt and pushed my trousers down to my knees.

"Ankles," instructed Dr. Watson, "push them all the way down to your
ankles. Underwear, too. Ah, I see you like Spiderman. Lots of boys your age
seem to like Spiderman. Let's do this standing up, shall we. Just lean
against that wall with your legs apart."

Doctor knows best. I shuffled to the wall, leaned against it, and spread my
legs. I couldn't resist turning round to have a peek. Dr. Watson was
slipping on a single latex glove. "Now, Charlie, this might be a little
uncomfortable at first," he said, "but you'll seen get used to it. Be a
brave little boy and think of Spiderman."

"Jesus, Mary!" I blurted, "What are you going to do?"

It was the doctor's turned to look bemused. "What do you mean what am I
going to do? I'm going to stick my finger up your back passage?"

"What? What for?"

"To check your prostate?"

"Why? What for?"

"Because that's what your mother asked me to do. It's right here in the
notes."

The doctor was beginning to sound a little exasperated. Doctors know best,
but mothers know even better. So, like a good boy, I turned round and faced
the wall, leaned against it, and stuck my bum out.

"That's a good boy," said the doctor. "Just think about Star Trek."
Whatever happened to Spiderman. "Just think of the space shuttle coming in
to dock." Frankly, the idea of a space shuttle docking up my jacksie was
horrible, but I just faced the wall and prepared for whatever.

The good doctor inserted a latexed middle finger - I presume it was his
middle finger. That's easier to write than to experience when you're seven
years old. But he was gentle. It still hurt but he took his time and he was
gentle. He wiggled the tip of his finger at my opening until something
started to give. Then the tip was inside. Docking complete. Not by a long
shot. He wriggled and jiggled and wiggled about until the first knuckle was
in, then the second, then the whole finger until it felt like it really was
space shuttle up my anus. Then suddenly to my amazement my little penis
shot straight up and out, hard as a brick. And it felt good! I had a raging
hard-on of the kind I'd only ever seen on our dog when he's really up for
it and humping at someone's leg.

I felt Doctor Watson's other hand reach round, his finger feel my little
hard-on and give it a tweak or two. "That's a nice healthy erection you've
got there, Charlie," he said. "Thanks," I said. I wasn't sure what an
'erection' was but I'm a polite boy so I said thanks. He slid his finger
out, slipped off the glove, turned me round and helped me slip up my
things. "I'm not sure why your mum wanted your prostate gland
examined. It's a bit unusual at your age but you're really never too young
to start."

"My prostrate gland," I echoed.

Dr. Watson laughed. "No, not prostrate - prostate. Sit down. Have an orange
juice. I'll explain it to you." And explain it he did, with diagrams and
all. I couldn't understand half of what he was telling me, but the half I
did understand was really interesting. When he was finished, he took up his
folder, my folder really, sayi8ng "I'll just make a note of that. Then you
can be on your way."

"Right, it's Charlie, isn't it? No Charles, just Charlie."

I nodded.

"And Andersen. That's A-n-d-e-r-s-e-n, isn't it?"

"No," I said. "It's an 'o'. It's not an 'e'."

"Pardon," he said.

"My name is 'Anderson'," I said. "It's A-n-d-e-r-s-O-n."

"Are you sure?" he asked.

My faith in Dr. Watson was shaken.

One of the first things you learn when you go to school is how to spell
your own name, and I'd never heard my name spelled with an 'e'. As far as I
knew, it had always been spelled with an 'o' as the second last letter.

"Just a minute, Charlie," said the doctor looking even more bemused here
than before. You are Charlie Andersen of..." and he rattled off an address
I'd never heard in my life.

"No, I'm not. My address is..." and I rattled off my address with the
confidence I could rattle off my own name.

"Bugger of hell," said Dr. Watson, sounding for a moment just like my dad
when the tele plays up. "If you're not Charlie Andersen with an 'e', what
are you here for?"

I pointed at my throat.

"Tonsils," I said, proud that I'd remembered the word mum had drilled into
me on the way to the doctor's.

"Fuckin' shit," said Dr. Watson, using another of my dad's expressions.

"Come here," he said. "Open up," he said. "Wider," he said. "Wider," he
added. I was glad he wasn't talking about my legs. He shined a little torch
down my throat. He removed the torch. "Close it," he said. I closed
it. "Nothing wrong. Come back when you're eleven," he said.

As I was sitting in the waiting room, waiting for my mother, I heard the
receptionist call out, "Mr. Andersen... Dr. Watson will see you now." An
elderly gentleman got up and sort of stumbled towards the door. As he
passed me, I thought to myself, "I know where you live."

So it was my tonsils that should have been check, and they were, and I
didn't go back when I was eleven, and here I was at twelve-years-old with
Oscar's seven-inch dick tickling my tonsils. God, he was big down
there. For a while I bobbed up and down on Oscar's stiffy and I was great
sliding my lips up and down that creamy-skinned shaft, tickling the little
mouth at the top, then sliding down again as far as I could go. I tickled
his hairless balls with one set of fingers while the other hand played with
his nipples. Like I said, his nipples were lick reddish brown raspberries
and although I couldn't see them I could feel them grown and harden under
my fingertips. I wanted to get my lips round them but my mouth was
otherwise engaged. I wanted this to last forever. Of course it couldn't but
I wanted to make it last as long as I could. I wanted to get Oscar so wound
up, so excited, so aroused that he wouldn't care what I wanted to do. So
when I felt his dick harden even more between my lips, and felt his balls
tighten, I'd back off a little, slow down, and let his excitement die own a
little. Uncle Harry had been a good teacher, and of course there's no
better teacher than experience.

I maneuvered Oscar - never releasing him from my mouth until he was sitting
straddled across my tummy, leaning forward across my chest, thrusting his
cock in and out of my mouth. He seemed a little shy at first, probably
because I was able to look at him. His eyes were closed, head thrown back,
his blond hair bouncing on his shoulders like one of those shampoo ads on
the tele, sweat building up on his face and shoulders. I kept one hand
round the base of his cock because, as his excitement increased, he was
thrusting harder, deeper, staying there longer. Now and then I felt like I
was choking so I eased him back out before he made my tonsils black and
blue. I've no idea if you can bruise someone's tonsils but if you can Oscar
was on the way to doing it. I didn't fancy going back to Dr. Watson for
another check up unless it was to have my prostate tickled again.

The fingers of my other hand were working on Oscar's bumhole. Never forget
the bigger picture. I don't think he'd any idea my fingertips were playing
with his opening, at least not consciously, but I guess he was too far gone
to care. God, he was tight, but then so was his little brother Jack, and
Jack was only eight. Not that I'd fucked Jack. I'm not a perv! I'd played
with Jack's anus a few times - he liked that as much as me - but I hadn't
fucked him. And I had no plans to. If it happened, it happened. I'd just
let nature take its course. But to be honest I was really aroused by the
idea of Jack fucking me.

I wasn't sure how many times I could take Oscar to the edge and bring him
back in time, but his thrusting was so hard, so deep, so insistent I knew
he couldn't hold out much longer. I pushed him backwards until his hard
cock slid out of my throat and mouth. The horny fucker fought against me
but I managed it and pulled him down so we could french again. This time it
was Oscar taking the lead! Fucking hell, he flattened our sweaty bodies
together, mashed his lips against mine, and jammed his tongue down my
throat. For a moment I wondered if his tongue was seven inches, too!

Oscar let me wrestle him onto his front. I wondered if he was wondering
about what would happen next. I slid down his body and yanked his legs
apart. Before he could protest, I jammed my head between his bum cheeks and
started sucking on his bum hole. It wasn't easy. The hole was tiny but I
managed to purse my lips against it and tickle the opening with the tip of
my tongue. Oscar turned his head: "What the fu...?" I raised my face for a
moment and grinned: "You'll love this," I whispered. I yanked his hips off
the bed till he was more or less in the doggy position and put my lips face
between his buttocks again. I reached round and played with his cock. It
was hard, wet and slippery. I wanked him gently, careful not to have him
shoot his load and lose that "Whatever it is, I love it," feeling. My
fingertips and tongue managed to get the flesh round his anus squishy. I
put more and more pressure on the external sphincter muscle until I felt it
give a little. A musky smell broke through, not unpleasant, just pure boy,
pure Oscar. The tip of my tongue wiggled in. I took my other hand away from
Oscar. His fingers took the place of mine. Using both thumbs, I gently
pried his bum hole open, faintly brownish skin gave way to pink flesh.

The idea of opening someone's bumhole seems open seems weird, strange,
dirty, but I'm actually doing it - if it's someone I've got the hots for -
it's incredibly erotic (I think that's the right word.) Not sure why. Maybe
because it's a sort of surrender. I know when Uncle Nigel and Dan were
opening me up it was like a total surrender, like they were taking the
inside out of me, eating me from within, which of course they were doing
sometimes. So I shouldn't have been that surprised when Oscar's hands and
fingers came round to help me hold him open. I got my middle finger in. I
heard him "Oooof," but he didn't protest. I sawed my finger in and out
trying to go deeper and deeper. There was a sort of protest when one finger
became two but he returned one hand to his prick and go on with that. I
began to stretch my middle and index fingers apart and watched the flesh
round his hole become more and more elastic. Now and again I'd jam my face
back in, harden my tongue and drive it in like a spear. When two fingers
became three, Oscar grunted then groaned.

"Want me to stop?" I asked.

"Don't fuckin' dare," I heard his muffled voice call back.

I steadied myself on my knees. Oscar steadied himself in the doggy
position. I pressed the head of my cock against his hole. His flesh was
firm. It didn't seem possible, but I'm a patient as well as polite boy. I
increased the pressure. Suddenly the external muscle gave way and the head
was in. I felt his entrance grip my cock like a tight elastic. I heard
Oscar yelp. I waited giving his anus time to get used to the intruder. Then
gently I rocked backwards and forwards until about an inch of the head and
shaft was inside him. I felt Oscar pushing back. I felt myself slide in,
centimetre by centimeter. I don't know if there's an internal sphincter
muscle. I'm just guessing at the anatomy. But there was more serious
resistance, more pushing and thrusting until I suddenly felt something give
and I was all the way in. I haven't got Oscar's seven inches but I've got
five of my own, and I knew I was all the way in. I held onto his hips and
began rocking back and forward. I could feel the skin at the entrance to
his anus gripping the length of my cock as I thrust in, pulled almost all
the way out, and then thrust in again.

The next bit is embarrassing but what's the point of telling a story unless
you tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth. I think I managed ten
or twelve thrusts before I couldn't held back any more. I rammed my cock in
as deep as I could go and felt the semen race up my cock and fire spurt
after spurt into Oscar's bowels. I say spurt after spurt but there were
probably only three or four real spurts (I'm only twelve for God's sake so
don't expect miracles.) but my hips went on hammering my lap into Oscar's
buttocks. I pulled myself out, still hard, but, as I said, I'm a polite boy
who's brought up to consider others. I flipped Oscar onto his back. He
actually toppled onto his back without much help from me, and I dived on
his cock, this time running my lips up and down his shaft as tight and as
fast as I could while jamming two fingers back up his hot, sloppy anus. I
don't think Oscar held out more than a few seconds. He rammed my face down
onto his lap, his hips bucked, and he drove his cock into me as deep and
hard as he could. Lucky for me, he came after three or four thrusts, and it
was his turn to spurt and squirt into me. His whole body was shaking. I
managed to get his cock out of throat, pulled myself up his body, and
pressed my mouth against his, lips open.

Mouths open we shared Oscar's cum.

I felt like wriggling down there again and getting some of my own cum out
of his bottom, but I didn't want him to think I was gross. All that stuff
would come later. For now I was content to hold Oscar tight against me,
kiss him and listen to him whimpering. Brave boy that he was, he didn't
whimper long, and I was surprised to feel his cock stiff against me. Don't
know why I was surprised. Perpetual hard-ons are what you can expect from
twelve-year-old boys. It would be nice if our first fuck finished on that
romantic note but it didn't, not quite.

Oscar went into the bathroom. I bet he was looking at his bumhole, wanting
to see if any damage had been done, wanting to make sure it had closed up
again. I know 'cos that's what I would have done, that's what I did
when... but this is about Oscar.

"What the fuck?" I heard him yelp through the door.

"What's up?" I yelped through my side of the door.

The door swung up. Oscar stepped out,. still naked, still with a hard-on
but holding mum's hand-mirror.

"Look at that."

I looked.

It was a bit fat hickey on the side of his neck. For a moment I thought
about denying it but it was fresh and draw.

"Oh, shit," I said, staring at it. "I'm sorry."

"You will be fuckin' sorry," Oscar whispered.

"I didn't mean to," I offered.

"So fuckin' what?" he said. "What's my mum gonna say when she sees it?"

"Mmmmmm..." That was me thinking, but nothing... until...

"Hey, maybe she'll be proud of you. I mean, her big boy growing up and all
that sort of stuff." I was cooking with gas now. "Hey, make sure your dad
sees it first, accidental-like. Bet he'll be proud of it, of you, of his
'little man'." Sometimes my dad called me his 'little man', which to me
sounded incredibly stupid, but then there's no accounting for parents then.

"Mmmmm..." I was Oscar's turn to think. "You're right. He'll think it was
Sally, across our road. He thinks she's a right slut anyways. I'll sort of
drop hints." He glanced down at himself. My glance followed his. His cock
was still hard. It jutted way above his belly button. "I can't go home like
this," he murmured. He stepped forward, out his hands on my shoulders and
pressed down. I dropped to my knees. Oscar, like Jack, was a fast
learner. Must run in the family. Twelve-year-old boys, perpetual hard-ons.

Twelve years old.

It's confession time. I'm not twelve years old. I'm fourteen years
old. What I've been trying to describe is how things were when I was eight,
nine, twelve years old, but I'm not twelve years old now. I'm fourteen
years old. I guess you already guessed that. I mean, most twelve-year-old
can't write the way I've been writing even though, I have to say, I was
pretty good at writing even when I was only twelve. But I couldn't write
this stuff when I was twelve. I could do it, but I couldn't write it this
way. So you'll have to forgive me, and if you want to stop reading now,
I'll understand. But if you want to know about the stuff that happened
after me and Oscar (Oscar and I) got together you should read on. But I
have to warn you... it starts to get a bit sexy from now on. Not that my
life was nothing but sex, far from it, the whole of life was there and it
had to be lived. Like the time when Alfie was going to kill me because I
blew his eyebrows off. That definitely wasn't sex.

"And don't forget light the oven," said mum closing the door behind her. I
made a mental note not to forget to light the oven and I would've done it
if Alfie hadn't come prancing naked into the kitchen just as the door
closed.

"For fuck's sake, Alfie," I whispered. "What if mum's forgotten something?
What if she comes back?" Alfie gave me his special idiot grin. He does this
by turning his back, bending over and pulling his buttocks as far apart as
he can. All thought of mum, the oven and the chicken therein disappeared. I
sprang an instant boner. Alfie skipped off up the stairs to my bedroom. I
followed as fast as I could, which isn't very fast when my jeans were
already at my feet.

Kit was already on the bed, on his back, both legs swung over his chest,
his feet touching his ears, his hands still holding himself wide open. I
hobbled to bed, tripped and fell face first between his bum cheeks. Father
O'Malley is right. There is God, and God is good. I burrowed my nose into
his hole. You'll have gathered by now I'm a bit anal. I have to admit I
started to slobber as my tongue run up down the tiny mouth, as I tried to
fasten my lips against it, as I speared his hole with the tip of my
mouth. I wondered if Alfie has made it this time - his cock in his mouth. I
knew he could lick the head. I knew he sometimes shot his cum right down
his throat. I wasn't sure if he'd achieved his dream of sucking himself off
properly yet.

"Fuck me," I heard Alfie whisper. It probably wasn't a whisper but my ears
were jammed between his buttocks so came as a muffled whisper to me. I
stood up, stepped back, tripped over my jeans and fell flat on my
arse. "Hurry the fuck up," called Alfie, trying to stifle his giggles.

"Oh, shit," I said. "I forgot to light the oven."

"I'll do it," said Alfie. "You get your clothes off," and he clambered off
the bed and headed downstairs.

"Oooof!"

That wasn't me. That wasn't Alfie. That was the oven. It didn't go "Boom!"
or "Bang!" as you might expect. It went "Oooof!"

Shit!

I'd turned on the gas but I'd forgotten to light it. I dragged my jeans up
over my sorry arse and hobbled downstairs.

Alfie was standing there. His face was sooty black. His eyes were wide
open. He was blinking. He was rubbing his chest where the chicken had hit
him. He didn't seem to be hurt, and for the first I could remember he was
speechless. I helped him into the kitchen, grabbed a sponge and started to
clean him up. It was only 'soot'. He would be fine. Well, most of him would
be, but I suddenly realised he was missing... his left eyebrow! It was
gone. For a mad moment I wanted to rush into the kitchen and find it. Then
I realised. There were a few singed wisps left. But why only the one
eyebrow? Why only the left? father O'Malley was right. Life is full of
little mysteries that beyond us, like what happened before the Big Bang.

I looked at Alfie. "Houston, we have a problem," I murmured. That was our
secret code. We used it when we wanted to tell each other, "We're fucked."
I added, "Better come into the bathroom and see." Alfie didn't move. Post
explosion, he was temporarily deaf. I ushered him into the bathroom, stood
him in front of the mirror, and pointed at the point where his left eyebrow
should have been.

"What the fuck?"

Knowing Alfie couldn't hear himself, let alone me, I mouthed and
hand-signaled to him what had happened. There was nothing for it. We
trooped upstairs and waited for Alfie's hearing to return. We had sex while
we were waiting, but I have to admit the original spark had gone and it was
rather like going through the motions. Still, it cleared our heads and
helped us think. First I tried drawing on an eyebrow using mum's mascara
pencil, not bad, but not completely convincing, something was missing. We
decided to try a falsie. I trimmed a bit of his hair - he had lots hanging
on his shoulders - got hold of some double-sided sticky tape and stuck
individual hairs on it, which wasn't as easy as it sounds. I stuck the fake
eyebrow on and sat back to admire my handwork.

"Perfect," I said.

"What?" he said.

"Perfect!" I yelled.

"What?" he said.

Oh, fuck. I mouthed the word 'perfect'. I could still taste his semen.

"Are they even?" he asked.

"Even Stevens," I mouthed, which, come to think of it, made no sense then,
and makes even less sense now.

"Let's have a deco," he said, reaching for my hand-mirror.

He studied his new eyebrow from every possible angle before announcing,
"This is going to be great."

I'd no idea what the fuck was so great about a false eyebrow, but if Alfie
was content I was relieved. I was puzzled by his next announcement: "I'm
going to take it off at night." I couldn't resist asking why. He gave me
the look that suggests I'm a complete idiot and said, "In case I swallow
it, of course." There's no arguing with logic like that. We realized then
not only was Alfie's hearing coming back but that we were ravenous. Our
thoughts turned to the chicken, or what was left of it. At least we could
salvage the drumsticks.

So you see life was not always a bowl of cherries or even a bowl of
drumsticks. And while I take responsibility for nearly killing Alfie, I
refuse to take responsibility for killing his cat, who, ridiculous as it
seems, went by the name of Kit-e-Kat, or Pussy for short. I like cats as
much as the next boy, which is to say not very much. That's because dogs
need a master but cats need a servant, and what fuckin' self-respecting boy
is going to be servant to Pussy? And if I did have a cat, which I didn't
and I won't, I definitely wouldn't have it if I lived on the tenth floor of
an exclusive high-rise building which is where Alfie, his family and Pussy
lived. And to make things even worse, Pussy was a jumper. I say 'jumper'
because Pussy like to jump, and I say 'was' because Pussy is an ex-cat.

Pussy jumped. She jumped around the furniture, and her favourite jump was
from the sofa to the sideboard. Don't ask me why, ask Pussy, which is no
longer possible because... Who knows why - as Father O'Malley says,
etc. etc. - Pussy decided to use the sofa as a springboard, apparently
forgetting the furniture had been rearranged, so that when she thought she
was heading for the sideboard, she was in fact heading for the living room
window, an open tenth-floor window that led directly to the street
below. Pussy might have landed on her feet - we'll never know - because she
splatted the concrete so hard it was impossible to figure out where her
feet were or had been. Cats have nine lives, so I guess Pussy used one life
for each floor she passed and had nothing in reserve as she flew past the
tenth. Way to go, Pussy!

So what was my part in her demise? Only that I'd opened the window. Only
that I nearly caught her but didn't. All I remember, apart from a flash of
fur, is Alfie flying past me. His head out of the window. And screams of
"My Pussy! My Pussy!" I defy anyone not to laugh but when I got control of
myself I tried my best to help.

"You can't blame yourself," I told Alfie. "It was an accident, a freak
accident. And even if Pussy was planning to jump out of the window, how
could you know about that?" I handed Alfie what was left of Pussy, wrapped
up in a plastic carrier bag, M&S.

"I'm not blaming Pussy," hissed Alfie. "I'm fuckin' blaming you. You opened
that fuckin' window. You, you, you."

"Shit, Alfie," I countered. "How the fuck could I know your cat was
planning to kill itself? I'm not a fuckin' mind reader. I'm not that
fuckin' Derek Brown off the tele. Who knows what's on a cat's mind? I'd no
idea Pussy was planning to kill herself. Who the fuck could know a thing
like that?"

Alfie looked at me sadly.

"It's happened before," he sighed

What do you say to something like that?

I racked my brains, and at last managed to come up with something
appropriate.

"Wanna fuck me?" I asked.

Alfie mused.

"Naw, I'm still feeling too upset," then added,

"But you can fuck me."

Twelve sailed into thirteen like Spring sails into Summer. A whole year had
gone by, and I'd been able to keep away from men since Uncle Nigel had been
parked in that deep, dark hole up the cemetery. I'm not saying I wasn't
tempted but then we're all tempted by things we know aren't right for us. I
think I'd have been able to keep away from men if they'd been able to keep
away from me. Sometimes I think I must give out those sex pheromones. Those
chemical that trigger of reactions, and bring other males to them like dogs
to bitch in heat. But I was surprised when the next man in my life turned
out to be Alfie's dad!

It happened on a school day. We'd won a football match against Archbishop's
4-2. It always feel good to fuck a Church of England school. Alfie asked me
to take his kit home (I couldn't resist that). He was going to round to
Jack's to try out a new Xbox game. Can't stand that stuff myself. Alfie
gave me his key, his mum and Dad would be at work till six. I wandered
round there, let myself in and plonked Alfie's kit in the hallway.

"That you, Alfie?" called a voice from the bathroom. It was Alfie's dad,
Dave. What was he doing home at four in the afternoon?

"No, sir, it's only me, sir. It's Charlie," I called back. "Just bringing
Alfie's football stuff. He's gone round to Jack's. They're playing on
Jack's Xbox."

The bathroom door opened. Alfie's dad stepped out. He was naked! No, he
wasn't naked, but he had only a bathtowel wrapped round his hips. Christ,
he was built, which shouldn't surprise me because Alfie's dad is a
builder. When I say builder, I mean he owned his own building company. Who
did he look like? Got it! He looked like a young Sean Connery, not like he
looks now, but when he was in them early Bond movies. Dark brown
eyes. Shock of dark hair. Dark hair on his chest, too. I wondered if...

"What's up, doc?" he asked. If he glanced down at my football shorts, he'd
see what was up. We didn't live that far from the school and the football
fields, so I hadn't bothered to change. 'Cept for my boots, of course.

"Alfie's not here," I said, sounding stupid as I stated the bleedin'
obvious. "He's gone round to Jack's. They're playing on Jack's Xbox. I'm
bringing Alfie's... stuff," I stuttered, distract by the shapes under the
bathtowel.

"Tell that to the Marines," laughed Dave (He liked us to call him Dave.)
"If my son isn't giving his mate a blowjob by now, he's not the boy I think
he is."

I wonder if my mouth fell open, if my flabber was gasted. Adults aren't
supposed to talk about blowjobs to kids. Kids my age aren't even meant to
know about blowjobs. They're definitely not meant to be giving each other
blowjobs. They're meant to be playing on Xboxes and shit like that.

"Sorry, Charlie," laughed Dave, "you might not even know what a blow job
is. I just figured Alfie would have demonstrated by now."

I was indignant. "'Course I know what a blowjob is," I protested. "In fact,
if you really want to know..."

"Whoa, whoa," grinned Dave. "I was only joking. But can't stand here like
this dripping on Alfie's mum's carpet. C'mere and keep me company while I
towel myself off."

I followed Dave into the big double-bed room. "Park yourself on the bed." I
tried to park myself, winced, groaned, then got myself settled.

"What's up, doc?" asked Dave, facing away from me while he toweled his
back, buttocks and legs, not realising that his magnificent arse would get
me worked up as quickly as any other part of his gorgeous anatomy. He
pulled on a pair of tracksuit bottoms, but not before I'd caught as glimpse
of a small trunk swinging between his legs.

"Get a kick of two then," he asked.

"Yeh, those fuckers from the Archbishops are supposed to be Christians but
they're even rougher than us. One of them kicked me in the small of the
back," I rubbed the tender area, "while I was on the floor. Mother fuck..."

"Fucker...," Dave finished for me. "Here, turn over and let me sort it
out." I was glad to have an excuse to lay on my belly. My hard-on was
already starting to ache. I felt fingers pulling my football strip up to my
neck. I felt fingers, hands, palms caressing my back, working their way
down to a bruised area above my right hip.

"How old you now, Charlie?" asked Alfie's father.

"Thirteen," I whispered out of the comfortable trance I was slipping into.

"Old enough is big enough," whispered Dave enigmatically, then added, "Hey,
if you guys are experimenting with each other, it's capital 'N' for
normal. At your age your hormones are telling you to 'Go for it, go for it,
go for it, baby. So fuck the world and go for it." The man's voice was
husky, his touch was like feathers on my bare skin, this was the perfect
way to relax after a match. He pulled up strip upwards. I raised my head so
he worked it over my head. I hit the pillow again.

Fingers roamed my back, dug into tender flesh, kneaded the cheeks of my
bum. I couldn't remember being kicked there, but Dave was the man, and the
man knew what he was doing. My legs, thighs, calves, up and down, up and
down. His breath on my neck, behind my ears, on my cheeks. Then my
feet. When did my socks come off? Who cares? My toes. My feet. My happy
feet. Up we go - calves, thighs, brush my balls. Up we go. My armpits. If I
wasn't so comfortable, I'd blush a bit because I'd grown a few hairs in my
armpits, nothing much, but definitely there.

"Feel good, baby?"

"Mmmmmm....."

"Roll over. Let me do your chest."

I did what I was told. I was lost in a world of sensation as the man's big
hands and fingers played over my chest, my hips my belly. I raised my bum
from the bed in invitation and felt my football shorts and underpants slide
down to my legs, my knees, my ankles, off and away. A thumb and finger made
a circle round my brick-hard dick and moved the skin backwards and
forward. I tried to stifle a groan. I failed and it was met with a throaty
chuckle. I knew I couldn't hold out long.

"Climb on, baby," I heard Dave say from far way. I'm not sure how we
managed it but my body was stretched out along his. His prick felt huge
jammed into my belly. I wondered if he could feel mine at all. One hand
stroked my hair, the other brought my face to his. He smothered my face
with kisses, pushed his tongue against my lips until I opened wide and
allowed him entry. I was being devoured, swallowed whole, eaten alive, and
it was what I wanted. Unashamedly I kissed, licked and sucked at him. Felt
shame when I realized I missed Uncle Nigel. Shame came and went. Dave
pushed my head back so he could look at my face. His eyes were huge. He
licked my eyebrows. Licked my eyelashes. Ran the tip of his tongue up and
down my nose. I giggled, tried to stop, couldn't. Dave's eyes were
smiling. "Like it, baby," he murmured. I could only nod. "Lots more to
come," he murmured.

"Down you go," he whispered. "Do whatever you feel like doing."

The man pressed my slim shoulders. I slid down his body. His nipples looked
hot, hard, swollen. I fastened my lips round a nipple and sucked like a
hungry infant. It was Dave's turn to groan. I chewed the right, then the
left, slid farther down and fastened my mouth onto his belly button,
struggling for a moment to find it in the swirls of dark brown hair. Took
my time. Feasted. Slid father down, push his drawn-up knees apart,
inspected his swollen erection. The head was huge and purple, like a
swollen plum. Slippery with pre-cum. I forced the foreskin further
back. Slobbered on the head. Ran my lips up and down the shaft. Snuffled in
the thick, dark hair.

Further down. Suck on the loose skin of one ball, then the other. Got
underneath his balls. Pushed at his shins with my elbow until he draw his
legs up even tighter. Got under his balls. Ran the tip of my tongue along
the perineum to reach his anus. Hair - thicker, darker, in swirls. Found
his open and slobbered it as Dave had slobbered against my lips.

I knew what I had to do, wanted to do. Dave's fingers closed round the
shaft of my hard penis. For a moment I thought he was going to stop me, but
he placed the head against his arsehole and held me as I pushed. I slid
in. He was tight, but he wasn't Alfie, he wasn't Oscar, and he definitely
wasn't Jack. I was all the way but far from the bottom. I could feel his
big hands clutching my buttocks, forcing me to go faster, harder, deeper
until my hips took control and thrust and thrust and thrust like the
mindless animal I was happy to be. If I could have reached his face, I
would have kissed him like crazy at the same time but I could only reach
his chest so I chewed on the hair I found between my lips and teeth.

I was fucking, fucking, fucking - a man, a man, man.

And was loving every thrust.

Wherever you are, Uncle Nigel, thanks.

I came, I came, I came. Didn't know I was going to cum until I did. Felt
like I was being turned inside out. Emptying myself totally into this
man. Wanted to disappear inside him. Squirting not only my semen but
everything that was me into him. Then blackness. Did I pass out? Not
sure. But when I came to, I was in Dave's arms again, cuddled, snuggled,
held tight against his hairy chest, while he whispered into my
ear. Couldn't understand much of it - "Baby, baby, baby..." That's what I
was - a man's baby, his boy, his little man.

Giggling.

But it wasn't coming from me. It wasn't coming from Dave. It was coming
from the other side of the room. Weakly, I raised my head and focused my
eyes.

Alfie!

Alfie was standing at the door, grinning, a mini-me of his Dad.

He was in tight-whities, but not for long. He took them off as he hobbled
towards the bed. Fell onto the bed on the other side of his dad.

"Sorry, I'm a bit late," he laughed. "Had to play some of the fuckin' Xbox
with Jack. Hope I didn't mean any of the action."

To his Dad, "Hi, Dad."

"Hi, baby."

To me, "Hi, Charlie. Let me show you what Dad really likes."

That afternoon I found out what Alfie's dad really liked, and I found out a
whole lot more. I found out how Dave the builder made a lot of his money. I
found out why he was away from home most weekends, and why Alfie had
started to along with him.

"It's not dangerous," Alfie told me, a little breathlessly. "Dad makes the
rules so none of the men is allowed to hurt you. They're not even allowed
to fuck a boy. Well, they are but that's pretty expensive and they're not
allowed to damage you. Like Dad says, damaged goods is useless goods," he
laughed. "I mean, Dad's never let any of the fuck me though I got to say
that lots have asked." I heard the note of pride in my best friend's
voice. But sucking off a big dick never hurt anybody, 'less you start to
choke on it, of course." Another little laugh.

"How's about it? Dad lets me have fifty quid a time. I don't get the
money. He puts it in a special bank account. I've seen it. It's in my
name. Mum doesn't know a thing about it. It's men's business, says Dad. You
could come along and just see what happens first time. We could do stuff
together. The punters - that's Dad's word for them - pay lots and lots to
see what sort of stuff. You know, boys on boys. Come on. What about it?"

"Do you know any of the other boys?" I asked. "Would I know them?"

"Defo no," said Alfie. "I don't know where Dad gets them from. We travel
quite a bit to other towns for the shows. Dad says never shit in your
nest. So there's no worry 'bout walking into school and seeing the guy you
fucked the night before." Another laugh.

"You've fucked one of them?" I asked.

"Yeh. 'Course I have. Last weekend I fucked two, and got sucked off two
times as well. I was fuckin' knackered. That's why I missed school on
Monday morning. Dad let me have a long lie-in."

I lay back and thought about it while Alfie sucked my hard-on.

"I'll do it," I said.

"Grfff... mmmm..." Alfie's head came up. His eyes were a bit bleary.

"Oh, for fuck's sake. Leave that alone a minute," I said.

"I said I'll come along. Tell your Dad. Tell Dave. But I ain't doing
anything if I don't want to."

"Great," grinned Alfie.

I pushed the top of his head.

"Now get down there. And stick a finger up my bum. You know I like that."

"Grfff... mmmm...." came the reply.

I can't remember the name of the first town. There's been so many of
them. They all look alike. Even the places where we give the shows look
pretty much the same. Don't get the idea the places are dirty and
dingy. They aren't. They are usually in the host's living room, specially
done up for the show. And these guys, the punters, have got money, lots of
it. They are businessmen, and doctors, and lawyers. One old fucker was even
a High Court judge. I'm not sure what that is, but Dave, Alfie's dad, says
that's really high up. And there is usually food, 'nibbles', and lots of
booze, but not much beer, it's all wine and whisky, and even
champagne. These guys know how to live.

There's usually about ten men and about six or eight boys. I was shocked at
first because some of the boys seemed so young, even younger than Jack, but
they never got treated badly or roughly. In fact, the men were nicer to
them than to me and Alfie. Some of the men liked to be called 'Daddy',
which sounded sort of silly to me, but I soon got used to it, though it
felt really strange to be sitting in man's lap, me naked and him in a suit,
and him asking "Who's my little man?" and me whispering "I am." Sometimes I
wanted to burst out laughing but Dave warned me that these guys didn't like
being laughed at, and I went along with what Dave said.

All the guys had money but some of them were really old, like more than 50
years old or even 60. Some of them had grey hair, even their chests and
pubes. I never really get used to see some little tyke sitting in an old
guy's lap - both naked - the man slobbering over the kid while the kid
bounced up and down on the old guy's prick. I mean with the man's prick
inside him. They must get used to it, the kids I mean. After all, Jack got
used to it, and I remember once when he was with Alfie and Oscar and me, we
tried to... but that's not part of what I'm talking about now.

Alfie and I make our best money when we put on a show for the
guys. Sometimes they all crowd into the bedroom and watch Alfie and me
doing our thing on the bed. If you pay a bit extra, you can sit on the edge
of the bed and feel us up while we're fucking. One guy paid an extra fifty
quid just for getting to feed my hard-on into Alfie's bumhole - as if my
prick couldn't find its way in their on its own (LOL - laughs out loud).

Another time a guy paid an extra fifty quid just to watch me taking a shit!

I mean all I did was sit on the toilet and take a dump. It wasn't that easy
'cos I had to get be naked and get my feet up on the toilet pan so he could
watch the turds come out my hole. And I had to hold them in and let them
down while he kneeled on the floor into front of me to get a real close up!
I think he thought he was a movie director or something like that. Then he
asked to wipe my ass - actually he asked to lick it clean, but Dave saw my
face and told him no, but he could wipe it with toilet paper. He took ages
over that. It's hard not to laugh, bent over the toilet bowl while some guy
is wiping your hole ever so slowly and carefully. He stayed in the toilet
after I left but I don't want to imagine what he was doing in there.

The big climax is always the same. We boys pile onto the bed, or on the
carpet, and do whatever comes into our heads. Sometimes we take directions
from the punters.

Last weekend I ended up fucking some kid, about Jack's age, on the carpet
while another kid was licking my hole out. I looked back and couldn't
believe how young this kid was. I lost my hard-on for a minute or so. I
mean, you have to draw the line somewhere, but, as Dave says, business is
business, and the parents of these kids get well-paid and nobody gets hurt.
I don't know about that. I leave the grown-ups to work things out. They're
the ones who know best, aren't they?

Anyways, like I said, I'm 14 now, and Dave says my 'career' is nearly
over. The punters don't like you so much if you've got hair where you
should have it at my age. Don't worry, Alfie and I are going to be Dave's
assistants. Like we're going into the movie business, or at least the vids
business. Not that you're going to see them on YouTube (LOL) though I bet
they'd get millions of viewers. But Dave says that's where the real money
is - videoing the shows and selling them all over the world on the
Net. Isn't the Net fucking fabulous? I'm even thinking about getting this
story published on the Net. There's a great site called... sorry, I'm
getting off track again.

But if you're reading this, it means I did get it published.

And last thing.

Next time you're watching those kids, keep an eye out for those anal
shots. The fingers and the cock you see might even be mine (LOL). As they
say:

You never can tell.

Love and peace,
Charlie xx