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From: "dirge " <dirge@operamail.com>
Subject: {ASSM} DEEP IMPACT: The Island  (Part 3)  (M/b)
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Date: Tue, 29 Mar 2005 14:10:02 -0500
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here is a story i would like to submit.
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<1st attachment, "deep-impact-3.txt" begin>

DEEP IMPACT: The Island  (Part 3)

Code: M/b

Disclaimer: This story contains graphic depictions of a man and a pre-
pubescent boy involved in a mutual relationship. I respect myself
enough not to hold back in my writing, and I respect the reader's right
not to continue reading this story. "Deep Impact" is an artistic work of
fiction and is thus awarded Constitutional protection under the First
Amendment of the United States of America. Any reference to real-
life characters is only fictional.

"Congress shall make no law . . . abridging the freedom of speech." -
First Amendment of the United States' Constitution.

Stanley v. Georgia, 394 U.S. 557, 566 (1969). The Court determined
that, "The right to think is the beginning of freedom, and speech must
be protected from the government because speech is the beginning of
thought."

The Supreme Court has stated the fundamental principle of the First
Amendment is that government "may not prohibit the expression of an
idea simply because society finds the idea itself offensive or
disagreeable." Texas v. Johnson, 491 U.S. 397, 414
(1989).

Other Works by dirge: Adult-Youth: "To make love"; "Andrew is
Beautiful"; "The Last Supper of Beer"; "The Hiders" (work in
progress); "Deep Impact" (work in progress)



Deep Impact: The Island (Part 3)

I have not yet become accustomed to waking up next to a nude and 
beautiful boy. So came the following morning, no memories of dream, 
the sweat of our two bodies, the smaller boy entered within the 
archipelago of manly appendages--the covers covered me and I 
covered Chas; he slept curled in the cave I made with the blankets, and 
the touch of his yet catatonic body was akin to a fresh hot ember 
hidden under the dark morning ash of a cashed fire.

What composes the thoughts of a man who is a lover of boys and finds 
himself in the impossible miracle of waking next to the perfect object 
of his desire? Why, of course, his are lusty thoughts, and should be 
nothing else. Nothing else should cross his mind, so obsesses him, in a 
madness, that lust--for anything beyond, any poetic justice, any moral 
identity, and belief in a god, is but distracting trifle. . . 'cause a man's 
got to do what a man's got to do.

For had I a moment's pause, had I not been disturbed by that same 
exigency that disturbed Proust so many years ago, I would have 
scootched down on the bed so that my head was pillowed on his lovely 
thigh and sucked his limp little noodle of a dick into my mouth. And if 
my two day's beard did not wake him by the scratching of his tender 
leg, or on the musty plush of his taint, or on his little balls, then surely 
as there is a sun behind that cloud of dust that circles the Earth he 
would have waken to the coming freight train of a non-ejaculatory 
orgasm. And shortly after be ruptured from his sleep by my sucking 
mouth, I would have killed the dying butterfly of Chas's virginity by, 
goddamnit, fucking him properly that morning.

What else could the boy child have wanted the night before when my 
homecoming was retarded by the adult conversation with my friend? 
The boy entered my apartment and finding me absent developed the 
ulterior motive of, at long last, getting himself fucked. He set the 
candles around the bed knowing the way only a boy can know without 
really knowing that the dance of flame on his brown and hairless body 
makes him a luscious little morsel to a man like me come in from the 
damp and dungy day.

Only a boy of ten and environs, those liminal years, is somehow 
attuned to the corporal relation of his spirit to the pause of his body. 
This sort of carnal knowledge is not a small part that drives the 
puersexual relationship between a boy and his man. For Chas, like the 
millions of boys in histories unrecorded, lay himself on the alter of my 
bed in the light of the pentagram of fire, lay himself naked and gave 
himself to the man coming home. And in this is the truth about virgins 
and volcanoes, that giving away that thing kept from that other thing I 
had, that he wanted, that I avoided all the times that I sucked his anus 
to a loose little gaping mouth, that he verified there must be something 
more to do with that part of his anatomy, that there was a reason I gave 
it so much of my time. . . Chas laid himself out as a sacrifice to the 
only one he knew, the only one who he wanted to take from him that 
annoying little fluttering creature we come to know of as his virginity. 

And I was not mistaken when the sleeping child the precedent night 
breathed on me his menagerie of boyish smells that I identified as 
chocolate his mother had given him to eat as a snack and to drink with 
his tea to keep him warm on his voyage in the dismal atmosphere over 
to my apartment; and the mint, the lingering evidence that he was a 
good boy and had brushed his teeth in my bathroom--as I will see 
when I enter and take the morning's piss--before setting the stage of 
our coupling; and the honeydew candy no less than a sweet the sweet 
boy had secreted once in the past from somewhere unimportant and 
just before bed felt it wedged tightly against his hip in the denim 
cutoffs he had chosen--not apt for the chill evening but--because he 
they displayed and put on sale the attributes of his ass and his legs.

And that other smell, that something indiscernible, something uniquely 
Chas; I knew that small disguised in all the other scents that my boy-
love contracted in the course of the day, for many times in the past I 
had it on my same breath, that his mother, Al, other people I talked to 
in passing must have wondered, if subconsciously, of the not 
unpleasant but slight musk in my words. And I, a little cautious, not 
willing to part with it because that smell, that lingering flavor was only 
to me love--it was all that remained of some previous rendezvous with 
Chas McIntyre, his knees pressed to his cheeks, and I bowed in 
submission, like some man at prayer, feasting on the posterior opening 
of his ass.

And Chas, poor Chas, was just a victim of untimely circumstance. 
How was he to know that I would be tardy, proving my inevitable 
humanity of getting caught up in gossip exterior to the fact that I was 
currently engaged--for this is how Chas thought of it, a date-to 
entertain the most beautiful boy on that dastardly hunk of rock we 
called Noah's Arc. And when I say entertain, I do not beat around the 
bush (pun intended) -- Chas and I, the hairless boy and the man, had an 
engagement to fuck each other's brains out. 

He was not unaware of what needed to be prepared, namely his ass, for 
my inevitable coming and discovering him and it lewdly displayed on 
the ceremonial bed. So the boy waited for the man. And waited. And 
waited. And when he thought the hour was ripe, that surely I could not 
be more than minutes away he wetted in his utterly kissable mouth his 
index finger and found, at first tentatively, the opening between his 
dewdrop little buns. To do this Chas needed to lift one leg all the way 
back to where if he wanted he could have slipped his slender calf 
behind his little head. If I had arrived a half hour earlier this is what I 
would have seen: Chas in his position, one finger exploring the outer 
nerves of his anus, of course his spit dries and he needs renew it, so to 
his mouth again and right back down where he deposits the saliva just 
a boy's knuckle's depth into his butt. This he repeats again and again, 
on each exploration going deeper with his fingering, looking for spots 
that make him coo. Then, somehow realizing that one is no longer 
enough for him--at the same time agitated and a little jealous that I've 
not yet appeared to relieve him of this business that he elitely believes 
he should have nothing of, it's my job to lube the tender hinges of his 
backdoor, to open him--he sucks two fingers and eases them to their 
terminal depth, limited only by the physical construction of his hand. 
But now somewhat aroused deep inside, the little fire that grows so 
hot, that makes his knees turn jelly when he sees me, and absolutely 
refuse to work properly when I touch him, even innocently in front of 
his mother or on the street, makes his tummy flutter like hatching 
butterflies and his dick grow in what he sort of thinks is an odd 
opposition to the hot pleasure inside his butt, something that years later 
when he himself is man and the story lingers, and he sits down to write 
he will develop this idea as a sexual philosophy of dualism for little 
boys, the "hunger", he will call it, the need, the desire for a kid to have 
his ass worked over by a man is a holy union of its own, different than 
when the man grabs the precious little prick of a ten-year-old boy and 
masturbates him a youthful cum. . . and then Chas hears a groaning, 
and it's him, and he realizes he is using both hands, and now legs are 
raised, and he is actually violently spitting mucus onto to his fingers 
and trying the shove the digits of both hands into that greedy little 
hole, and then he's sucking from his own fingers the salty taste of his 
innards. And! If! He grunts! He can't have what he needs from me, 
well . . . he drops his legs and earnestly jacks his pulsing little cock. 
But he's not gentle, not at all. He crushes his small testicles in his 
hands and yanks the little lever to his legs and lets his it SMAK! Back 
up against his lower tummy. And then he's jacking himself, boyish 
body twisted in pleasure and pain, pulling the proportionately perfect 
dick out of his body, jacking himself almost in a rage, until that part of 
the dualism, that carnal bliss that is mostly just boy absent the 
fulfilling man, sweeps him into a the pulsing of an over excited, pre-
pubertal orgasm lasting an almost excruciating minute and one half. 
And from there, there is no place to go, but down, and feeling 
loneliness that hurts so many men from when they are such boys, and 
grows with time, until it is their shadow, and Chas, all tuckered out, 
falls asleep.

This morning I do not think Chas would have much minded to wake 
and find me molesting (in all the good definitions of the word) various 
zones of his body, to wake and find me suckling his prick like a baby 
lamb sucks the nipple of its mother--or more aptly: the way a man 
sucks a sleeping boy. But from the kitchen came the smell of coffee, 
strong coffee, and the musical tinkle of a cup and plate. I had to close 
my eyes and open them, for I might have been dreaming. It was Colt 
who made it a habit of sneaking into my apartment and making 
himself at home in the early hours when he knew I was a zombie.

Delicately, I extracted myself from Chas and left him in the fetal nest 
of the blankets. I was not erect fully, so I slipped on last night's 
underwear to control my cock and pulled over the worn bathrobe that 
needed replacing and would not have been brought to the island were 
it not for the fond sexual memories it carried of Colt's boyish body. 
That one loved to wear it, almost able to hide in it, nude, of course, 
underneath. I would find him, and hunch it up around his waist and 
have my way with him.

"Morning." Anne said as I entered the kitchen. She was sitting at the 
table in sweats with a pile of papers and a pencil in her ear.

"Morning." Said I.

"I hope you don't mind, I just didn't sleep well last night, so I thought 
I'd bring my insomnia over here."

"How long you been here?" I rubbed the sleep out of the corner of my 
eyes.

"Oh, since about four this morning." 

I looked at the clock; it read 8:00a.m. I did not mind Anne coming in 
unannounced. In fact, the other day I almost insisted that she come 
over whenever she wanted, that my place was hers, as it was now 
obvious her son was mine. Only, in the four hours could she have 
known that her son and I slept so close, so naked? I had no secrets 
from Anne, but I was still not going to volunteer the details of my 
sexual relationship with her son, nor did I feel she excepted me to.

"I made some coffee." She said, looking up through what that morning 
appeared to be the same unruly hair that graced the head of the nude 
boy in my bedroom.

"Thanks." I poured a cup of the thick substance and sat down at the 
other end of the table. "Chas is still out like the dead." 

Anne smiled half looking up, half engrossed in numbers and charts. "I 
know, he takes after his father like that. He's not a morning person." 

"How did you ever get him to school back in the States?" I asked. 

"He never went." She said matter-of-factly.

"Are you serious?"

"Well, I enrolled him each year and sometimes he went, but mostly he 
found the classes boring and the other students a little . . .well, I guess 
not as bright as he would have liked them to be."

"Did you home school?" I asked, now understanding a lot more about 
the boy sleeping in my bed.

"I did what I could, but in truth he's very gifted. I've been testing him 
on my own and he consistently progresses far above his level. I 
suppose he's probably doing high school level math, and reading at the 
college level. But all without formal teaching." 

"Amazing," I said letting the hot coffee work its magic.

"Yeah, I guess sometimes I worry about his social skills, he's very 
quiet, you know, but at the same time, I can't push him to do what is 
uncomfortable."

I got up for another cup of Joe and to refill Anne's. "Whatcha got 
there?" 

"Just some medical records. I want to finish this stuff up so I can 
reread the Colony Constitution." 

We sat in silence, me waking up, Anne working as always. I heard the 
squeak of the bed and turned with beating heart to see the denuded 
Chas make his graceful morning appearance. At first I thought he was 
sleep walking, but then realized he was squinting against the dim 
morning light. Before the fact hit me that Anne was about to realize 
her child slept naked with me, I mused that if he was this bad now, 
wait until he got old enough to have hangovers.

I don't think Chas noticed his mother at first, he came out pouting, his 
silky hair rumpled and falling in his face. When he made his way to 
my chair, all naked, his (like mine) half erect penis swaying out in 
front of him, leaned against me as if he were going to fall back asleep 
right there. Embarrassed, thinking the gig, whatever it had been, was 
up, I could only do one thing: I pulled the naked imp onto my lap and 
wrapped him in the warmth of my arms. He, like a little kitten, 
burrowed his head under my chin. I felt him inhale my morning scent, 
and was then aroused that he would do this to me. 

"See what I mean!" said Anne with a hint of exasperation in her voice. 
"See what I have to put up with." On hearing her, Chas peaked over 
across the table, gave a little whimper that I could not discern as 
embarrassment at his obvious affinity for me and nakedness, or a 
standard morning grump. He then burrowed, or tried, back into me, 
pulling his legs up and taking his curled position from the bed on my 
lap.

I sipped my coffee over Chas's head, careful not to spill on him. It 
must have taken him a good fifteen minutes to recover from his night, 
but by the time I finished the black tar his mother drank, he was 
playfully bumping against all parts of me, planting little kisses on my 
bare chest, and giggling in spite of himself--naked enough for all three 
of us--that his "thing" was erect and tickling his tummy. Now and then 
Anne would look up and smile at us engaged what could only be 
interpreted as morning-after play; only (for once) we had not done 
anything!

"Why don't you two run and take a hot bath, and I'll put some 
pancakes on." Chas grrrred and nipped at me and I swatted his dime-
tight ass, letting my hand linger on the taught rump perhaps a few 
seconds longer than prudent, in front of the woman who gave birth to 
him, anyway.

"Yummmm! Lifting my self and the boy in one motion and then, as he 
squealed in delight flung him over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes-
-or, like men do to young boys they plan on bathing with.

As the tub was filling with hot water and a growing volcano of 
bubbles, Chas and I resumed a wrestling match on the bed that turned 
into, at his initiation, the sexiest game of grab-ass I've ever played. At 
first I started by throwing him in the heap of blankets where he 
instantly tried to rebound and jump--at his own risk--into my arms. 
That I saw it coming was the only reason I was able to catch the 
scraggly brat and not drop him on the floor to be bruised. At which 
point I threw us both on to the bed landing over his nudeness, pinning 
his arms above his head and planting on his nose a tender kiss. This he 
would have nothing of, as he grrrred again and nipped, SNAP! at my 
face. With that I tickled savagely his underarms, and as he rolled up 
like an armadillo to protect his ribs, revealed his beautiful, vulnerable 
ass, which I, perhaps not consider the force I used, swatted (SMACK!) 
squarely on the plump. Chas shot his legs down emitting a high squeak 
like I had stepped on a mouse, and clutched his rear with his hands. 
Tentatively he assumed a kneeling position on the bed and looked at 
me with what at first I took to be hurt.

"You wouldn't do that again?" He said with the implicit hint of 
seduction so that it was more of a dare than a question.

"Oh yes I would." I said. He bit his lower lip as if contemplating a 
philosophical problem. Then with a speed I was wholly unprepared 
for, pounced cat-like back into my arms. I caught him again and 
bounced him back on the bed where for the briefest second he pointed 
his butt, a red mark from my last swat, in my direction. Again I my 
hand landed across the perfect half globes of boy flesh, much gentler 
than I did before. Chas squeaked into the pillows and flipped on his 
back, rubbing his but, a glint of total mischief in his eyes, that matched 
perfectly the wicked little grin that had spread across his face. He was 
keen on our little game.

I've read stories where the main sexual thrill is the spanking of a boy. 
And frankly they don't do anything for me. But with Chas it wasn't an 
oddity, it was just whatever direction HE wanted to take his sexuality--
I was content to follow along. This is what needs to be understood 
about the allure of this child, of his ability to totally posses me and 
control me. Again he got up, but this time turned away from me 
showing the red mark, and the lighter read mark that was quickly 
fading on his tanned behind. I did not spank him gain, but I did put my 
hand on his ass, both hands in fact, and kneaded his flesh that from 
now on I would only kiss, make love to, and if in his desire he wanted 
to "experiment", well that was something he would have to introduce. 
From my ministrations I plucked him from the bed like he was lovely 
flower and carried him to the bathroom where I set him down on the 
cold floor. I killed the flow of water. By now the tub, made slightly 
larger than usual, was brimming with hot water and bubbles. Chas 
stood on trembling legs, walked over to the toilette and began to piss. I 
disrobed and joined him, my jet of urine next to his little stream. His 
toothpaste and toothbrush on the ledge of the sink.

Cautiously I dipped in a toe. It did not feel too hot, but when I planted 
my foot I realized the water was much hotter than I intended. I would 
have to go slowly, but had no intention of adding cold to ruin a perfect 
bath. Chas watched with questioning eyes as I eased my way into the 
tub. What was it he was thinking? We had showered together, we had 
rutted in man-boy sex, all save penetration, and we were complete 
lovers by anyone's standards. But perhaps it was the intimacy to a 
bath, the entirety that it suggested, it's languid meticulousness. 

Slowly I eased down into the bubbles. The heat from the water sapping 
like hot ice the stiffness of my muscles. I winced aloud as the tender of 
my ass and scrotum dipped, lifted out, then slowly, ever so slowly, 
settled to the bottom of the tub where at last I sat, afraid to move that I 
might increase the temperature next to my skin.

Chas watched my face as if I were lowering myself into a vat of hot 
lava. He stood in his nude glory, his once erect cock now shrunk tight 
against the protective warmth of his body, his soft skin covered with 
Goosebumps. For the hundredth time that morning I noted his boy-
charms, the small of his chest, the thin of his ankle, the firm bounce of 
his ass, the V below his navel, not pronounced, just barely accented to 
let all know, if he were to wear his pants low, that he was all boy.

I did not want the water to burn him so I allowed him stand on the 
cold, tile floor for a few moments. What I realized in that short time 
was perhaps the real significance of our bath. If last night was his 
attempt to give me his virginity, if indeed with the candles and the bed 
as an alter he had prepared some sort of ceremony--one that I was late 
for, like a man is late for his wedding--then this, now, was much more 
than a bath, this was a baptism. Chas was less timid about the blissful 
heat of the water than he was about what I would do with him once we 
shared the heat and lubricant of the soap. Chas was thinking, perhaps, 
that the tub was an amiable place to get fucked. But should he, with his 
mother just down the short hall in the kitchen? What was a boy to do?

"Ok?" I asked. 

"Yeah." He said from far away. "S'hot?"

"Yeah. But it's ok if you go really slow." I said, reaching out my hand 
to my young lover to bring him into my bath.
 
Chas took it as if accepting a dance and like a graceful dancer lifted a 
coltish leg over the ledge and into the bubbles. When his toe touched 
the water he stopped for second, then submerged at a leisurely constant 
speed the ball of his foot, then his heel, then his ankle, then his calf, 
until one tender boy-foot touched porcelain between my legs. At this 
conquest he shifted his weight from forward and placed his hand on 
my shoulder. With my other hand I guided him as best I could until he 
was standing over me. The task of sitting remained. By holding onto 
each of his hands I gave him the leverage he needed to sink his butt 
into the tub. When the water touched the tips of his cheeks he too 
winced and gave a giggle with half his heart. Then lower . . . I could 
not see because the bubbles, but I felt, though, the electricity of his 
fingers when the water lapped at his anus, then at his scrotum, then his 
balls and his penis, and his hips and his tummy. When he came to sit 
flush the water was just a few inches below his nipples.

And Chas had vanished in the soap mountain of suds. "Wonder where 
he went?" I said. And the boy's laughter at the lame joke filled my 
heart with joy. With a giant puff of air he sent a spray of bubbles my 
way as if the volcano had erupted and it's god was, of course, a boy.

Boys, virgins, volcanoes, hot baths, mothers cooking breakfast, it's all 
the same, it doesn't matter in the end, as long as you have loved.
With the gentlest of winds I blew a path to my boy and when the suds 
parted I saw his eyes were closed feeling the caress of my breath, and 
his lips parted, I leaned in to the suds and kissed there the boy I found. 
I kissed him with lips and tongue and spit. Tasting my coffee and 
Chas's morning breath, not bad, and the bitter taste of soap, taking his 
face between my hands. That is how I kissed him.

When we parted we were both breathless, his bird-chest heaving above 
the steaming water; my stomach heaving above the steaming water. 
The sparkle in his eyes said it all. Wow! Chas dipped under and came 
up with his hair wetted. I did the same. 

"This is cool." He said, almost whispered as if we were playing some 
naughty game.

"Yeah." I said, "let's try this. Turn around and lay against me." He did 
so. Almost floating into me, slipping into port. Slip slide, feel our skin 
against our skin, touching, kissing, maybe then . . . My penis like some 
blind fish slipping against the squirm of his ass . . . we will eat each 
other for dessert . . . I wrapped my arms around him, and there we 
soaked . . .take me with you let me fly . . .

But that is to make it sound more passive than it was. For the next 
fifteen minutes, while the bath burned us that morning, we were not at 
all passive. I say this for the boylovers; if any boylover ever happens 
to read these words he will know that in such a situation places are 
touched, things are done.

Chas played little games with my cock, letting it bob up between his 
legs then squeezing them shut like a slippery vice so that it appeared it 
was he who sprouted the lewd thing. On me, no, but a boy of his size, 
it was a monster. With brave hands he grasped it and pulled it back 
over his own rigid pole against his loose balls. Me, naturally, humping 
a little to increase his effort.

My hands were not innocent. I ran my thumbs over his nipples again 
and again until they were erect, even in heat of the tub. And then when 
the little nubbins poked out, I pinched them, I rubbed them hard, 
massaged his little pectorals, pleasured his tits--stopping only when 
Chas began to emit little whimpers, not of pain, yes of pain, but not 
entirely, something else. He looked up at me and I bent to accept his 
kiss, his hands still holding fast my manhood.

"You didn't come back." He said as if out of nowhere.

"I'm sorry. I was late."

"It's OK," he said, but with a sort of sadness, "I . . ." he seemed to 
choose his words carefully. "I planned it all out. . ."

"I know," I said into his wet hair, "I came back and found you sleeping 
in firelight, my love." And I kissed him.

"I was ready." He said under his breath. "I was ready for, you know." 
And he pulled my enflamed cock hard against his balls. 

"I know." I said almost in tears, "I know, my love." We soaked in the 
watery echo of the bathroom. Our bodies breaking in fits of sweat only 
to be absorbed into the primordial basin.

"I'm just a boy." I think he said. The statement hung in the bathroom 
mist and I was not sure what to make of it. Finally after more careful 
choosing of words he added: "I really don't know anything."

"Yes you do." I insisted, hugging his faint body to me. "Chas, you are 
the most intelligent, caring, beautiful, charming boy I've ever known."

"Not really. I just read a lot, that's all."

"Chas, you are very gifted. Someday you'll know that and you will do 
great things."

"Like what?" he asked as if unsure of my conviction in his abilities.

"Whatever you want, my friend, my love, my Chas." I said, I said 
them all, unsure of what name to use.

"Maybe you're forgetting something." He said timidly.

"What? What am I forgetting?"

"Oh, maybe just a little thing about the world being destroyed." This 
he said with a tone of morbid humor that at once took me aback and 
filled me with splendid laughter.

"Well, yes. But still, you never know. If I tell you a secret do you 
promise not to tell anyone?" As I said this I skimmed my hands down 
his chest, over his tummy, and gripped his balls in my hand. He let out 
a little sexual gasp. Not expecting to be fondled so vulgarly.

"I promise, Matt." He said.

"Well, Al, the guy I talked to last nigh. He has built a radio and he 
heard some people in Montana. Montana is where my dad lives."

"So not everyone is dead?" asked Chas surprised. 

"No," I said, realizing a great folly about our little experiment--we had 
lead our children to believe that there was no hope. But Chas's next 
question trumped the first, and sent a shiver up my spine; and my 
answer stunned me.

"So why are we where then?" he said perplexed. 

At first I said nothing, then finally: "I don't know."

Chas did not pursue the paradox of our situation because he had bigger 
fish to fry. Namely, the way I was manipulating his balls like they 
were a sack of marbles. He spread his legs and I continued. I don't 
know why I did it, but there was simply something relaxing about 
holding him there. Then he grabbed my large balls and squeezed, but 
only as I did it to him. The effect was to make it seem as if we were 
connected, each of us slowly gaining that dull ache in the stomach that 
comes from the particular sort of play we practiced.

"Matt?"

"Yeah?" 

"I'm ready now." He whispered huskily, full of erotic tension, stressing 
just barely the last word, now. Now, at this time, in this situation, in 
this hot tub, with his mother preparing breakfast in the kitchen, Chas 
was in heat.

"I know, Chas. I know." Was all I could say, and hold him close in the 
sauna of our bath. I did not make the move that he wanted, as he 
indicated by bringing his knees up out of the water and exposing the 
sensitive nether mouth that I hereto teased to the brink of ecstasy on so 
many other occasions. And my cock was ready to please him. Chas, 
sensing my hesitation, took my rod and placed it's flared head at his 
entrance, I could feel myself pushing against his port, weakened by my 
lust the day before, prepared by him last night. Then I could feel 
myself sinking in, and the trembling of the boy's body in anticipation. 
But I jerked myself away. His response was understandable; I could 
sympathize with it. He merely let out a desperate whine, a groan that 
once again he was denied his lust. "Not here, my love. Not now."

"Why not?" he whispered up at me in a conspiratorial tone. I pecked 
his lips.

"Because now we don't have the time we need. And we don't have the 
privacy. You won't be able to make noise. Chas, I want you to, you 
know, be able to make sounds when we do it." 

He seamed to understand my complicated reasoning. He knew now 
that I had to point it out to him, that he did make all sorts of sounds 
and that many times I had to cover his mouth with my hands lest he 
give us away. "Matt, I think my mom  knows about us." He said it as if 
to reassure me.

"How do you know?"

"Well. . .I, well. . .I sorta--"

"--told her." I finished for him. He nodded boyishly in the affirmative. 
The next bit of information came out in blurt that took all his lung 
capacity.

"But she knew any way so it didn't matter she knew that you liked 
boys but she won't say anything and she loves me and she really likes 
you and she just wants us to be happy and she's really smart she's a 
doctor and she knows we have our privacy and it's not bad it's ok, just 
some people are like us some people do it it's ok, don't be mad at me I 
love--ungh" I had to silence him by pressing my mouth over his in a 
deep kiss with lots of tongue. "Please Matt, do me! Please do me!" 

"Not now." I said but slicking my finger with the bar soap I, in a 
surprisingly fluid manner, slid it deep into Chas's ass. His grunt 
entered my mouth and went down my throat, and we did not break our 
kiss once as I finger fucked him as hard and as deep as I could.

By now the bubbles were almost gone and our hot bath was nice and 
warm. I could smell breakfast cooking in the kitchen. As I assaulted 
the boy's prostate, for I just wanted him to cum, his whimpering 
increased so that I had to press my lips hard to his. The closer he got, 
the more his body, especially his ass, seemed to vibrate like a string on 
a guitar. And as I pulled my mouth away he latched his lips onto my 
neck, and that is where his moans went as I savaged him with my 
finger. His little prick rigid, about to burst like a poppy, and then it 
was jerking up and down like it was trying to spit something at me, 
and his rectum vibrated on around my finger squeezing the flow of 
blood off, and most beautiful of all is that at the same time Chas's 
abdomen muscles contracted, his little toes curled in tightly.

Moments later when he was limp in my arms and my finger had left 
his hole, wanting more but satisfied, my lover boy whispered not so 
much to me, but to his circumstance: "No fair." And it wasn't, really 
'fair'. He got off, yes, yet again, but in the end, he was still utterly, and 
completely, virgin territory when it came to having man-cock up his 
ass. Not so much that, but the hunger in him was stronger now. It was 
only a matter of time. And he we both knew it.

We washed and rinsed in the shower. Chas grabbed my cock and tried 
to jack me off, but I pulled his hand away and distracted him with 
kisses. We dried each other--mostly me him--and in the process we 
both eyed that damn bed because we both wanted to hop in there and 
fuck, just plain FUCK, but we were hungry too. And by the sound if it, 
breakfast was served.

. . .

The pancakes were not half bad, and with lots of fake butter and syrup 
they were good. The coffee was newly brewed, strong. Chas drank two 
cups. We mostly munched, but talked a little about the election. Since 
the GC had changed the rules, there was to be no debates, just an open 
forum where each candidate could set up a booth and answer questions 
to those who posed them. This was to be held in two weeks time, then 
the election a week after that, then the harvest festival. And after that? 
I guess the days were to drag on, continue on their course. Monotony 
seemed unavoidable

Anne was reading and eating mostly, taking notes as she needed to, 
highlight a passage now and then. Chas was building some sort of 
fortress with his pancakes. Every now and then he'd look up at me and 
give that same wicked grin he got when I had spanked him earlier. 
Once when he made sure his mother would not see he licked his upper 
lip with the tip of his tongue. I blushed and tried to scowl at him, but 
could not bring my self to produce the proper emotion, when the only 
one that surfaced was desire for the young boy.

I might have thought that I was corrupting him, but if so, against what? 
Society and her twisted morals had gone the way of the dodo. On the 
island there were no "morality" laws. In whatever was left of America, 
it was every man, woman and child for themselves. Faced with the 
possibility of starvation and violence, the sexual proclivities of men 
and boys were hardly a concern to most, or so I thought.

Again, my thoughts turned to Colt, my first lover, the one who had 
trained me. The one who had guided me through my feelings of guilt, 
and my feelings of lust. What became of him? In my heart I picture 
that fourteen, almost fifteen year-old boy, leaving my apartment for 
the last time, skating into the morning Gotham of New York. 

. . .

After breakfast Anne brought her work and we went down to the 
beach. If the night was chilly, the day was warm and humid. Chas in 
his cutoffs and my sweatshirt pranced gamely in the breaking surf. 
Once he came running back to get me and pull me to something he 
said was "really weird".  A ways down, far enough that when I looked 
back Anne was just a small figure, was a section of beach that was 
covered with starfish.

"What's wrong with 'em?" he asked.

"I don't know, I think they're dying." Indeed some seemed to be 
curling and turning from pink coral to a brown rigid rust. At this 
bazaar fate of the little creatures Chas was hurt. He buried his face in 
my chest and I felt the first spasms of his sobbing.

"Hey, buddy. It's ok, these things happen."

"It's not fair, it's not fair." He gasped between sobs, looking up at me, 
pleading that I should tell him it wasn't fair at all--his large eyes 
looking for truth that things that were not fair, should not ever happen 
unfairly. 

I knew not what to do but scoop the boy and hold him tight in my 
embrace, unprepared for the sorrow that was rising low in my spine, 
like a deep dark liquid, that I could no longer contain. It was truth, this 
un-fairness, it didn't matter if the universe existed despite us, that it 
sent rocks flying towards our planet at undissuadable trajectories, that 
Colt had met his watery death because of this, and billions of others, 
that my father and brother if not dead faced certain starvation, that on 
this island we fooled ourselves into believing we were immune to the 
travesty of the outside, that on the very beach before us were hundreds 
of little dying starfish and a boy who wept for them. Then Chas broke 
from me. He ran into the midst of the stars and started plucking them 
from the sand and hurling with all his might the jagged little creatures 
back into the salty sea.

And my tears at first blurred the fish, but soon I was working with 
Chas, picking and throwing, picking and throwing, picking and 
throwing. I along side the boy who at times was my lover, at times a 
child I needed to sooth, now we were brothers of sorts, full of sadness 
but with interminable purpose, brimming at least with a sort of justice 
we believed, that we could not help but believe in. And the starfish? 
Oh how they sailed in that dusky afternoon, catching the glorious wind 
that smelled of hope, going out farther than our hearts could bare, to 
their salty life. It was the boy and I plucking the stars from around our 
feet and throwing them back into the sky.

Did we save them all? In my dreams we did, we saved them all. In 
laughter and touches, in kisses we returned to where Anne was 
working, but she had gone and in her place was a note in the sand that 
said she was going back because it was getting too windy to read and 
when we were ready come and we would eat dinner, but not to hurry 
and to have fun.

I collapsed on this letter and Chas fell on top of me and I hugged him 
while the palm trees bent ever more slightly to the growing wind. 
"Look." He said pointing and I did look and saw two figures walking 
towards us from down the other side of the beach where the sand turns 
to rock and beyond that the little jungle and beyond that the shipyard 
where today Al said he would be working.

As they approached I recognized one of them. They waved and soon 
stood over us.

"Yo, Matt." Said Seth from Idaho, reaching out his hand we shook and 
then we slammed our knuckles together that universal street-boy 
greeting.

"What's up?" I asked. Chas was staring at the boy like he'd just fallen 
out of the sky.

"Oh, we were down that way fishing but it got too windy, so we 
decided to call it a day. Oh, Matt, this is Jake. Jake, Matt." The boy 
was perhaps a year younger than Seth, or his same age but a late 
bloomer. He was very cute, I thought, with strawberry-blond hair and 
wide set eyes.

"Hi." I said. I shook his hand. "This is Chas McIntyre." For some 
reason Chas seemed embarrassed and tried to scrunch himself farther 
down into my embrace.

"Hi Chas," said Seth, "Say, is your mom running for council?" Chas 
nodded. 

"You've heard?" I asked.

"Yeah, everybody has. My dad says Phelps is pissed off."

"And your dad? Who's he?" I asked. Wondering how Seth might have 
a connection to Phelps.

"He's Mark Hastings, you know Mr. Weather. He hates Phelps, but he 
has to work with Reed and well, you know, those two are politician."

"I sort of guessed." I said.

"Well we better get back."  Seth said, looking out to sea then up the 
path to the colony. We said goodbye and they started to leave when 
Seth turned, "Oh, is Friday night still on?"

"Sure." I said, "Come by around nine." And with that they ran up the 
hill toward the colony.

Chas looked up at me with the expression that I had better explain why 
I was meeting an older boy than him on a Friday night. "Who was he?" 
He asked curtly. 

"Oh, that's Seth. I'm going to pierce his nipples on Friday." 

"You mean you're going to put metal through them? But why?"

"Well, kids his age think it's cool, and some people like how it feels."

"How does it feel?" he asked.

"I don't know, maybe like this." And I quickly squeezed Chas's nipples 
between my fingers. He gasped and pulled away, putting both his 
hands over his assaulted tits.

We headed down to the rocks where Seth and Jake must have been 
fishing. As Chas jumped from one eroded giant to the other I noticed 
something interesting that had fallen into a crevice of the rocks. 
Retrieving this I quickly shoved it into my pocket.

It was getting dark and the wind had picked up considerably. "Chas 
lets go!" I shouted to him, but he had gone beyond the rocks and was 
exploring the edge of jungle. He could not hear me. The rocks were 
actually a lava spill that had hardened after flowing down from the 
now inactive volcano, the jungle probably only existed because of the 
rich volcanic dust that covered the Island. 

When I reached the sand that led the short way the edge of the foliage 
Chas was no where to be seen. And then distantly I thought I heard 
something. I stood still and listened again. Then again the sound came 
weak and sickly against the roaring gale, but I knew what it was. 
Someone in the colony had triggered the early warning system for a 
bad storm. I looked out over the ocean and noticed a thick wall of 
angry cloud that sparkled and cracked with lightning.

"CHAS!!" I shouted. Where was he? Did he go into the jungle? He 
must have, because as I scanned the beach and the rocks I saw no sign 
of the boy. "CHAAAAS!" I yelled, my own words eaten by the roaring 
wind that was made louder as it savaged the tops of the tall palms. 
Then I heard a crash and looked over to my right where a batch of 
coconuts had blown down. Then I heard the cracking of wood as the 
tree followed slamming like a giant into the jungle shrubs. At this 
noticed a narrow path and bounced up calling Chas's name.

It didn't take long to find him. When he saw me he jumped into my 
arms shaking like leaf. I got him calmed down and explained there was 
a storm coming and we needed to get back to the Colony. But when 
we emerged from the overgrowth of the forest there was no beach. The 
storm surge had washed it out so that only the tips of the rocks broke 
the surface. 

"High ground!" I shouted, and led the boy back the way we had come. 
Deeper in the Jungle we had more protection from the wind and rain, 
but we were already soaked. We climbed a hill that was covered with 
damp leaves. 

"Up here." I said. 

"Are we lost?" asked Chas as he took hold of my hand and I all but 
lifted him to my position. 

"No, this island isn't big enough to get lost on." I said. The rain was 
now breaking the canopy of the jungle and filling the lower areas with 
a spooky, humid steam. "See that path?" I said pointing. "If I'm right 
that leads to one the emergency shelters. Remember them?" Chas 
nodded. And it did. We climbed another steep hill to where the jungle 
gave way to a small clearing, and built back into the hill was the low 
ceiling of a cement dome. 

At first the door was jammed, but when I jerked hard it came open 
blowing out a gust of stale air. Chas went in first and I followed, 
shutting the heavy port behind us.

Inside it was dark, no bigger than my bedroom at home. "There should 
be emergency lighting." I said. Chas hit a switch on the wall and three 
dim lights around the room flickered on. We were a few feet below the 
level ground on which the shelter was built and the thick cement walls 
erased the tumult of the world outside. The one small window in the 
door gave no light, only alerted us that there was still a patch of day 
left and that the storm was ever closing in.

"Rad!" said Chas. I looked at him. He blushed. "I'm sorry. I just 
wanted to follow the path a little ways to see where it went.

"Don't worry," I said. "Now we get to see how useful these emergency 
bunkers are." In one corner was what looked like a queen bed on 
which was piled blankets and pillows in plastic wrappers. Adjacent to 
the bed was a desk with an inlaid map of the island, a journal and pen, 
and a telephone. As soon as I picked the phone up a red light on its 
base went off and I heard a voice on the other end. "hello? Hello?"

"Hi, I said. We're ok."

"Let's see. I have you in bunker 8, highland point, fully stocked."

"You're name sir?" I gave him my name and added that Chas McIntyre 
was with me.

"Ok," the voice said, a little shaky. "You're actually the first person to 
use this thing so it's all new to me. I'm Mark Hastings; I'm manning the 
post today. I'll give you an update of the weather and what we expect."

"Ok." I said.

"First you can communicate as normal via this phone, you might want 
to call Ms. McIntyre and tell here you and her son are ok."

"You know her?"

"Oh yes, long story."

I remembered what Seth had said a few hours ago.

"Let's see, electricity, blankets. You have a food for three days if you 
need it. Fresh water. Other than that you just need to sit tight."

"Great." I said, allowing a little annoyance to creep through. 

"Well, it's a big storm, I think. We ain't in Kansas anymore."

"Or Idaho." I said.

"Pardon?"

"Oh, sorry. Mark, I met your son the other day, Seth, and I saw him 
today at the beach."

"Oh." Said the voice. "Thank God. I haven't been able to locate him."

"Well he was with a friend, maybe. I think his name was Jake."

"Jake? Ok, hold on." The line went silent and then a minute later: 
"Yeah, he's at Jake's. Thanks for letting me know. I was more worried 
than I realized." I could tell a note of relief had filled his voice."

"Ok, Matt. Just between you and me I hope Ms. McIntyre wins the 
election. But, ok. You have your supplies. Communications are 
working. Listen, I got to tell you. I don't know if you were at the 
meeting yesterday but personally I think the weather system is worse 
than I let on, or than what Reed wanted me to let on."

I was at the meeting, but in truth, I had my hands full of other things. I 
looked over at Chas who was going trough the supply closet. "What do 
you mean, Dr.? and umm, Doctor, you can talk to me openly, I'll take a 
stab in the dark, but I'm not a fan of Reed and Phelps." There was a 
pause from the other end.

"I figured, since you're friends with Dr. McIntyre, you might not be. 
She really pissed them off yesterday, more than I think she knows. 
You might want to tell her that."

"I will. Now about that weather?"

"Well, According to all simulations, I think what we are seeing here is 
the start of a weather disturbance that might turn out to be a larger 
pattern. This storm, I think, is a hurricane."

"But aren't those Atlantic storms?"

"Yes generally, but not anymore. Meteorology as we know it has 
changed. Over the next few years we're going to see more of these, 
these, I guess you could call them super storms. This might be small to 
what is actually coming. Stateside, we're looking at an ice age up 
north, rainy seasons down south."

"Damn." I said.

"Yeah, all the fun is actually back home. Anyway, you should be safe 
and dry there. I'd give this thing 24 hours at the most and it will blow 
through. But we can keep in contact now and then. I get off shift in 
two hours but will be back on in six. I'll call you then."

"Ok." I said. Thanks. When he hung up I called Anne and explained 
what had happened and that we were safe. Then the line crackled and 
went dead.

"Well, now what?" I turned to Chas. He was sitting on the bed naked.

. . .

I will describe in detail the graphic nature of the sex that ensued over 
the forty-eight hours that the storm ravaged the island. But to lead you 
to believe that sex between men and boys is as easy as that is a fallacy. 
For one, what do you do when a little boy is so set on getting his 
cherry popped that his own emotions run out of control? Or what do 
you do when the third time you have sex he doesn't have a single 
orgasm? Or during the fifth time his pleasure is so intense he starts to 
weep? Or what do you do when he wants it so bad his lips are 
trembling, but you, a fool?

I could not take my eyes from the boy. He was not erect, he was not 
"horny" just then, as he would later be, but he was simply, boyishly 
bare. It was that he was naked in so much confidence that aroused me 
the most. He didn't care an iota for formal manners of dress and 
undress; simply he needed, at that time, to be naked. On the back of 
one of the chairs he had sensible hung his shorts and sweatshirt to dry. 
But it was not lost on him, either, that his situation was a come-on to 
me, or to any other man, really. It was more a question that at long 
last, circumstances had played in his favor.

I walked to the door and tried to look out the window, but the rain was 
so heavy that I could only see shapes and colors. Turning I saw Chas 
eyeing me in the dim light of our hovel. He followed me with his stare 
as I began to remove my clothes. I hung them on the other chairs to 
dry, and finally I was naked too, and I felt how cold it was in the in the 
cement dome, not made for habitation, but for emergency. My cock 
was not rigid but it was not flaccid either. It hung like a juicy sausage 
and Chas, it seemed salivated for it. 

My boy watching me with such intent, such will for contact, I felt 
more like a model before his gaze. A strong build, but also lean in that 
I had more muscle than fat. I felt healthy under his inspection. A few 
days before I had made a point to trim my pubic hair so that all was 
left was short teen-aged patch at the base of my cock. The look Chas 
gave me next was not desire or lust. It was the look of satisfaction for 
what inevitability comes to pass. In the stale air I could hear him 
audibly sigh. It seemed to carry the words, "Now I got you", and as my 
cock rose to its zenith, as it filled out more than I wanted Chas to see, 
as it did what it should do in the presence of such a beautiful boy, Chas 
and I both knew what it meant. Chas was not going to leave that little 
shelter on that little island in the middle of the Pacific a virgin. Chas 
McIntyre, all of 10-years-old, was going to get screwed.

We made the bed in clumsy silence. Chas's hands were shaking. It 
might have been partly because of the slow sensual mood that fell over 
the room, but as I reached over to straighten the blanked his fingers 
could not quite grasp I touched his shoulder, it felt hot and feverish. 
Chas looked at me and almost smiled, his normally pink lips gone a 
lavender, his teeth chattering. And as he made to stand, like in a dream 
with no sound, his eyes rolled back into his head and he fainted into 
my arms.

"Fuck! Chas! Chas!" I almost shouted. Little murmurs escaped his 
throat but his eyes stayed white. I nervously but gently laid him 
beneath the covers and leapt over to the communication phone. I 
picked up the receiver and heard a crackle then a dial tone. Then it 
went dead, and then came back. I dialed Anne.

"Hello?" said her voice, clear as a bell.

"Anne, it's Matt." 

She must have detected the tone in my voice that I'm sure conveyed 
the horror in the pit of my stomach, for she calmly, but very sternly 
said: "What's wrong, Matt? Just tell me."

"It's Chas, he fainted."

"Is he breathing?" She said. The same panic that overwhelmed me 
gripping her.

"Yes. I put him in bed."

"Ok, what are his symptoms?" The calm again returning to her voice.

I had to think for a second. "Ok, umm, he--his lips were blue, and his 
teeth were chattering. And he feels hot. Feverish."

"Did you guys get wet?" she asked.

"Yes, we were caught in the rain for about twenty minutes. We're in 
on of the emergency shelters."

"Ok, Matt, It sounds like hypothermia and maybe dehydration."

"We've got water!" I blurted.

"Ok, Matt. Listen, you need to get a grip. You need to think cle--" 
Silence.

"Anne! Anne! Shit!"

"Ma-- w-- loosing--" the line snapped and popped as I heard a clap of 
thunder. Through the thick walls it seemed miles away, but outside the 
storm building we were being attacked, again, by nature. "Matt, Can 
you hear me?" Clear as a bell.

"Yes. Talk fast." I said.

"Ok. Get his wet clothes off."

"They're off."

"Ok, get him to drink some water. Then get in bed with him and keep 
him warm. His body is having trouble regulating his temperature. 
There is a thermometer in the medical kit in the closet. It's red. I 
stocked them all myself. If the fever doesn't break in a few hours, 
crush an aspirin in a little water and make him drink it." 

"Ok." 

"And Matt, don't let him fall asleep until the fever breaks. Keep him 
awake. Keep talking to him." Her voice was breaking up. "And call me 
every hour if you can, at least until the fever breaks."

"Ok." I said.

"It will be alright." She said. And then I could barely make out the last 
words, but she said, "I trust you." And the line went dead.

I went back over to Chas. His lips were still blue, and I could make out 
the blue veins in his forehead. "Chas, buddy. You got to wake up." I 
shook him very gently. He murmured and opened his eyes just a slit. 
He gave me a dreamy smile and then closed them again. Again I shook 
him and this time shouted, "Chas! Wake up!" His eyes opened wider 
and he seemed more alert. I went to the supply closet and found the 
medical case, then moved various articles and found the water supply. 
There were probably seven boxes of Evian water bottles. I ripped one 
out and took to Chas who was watching me curiously. "Drink this." I 
said handing him the opened bottle. 

"I'm not thirsty." He slurred as if he were drunk.

"I know buddy but we got to stay hydrated." As if this made sense to 
him, he took the bottle and tipped it back. I watched the delicate 
tendons in his throat flex and gulp as he drained the contents of the 
bottle. "Good boy." I said. A trickle of water ran down his chin. I 
wiped it away with my hand and got into bed with him. I tucked us 
into a tight spoon and stroked his soft leg he felt warm, but not as hot a 
few seconds ago. "Chas?"

"Yeah."  Came the raspy music of his voice.

"We gotta stay awake, bud."

"Oh. . . kay." He hummed.

"Chas." I kissed his shoulder. "mmm" he moaned. "Chas, talk to me."

"Oh kay..." he said. "I had a bad dream."

"What was it about?"

"I don't remember very well."

"Just try."

"It was me...and you...and we were driving in an old green truck far up 
in the mountains."

"That sounds nice. I like the mountains."

"Oh kay. . ." he whispered drifting off. I shook him..."and we were 
driving and, but, and something was. . .chasing us."

"What was it?"

"It was a monster. . . and I"

Chas sat in the truck and felt as the road beneath sped underneath 
them. To one side was the sheer face of the mountain going up and up 
into the sky. Matt was driving and they were going up, trying to get 
away from that thing that had been chasing them for so long, it seemed 
like forever. Night was just coming, but it always seemed the same 
time of day, forever, it had never changed. Just after sunset. And on 
the other side of the truck the road gave way down, down, down the 
mountain went. He could see the tips of trees poking up like spikes, 
and down, down, down, more trees, thousands of trees, evergreens, 
great pines with trunks big enough to drive a truck through. Down, 
down, and below them a valley, in the evening dusk a patchwork of 
tilled and untilled fields. Far in the distance was a road and he could 
see faint headlights of the cars as they went wherever they were going.

He looked at Matt whose face he could barely see. I must be dreaming, 
he though, but he was not sure. It felt like a dream, because he thought 
if he concentrated he could separate his mind from his body and float 
over the truck and out over the hills and over the beautiful valley, like 
an eagle. But he did not dare it, because he was afraid of getting lost 
and loosing Matt. He loved Matt, not in a way that many people would 
think; he loved Matt so much that it hurt him think about it. He loved 
him in a special way, in a very private way. He couldn't explain it; 
really, it was nobody's business. But he knew something about their 
love was dangerous, that it scared some people. That was why they 
were fleeing now, because someone found out about them, and when 
that happened they turned into the Monster. Chas held on to his 
seatbelt as Matt hit a washboard and the truck bucked and seemed to 
glide to the treacherous cliff face. But then Matt did something and 
they were turning a corning and going up, up on the road. Chas looked 
back and thought he saw a car, but he wasn't sure. Could the Monster 
drive?

Of course the Monster could drive. The Monster could do everything. 
Chas sat back. Matt reached over and rubbed his leg, his inner thigh. 
Chas opened his legs and Matt's hand stroked his little balls and cock 
underneath the tight, cowboy jeans he was wearing. He saw that he 
was wearing a good worn pair of boots and a tight t-shirt that said "I 
love NY." A warm feeling filled his tummy and then his chest as Matt 
stroked his little penis to stiffness inside the tight confines of his pants. 
Then he put his hand back on the steering wheel and focused on the 
road ahead of them.

Chas tried to remember where it was that he got these strange clothes. 
Matt was dressed similarly. Then he remembered that they got them 
when they ran from the monster the last time. The last time they were 
surfers in southern California. He liked that. He liked the calmness of 
the ocean and the warm sun on his skin. Then one night they were 
walking along the beach after sunset, like tonight, and they were alone, 
and Chas had warm the feeling of Matt's love in him, and his little butt 
was nice and tender because Matt and just eaten him out in the little 
beach cottage they shared: one bathroom, a living room, a kitchen, a 
bed on which they kissed, and other stuff, and the best view of the 
ocean in southern California, or so the advertisement said. So they 
bought the house.

They walked in the sand, close but not touching because other people 
were out. Guys with their girlfriends, men and their wives, even two 
old men holding hands. But Matt and Chas were the only Man and boy 
together. This fact did not escape Chas, and he knew it made Matt 
nervous sometimes. And so when there were people around they didn't 
hold hands. But that was ok, because the water was calm, and the sun 
left a warm pink and orange in the sky, colors that felt like the warm 
love inside of Chas, colors that felt good, like his tender little butt hole 
that now sort of flexed open and closed, that he almost wanted to rub 
himself, to make it settle a little, to cool it off a bit. But not with Matt 
right there. Matt had done it to him, Matt had made his legs tremble in 
their shower as they washed of the day's surfing. And then instead of 
finishing the job, as Chas thought he ought to, Matt had wanted to take 
a walk in the evening. 

It was calm, the night, the ocean, and gentle whisper of conversation 
from the restaurants on the sand, the people in love, and a warm day 
gone, just lingering like night was tucking it into bed. It felt so free, so 
open, so free, and so full of possibility, like boy a covering his mouth 
to hold in laughter, or an old woman wiping the tears of a long life 
behind her from her eyes. Chas felt this, knew all of this somehow, 
some way knowing something even though he was so young, innocent, 
the world and all it's passions were like a memory to him, and he was 
just starting to understand. But would have never been able to do it 
without the man who walked next to him. The sad, quiet man who 
touched the boy in the darkness of their bed, made him feel like a 
flower, or a fire cracker ready to burst, or just like the feeling of 
holding in laughter for too long. 

There were teens by a bonfire playing music. Sad and happy songs, 
conversation, the smell smoke and the tinkle of glasses, the whisper of 
lips on lips. I'm so full, thought Chas. He thought this feeling was love, 
he had overeaten on love, Matt had filled him so much that he was 
tired and wanted, really, to go back and start the night together, naked 
in the bed, the two of them. Then as the darkness crept on they became 
shadows, safe shadows next to the ocean, hard to see, like the images 
of a dream. So Chas took a chance and jumped on the back of his man. 
And they laughed, and they fell topsy-turvy into the dry sand that still 
held heat from the sun. The both of them just cleaned in the shower, 
smelling now of soap and sand. Laughing with the rest of the night, the 
men and men, men and women, teenagers drinking and smoking, the 
restaurant eaters, the musicians. Man and boy, fallen in love, a step in 
the large dance of the human soul, in the walk along the night beach, 
spilled over in the sand, they kissed.

Boy lips beneath. Man lips on top. Boy lifts his hips, Man's angle tips. 
Boy tries to sit. Man nips his ear. Boy lifts his shirt. Man tongues his 
tits. When Chas looks upside down, up to the high part of the beach 
where the lights are, where, the people laugh, while Matt kisses his 
tummy, he sees the figure of a man morph into the Monster. The man 
was familiar. He had seen him days before while they surfed and 
played in the sand. He looked like gentle man, glasses, short cut hair, 
well dressed, just relaxing by the beach, maybe. Then the man had 
been at the restaurant three nights ago when Matt took him out to 
celebrate, just to celebrate. Chas dressed in a sharp black suit, knew he 
was a good-looking kid. And Matt, strong Matt in his dark sweater and 
dark pants. They dined in a cubbyhole, a place where Matt tried his 
demotic French with the French waitress so that she was happy then 
and brought even Chas a glass for the wine. And Chas when we looked 
at Matt knew only love, the warmth like that color left by the setting 
sun still there. But that man, that gentleman, sat across seeming to read 
from a black book with gold trim, eyed them, now and then, the figure 
of a man and boy, dining over candles, sharing secret glances, 
touching fingers, taking chances. And now tonight, that specter saw 
them. But could he have? Could he have seen through the shadow? 
Seen how Chas's heart went thump, thump, thump against the solid 
chest of his man? From such a distance, could he have heard a whisper 
between their lips, the sound that lips make when they kiss, the soft 
hiss of a boy having his nipple sucked, could he have heard?

No matter. Chas saw him. He saw the man turn into the Monster. He 
saw the rage in his eyes. They burned bright red with a righteous fire. 
And the man's face, distorting from human, why? Because it was 
unable in this form to know love, true love. The mouth jutting out into 
a maw with jagged teeth. The body that was once human, growing 
bigger and indestructible. This Monster was the only thing Matt could 
not fight, that gave him fear. Made him weak. This Monster could not 
be destroyed by love. For in some cruel, unfair, fate, this Monster fed 
off their love. The more they loved, the stronger it grew. It filled the 
air with the stench of despair. A decay of rotting flesh. Until what 
possessed the boy and the man was fear.

"Come." Said Matt, pulling Chas from the sand. He was rough. His 
voice shook.

"Matt," Chas was looking back at where the monster stood but did not 
follow. 

"I know. I see it." Hissed Matt. He sounded angry. "We gotta leave 
now."

They did not go back to that little love shack of theirs. They knew 
better. To do so would lead right into the Monster's trap. Matt knew a 
friend by the docks who had a boat. He would help them escape. This 
friend knew of the Monster, knew of his power, of his ability to 
possess almost anybody. This man, this friend of Matt's, bore the 
scares of a long battle with this Monster. He had once a young lover 
like Chas, and the Monster ripped them apart and poisoned them. 
Made it so neither could ever love again. This man hated the Monster, 
and vowed to always fight it.

It was not safe going to this man because once the Monster's victim, 
always the Monster's victim. Always under the watchful eye of the 
Monster. But Matt's friend was tricky. He had made himself into two 
people, one the Monster haunted, the other the Monster did not yet 
know of. The man told them how to get away, where a good place to 
go was. In the night they fled, never return again to that paradise in the 
sand. They followed the coast north. Far up into Canada where they 
lived for awhile and then made their way inland to the valley next to 
the mountains.

"Shit!" Matt shouted and slammed on the breaks. A tree lay across the 
road, stopping their escape. Matt backed up on the narrow mountain 
road. He had seen a side trail. There it was. Kicking the truck into 
four-wheel drive they headed up the steep road, higher into the 
mountain. Chas looked back. He could not see anything. It was pitch 
black. He looked over at Matt; his face seemed to glow with 
determination of escape. They had eluded the monster for so long, for 
so many years the man and boy lived in secret, so many lifetimes. 
Identities came went, but always careful to have a plan of escape. 

However, this mountain was never part of any plan. It was an accident. 
It was Chas's fault. He had been careless. But he did it for love. He had 
made a little stupid mistake. Just a gentle one, one day while in the 
valley, a small conservative little town, full of nice people, mostly. It 
was a night after "you know what" and Chas absolutely glowed. All he 
wanted to do was shout, "I love Matt!" Chas's little body literally 
hummed with sensations. His skin felt raw to the touch, such was the 
force of their love making the night before. They were walking down 
the street arms full of groceries. When they passed a flower shop. Chas 
had little bit of money, so he told Matt to wait just a second, and ran 
inside. The lady behind the counter was real nice, she wore a pearl 
necklace and had rosy cheeks. Chas said he wanted one red rose, 
because that was all the money he had. The lady smiled at this 
handsome, almost too handsome, young man, picked the best rose for 
him. Must be for his fancy, or his mother, she thought. As she handed 
him the flower and took his money, she noticed how he almost glowed 
with some vibrant force, something she could not name. But she 
watched content as he skipped out the store to the man who must be 
his father. She smiled and watched as the boy like a timid forest fawn 
handed the red, red rose to the man. And the man did something fairly 
odd. He took the flower, put it to his nose and smelled deep its rich 
perfume. And then with a tender hand, stroked the blossom across the 
face of the lovely boy. And they went on their way. The woman 
thought a moment. Shook her head. Feeling a little dizzy. A little 
confused. Maybe she just ought to, just to be a good person, make a 
little telephone call. And when she turned, she had become the vile, 
ugly, Monster full of power, rage, and fear.

"Hold on!" Shouted Matt. And the truck seemed to leap off the ground 
as hit a root grown up out of the unused road. Crash! It landed in the 
ditch, a scraping, bending, and gnashing of metal, still and silent. 

"You ok?"  asked Matt.

"Yeah. I'm Ok. What do we do now." Chas was scared. The truck was 
broken.

"We run." Said Matt. And run they did. Up the dirt road that turned 
into a trail. Higher and higher up the mountain. At times it seemed like 
they were climbing strait up. So steep Chas thought he would fall 
backwards off the face of the Earth. And he was so tired. So tired. But 
Matt said, "Climb on my back and hold on." Chas did and Matt with 
what must have been the power of a horse charged forward. Higher, 
for hours and hours.

"Shhhh." Whispered Chas. I hear something. Matt stopped and tried to 
listen over his panting heart. There it was, down below them on the 
trail. The Monster was coming. Matt started climbing. Chas held on. 
At times he thought he could hear the thing closing in on them. Finally 
the trees gave way and all that was left to climb were jagged rocks. 
Matt scaled the rocks with his boy on his back. Down below the 
monster, too, started up the rocks, though because of its size was not 
so fast; still, it came.

"We're almost there!" shouted Matt. His voice seemed full of 
happiness.

"Where?" asked Chas.

"To the top! To the top of the world, Chas!" And with one final pull of 
his arms they came to a flat area that marked the peak of the mountain. 
Chas climbed down. Man and boy stood looking all around them. 
Beneath on one side was the valley home they had fled, little lights 
blinking on in the dusky night. On the other side was a range of 
mountains, prairies, deserts, and finally the ocean. Above them was a 
clear sky and a field of stars so bright they almost had music. To the 
west where the sun had set was still a barely pink glow, and the silver 
thread of twilight.

"It's so beautiful." Whispered Chas, breathing in the cool air, fresh and 
unpolluted. Matt took the lovely young boy and hugged him in his 
warm arms. Did they kiss? Well, yes, of course they kissed. Is the 
world not round? From behind them, though, the Monster pulled itself 
up the final few feet; it's maw bloodied, and its claws tearing away the 
rock.

It stood breathing its rotten breath into the air. It's eyes flashing with 
hate. "You're finished." It growled in an inhuman voice. Matt stepped 
forward, pushing Chas behind them.

"You've chased us to the end of the Earth." He said. "What more do 
you want?" 

"You know what I want." Croaked the beast.

"No! You cannot have it. Not ever." Shouted Chas from behind Matt. 
For what the Monster wanted was their love. The thing laughed 
cruelly, and paced back and forth on the ledge.

"I've defeated so many. I will have yours as well." It growled.

"Not this time!" Matt shouted. He was weeping. His tears blurring his 
eyes. "Not this time." He said weaker. For the Monster had started 
sucking the love from them, breathing it into its lungs, replacing it 
with doubt, and guilt, and fear.

"No!" Shouted Chas. "No! Leave him alone!"

The Monster screamed.

"Look." Said Chas with a calm he did not know he possessed. He 
pointed up to the stars. "See that there?" 

The Monster looked up and saw the brightest star, red and burning. 
The Monster was confused. A little shocked. Not really understanding 
the implications of what it was witnessing.

"That." Said Chas with a sense of boyish triumph. "That is the end of 
the world. You can't survive that! You can't exist after that. At least for 
awhile." The Monster shrunk back. It was true. How could it bother 
with its hunting when no law or society would exist?

"I'll finish you, though!" it growled. Matt stood. He pulled Chas, his 
lover, into his arms.

"It's over." He said. "It's over." He carried the boy, light as a feather in 
his arms over to edge of the mountain where it gave way to all below. 
"It's over." And with that the two lovers kissed one last time. The kiss 
that held all their love, all their passion, all their desire. The kiss that 
made them one. And like a breath between that kiss, like a boy gasping 
in surprise, in pleasure, they stepped off and fell into the void.

The beast screamed and clawed at the bedrock leaving large gashes in 
the stone. It ran to the edge and looked down for their broken bodies. 
But they were not there.

"What happened to them?" I asked. Chas and I were curled into a ball. 
I petted his pectorals, scraping a fingernail over a tender nipple, one 
that I had coaxed to a half dozen erections over the course of his story, 
his dream. He was not as hot as he had been. Still warm but not so that 
I was afraid for him. His cheeks were flushed and his lips full and rose. 
He tried to wiggle his butt against my erect penis. I humped into him 
once or twice and kissed his warm neck, feeling his pulse beneath my 
lips.

"They escaped." He said with a tone of triumph. 

"But how?"

"I don't know, silly. But they got away!"

"And the Monster?"

"I don't know either. That's when you woke me. You should have let 
me sleep so I could figure it out." He said, and giggled, for at long last 
he had finally captured the length of my cock along his butt crack--like 
a hotdog in a bun--and he was gently squeezing me. I kissed his ear, 
his neck, his shoulder, squeezed his nipples, kissed his chin, and at last 
his mouth, dumping my saliva into him. He drank me, and spit into my 
mouth back the less viscous shiny fluids.

"I need to call your mom." I said.

"What for? To tell you're sexing me?" He ran a boyish hand to his 
chest where he self-tweaked his nipples. 

"No, wise guy, to tell her you're doing betting. And you need more 
water." I pulled away to his shivering protest, and from his ripe little 
bottom that held my leaking cock prisoner to the last. But I did not 
stand without kissing him again.

There was a dial tone. "Anne. Yes. Yes. I think he's going to be ok. 
What's that? You're breaking up. Ok, I will. Ok take care." I got Chas 
another bottle of the Evian and sat on the bed while he sipped it. Then 
I took is temperature. He was still about two degrees warmer than he 
should have been so I crushed an aspirin in some water and had him 
drink it. 

"That's nasty!" he said, wrinkling his nose at the bitter concoction.

"Sorry, Doctor's orders."  I said. 

"How long is this storm supposed to last?" he asked as he pulled the 
fluffy blanked around his body.

"I don't know. It could be twenty-four hours." Going through a box of 
rations I found a Hershey Milk Chocolate Bar. "Snack?" I said, and 
threw it at Chas.

"Matt?" Said Chas in his timid squeak.

"Yeah," 

"Could you lock the door?" He was shrunk in his blankets like a little 
forest animal, but is request caused the hair on my neck to stand up. 
There was something in his voice that was full of an unknown fear, 
from his dream perhaps, a fear that whatever existed in the sleeping 
state might also roam the waking world.

"Sure buddy." I said. The door had a long steel bar that slid into the 
reinforced concrete. The sound it made as it latched and secured was 
haunting, like the latch on a dungeon cell. Why would the Colony 
design such a sturdy lock for the shelters?

As I turned, Chas said, "And the window." The little round window in 
the door had a steel plate that slid across the glass and locked on the 
inside. As I did this, just before I terminated the outside world, I 
thought I saw a movement, a shadow, a form, a face? But was it 
possible? Not in the storm, not in the rain pounding down. Not up on 
the side of a mountain on a deserted island except for the mild 
mannered habitants who were themselves barred inside their homes.

As an afterthought I picked up the phone and dialed. The line crackled 
and snapped. "Hello? H-- Hello?"

I tried speaking in as calm a voice as I could. "Anne, it's Matt."

"What's wrong? Chas?"

"No he's fine, I gave him the aspirin. Umm, listen. Do me a favor and 
lock all your windows with the inside locks, ok."

"Matt, what's wrong?" She sounded spooked. 

"Probably nothing, but just do it, ok."

"Alright. I'll do it." She said. The line started to break up. 

"Listen, I'll call you later." More snapping and crackling.

"Or I'll call--" silence. The line was out. I hung up the phone and at 
that very instant the power went out.

"Matt?" Chas's voice sounded far away.

"Don't worry buddy; the electricity just went out. The storm is really 
bad."

"Matt come here." His vice trembled.

"I'm right here, hold on." I stumbled over to the closet searched blindly 
and until my hand found the box of glow sticks. I opened one and 
snapped it, the room filled with a soft red glow. "Catch." Chas jumped 
up and nabbed the light. In his hands the dark tanned boy looked like a 
hot ember. I smiled inwardly at this. The red light district. I struck a 
match to a candle and carried it over and set it on the table next to the 
bed. And then I climbed in, as the warm boy seemed to melt against 
my body. I dropped the glow stick under the bed and it cast an eerie 
light on the floor of the shelter, throwing shadows onto the ceiling, 
while the candle bathed us in its small golden light.

"Ugh." Chas grunted as I lifted his leg and sqeezed his balls. He 
looked back at me shocked. "Unghhhh!" he moaned when I grabbed 
his flaccid dick. "Oh god!" he chirped when I pulled apart his little ass 
cheeks and then let them slap back together. "Matt! Ouch!" he said 
when I nipped at his nipple, accidentally catching it with my teeth. 
"Sssssss." He hissed when I apologized by suckling at it with my soft 
lips. And when I moved to the other one, "Ssssss." He hissed again. 
"Ahhh," he gurgled when I squeezed his prick that was still limp like a 
wet noodle.  And when he didn't come erect, I turned over and blew 
out the candle. I hugged his slightly warm body too me and we drifted 
off into a restless sleep. 

I dreamt of shadows and of monsters chasing us. I dreamt that Chas 
was sick and I couldn't heal him. I dreamt of big rocks crashing into 
the Earth and killing all the little boys, but leaving everybody else 
alive. I dreamt I woke and Chas was in the corner masturbating. When 
he looked up at me there was blood running down his nose. I dreamt I 
never met Chas; that the end of the world never came and I was still in 
New York. I dreamt that I walked by a store window and Chas, who I 
didn't know, was chained spread eagle to a wall. His nipples were 
pierced and diamond studded nipple rings glinted under the display 
lighting. Around his tender balls and over his sorely erect cock was a 
boy-sized diamond cock ring. On the end of his throbbing penis was a 
tag that read, "Half Price, Slightly Used". The boy who was my lover, 
but who was a stranger in the dream, gave me a pleading puppy-dog 
look, his large faun eyes brimming with tears. A lady dressed in her 
Sunday best walked into the display window and made him eat a little 
blue pill. I watched as the blue veins in his almost translucent cock 
surged with new blood. When he tried to stroke his cock the chains 
stopped just inches away. The best he could do was flick the naughty 
prick with the tip of his finger. Then the window dimmed and a 
policeman was standing behind me. "Can I help you?" he asked 
gruffly. He was dressed like a 1920's London bobby. "How much is 
that doggy in the window?" I asked. He looked at me and started 
laughing a blood-curdling howl. A lady passing by with her arms full 
of Christmas gifts started laughing, they were all laughing. It was 
snowing and I could feel the cold. Above them I saw the asteroid on its 
course to Earth, it burned like a hellish Christmas star.

"Matt! Wake up! Wake up!" Chas was saying. He was shaking me. I 
woke with a start. "You're having a nightmare!" Chas was lying next 
to me. His body was warm, but not feverish.

"Your fever broke." I said groggily, running a hand across his chest. I 
kissed his lips and brought him into my embrace. Again we held each 
other and slept. Maybe an hour, maybe two. I woke and listened to his 
breathing, it was hypnotic in the still room. He had rolled onto his 
stomach. I ran my hand from his neck to his rump and gently squeezed 
a pert little moon. I Kissed from the small of his back to the nape of 
his fragile neck, letting the little hairs there tickle the end of my nose. I 
kissed back down--on my hands and knees now--to the little dents 
above each smooth cheek. I kissed his ass. I lay back down next to 
him, my cock alive and ready. It rested and pulsed against his side, 
pre-semen leaking over him. Then in the dance of our sleep it was my 
turn and when I awoke Chas was rubbing my cock, gently and slowly. 
I groaned and shot my cum onto his stomach and his chest. He gasped 
at what he had done. I hugged him to me and rubbed my gizzum into 
his flesh like lotion.

"I need to piss." He said boldly, using the slur for the first time, testing 
it on his lips like he would a new food.

"Me too." I said. Next to the closet there was a small portable toilette. I 
reached under the bed and brought out the glow stick. It was still 
bright, but loosing strength. Each one probably had eight ours light to 
it. Chas got out of bed for the first time since he fainted in my arms. 
His legs were wobbly and his pisser was hard as a rock. It pointed 
straight up, almost parallel with his body. His balls swung loose at first 
then sucked against his body and were nothing to speak of as the 
cement floor sent cold chills up our tender feet into our groins. I pissed 
long and hard. Chas stood next to me and could not manage. It hurt 
him to level and point his cock. He looked up at me slightly shy at his 
predicament. "here, try this." I stood behind him pressed above his 
cock into his abdomen. I made a "ssssssss" sound and blew on his ear. 
Gently I toke his slender tool between my fingers. I could feel the 
blood engorged shaft slip and slid beneath his skin. With much care I 
used my thumb and forefinger and retracted the tiny sock of his 
foreskin so the eye of his glans peered out like a little Cyclops. This I 
leveled at the toilette and kissed his shoulder. He giggled and began to 
take a horse piss. When he was done I squeezed out the last few drops. 
I pulled back his foreskin (Oooo!) knelt and cleaned him with my 
mouth. When I was done he was erect, but also looking at me 
quizzically

"Back to bed." Said I, and swatted his dewdrop ass, not hard, but 
enough to make him peep and hop back to the warmth of our nest.

I grabbed two power bars and another bottle of water. We sat Indian 
cross-legged facing one another and munching the sweet honey, nuts, 
and graham. Chas took a lusty gulp of the water and handed it to me. I 
sipped it, then set it aside and pulled the boy onto my lap. I kissed him 
hard and unexpected. He kissed back. My hands touched him 
everywhere. Tweaking his nipples. Jacking his cock. Pinching his 
scrotum. Venturing into the dark shadow of his crack but then 
retreating. When I pulled my mouth off his lips he pouted. If the glow 
stick did not already soak us in the light of blood, I'm sure his mouth 
would be flushed by my work. 

Chas wrapped his legs around me and sat on my dick driving it into his 
fleshy rear. He kissed me this time. Little honey flavored kisses, 
smelling of granola.  He bit my ear. I ran my hands down his back and 
did not hesitate to part his ass when I got there.

"Ohhhh. . .ugh!" he grunted. I held the split melon of his butt 
unnaturally wide apart, stretching the outer edge of the volcano. 
"Gees," he moaned, "oh gees!" as I crushed his gluteus muscle in my 
hands, his bud exposed to the cold air. I smiled to myself at his proper 
little swear. The boy was beginning a strong rut, and all he cared to 
mumble was "gees". So I kissed him. Licked the side of his face with 
my tongue. He was on his knees now on either side of me, jutting his 
backside into my hands. I did not dare travel even with one finger to 
his center. I held each ass cheek and worked them like dough. I 
pressed them together and spread them so wide it felt like he'd tear. 

"Matt! Ungh, ugh, ugh!" he protested as his boy-butt turned to liquid 
beneath my hands. He was not heavy. I lifted him by leverage of his 
ass to my mouth and sucked his four-inch cocklet. Chas hung there, 
suspended as I blow-jobbed him near a cum, then backed down when 
he started to shake. 

"Attitudes toward oral-genital sex vary greatly. Some people find the 
idea disgusting because they associate such activity with urine and 
feces. The view of others is shaped by their attitudes toward the odor, 
texture, and appearance of the genitals. Still others are concerned with 
the taste of the genitals or their secretions. All these attitudes may be 
positive or negative, depending on the individuals involved." (Human 
Sexuality: An Encyclopedia, NY, 1994)

In my mind I cannot for the fucking life of me comprehend how one 
could find what I did to Chas in that instant of love-lust disgusting. 
More to the point, Chas tasted of sweat and piss and young musk. He 
secreted nothing save for my own spittle that smeared over his hairless 
pubis, down the crack of perineum and thigh, over his balls, and on 
down his brown legs.

When I let him go he crumpled to the bed, legs splaying on either side 
of me, his crotch shiny and moist. We stared at each other in the red 
glow of the glow stick. A sexual chord vibrated between our bodies. 
Ever so gracefully, like a dancer, Chas lifted a leg and ran a thin finger 
over his anus. That is what he wanted. But how to get it?

"Matt. Please. Now. I want it so bad. Please." The boy was almost 
incoherent. In one fell swoop I rolled him back, split his ass, and 
licked roughly across his hole. "OH GOD!" he cried. And he wonders 
why I wouldn't do him in the bathtub while his mom was in the 
kitchen! I looked up at his face framed between the backs of his 
thighs; he was in ecstasy. 

"Oral-genital sex (sometimes called the genital kiss) is the oral 
stimulation of the genitals of either a female or a male [Or little boy!] 
by a partner of either sex. That is, it may be either a homosexual 
experience or a heterosexual one. [Or a boylove-puersexual one.] The 
person performing the action may move from other parts of the body 
(e.g., orally stimulating the breasts of either the male or female) 
[immature pectorals of a young boy] to the genitals,. . ." (Human 
Sexuality: An Encyclopedia, NY, 1994)

Again I went down on him laving his anus with my tongue, setting it 
on his opening and waiting, one second. . .he gasps. . .two seconds. . 
.he tries to hump my tongue...three seconds. . .he is still. . .four 
seconds. . .a tremor deep with in him. . .five seconds. . .his volcano 
mouth twitches in rapid succession. . .six seconds. . .the portal opens 
and my tongue enters as if invited. Chas has his hands back to help out 
like it did to his ass cheeks minutes ago, he does to himself now. His 
fingernails scratching his own skin he tries to open himself wider. This 
continues for at my leisure and the boy's torture. Second to the actual 
fuck, it is the most pleasurable thing a boy could experience. 

"...and after reaching them may incorporate other parts of the 
immediate area (e.g., thighs, perineum) into the experience. 
Sometimes, oral stimulation of the anus (anilingus) is also practiced at 
this time." (ibid.)

When was the last time you saw a ten-year-old boy, a pretty one? 
Perhaps in his yard throwing around a stick for Fido to fetch. Or at the 
store carrying a gallon of milk for his mother. Or at church sitting in 
the back row trying to think of Jesus. Remember how gracefully he 
moved, how proportionally perfect every part of his body was to every 
other. Now picture him naked with his ankles at his ears and his soft 
voice begging you not to just lick on him, but to literally gnaw on his 
rim. 

"The frequency of oral-genital sex varies greatly. Some researchers 
report that 80 percent of single men and women between the ages of 
25 and 34, and 90 percent of those married and under 25 years of age, 
have participated during the preceding year. [Undocumented studies 
report that men and boys are 99.99% likely to engage in oral-genital 
sex. Boys are 100% likely to go nuts over it.] Other workers say that 
human oral sex is the one family of sexual practices that is truly 
universal. The practice does seem to be more prevalent among better 
educated and younger individuals, although many exceptions to these 
generalizations occur. Although the statistics are unreliable, it may be 
said that the practice of oral-genital sex is almost as frequent as 
masturbation. There is an increasing frequency of the practice among 
adolescents; actually, they are slightly more likely to practice it than 
coitus, because they recognize it as a means of sex without fear of 
pregnancy. Heterosexual couples use it for the same reason. Both 
homosexual and heterosexual partners may use it as a means of 
expressing deep, intimate feelings. Oral-genital stimulation may be 
incorporated in foreplay or afterglow when other techniques are used 
to achieve orgasm, or it can be employed as the only means of 
reaching orgasm..." (ibid.)

More ten-year-old boys than you would like to guess have been in this 
position and have said the words that were coming from Chas: "Yeah. 
Ouch! Ok, yeah. More...Deeper! Matt...bite it. Matt...bite me. 
Harder...Ungh! Oh God...I'm gonna. No more...Stop. I said stop! Oh 
God...Matt. Use your teeth!" These words were not said in succession, 
of course.  Instead they came amidst little grunts and between long 
stretches of silence except for the slurpy sound of oral sex, and our 
heavy breathing. Most boys cannot stand but a few seconds of this 
treatment, but if you can coax them to a minute, then five, never in 
their lives will they think of their asses as dirty again. Quickly I 
slurped down Chas's balls and dick, all at once. He whimpered.

"The glans penis is the primary focus of fellatio, although the shaft, 
frenulum, perineum, scrotum, testicles, and sometimes the anus 
receive attention. These areas are usually nibbled, licked, or sucked 
(the common name "blow job" is inappropriate because there is rarely 
any "blowing" performed). The penis may be inserted into the mouth 
to the depth of the glans, or it may be "deep throated" to the base of the 
shaft." (Human Sexuality: An Encyclopedia, NY, 1994)


I did the following to Chas : His response:

Frenulum = sucked
Chas = "Oooo....ahh...ungh..."
Perineum = licked/nibbled or nibble-licked
Chas = "Fuck!" and tries to push me back to his anus.
Scrotum & Testicles = licked, nibbled, and sucked
Chas = bites his arm and tears sparkle at the corner of his eyes.
Anus = sucked.
Chas = groans, small fart, giggles. I stretch him wider and start to 
chew.

I pulled away finally from the gyrating bottom. Chas dropped his legs 
and lay with his knees up, his feet planted on the bed, staring at me as I 
gazed over the terrain of is goods. I reached under and rubbed his 
crack with my fingers, crossing his taint and squeezing his balls that 
had descended in the heat of our lust. I grabbed his legs and twisted so 
he would turn over on his stomach. I lit the candle and threw the glow 
stick under the bed. In the softer light my eyes feasted on the pre-
pubescent body that was now mine.

"Oral-genital sexual activity has a history dating to antiquity, and its 
acceptance or rejection varied (and still varies) from culture to culture. 
The rejection of the practice usually centered around the idea that it 
was nonprocreative and an "unnatural" act. The ancient Romans 
practiced a type of fellatio in which the penetrating partner remained 
relatively motionless and the receptive partner did most of the work; 
irrumation occurred, with the penetrator engaged in vigorous buccal or 
laryngeal thrusts. [Duh! The Romans knew what boys wanted!]
 
"Some religions tolerated the practice and others actually incorporated 
oral-genital contact into their rituals. Hinduism regarded oral-genital 
contact as a sin that could not be expiated in fewer than 100 
reincarnations. [So what! If I can tongue a boy's ass until he cums 
again and again, I deserve to be reincarnated, to re-mouth-fuck him, of 
course!] However, in erotic manuals of the same period, there is an 
eight-step set of directions to be used by eunuchs when performing the 
activity. Eunuchs performed cunnilingus in those cultures in which 
men maintained harems, and, of course, the women participated in the 
activity with each other. [Let us not forget the Eastern boy-harems! I'd 
take one lovely boy with an ass of peach to a room full of women any 
day.]

"Ritual fellatio is reported by studies of the Sambia of New Guinea. 
The Sambia believe that a boy is born with an internal organ that will 
eventually produce both semen and growth, but it must be supplied 
with semen from older men before it can do so. Various rules 
determine who the semen donor will be (e.g., the sister's husband is 
desirable; the father is not acceptable). The boy, from about the age of 
ten, tries to accept semen every day by performing fellatio on a proper 
donor. After six to eight years as an acceptor, he becomes a donor. 
The practice of oral-genital sex is well documented in other ancient 
cultures as well as in modern ones. It is becoming more widely 
accepted among young and better educated individuals." (Human 
Sexuality: An Encyclopedia, NY, 1994) 

In the perspective of what was to come, the deflowering of Chas 
McIntyre, the boy seemed younger than he should. He looked smaller 
in the transient flame, delicate, unused. I place a hand on each of the 
small boy cheeks and felt him. I emphasize the verb "to feel". I close 
my eyes and see with touch the perfect rump of the most perfect of the 
boys.

I am fragmentary in my hesitation. Each breath that he takes I can feel 
enliven his blood and circulate to these erogenous zones that over the 
last few minutes I have tenderized. The three episodes of time shift 
around the room in the shadows. In my mind's eye I see them, the 
ghost of past that was the expecting child, molested by various factors 
beyond his control, and I'm not talking sex. The ghost of future with 
his rear-end proffered in a multitude of dishes. This ghost shows me 
that I will shove little chunks of chocolate up his ass and fuck him on 
the slime it makes. That I will fuck him in my kitchen using liquefied 
margarine from the microwave. That I will fuck him in his mother's 
bedroom with a dab of petroleum jelly. That I will fuck him in that 
projection room without even the aid of our spit. That I will lift him 
from the toilette as he shits and fuck back into him deposits of his own 
feces. That I will fuck him after a shower when he's so clean the sound 
of our mating is all squeaks, and smells of soap. But the doppelganger 
of the future shifts. Chas also fucks me, or has me fuck him so that it 
seems like he is the one pistoning my cock in and out of him. To think 
that this little hiney could be so busy with what is to come.

Presently there is only the act. "What's that?" he asks.

"It's KY. It will make it slick."

"Where'd you get it?" 

"A friend." I said. I had found it by the rocks. A little travel bottle for 
special occasions. I would not use it all, Seth might need it. The 
picture of him and his friend together contrasted starkly with the image 
of Chas before me. I pictured they're large cocks and patches of pubic 
hair. Boyish only in the fact that they possessed minor charms. Chas 
on the other hand showed no indication of man-hood; he was a boy the 
way Ganymede was a boy when Zeus took him.

"It's cold." He said. I dabbed my finger at his anus and he pushed his 
butt back towards me. I gave him a gentle swat. My finger sunk in all 
the way, but he was tighter than I thought he would be. "mmmm," he 
spread his legs and I slicked the length of his crack. "ungh, oh boy." I 
introduced two fingers. "Slow, ok?" he whispered. I didn't say 
anything. He was nervous. I had fingered fucked him to a loose 
pudding on other occasion, but at those times there was some sort of 
silent contract between us that he would not do it the "Arab way". 
Though I could see him wearing the long shirt that the young 
Moroccan boys wore that granted easy access to their charms, boys of 
eight taking cocks all day long, and then flirting their older brothers 
into bed when they went home. 

I took the bottle of KY and gave Chas a squirt right into his hole. With 
this new lubrication my fingers eased in like a boy slipping into a tight 
Speedo. I tried to avoid rubbing his prostate directly, but the peripheral 
friction stopped Chas's breath. If the fever had broken on the outside, it 
was still alive on the inside.

His rectum walls were slick and spongy. Then he quivered, the thing 
all boys and boylovers know about, that involuntary spasm that starts 
deep down, maybe at the very last vertebra, and moves outward and 
upward through the sensory channels, flesh: fatty tissues, muscle with 
never-endings. . . yet sometimes it is ambiguous as to its origin, 
perhaps in that little nub that boys have for a prostate, that unusable 
little button that rocks their worlds, glandular and  muscular stuffs 
through which a portion of the urethra travels, lined (in boys) with 
dormant ejaculatory ducts produced by some magical bond of the vas 
deferens and seminal vesicles which will some day--but not today--
help produce roughly thirty percent of Chas's semen fluid..."Oh, 
ugh...Matt, you toucheded it!" said Chas to no one really, more to 
himself, thinking out loud, thinking with his ass as boys who enjoy a 
regime of butt sex tend to do.

Ahhhh, Chas's prostate! And like Colt and all the other boys, it will 
remain to him and me a source of mystery. The sine quo non of anal 
congress. The deus ex machina of all my sad brother boylovers who 
had but one chance to get it right before the fuzz busted them. If only 
they had concentrated their efforts on that half-a-walnut lump in the 
tight derri�re of their beloveds, if only! Unknown to many, and here 
revealed in this run-on paragraph, is the mechanic of the prostate: the 
Boy-spot, the true "absence" that women crave is this nubbin of 
intricately related systems, not the fleshy cock of which their clits 
ought to be enough to satisfy them, but this thing is what segregates 
them from the men and the boys, the thing that some sorry sap dubbed 
the G-spot, the phantasmagoric floating variable of women, that filled 
hours of Oprah Winfrey daytime talk--when she wasn't hunting 
boylovers--that thing in boys that somehow became the obsession of 
the fairer sex so that they sat around for hours in Gestalt therapy 
classes "getting to know" their vaginas and hypothesizing on methods 
of hunting down and capturing Dr. Grafenberg's theory when in 
actuality their ten-year-old sons come home flushed faced and ass 
fucked, grab a cucumber from the fridge and in the privacy of their 
rooms slip it home on the residue semen from seven-teen-year-old Tim 
down the block or forty-five-year-old Mr. D----in his apartment above 
the five-n-dime. The prostate, that now I dare bother, just a little tickle 
and Chas nearly cums...here is the source of the dry orgasm, the little 
button that on a boy of this age is like a dry pump sucking air during 
the various stages of the "boygasm". It jumps, twitches, buzzes, hums 
in its contractions along with the rectum tube and other subsidiary 
muscles-- including but not limited to the thigh muscle. the abdominal 
majors, his toes, and that little cord in his neck that I once thought of 
sucking as he suffered the bends of particularly awesome cum -- 
happily, no secretions from this boy, my little prince is as dry as the 
Sahara dunes on a sunny afternoon. If I were a dictator I would make it 
a crime, a sin, to have a boy reach the age of nine without having had 
direct manipulation--via a puersexual--to orgasm by this little node. 
The prostate, the dark continent, and then the ghost in the machine, if 
you will, and later that troubling thingy that men must deal with when 
at age 50-plus-or-so, it might swell causing painful urination, gets 
infected with an embarrassing yeasty smell, and ultimately must have 
it cut out--secretly wishing they would of used it more as preteen boys. 

This nugget--now making my sex-boy squirm his head into his pillow 
in silent concentration of the ministrations at some spot in him sub-
terior to his omphalos--is the cause of seventeen percent of cancer in 
men, this tragic fact written somewhere in the source code of the little 
boy's genome that looks suspiciously like a self-destruct command. 
Like Chas who--now biting his wrist, curling his toes, grunting and 
splitting his ass by arching the narrow saddle of his back--will die of 
the this disease when he is seventy-six, long after I am dead, and long 
after he realized that the lonely feeling was never going to go away, 
and that part of it was the memory of this night and how once on a 
windy day in his old age, carrying water, he realized he had been 
happy. In his collected letters that sit collecting dust in the far future (a 
future now uncertain), in a modest house among rolling hills and 
farmland, in the cold dusk of evening, will be found more than one 
entry about what it means for a boy to have been the lover of a man. 

And to think that all this exists because of the prostate of a little boy 
with a chirping voice. And to think that each little boy carries this 
inside of him, second knuckle in and head for the navel, or Pan's more 
roundabout and far more poetic second star to the right and straight on 
'til morning. (That's how you fuck a boy.)

Then Chas fell to the bed with an audible sigh and went limp all over. 
His butt cheeks pressed back to their natural order causing my fingers 
to eject all but to the first joint and squeezing the remainder just 
beyond the rim of his anus. For a minute I thought he was asleep until 
like a timid dancer twisted he his torso and turned himself over while I 
felt the internal slide against his tube. Chas had his bottom lip sucked 
into is mouth and I could see his upper teeth in the candlelight, little 
pearls against his dark skin. His thin, unsure, hard, hooded pecker 
gazed at me like a little bird. I knew then that my boy's sex-life would 
commence in the missionary position.

Like a giant bird, an eagle, my body hovered over the nubile form of 
my young lover. My hands parted wide on the bed to support my 
weight, my knees draw up and planted hard into the mattress on either 
side of his narrow hips, his own legs bent back and draped over my 
man-thighs. The underside of my dick stroked and covered the under 
side of Chas's smaller one, both pointing up to our heads. For first 
penetration it was either I who would need to hunch back and search 
for an asshole, or he who would have to rock back and find a cock. But 
for the moment, for the minute or long seconds our desires trembled, 
fragile as a crystal holding fire on bedrock waiting for an earthquake. 
Fragile as Kierkegaard's Abraham and Isaac, fragile as Jacques 
Derrida's interpretation of them.

Now boy and man are not yet one person, not yet in flesh if in spirit. 
The boy still untried, uninitiated. His ass slick as snot on glass, surely 
it can take the bull, surely it must as little boys have taken it since the 
darkness in the cave, 

in the light beside the river, 

in the fields of the poppies, 

in the back of hay wagons, 

in the soldier's tent the night before the battle, 

in the temple ritual on the stone alter to the wide eyes and other men 
and boys, in the rain a honey colored lad fucked clean through by a 
man, in the castle tower--a small ring flower tattooed around his anus,

in the school room after hours, 

in the bath house, 

in the back house, 

in the smoke house by the smoking slabs of elk, 

on ships sailed by pirates or seamen each noble enough to fuck a boy 
and make him love it, 

in woods before the harvest in the Indian summer with a savage 
painted for war, 

in the sweet smell of West Indies sugar the white master of ten and the 
nigger slave of twenty, 

on a river boat in the delta eve'n man and boy sweat on the other while 
faces playing poker on the shore laugh in the fire-fly light, the 
charming giggle of southern belles and voodoo, 

in a hotel room run by  Madame de Marseille the rest filled with men 
and women this one for a man and his boy of Creole blood, "the most 
beautiful boy in New Orleans" he wrote in a lost book unpublished, 

in the train car from Ohio City to Boise while the night passes buffalo 
herds and injuns hungry for revenge, 

in the Presbytery, priest and choir boy fuck to the rhythm of Hail 
Marries, Ave Maria, Ave Maria, 

in San Francisco the paperboy and the editor stayed up late writing the 
names of those perished in the fire, 

in the depression dust of Nevada a in small hovel on the edge of a 
Hoover Ville the once Wall Street banker and his son of nine grunt and 
grind their bodies, 

the Canadian soldier and the Norwegian lad during the first great war, 

the Nazi boy and the Jewish key maker fuck to high heaven not 
knowing that in the morning one will be executed on his knees and the 
other sent to the front line to be shot by an American while he stoops 
to drink water from a blooded stream, 

in 1952 in the back of a Cadillac on Rout 66 headed to Vegas a boy 
opens his flower to his older brother, 

in 1969 while they were going to San Francisco smoking weed and 
dropping acid and seeing Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds the man who 
writes poetry madly in the early morning splits with his magnificent 
tool the cream-colored ass of a ten-year-old hippie boy whose parents 
dress him like Cherokee and pay no mind to how utterly more lovely 
his body is like the body of the anointed David and his name is David 
'Da - vid' from the Russian and Latin an affirmation of life and this 
then would be the sixth time in as many weeks that he sipped 
mushroom tea with the man and stripped off all his clothes leaving not 
save for a fawn-skin vest and his buckskin moccasins cinched to up his 
knees and hears himself ask if the man will fuck on the way to the 
river to cool the fever that burns him, 

the yuppie in his Porche drives fast with his rendezvous next to him 
stroking his little bald friend, 

the Nineties so full of fear that a child might cum and like it that our 
puersexual brothers flee to the darkest corners and download kiddy 
porn and talk on websites of brighter days when the Constitutional law 
isn't so much like the Nazi law yet here boy finds sex with his best 
friend's uncle in his suburban law office, 

and the new millennium ushered in with fear and loathing and tiger-
growls of young boys taking it up the ass, 

in the illegal war in Iraq a U.S. soldier befriends a Muslim boy who 
tried to kill him except for his machine gun jammed and tender fingers 
could not pull the pin of the grenade to take both, one to infidel hell 
and the other to some elysian field, and the soldier dares goes AWOL 
while he and the boy hide in an abounded apartment in Falouja and 
fuck like there is no tomorrow because there may not be and the 
soldier if he had killed the boy they would have given him a medal and 
called him a hero but that he loves the boy they will shout pervert 
pervert pervert and give him years and years in jail, 

so now let them fuck small boy ass and big man cock let them kiss 
God of heaven fuck you in all your immortal glory you little bitch, 
fuck you and look at this boy getting it on with a man, and in years 
after in all the places of the Earth, in the time before and the time after, 
the holy city of Sodom descendeth out of heaven adorned like bride for 
her groom, more holy than the holy of holies, so boy lies on his back 
in wait, tenderly I must fuck him. . .

Chas looks up at me. My face flushed, my hair falling into my eyes. 
Does he look up at me like I am the sky? I look down into his eyes that 
are deep pools of life. They sparkle. They laugh. They dare me. I kiss; 
the eagle swoops and pecks on his lips the kiss. And he smiles. And I 
am happy. He and I in the light of one candle and the dark red shadows 
that stand like still animals on the farther wall. The locked door and 
the barred window keep the Monster at bay. Here it is only I and my 
boy. Here for hours, many hours safe from the storm. God, I can feel; 
he's warm, but it's a mutual heat. He is warm. I am warm. Together we 
are hot. And yes, that's him. He's rooting his little boy cock gently 
against my massive one. Not huge to be abnormal, but larger. The 
smell of us, of skin and sweat, musky, of ass. The taste of boy-ass on 
my mouth holds with me like after eating garlic. YES! At once he 
rocks back and I hunch down, and we are almost aligned. Slowly.  
There. I take my hand and wipe my large-flared glans from shallow 
crevasse just beneath his perineum to the deep trench of his hole. "Ah! 
Oh, Matt!" he whimpers. No, I continue out of the tiny Charbdys to the 
shallow end, to the flat lands of his lower back then again, forward! 
Over the mouth, toy with it, kiss it with my one-eyed worm. "Ungh." 
Chas humps up hoping for gold, but I'm quick enough to pull back so 
that at best he just prolongs the kiss. Sweet Christ he is hot back there, 
slick. But he ought to be, I worked long enough. Slick from the KY 
and from my mucus, and of course from his sweat.

Loose, too. He lets out little chirps and songs, grunts and moans of 
distress. Shit, he's so fucking ready. Fuck, he was probably ready that 
first night on the beach. I could have had him there; just as the world 
was ending Chas would be cuming. And every time after, it was all 
ass-sex with him, all he wanted. Or was it I? I'm the one who focused 
back there. Me, fresh from the anal skills of Colt, I purposefully 
brought Chas this far. We could have sucked off for a good year before 
I even hinted there was more. . .is that true? Can a boy in rut not think 
of his ass? Not think of that empty hole he shits from? There is some 
doubt in this. "Matt," his husky whisper fills the room. "Please." He's 
begging. His knees drawn up tight squeezing just under my armpits. 
His wide open ass right there, perfectly aligned. The head of my cock 
covering his volcano. I've taken him so far. That night finger-fucked 
him to a cum, I should have done him then. My head was in him, so 
far but so close. I jacked my cum into him for lubricant. But now, after 
his fever has broken, is he ready?

"Matt?" 

"Yes."

"I feel him there."

"I know. Chas you're so hot down there." I kiss him. Our tongues fight 
like little birds. They are not kind to each other.

"Go slowly," he whispers, his lips inside my mouth so that his words 
echo into the hallow of my chest. I groan long and loud at this.

"Ok. Here we go." I say and watch his eyes shut tight. Just the head 
first. I'm harder and bigger than I've ever been. I'm huge. I could tear 
into him so easily. How will it ever fit? All men who fuck boys muse 
this question. Yet we do it. And fuck-n-A we do them good.

"Sssssss...oh yeah,...slow....slow...slow..." he says it over and over 
again as if his words can control me. Can they? I go so slowly. I can 
actually feel the width of my head to the size of his volcano. I'm filled 
with the fact that I am larger than the hole I'm trying to worm into.

"Oh yeah!" I moan. It's been so long since Colt. So long for man to be 
without a boy. And to think how long I went before Colt. To think of 
all my brother boylovers out there who will never in their lives know 
this feeling. "Chas, God you're so hot."

"Tight butt," he whispers. "Urrngh!" he grunts. I laugh. He knows he is 
a tight ass. I'm filled with a sort of joy. Man fucks boy, yes. That is 
obvious. But by what Chas just said, he knows that as a boy he is tight. 
So he shares to some degree my sexuality, my sexual esthetic of his 
body and his boyhood. He is aware then that our union, man and boy, 
is a true thing, real sexuality, not some variation or perversion, some 
deviation from the normative, but it IS the normative itself. And with 
that thought the head of my dick is completely submerged inside a ten-
year-old boy with the body of a nine-year-old. "Ouch!"

"Are you ok?" I start to pull back.

"No, don't go!" he says with a sharp voice, trembling, like his legs next 
to me, shaking. His legs that must be tired and blood drained by now. 
"J-just be still for a second. Yeah. . .oh God. . .oh God. . . it's like, like. 
. . yeah. . .how far?" he is incoherent, lost to the brink of his own lust, 
a lust sharing unequal proportions to pain.

"Just the head." I say. Chas opens his eyes and looks into mine. The 
look he gives me is full of trust, full of some sort of submission, an 
acceptance of a role he knows somehow deep in his genes, in the code 
of his DNA, like an architectural style or movement is written the 
accent of his sexuality, and it is a beautiful thing.

"You're dick's big." He says with a cheeky smile. I push gently down 
on him, not going any further, but for sure adding pressure. His 
smiling lips turn round in a cute little "o" and the same sound escapes 
him, "Oh!"

"You like that?" He looks at me as if I'm joking. Then seeing that 
maybe I'm not, maybe I need to be sure, he nodes his rowdy head of 
hair.

"I like it." Says he. "I like it." He repeats in a whisper meant only for 
that space between him and I, not the storm that savages beyond the 
walls, not the larger, empty, impersonal room, not for the shadows, not 
for the dancing flame, just for him and me.

At that I am full of lust, of manly needs. I know I will hurt him, but 
only transiently like a passing storm hurts the Earth but leaves the 
promise of growth. "Arrrgh...ungh...oh,...eeengh!" he sighs grunts and 
chirps as I increase the pressure and his body accepts reluctantly one 
entire inch more of my body. "Oh, stop, stop. Yeah, j-just stay still, 
ok."

"Ok, I'm still." I stroke his stomach with my hand, lean body of boy, 
all perfect perfect all, fuck man fuck boy fuck in vulgar Latin dialect.

"Rest, you need to rest." He says, closing his eyes.

This is funny! I laugh! My little lover. My little hypocrite heathen. 
"Me? Rest? Maybe." I muse and twist a boy-nipple. His eyes flutter 
open and regard me skeptically, defiantly.

"Ok, I need to rest too." He admits with a hint of bruised pride. I forget 
how this is for a boy. Being the receptor unit. I forget how Colt, the 
first times we did it, filled himself with uncertainty and even guilt. 
That in the passivity of his position was some moral ambiguity. And 
perhaps boys would not think on it so dearly except that their little 
asses do so much more than the man-cock that fucks them. They must 
give way, open up, and take in a perfect stranger. Sometimes the silky 
wet walls of their rectums bruise, tear, bleed, their small anus stretched 
out of form, wide, tear, bleed. Blood being for a boy, heathen or no, a 
Christian sign of sin. So that after it is over he sees it and feels 
however subconsciously that the sin came from him, directly from the 
joy of his fuck. It's heavy shit, man, As Colt would say.

But rest or not. Chas's ass has a mind of its own. I feel the tight ring of 
his anus gaping open around my girth, feel it stretched tight. But also 
nibbling at the log of my dick. I feel the first internal inches of his 
rectum like a spongy mouth, panting in time with his sexed up pulse, 
squeeze, rest, squeeze, rest, squeeze, rest, squeeze. Chas, the resting 
Chas, left to the stillness is lost in his own devices.

"I can feel you, Chas." I say. I stroke his neck, rest my hand over the 
boyish throat, feel him swallow, breath, live. He smiles at me silently 
as if to say, I know, stupid, your big fat cock is shoving up my little 
butt! So I laugh, too. And he laughs. Ah! To fuck a boy!

"Matt, j-just move it a little bit, ok? Slow."

At first I am not sure what he has said. I was lost in the feeling of the 
silky shallow where my dick is lodged up him. But slowly, I back out, 
maybe a half inch, but it is half an inch of sensation for the boy, 
reversal of friction against the tender anal band that distends like a 
thin, rubber membrane. The noise that comes out of Chas is barely 
human, it is more animal, more instinctual, a guttural grunt and growl 
yet carrying the most sultry soprano I have ever heard. It was the 
music of him, of us, the violin of his ass played by the bow of my 
cock. Half an inch out and I push back, taking the membrane of his 
once active volcano in with me. At this he pulls back on the bed, 
unsure of my ability to control the depth, but I catch and I kiss. My 
little lover, it is ok, it is ok. You're just being fucked. This is how it is, 
at first. 

A short respite. Chas looks at me for confirmation. Gives a wicked 
little grin. Believes he is well fucked. He has earned it. Poor boy. 
Begging for it for so long, now that it's come he's not sure yet what to 
make of it. Like a miner who has done a thorough survey of the 
subterranean cave, I know the inner geography of Chas's rectum by 
heart. By shoving my maw into him until he groaned aloud, my very 
mouth has been this deep in his ass, slurping wildly at whatever I 
found. An inch and one half more and my penis head will softly kiss 
the edge of his prostate. Once done, shall we say, the fuck will be on.

"Go slow." His plea echoes in the little shelter. It's a novice plea, and 
understood for what it is, the virgin's prayer. For in a few hours, when 
we couple again, that will not be his instructions to me. A boy losing 
his ass virginity is a tender dance. Yes, slow. It's not a "Pop!" and 
gone, no, it's a philosophy of desire, a religion, a conversion. At this 
second we are only young lovers, but over the course of the hours we 
will grow old together. I might think that when my pubic bone crushes 
into his introverted anus, as if it was going to get up in him as well, is 
when he no longer is un-fucked, but for the boy's own determination of 
the state of his chastity--it is ambiguous.

Again I pull out and pause for him to give me the signal to push back. 
It comes from the first of what will be many, many little leg 
commands, as if I am a horse for him to ride. He taps my ribs with his 
knees, getty-up. I sink in the same distance, to the high watermark on 
my cock made by anal dampness. Again his knees on me, so I apply 
the pressure and hear him suck air trough his teeth. Are you ok? I ask 
with a look of love. Yes, he nods. We're almost there, I say. Where? 
You'll see. You'll know when we get there.

God he's tight. To think my fingers slurped in and out of him with 
barely any resistance. I feel against my cock like a blind man reads 
brail, the texture of his rectum. It's tight, tighter than I gave him credit 
for. But it's also slick and ribbed. In the sponge the musculature that 
trembles at my presence is a feeling of compartments in him, deep and 
deeper, each partitioned by a stronger muscle. The first of these now 
grips my cock head in an agonizing vice, then releases, then grips 
again. 

I've read stories, myths I thought, of boys who have a natural control 
of their asses. They have an acutely defined ability to control their 
internal muscle. But what for? Unless they were made for men, and 
men only. While Colt's anus was powerful and he knew how to work 
it, it felt nothing like Chas feels. Speaking of Chas, he groans beneath 
me. The heat between us is oven-hot. I'm sort of hunch-backed over 
him so that I can cram his hole while looking into his face. Not the 
most comfortable position. Colt and I soon discovered the better ones, 
the natural Karma Sutra of man-boy fucking.

"How far?" he pants. 

"Almost half." I say as I smooth the hair off of his forehead.

"Oh God...ungh!" he groans. He thought there was more in him. 
Suddenly he has become aware of the possibilities of what we are 
doing, of how a boy's bottom and man's penis can get along. I stop my 
slow pressure into him and give him a second to breath. But the second 
is taken by a chirp and a squeak and all of a sudden he his trying to 
ride the three inches I have in him.

"Let me." I say. I start slow, pulling all the way out save for the tip and 
pushing back at a steady pace, then stopping for a short breath, then 
pulling halfway out and pushing back, then a third, and back, then just 
flexing my penis, engorging it with blood.

"Arrrrgh.......arrrgh....arrgh...argh!" he grunts in fast succession. The 
sound of his pleasure drives me to a frenzy. There is nothing in the 
world like screwing a boy who is a noise maker. The gratification of 
instant feedback is erotic, soothing. It's good for the ego. Again I 
repeat the mathematical regression of my thrust--only on the last 
logarithm, instead of stopping I push deep into the dark slick tunnel of 
boyhood.

"Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgh.................arrrrrrrrrrrrrrgh...........arrrrrrrrrrrrgh.....arr
rrrrgh...arrrrrgh...arrrgh...arrgh...ungh! AHHHH! 
Ouch!...argh!...ungh!...oh shit...oh shit....Oh God, oh,...what? .... ?"

And so once again, for perhaps the billionth time in the history of the 
world, a man's penis grazed the sensitive surface of a young boy's 
prostate. I left it there, content to feel the internal contractions of my 
young lover dancing up and down the length of me, feeling the 
squeeze of his young muscle, the tight mouth, yet, of his anus ring 
sucking on the stick of my cock. Instead of stopping at the node with 
my spongy head, I had, lost in the sex, gone past it and roughed it with 
the rigid shaft of my dick. My mushroom head was somewhere beyond 
that, deeper in the little boy than I had planned. Perhaps two maybe 
three inches and all 6.7823 inches of man-cock would be in him. But 
where? How far did this cave go. True, I had mapped it, but mostly 
around the erogenous zone of the prostate. And yes. I had precisely 
measured my dick with laser accuracy one day a few years ago when I 
did have access to the equipment to do so. Colt thought it was funny. 
Indeed, it varied. 6.7823 is "nice and hard" as Colt said smirking, but 
as it came out of his young fucked ass it could grow to 7.328 inches 
with a sizeable girth in direct proportion.  Colt, at fourteen years, was 
proud to measure himself at 6.5 with the knowledge that if he was 
lucky he could get to 8.0 by the time he was eighteen. Despite his cock 
being nearly as big as mine, it remained I who would fuck mostly.

"...do it slow..." Chas was saying. I pulled out and felt his anus try to 
hold me in, try not to let me go, feeling the suction of the vacuum we 
created in there, hearing the familiar slurp of boy-ass and man-dick. I 
sat back on my haunches and looked at my head half lodged in his ass, 
the thin anus trying to hold on, trying desperately. I took hold of each 
small boy-foot and levered him up, opening his legs wider, his ass 
wider. In this position I pushed in all the way ("OH! ARRRNGH! 
UNGH!"), shoving against his prostate, sliding past it and into him, 
kept going in, farther in, SLAM! All the way in. "Oh, shit...ouch!" and 
stopped, my heavy balls jingling against his buns.

Still we stayed. Fucked together. Chas, in my mind, no longer the 
master of his ass. Deflowered as they might say, the boy was impaled 
wide open on the length of my cock. He looked through his wide open 
legs at me, his lovely face full of awe, pain, desire, questions. Why? 
How?

"There." I said. It was done.

"Ungh,...yeah." he said. "You feel..." he didn't know how to explain it. 
Didn't know the words he should use. Did not know the technical 
jargon about his ass being used in such a manner. I'd mouth fucked 
him before, got him off like that. Had shoved my fingers up in him. 
But now, with me "in him" literally filling him, touching something 
deep in him, deeper than anything, deep on a psychological level, that 
deep. Deep to where his tummy hurt, to where his throat bulged, to 
where....

"Chas, what's wrong?" tears streamed from the corners of his large 
doe-eyes. "Did I hurt you?" I started to pull out, resolved to repair him 
somehow, comfort him.

"No! Don't move!" He shouted. "Don't..." and he gripped with the boy-
vice of his rectum, the tiny muscles acutely feeling my own alive 
member. "Just,...arrgh!" he spasm-ed, not anally but in his body, in his 
chest, in his face.

I stroked his legs; let his feet go to dangle about in the air. Stroked 
down to the small cock engorged to bursting. Squeezed his balls. 
Jacked him once or twice, but knew that this was not where he needed 
it to be. Where he needed it was already taken care of. 

"Chas?" I said timidly. He whimpered an unintelligible noise. "We did 
it."

"I feel him in there,...it's,...I can't explain." He said, wiping the tears 
from his eyes. I had not been fucked as a boy, so I did not know 
exactly his feelings. Colt tried telling me once, about how it builds and 
builds and how you just want it to end, but it keeps going. He tried to 
tell me how it felt to be on the edge for so long and then the spasms, 
the ripple effect, the spiraling away from reality, the feeling of utter 
submission, of being full and complete and the thing that was an 
orgasm but not how he could explain. And then the man cuming in the 
boy, deep in him, into his body. And then the slow climb down, and 
feeling of emptiness, the void within, the absence of something gained 
and lost, something precious. And after, the ghost feeling of a man's 
cock. And then the retightening, the regaining of pulverized muscles. 
He explained about the times when the boy's ass comes alive on its 
own. Sitting at school, maybe, and something triggers it--another cute 
boy or randy teen-- and the ass gets sweaty and "needy", Colt had said 
with a blush. "It opens by itself." He said. And that feeling of lust so 
primal, to be bent over and screwed, re-filled. 

And now Chas, now he would be the same. "I know, my love." I said. I 
know. I rubbed a hand across his bunched up tummy, up to his chest, 
thumbed his nipples. I wiped the saline of his tears and sucked it to my 
mouth. In reverence Chas saw this, saw how I wanted to eat his very 
pain. 

Locked in the hypnotic gaze I'm not sure when I realized Chas was 
fucking himself on my cock. He had looped his arms under his legs 
and grabbed my hands. And then the spell lifted or changed, but I was 
made aware that his hungry little bottom was gyrating, grinding, 
making small motions, thrusts and humps. In the stillness a boy can 
only take so much before movement must replace the large mass in his 
bowels. The sight of his ass at work was enchanting. The feeling of his 
insides sliding on me, gripping, loosening, drove my own hips to 
match his little movements with large thrusts. I had to go slow, very 
slow, but soon I was deep dicking him in a period of every few second 
-- pulling almost clean out and then shoving in. Chas's eyes went from 
wide wonder to being clenched shut as a spasm passed through him, to 
contented slits like a cat being stroked. At some point I realized his 
cock had gone limp, not flaccid, just relaxed, flopped over and 
pointing its hooded eye to the business in Chas's butt. The inner of the 
boy's thighs flexed, clenched and relaxed, as did his tummy and his 
jaw, all of him seemingly concerned with his fuck. In time with each 
steady thrust his little toes, perfect in form, flexed stretched out, and 
curled tightly inwards, his feet seeming to want to roll up. In a 
religious awe I lifted his left foot and sucked the toes of it into my 
mouth, licked from the small, delicate heel to the tender of the sole, to 
the ball and each toe lapped with my mouth while he grunted and 
panted and chirped bird-like, and listened to the slurp-slurp-slop of the 
ass-fuck.

All this time the little words flying from his sultry lips made no sense. 
They were just noises of sex, that's all, of a boy having sex. Music.

It is difficult to know if I underestimate the pain more or the pleasure 
that Chas felt that first time. With Colt the pain was obvious even if he 
was the one who insisted on screwing. When it was over the city boy 
had cum, but I could tell that for his release he had paid a price. It was 
the third night of our sex that I knew the pleasure permeated all. I 
fucked Colt gamely on his bed while his mother slept downstairs. Then 
we made it to Central Park and fucked in a bathroom stall on the 
leftover scum in his hole. At the end of the day when the sun was 
setting we found a deserted strip of beach, away from anybody, on 
Cooney Island. The bay extending out to barges and dull gray sky and 
ocean. His voice quivered, all of ten but braver because he had to be a 
man for his mother. He asked me, then, to fuck him, using those 
words. And I did, and I knew that he had finally found his pleasure.

Chas is different. I know he must have felt pain, but not enough to 
steal his boyish greed for sex. "Matt...please, please do it harder." He 
hissed and bared his teeth in a grimace of passing ecstasy.

At that I bent his legs back levering his small ass to the dark ceiling, 
practically leaning over him I ever so gently thrust harder. Then 
harder. And harder. Each time Chas gaped at me, his mouth in an 
expression of unknown pondering. As I pushed down into him, 
slamming past his prostate, pushing his bladder, he seemed to open up 
to me, to shove back onto me as a repayment. And then I hit something 
hard in him, something that felt like bone and I knew I had bottomed 
out, as they say, on my boy. As I pulled away he clenched the 
weakened muscle of his rectum in a valiant attempt to posses me, but 
only increasing the friction that builds along the internal walls of a 
boy, the heat that builds and builds, more and more, and until, 
"Oooooh! Ungh! Oooooo Fuck Ooooo Fuck!" Chas was cuming. 

I slammed into him again and again, his peak spiraling upward causing 
his limbs to flail erratically, he lost the rhythm of his ass, letting it go 
in boyish spasms, wild and reckless. The feeling for me was a low 
vibration that traveled up my shaft and throughout my body. From 
between us arose the musty smell of sex, the smell of overheated flesh, 
of the interior of a boy's ass, sweat, salt, spit, all that we used in pre-
sex to turn us on now reactivated by the heat within. And I was there 
with my boy. At the top, ready to fall. He dropped his legs from their 
upside down bug-like suspended position, and for some reason he 
covered his limp genitals, holding his tiny balls in his small hands. I 
thrust in to him as I could, I lifted his ass and slammed deep in, bunny-
fucking him to the last. With a giant grunt he pulled  off me and rolled 
into the fetal position. My cock slurped out of him, Hard and close to 
spewing. His ass I needed. I Shoved up behind him and easily shoved 
home. Again and again into the curled little body, and I heard his 
moaning, his grunting, felt his anus clench, then the my cum spurting 
into him, filling, smelling up the room with it's mild aroma.

I curled around the boy. Cooing into his ear, kissing his back, feeling 
guilty that I had taken advantage when he had pulled away. "Chas," I 
said, "Chas." But he did not respond. I blew out the candle and 
covered us in the huge blanket. My cock lodged home inside of him. 
As if all of a sudden needing me in a way not sexual, the cowering boy 
turned--my dick audibly popping out with a wet burp-- and lay into my 
body, stretching languid limbs across mine. He kissed me. I kissed 
him. God how we kissed. I had no sense of time. I knew it must have 
been morning, but it felt like the end of a long day. Chas played with 
the slight hairs on my chest and around my nipples. Usually I shave 
them, but I had become lazy and let them grow. I touched him all over, 
but mostly stroked his side from chest to hip and kissed his brow, 
smelled of his sea-salted hair. In my arms after sex he was a little boy. 
He hummed an unformed tune to himself, though he could have been a 
choirboy singing to me, such was the beauty I found in his voice.

By and by we fell into the position that we would take many times in 
the future, his small back burrowing into my front, and I curled around 
him. On to my abdomen I felt the juices leak from his slack yawing 
asshole and slide down my thigh. I wondered if some of it was blood. 
Then sleep came like a crow putting its wings over our eyes. We slept 
the sleep of lovers' first union and did not dream.

. . .

I woke to Chas moving against me. His lips kissing my nipple, his 
inexperienced hands fumbling with my body. I hugged him to me 
eliciting a grunt. He was warm and sweaty. "How are you?" I asked 
him in the blackness of our room. The glow stick had died leaving the 
kind of darkness one finds deep in a cave.

"Fine." He said simply and wrapped his leg over my body so that our 
cocks, both flaccid little creatures, mashed together. My fingers 
explored into his rectum. I grazed them across what I had done to him 
and felt an open mouth. With a finger I thought was tender I traced the 
brim of his anus. Chas cringed and hissed his pain into the flesh of my 
chest, drop his leg from my hip close his back door to my perusal.

"Sore?" I asked.

"Yeah, a bit." He said, then added as an after thought, "Just right there, 
on the. . .on that part."

"I'm sorry?" I said. Feeling guilt, but not much, at what I had put him 
through. What guilt was there to have except that my penis had made 
him sore, but that was also, in part, due to his gyrating ass. Beyond 
that I mused that there were no laws anymore to prevent us from our 
lust. Even before that, the idea that laws might affect my sex with Colt 
were minimal. I looked on all the legal cases, the constitutional 
amendments, the amicus briefs with superior disdain. Before the 
impact the American Psychological Association labeled me as a 
pedophile, an adult with a psycho-sexual disorder who has a deviant 
attraction to pre-pubescent boys. Even after the Rind et al. report was 
released that showed a majority of boys who have had consensual 
sexual relations with men look back on the encounters as positive later 
in life. It was all politics, all rhetorical posturing in a political world 
where it was profitable to construct a boogieman enemy wherever they 
looked. To them I wasn't a human, I was a cold statistic, a "perverted" 
and "abnormal" one at that. 

And Colt, he was "abused" a "victum" if discovered he would have 
been treated like a criminal because some PhD somewhere wrote a 
nicely worded paper that said boys who have sex with men will grow 
up to be men who have sex with boys. Now, I should hope so! I want 
more than anything for Chas to take a boy for a lover when he is man, 
to give that boy pleasure, to protect him, nurture him, learn from him, 
to laugh with him. All the millions of things that have given men like 
me and boys like Chas joy since forever, since Jesus Christ healed the 
boy who was a lover to that faithful Roman soldier.

I remember in that time of early martial law right after the public was 
made aware that the Earth would ultimately be destroyed. The federal 
government had given "power of authority" to churches. I remember 
how in Georgia the Southern Baptist Convention went into the prisons 
and pulled out all the men serving time for "child molestation". They 
had what they called "moral trials" on the front lawn of the state 
capital, and when the men were found guilty they were executed. Colt 
and I watched the news when in they tied three "moral perverts" to the 
back of an SUV drug them fifty miles down the interstate, leaving a 
trail of body parts, guts, and brain matter from Pittsburgh to Lake 
Eerie on the summer asphalt. I turned it off, but Colt was shaking. He 
wept in my arms and would not make love for three days, he was so 
scared.

I read a report where the Scientist said that boylovers "skew" reality, 
convincing themselves that their sexuality is legitimate. He said that 
we "reify" our beliefs by interacting with Internet communities for 
support and advice. I wanted to reach through that research paper and 
rip his head off. How easy it was for him to sit in his ivory tower and 
write academically disguised vitriol that pandered to the "moral 
sensibilities" of Americans. It gives me comfort to smirk at him now. 
If I believed in God I'd pray that he was burnt to a pile of ash, better 
yet that he survived and saw the failure of his social construction. 
Better yet that he had three young sons and to save his chicken-shit life 
he willingly pimped them out, one by one, for meager food and water. 
The latter is the most probable.

Chas is warm next to my body. He brings me back to reality. Back 
away from my rage at a society that controlled me for so long, a 
society that is now dead and can no longer hurt him or me. His little 
prick has gone stiff, the little monkey.

I grab the bottle of half-empty Evian and take a swig, wash it in my 
mouth taking the fermented taste of boy with it. In the dark I find 
Chas's tender mouth and when he opens his lips for a kiss I spit the 
tepid fluid, my spit, his ass, into his mouth. He coughs and chokes a 
little but swallows it and kisses me back with raw-hungry lips. I swig 
again and repeat the same. This he washes in his mouth and then spits 
it back into me. In the short time he held it, washed it over his tongue 
it refreshed; it tasted to me like liquid crystal, warm and all boy. I spit 
it back to him and he passed it back to me and I let it dribble from 
mouth across his face and down his neck to his chest and belly where I 
followed to lick it up like a thirsty animal come across a sweating rock 
in the desert. The boy of ten bent at exotic angles to give access to his 
skin. 

I found his cock and sucked him with my wet mouth. He was dry 
though, as he would be for a few years, but that is not why men like 
me have thirsted for the dry phallus of immature boys, we do it 
because of faith, because we are holy men, the last of the true 
believers, we hunger for that which is beauty and only beauty. Little 
boys cannot ejaculate, but that is not the barometer of love. We are 
boylovers because we know inside the boy is the ultimate potential, in 
all his dry orgasms and precocious exploration is the man we know 
will be, that we guide, that we do not oppose like his parents or his 
society, but the man to whom we give perfect affirmation in the form 
of the boy that he is. And this is hope, and we know this is a faith more 
pure than the belief in Jehovah, "Now faith is the substance of things 
hoped for, the evidence of things not seen." Says the book of Hebrews. 

After I give Chas a quick cum with my mouth sopping his crotch, my 
fingers tickling his ass. I get up from the bed and feel the cool, stale 
air. In the darkness I see nothing, but I feel the boy spread eagle below 
me, gazing up as blindly and as full of faith into the dark nothing that 
swallows me from him.

I stumble to the door and open the window. I have to shield my eyes 
from the full light of day, light that streams in and turns everything 
around me to a still stone. But the storm still rages. I can see trees have 
fallen. I go to the phone but it is still dead. I return to the closet and 
pull out more power bars and bag of dried fruit, more water, too.

Chas and I eat and say little. He feeds me a dried peach from his salty 
fingers. Then spits a gulp of water into me to wash it down--giggles, 
he likes that trick--his full lips gracing over mine hoping for a kiss, but 
I deny him, feeling his lust grow. He sits down and munches on 
granola.

I can't help but touch him. I trace my fingers across his face, down his 
tummy twist his half-hard penis, heft his wimpy ball sack. He is sitting 
with his legs cross. The light from the window falls only across one 
side of our forms, like the moon we both are possessed of a dark half, 
an alter ego that starves for sex, for lust, for cum, for fuck, like our 
bodies starve for food and drink.

I brake off chunks of the chocolate bar and pop one in my mouth. Chas 
is eating a chewy apple with cinnamon sugar dried into it. He only lifts 
his eyes for to meet my kiss, and his mouth opens and I pass him the 
melted lump of chocolate. One eye, the one on the light side, opens 
wide at sweet taste of this unexpected gift, twinkles at me. The eye on 
the dark side grows suspicious and lusty, sees me with the vision of a 
boy who has been fucked before by a man, now starting to learn the 
language with which we solemn men talk to boys like him. He kisses 
me back but the chocolate is well dissolved and vanished down his 
throat. I feed him another dark piece, but before he can devise a plan to 
eat it or feed it to me from his mouth, I push my fingers between his 
lips and teeth and fish it form the warm table of his tongue.

His mouth is slack as if I have just pillaged him there, and I have, sort 
of. The chocolate on my fingers he eyes curiously. What am I going to 
do? With an easy motion obtained between two lovers who have given 
up their bodies to the other I push between his legs, between the lips of 
his ass just below his perineum, into darker caldron and the tender 
dilation of his anus. He does nothing but watch and feel, lifting only a 
fraction to allow my fingers to poke it into him.

I brake off another piece of chocolate and slip it into my mouth. He is 
hypnotized by this, his heart pounding in his chest with the adrenaline 
of the unknown. Again I take the slimy chocolate and finger the sticky 
morsel into his chute. Ever so slightly he leans back giving access, no-
-carte blanche to do to him what I will. And what is that? I have made 
traditional man-boy love to him. Can I not be content with that? Must I 
travel this dark path of variation, of tangential sexual games? I feel his 
spongy canal, still tender and a little swollen from its deflowering. He 
tries to squeeze it around my fingers and succeeds only enough to 
make me aware that he is trying.

With one and playing inside of him, I break off two more pieces of 
chocolate. One I feed to Chas, the other I take. I remove my hand, and 
sit back to watch him. After a minute he spits out in a puddle of siliva 
the thick chocolate smoothed ovular by the heat and sucking of his 
mouth. Time for us has stopped, or at least does not proceed with that 
other time, that outside time. This moment of truth is a time bent from 
time, a universe of its own, occupied by a boy and man.

Chas timidly lowers his fingers bearing the chocolate gift to his penis. 
Stops. Looks up at me. I make no motion, no communication. He tilts 
back and with his young digits pokes the slick chocolate past his weak 
anus and into his rectum. He has done it. He has chosen to be 
complicit in the preparation of his sex for me. He now knows, if in not 
so many wards, that his butt is something that must be cared for, 
managed, prepared for the sex he and I will pursue. In the future he 
will do other things on his own to ready this part of his body. This 
moment was just a first step on that journey that will absorb so much 
of his life, his attention. He now understands that his ass is a morsel, 
something akin to the sweetness of chocolate. It is something that he 
now knows I am keen on eating, licking, and sucking. In years to come 
this will concern him, not negatively, but for evermore he knows that 
his ass is now something yummy, something desirable, by me, yes, but 
also by men in general. Chas has acquired a wisdom.

I take my chocolate and poke it into him on the tip of one finger. In a 
hypnotic ritual we finish the bar between us, sucking the chocolate and 
feeding it up the boy butt. With the last piece I paint each of his 
nipples with brown, I rub it over his now erect penis.

My handiwork finished I sit back and sip on the water bottle. I need to 
pee so I get up and do that. I should check the phone. On the bed Chas 
is reclined in such a position because he feels the contents of his butt 
hole and is attempting to retain it. The look he gives me breaks my 
heart. It is one of pleading, of submission. Begging that I turn my 
attention on him. Fuck the telephone. Fuck me.

I sit down and press his legs back, roll him on his back. Glorious ass 
bubbles up. My lips kiss the ridge of what used to be a volcano, but 
now is just an opening.

"awwwrrrrrngh!" Chas moans. He is full of long expectation for the 
entire dance of sex. What came before was just a promise of his future 
as a bottom.

I rim the other edge like a basketball circling its hoop. Chas splits his 
knees with his hands, opening up more. 

Who is the god of Cannon Gate?

I, for I trifle with men and fate.

There is no holding back from nuzzling my mouth, chin, nose into his 
pit. Coated by the thick chocolate I am full of a smell like brownies 
cooking and then the smell of boy, of what we did before, my cum. As 
if a boy stooped over the brownie bowl and shit his man-fucked stool 
into the batter. The chocolate pooled in the cave of my boy, and when 
a ripple shook his body the thick dark brew seemed to bubble up and 
cover my lapping tongue in sweet musk. I sipped from him as I could, 
dipped the tip of my tongue into the puddle of chocolate, and 
swallowed the warm fondue from the hot tunnel of Chas's ass.

Chas was blubbering words and noises like his rear was blubbering 
chocolate mixed with mucusy cum. As if on cue he turned slowly over, 
burying his head in the mattress, elevating his bum, ass opened wide. 
If there was a wind in the room in would have whistled as it blew over 
his hot, yawning mouth. With numb, sweet lips I gnawed on up his 
crevice. Then I rose and placed my dick at the hole. Small resistance. 
Four thrusts and I was buried in him. Chas did not wait for me to begin 
to piston my crank down his shaft. As if the DNA code that comprised 
his sexual identity kicked in, he started bobbing the bubble of his butt 
up and down, shaking my cock like lever, scraping it over the tender, 
chocolate coated prostate that nestled in the core of his being.

I placed my hands on his hips stilling him. Kneeled behind him like a 
man does. Stroked this back from narrow hips to boyish shoulders, 
back down the center of his spine feeling each vertebra, to the flare of 
his dewdrop ass which I squeezed like a melon in a grocery store, 
testing for ripeness and flavor. I reached under and grabbed his little 
cock feeling the sticky chocolate. It was flaccid. I yanked it without 
response. I took his young balls in my hand palmed them, squeezed 
them until he grunted and groaned in protest. Not releasing them, I 
pulled them taught and started doggy fucking Chas with deep, 
penetrating strokes that left him breathless and shouting into the 
mattress words I dare not repeat. For when a boy swears his sexual 
desire it is the most sacred chanting one will ever be graced to hear.

If the room held a chill our rutting produced a humid atmosphere 
around the nest of our bed. Each time I pressed into the boy I felt the 
warm goo ooze out around the base of my penis, covering my pubes 
with coco flavored froth, seeping around my balls, dripping down my 
inner thigh. As I shoved forward the boy pressed back to meet me until 
my shank nudged something deep in him, some vital organ that I took, 
generically, to be his "bottom", his point zero, the end of the line, 
station terminale. At this Chas would make a sound that I thought to be 
like a stuck piglet, "eeeengh!" Then I would pull back, slide on reverse 
through his tube that he tried with a mighty effort to contract and hold 
me, assaulting the swollen node of his prostate, trembling walls. It felt 
like I was pulling my dick out of sucking mud and the sound was 
similar. Then my head, at times, would pull free flared like a cobra and 
Chas would moan a little protest at the cool air flowing into his gaping 
orifice that suffered and spasmed like a baby denied the nipple of its 
mother.

It went on like this for long minutes. Chas would build to a peak and 
his body would commence a frenzy, shaking and shuddering as if cold, 
his moans and grunts and whimpers flapping around the room like 
lethargic bats. All during this I suddenly realized that I had not 
released his testicles, rather I had been yanking and fondling the little 
sac, trying to milk it like a cow's utter. How hard had I been squeezing 
the little pouch of skin and the tiny marbles it contained?

Exhausted Chas fell over on his side lifting his leg for access as I 
plowed him unmercifully. In what seemed like a death throw an 
orgasm shook his body causing his anus to clench, his bowels to 
slacken and the chocolate smell of shit wafted up between us. 

"Oh no!" he moaned, his hands exploring between us, feeling the slimy 
dribble his body expelled, the crap that I had fucked out of him.

"It's ok, Chas." I whispered, rubbing his heaving little tummy. I slowed 
my thrusts, allowing just the tiniest of movement in and out of him. 

"Yuck, I'm sorry, Matt." he pleaded, holding his dirty fingers up in the 
metallic light from the window. His puppy-sad eyes questioned what 
to do. Wipe his hand on mattress? I had had the presence of mind to 
kick the sheets to the floor the night before.

"Chas, it's ok, it happens." I took his small hand in mine, sharing the 
mess of chocolate and poop, then stroked his proud little pecks, trying 
to reassure him.

"Matt...?" 

"Yeah...?"

"It, um-it, feels so, so loose down there."

"Yeah, you're pretty loose now." I jabbed into his body with short 
strokes that pounded his prostate.

"Oh! Oh...ungh! Oh God!" Chas muttered.

"Want me to stop?" I asked, knowing the answer. He looked at me 
incredulously and shook his head.

"Just...Ooooongh....just, Matt! Harder! Yeah! Faster! Oh God!" and 
Chas cummed another flow of chocolate and anal solution, bathing my 
cock in heat, like someone had just added hot water to a bath, spilling 
down his boy-butt and legs, dribbling onto, I hoped, my shirt and not 
the bed.

I maneuvered him onto his back by pressing his quaking legs to his 
chest. Already I could hear him grunting and feel the slick-slide of our 
fuck driving him to another boyish orgasm. Gently I spread my legs 
and lowered over him, pushing his thighs apart to make way for my 
body. He gingerly circled my waist with his legs and accepted my 
weight on top of him, using the monkey position to hunch his ass onto 
my dick. 

Our lips met, pressed together, we did not use our tongues right away, 
letting the other feel the natural pout of his lover, the bumping of our 
teeth. I let a puddle of saliva spill into him. He drank it down with an 
audible gulp and sigh of relief, as if he had been thirsting for that very 
thing, and opened his mouth against mine like a baby bird wanting for 
more. I inhaled deep from his lungs, all but putting my nose into his 
mouth, inhaled the grunts and groans that seemed to come from a little 
factory in his chest, inhaled his humid breath, our faces amazingly 
calm and gentle compared to our lower union. 

For each gently bump of nose I shoved into the tight jam of Chas's ass 
with relentless force. For every soft brush of boy lip to man lip, he 
slopped his hungry rectum over my dick, and when he bottomed out 
made a traitorous effort of strangle the thing that snaked into him. For 
when he finally flicked me is tongue, salt and wet, I laid mine along 
his, gently, tenderly, like a feather on air, whilst below deck my penis 
slipped out, and in a blind fury to return missed the oven door and 
sluced up the shit-slicked dribble of his ass crack and mercilessly 
speared his tender scrotum--Ahhh!--and pulled back and slammed 
again the gawking hole like a medieval battering ram, finding no 
resistance until my legs crushed the precious split melon of his 
buttocks, and caught against the ground zero of his small intestine. 

He whispers to me that he is close. I hold his head in the bowl of my 
hands spread wide. Face to face, enchainment of breath and fluids 
bond us in the singular bump and grind of our fucking bodies. There is 
no end, and no beginning, no same and no other, neither an opposition 
of man and boy, not the aged or the young, nay large bone or small, for 
we are one. He whispers to me that he is close, whispers in the motion 
of his underbelly against mine, but I feel him coming, coming forward, 
giving up, giving up. Repetition, repetition. Our body moves in the 
dance, dance, dance, all the while there be dancing, moves our body 
moves. And the feel of his little feet and against our larger back, and 
the feel of his large finger tips across his little cheek, drying the tear 
that salts the skin like a note of music, is felt more than the throbbing 
in his ass. He is mine, I have him. Held each in each like a boy 
covering his mouth for laughter. And somewhere far away there be 
music. The sex is only one organism, strong and weak, hairy and 
smooth, alto and soprano, brave and timid, the sex is mutual, joined, 
singular, united and alone. Orgasmic panting, I am cuming, I am 
cuming, I am cuming, in one vivid moment of masturbation.

In the immediate aftermath like a picture still life frozen in the frame 
between two positions. I arched up holding the ten-year-old Chas 
McIntyre aloft, my hands embraced at the small of his back, his arms 
flopped behind him, only his hands touching the bed, his legs splayed 
out on either side of me, as I look up at no particular heaven, balancing 
the small weight of him impaled on the shaft of my cock. His head 
fallen back to one side, eyes wide and open like the awed part of his 
mouth, illuminated by the light from the small window, his small 
nostrils flared in breathing life.


End, The Island (Part 3) 

To be continued...

<1st attachment end>


<2nd attachment, "deep-impact-1.txt" begin>

Date: Tue, 15 Mar 2005 09:16:46 +0800
From: dirge  <dirge@operamail.com>
Subject: DEEP IMPACT Part 2

DEEP IMPACT: The Island  (Part 2)

Code: M/b

Disclaimer: This story contains graphic depictions of a man and a pre-
pubescent boy involved in a mutual relationship. I respect myself
enough not to hold back in my writing, and I respect the reader's right
not to continue reading this story. "Deep Impact" is an artistic work of
fiction and is thus awarded Constitutional protection under the First
Amendment of the United States of America. Any reference to real-
life characters is only fictional.

"Congress shall make no law . . . abridging the freedom of speech." -
First Amendment of the United States' Constitution.

Stanley v. Georgia, 394 U.S. 557, 566 (1969). The Court determined
that, "The right to think is the beginning of freedom, and speech must
be protected from the government because speech is the beginning of
thought."

The Supreme Court has stated the fundamental principle of the First
Amendment is that government "may not prohibit the expression of an
idea simply because society finds the idea itself offensive or
disagreeable." Texas v. Johnson, 491 U.S. 397, 414
(1989).

Other Works by dirge: Adult-Youth: "To make love"; "Andrew is
Beautiful"; "The Last Supper of Beer"; "The Hiders" (work in
progress); "Deep Impact" (work in progress)



Deep Impact: The Island (Part 2)

My dick leaked pre-cum onto the sleeping boy's tummy. It was still
early in the morning, so there was no hurry, not that there was a hurry
anyway. I could still hear the rain though it had lessened considerably.
Between Chas and I it was warm. He was so close to me, so naked, so
small. Gently I lifted the covers and looked down at his nude form. His
little back so tanned, and his dimples right above each ass cheek. His
ass itself was a marvel. Perfect in shape and size. I needed to touch it
again.

I slid my hand down and cupped right up under half of his boy-melon.
Perfectly soft but firm with youth. Carefully I wiggled my hand into
his little crack, my fingers feeling that bud of his chute. Dare I? Could
I manage without waking him? There was a way. With one leg draped
over me, Chas had opened up a slight passage just under his balls.
Slowly, so very gently I scooted down just enough; taking my
hardened prick slid it trough the passage. That, in and of itself, was
almost enough to cause me to molest him just beneath his scrotum.
The burning flesh of his inner thighs lightly pressing the length of my
cock. Now Chas, in his peaceful sleep, was skewered by my sex. It
came through just at the cherry part of his cheeks where ass meets
perineum. Using my hand I guided the snake head of my tool to the
spot I knew so well after the night before. I smeared the pre-cum that
oozed from my Cyclops-eye around his hole. Chas was still out cold.
My cock head was so much larger than his pucker, still it pressed
against his door eagerly like a lost animal trying to get in.

I moved my cock and pressed gently over his naturally distended
button with a finger. Back and forth I rubbed. In my minds eye I
pictured how I had finger fucked him the night before. Could I do that
now? Surely he would wake. I grabbed my dick and milked it into
him. I could feel the slimy substance running down his crack onto his
leg. The constant pressure from my finger was soon enough to breach
the portal. I stopped -- had I detected a change in his breathing? No.
He was still sleeping. For the moment I left my finger still. When all
was well, I pushed once more without gain, he was too tight.
Removing my finger I collected more of my natural lubricant and let it
drip over his hole. When I thought enough had made its way down I
began with my finger again. This time it slipped in easily to the first
joint. I stopped. Chas shifted in his sleep, pushing still closer against
me and lifting his leg that was draped over mine up towards his chest.
The result was a natural spreading of his ass that gave me better access
into his anus. When he had settled and continued his deep, slow
breaths I decided I could go a little deeper. I eased my finger in until I
was just over the second knuckle. His sphincter seemed to nibble and
his rectum felt alive. I'm not sure if the rhythmic thumping was my
pulse or his, but in his bottom it felt like it coursed through his body. I
imagined it resonating into his spongy flesh, into his bones down to his
toes like someone beating at the far end of a metal pipe. I began the
stirring that I had seen him do to himself. I went clockwise, and as I
approached six o'clock I nicked very lightly his prostate. Instantly his
rectum sucked my finger. It clamped down so that I could not move.
My heart stopped. Was he awake? His eyes were shut but his breathing
was now short and shallow. I decided I had better quit while I was
ahead. But as I began to pull out my finger, Chas whispered, "No,
don't take it out." I had some explaining to do. What was a boy to
think when he wakes up and finds that ass has been lubricated, and that
a man's finger is probing him?

"Chas. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to--"

"It's ok." He cut me off. "It feels so slippy back there." He squeezed
my finger in him, and I sunk it to a full depth. "Oh yeah." He
whispered. "What did you use to make it so slippery?" He asked,
looking into my eyes while he contracted around my finger. How was
I to explain that to him? The truth.

"I used my pre-cum." I said.

"What's that?" he asked. I was a little embarrassed, but I figured he
needed to know.

"It's a clear fluid that leaks out of my dick when it gets really hard. It's
super slippery. I used it on you last night when you put your finger in
your butt and when I fingered you. Remember how my finger slipped
in?" To prove my point I pulled my finger out almost all the way and
then eased back into him. He let out a little moan and squeezed down
hard.

"Oh. That makes sense." He said like my explanation  had all the
reason in the world. I could not resist, so I leaned in and pressed my
lips to his. He yawned his mouth open and my tongue traced across his
teeth then flicked in and rubbed across his tongue. At the same time I
began stirring him again. His moan filled my mouth as I grazed his
internal node.

"Oh, gees!" he broke the kiss and biting his bottom lip looked me in
the eye with a questioning sincerity.

"It's your prostate." I explained. "Guys have them to help make
sperm."

"I can't make sperm." He whispered up at me.

"I know, but you will some day. Right now it feels really nice doesn't
it?" And with that I pressed into it. His ass shot back and he humped
his now erect, boyish cock up and down my navel.

"Yeah, mmm. . ."

"You like that?"

"Yeah. Do it again to me."

And I did. I pressed twice: once lightly, and then once harder. He
giggled and sort of moaned at the same time. Like a little animal he
tried to burry his head into my shoulder. I jostled my finger in him a
little bit. He was tight, to say the least, but did not hint at any
discomfort, even when I went so deep my hand no longer had finger
length to give him. Chas, always surprising me with little innocent
movements that belied the underlying eroticism in his nature, tossed
his head just so that his lustrous hair fell across his face. He kissed me
on my chin. Of its own will my cock surged and leapt slapping his
rump. Reading my mind the boy reached back and gripped the thing
right below its head, his fingers barely touching around it's girth. I
moaned. He squeezed and a spoonful of the clear fluid ran onto his
hand. Bringing it back he examined the stuff. It webbed between his
fingers, giving them a sheen in the morning light. He smelled it and
looked at me in a manner that said there was nothing special about
that, then gingerly he snaked out his pink little tongue and licked the
substance. Again he looked at me to confirm that, really, there was no
taste.

However, to me, it was an extremely erotic moment. The ingestion of
bodily fluids, those of one's lover, indicates a comfortable acceptance
with the natural processes.

"Matt?" came the timid preliminary to another question.

"Yes?"

"When you, you know. . . Did that thing to me last night?"

"What thing, Chas? We did a few things, and I liked them all."

"Me too, but. I mean when you put your mouth on my. . ."

"On this?" I said and spiraled my finger wildly inside him.

"Oh. . . ungh! Yeah, ahhh, yeah! When you put your mouth there.
Why?" he asked. It was a reasonable question. And I had to think
carefully about my response.

"Well," I started, "when. . . ok, when two people. . .um. . . no." I really
had no response that would be adequate. "Well, you know how we do
stuff like right now my finger is inside of you making you feel good,
and it makes me feel good?"

"Yeah." he nodded and brushed a wildly strand of hair out of his face
and tucked it behind his ear.

"Well, back in America it was illegal. A man and boy could never be
allowed to touch each other like we do."

"I know, but why?"

"It was just the law. People were afraid that a man would hurt a boy."

"You don't hurt me."

"I know, but people who made the laws didn't think about that. They
only were concerned that sex between men and boys was bad no
matter what, so they made it illegal. If you and I got caught back in
America, they would have sent me to jail for a very long time." There
is no easy way to explain the law to a boy, especially when the law
was at once set up to protect but also to harm. How could I explain that
what was known as justice, was mostly a masque for hate and fear, and
just plain arrogance?

"Is it illegal here on the island?" He asked.

"Maybe. I don't know, but I know there are people on the island, who
if they knew about us would be very mad and try to separate us."

"But we promised to protect each other." He said indignantly. Our
oath in the night meaning so much more to him than what other people
thought.

"I know. But, maybe, sometimes, to protect one another, we need to be
careful about who knows about us."

"Will my mom be mad?"

"I don't know. It seems to me that your mom is a very wise woman. I
think she would understand. . .But maybe she understands that we love
each other, and I think she respects our privacy."

"Yeah, I think so, too." He agreed. "But, you know. You sucked on
me, you know, back there last night. And. . . well. . . I really liked it."

"I liked it too, Chas."

"Why?"

"I don't know. Well, first I love you and I want to make you feel good.
And I knew that would. When I hear you moan It makes me happy.
But also, it's a way to express our sexual feelings. And also you're a
boy, and I'm a man who like boys. Your butt," I said, pinching him a
bit so that he squirmed, "your butt, to me, tastes really good. There's
no hair on you and you taste fresh and new. But also salty. Chas, you
just taste good."

"Move your finger to that spot."

"There?"

"No up more." He lifted his hips and sank back down.

"Now?"

"Ouch! No. Yeah. No. No. Right there!" He grunted. Slowly I worked
around in a circle, brining him closer and closer to a dry climax. He
rubbed his cock on my hip, getting into a rhythm as my finger worked
hard on his ass.

"Chas, do you want to try something that will make you feel really
good?" He nodded, probably already thinking he was feeling good.
"Ok, lay on your back and lift your legs like last night. I pulled my
finger out of him and he gave a reluctant sigh at the emptiness in him.
I threw the blankets off onto the floor and gazed upon his nakedly
excited body. He lay back and when his ass came into view his little
hole was winking at me. I kneeled over him and taking my cock ran
the head along his crack, each time I crossed his bud I pushed in. Then
when I thought he was slick enough I positioned my head right at his
pucker. From between his calves he eyed me. My cock was huge, too
huge to take him, but just the glans. Up and down right over the spot I
rubbed and on the fifth turn I sunk in until my mushroom head was
totally inside of him. He grunted, but I had no intention of fucking
him, though this was so close as to be undistinguishable.

"Oh God, Matt! Deeper, please!" He moaned.

"Not today, little one. Not today. I'm going to do something else." At
that I grabbed my shaft and began jacking the part that was not inside
of him. I felt my balls tighten and my dick expanded, the head flared
and Chas squeaked. Then I was shooting ropes of cum that never saw
the light of day, for they entered Chas. My cock drained, I milked the
last into him. Chas looked at me with a sort of stupor on his face, his
eyes squinted like a content kitten. My cock weakened and I let it drop
against my legs. Chas looked down at it. I reached between his legs
and fondled him. He had gone half soft. I pulled his foreskin back,
then squeezed his balls. But this  morning was for his anus. From his
nuts I ran my hand down between his cheeks. My finger at his hole. I
pushed and it slipped in with a slurp. Chas opened his mouth but made
no sound. My cum coated his rectum walls. He was sopping. How
much? I though, how much on his first time? Pulling out I pressed two
fingers together and inserted just the tips. There was little resistance,
the boy was so relaxed. Slowly, Slowly, all the way to the bottom. I
stopped and wiggled them up against his prostate. He shoved his head
back into the pillows and I felt his anus contract. When the spasm
passed there was a slackening sensation in him.

"I feel it." He whispered, and timidly explored around his entrance
with his own fingers. This was a very sexy move by him, the boy
curious as to how his ass is being treated explores for himself the place
and object of penetrating. I pulled out of him slowly. Some of the cum
bubbled over with a tint of brown and ran down is crack. I took his
fingers and pressed two together. I guided him to his hole. He felt
around, the volcano was large and distorted. Then with a grunt
"Ungh!" he  hilted his fingers. Smaller, they almost fell into him with
a sloppy sound. His little toes curled and then of his own accord he
jerked out and  pressed three fingers together and slopped them back
in. "Ungh! Ungh! Ungh!" he moaned. I watched hypnotized while he
almost violently rammed himself. "Matt!?" with desperation in his
voice. "Please!" he just couldn't do it, physically or emotionally. His
fingers were too small and with three pressed together to make him
bigger he could not get the depth or angle that he wanted, needed. He
was jabbing his innards with force now then, before my eyes, both his
hands were back there, fingers slipping in as he tried to pry his
slippery hole open. Finally he got his two middle fingers hooked and
pulled wide. He looked at me with a glisten of sweat on his brow.
"Matt, please, do it." My heart melted. I could not deny him. And with
two fingers I shoved into the open maw at the center of his little,
gyrating ass. But gentle I was not, slamming home to the prostate,
flicking it then continuing with a proper finger fuck of  my little lover.
"Oh yeah. Eee aaa uuuu eh eh eh!!!" the noises that emanated from the
back of his slender throat were a combination of vowels and guttural
gurgles. Each sound letting me know he felt it, that it was good for
him. Finally, his legs dropped, splayed wide to give me correct access
to his opening. They were just tired and he couldn't hold them up
anymore. But he made sure, whether by conscious effort or animalistic
need for pleasure, that the finger fuck continue. He maneuvered his
hips and butt in such a way that there was no impediment to the sex he
was having.

The smell was erotic, addicting, that of my musky cum and  his own
boyish odor, a light scent of flesh, sweat, and some sort of secretion
from his internal cavity. Between his gurgles and moans, could be
heard the rhythmic slap of my fingers engaging his center, and then a
very quiet sucking sound as I pulled out.

The sight was one to see. A boy and man naked upon a white bed. The
boy in a sort of sacrificial position, spread eagle with a raised rump,
and the man kneeling between his legs driving a hand under him, two
fingers tightly lodged and the boy's body moving up and down: up
with the force of the intrusion into his hole, shoved up by the hand of
the man, but then when the man pulls out the boy himself tries to
follow the phallic fingers by dropping his hips. With his free hand the
man takes the limp cocklet and jacks it to erection. The boy's eyes
grow wide, over stimulated, over sexed, wanting the pleasure in his ass
but also wanting his own cock to be manipulated.

Poor Chas didn't know from which direction the pleasure was coming.
I see his tongue flick across his lips, he eyes his cock in my hand but
also urges me on with the down thrust of his hips. I resisted the urge to
drop on him and kiss him. To savage him with my mouth while I grind
my cock and balls against his and bring him to a traditional orgasm.

Finally it was Chas who decided for me. With a loud groan he pushed
my hand away from his cock, and in the movement of pure grace, with
gymnastic ability he lifted his left leg to his chest and rolled over on
the spike of my fingers, pulling both knees to his chest and arching his
back so that his little ass pushed towards me. So erotic, I could have
just slipped into my young lover with my cock that was now
recharged. He had given himself up to the anal stimulation, the other
being too much with what was already being done to him back there.

"Maaaatt.do..me..harder..ungh!" he got the words out as if by
extreme effort. And I knew my duty. Like with Colt, I had started
something that from here after I must take care of. I knew Chas was
feeling incredible pressure, the build up of friction inside of him, the
assault on his little prostate, his loose, now almost yawning sphincter.
All this added to what he needed. Increasing my tempo to an
impossible speed, I determined to bring him off. His grunts grew
louder and his fleshy tube was spasmodic; it trembled. Suddenly, but
with ample warning he was there. At that spot that only a boy can
know, balancing somewhere as if in perpetual tipping, but falling to
the neither side. If I wanted to I could keep him at this point for a long
time, long minutes, maybe an hour, but this was just introductory ass
sex for Chas, later we would go into detail.

A young boy having an anal orgasm is miraculous, but at the same
time violent, savage, and somehow erotically lewd. It's all in his ass,
deep in his ass. Especially when he's so young that he cannot ejaculate
semen, all is focused on making something deep in him "ejaculate" for
the sole purpose of sexual fulfillment, not procreative instinct. Though
the unconscious animal drive toward selfish pleasure is a factor, there
is a conscious understanding in little boys who take it up the ass. They
know something about what happens in them that, I think, the world is
not privy too. Sometimes his little erection is hard and when he comes
he cums in his cock, shaking in dry spasms, but this time, at least for
Chas, he is soft, and he knows it. It's not about that part of him, its
about something else, something about his tummy and his muscles
locking, something about his butt that he is sure of yet simply cannot
name, does not possess the vocabulary to name.

I am relentless. I have stopped the fucking and have lodged deep in
him now. Still save for a rough diddling of his prostate gland. Then he
cums. I know he does this because first of all he is crying into the
pillow little curse words, "fuck" is among them, and  little squeaks, but
also this ass tunnel vibrates uncontrollably, then stops and then pushes
in waves like he is taking a huge shit. Trying to shit out my fingers. I
hold on and after a bit it passes. His rump relaxes and drops from its
receptive posture to his ankles. I pull out of him carefully. There is no
resistance. My fingers are gooey. I wipe them on his flank. The little
volcano his no longer. Now just a pucker that gapes open, and winks at
me. Forcefully I take his legs and pull them out from under him so that
he is lying on his stomach and this smooth globes close to protect the
ravaged hole. I lay down next to him, trying to get close to him, to
protect him from the feelings that he is undoubtedly having.
Insecurities about so much, from his sexuality, to what exactly he felt,
to confusion as to what release he liked more, penile or anal. Or,
maybe he is just exhausted. I caress his little back, run my hands over
his buns, down his legs, back up over his buns. I lift his hair from  his
neck and kiss his nape. I kiss his back. I lay down and behind him try
to pour my warmth into him.

His internal dialogue must also be filled with questions about me.
About us. I a man, he a boy. How I inserted the head of my cock into
his ass and shot a load that I then used as lubricant to finger fuck him
to orgasm. I am his vowed protector, and he mine, but simultaneously
I am a sexual object, one who commits sex on him, who sexes him up
and brings him off. If he was unsure before this morning's bout, from
now on every gesture I make and he makes to me will be filled with
the knowledge that sex is an inevitable possibility. That I am the one
who he knows can bring him to bliss. That it is me, the man, who has a
large cock who desires to touch the boy. A man he now knows whose
intention, though noble, are also sexual. He realizes that the word,
even if he does not know it yet, is lover.

I rub again over his smooth hump of an ass. What a perfect marvel.
But he will never think of his ass in the same manner, as something
that just shits. From now on he knows that his backside can cause him
such pleasure. It will be immediately evident in his posture, he will
take care to know who is privy to that part of him. He will be self-
conscious about how he displays his butt, knowing that that which
came is also a sexual organ, and that in his jeans or shorts it is a very
obvious sexual organ. And he has a power over it with others who also
know this. Me, for instance. Colt, after have his first powerful anal
orgasm, the life changing one, always knew how to drive me nuts. He
wore pants that displayed what he had. At times he wore shorts that
outlined him well. Once we went to the mall and he was wearing a pair
of soccer shorts from the year before. They were not small, but fit just
a skosh tighter than was the current fashion. And then a tight t-shirt. I
quickly noticed that he was not wearing underwear, this causing his
already pert butt to be boldly displayed, as the silky nylon fabric
drapped over each firm globe, at times falling into his crack. I found
myself overly protective of him. Looking to see who noticed him, and
he was noticed. A few men looked with hungry eyes. A girl or two
espied him. Even a boy or two watch wide eyed as he pranced around.
I was aroused the entire day, knowing that just beneath that fabric was
the ass the night before I had plowed, that I had dropped up and down
my shaft, not once but a handful of times. Then the security of dark
cinema; we watched some adaptation of a comic book. But in the high
corner we barely noticed the movie. My hand slipping up the leg of his
shorts to grip his little cock and then he pulled the shorts up higher and
his ass was in my hands. And somewhere during the movie he said he
was scared so he climbed in my lap and we fucked quietly and slowly,
his anus somehow pre-lubricated.

Coming back to the present I squeeze his butt, Chas looks at me. I
wonder what he will do to make sure he ge