Sam Johnson

Adam Plaster Hands

One: In the Beginning

The sleep-addled lad was struggling to sit up in bed. He took a moment to notice he was still wearing last nights clothes, but mainly he concentrated on the shocking state of his hands.

Looking down at him in his torrid single bed, I said, "You don't remember?"

He shook his head, trying to clear his mind.

"Adam, I told you to stay away from the alcohol."

"But, I never 3;"

"Your mother would kill you – and me – if she found out."

"What happened?"

"You got drunk and fell down the stairs – or fell over the banister to be precise. You hit the floor hands first and broke both your wrists."

The boy stared in horror at the great lumps of white plaster where his hands used to be, trying desperately to bring something to mind. But he remained a complete blank.

"Don't you remember it at all?" I prompted.

"No 3; I remember Allan arriving, and we were having dinner 3; but then 3; everything's blank – I – I -" He was getting upset.

"Now just relax. The doctor said you'd be fine –"

"The doctor?"

"He said they're clean breaks – shouldn't be more than two or three weeks before the plaster comes off."

The boy looked so lost, the facts just refused to make any sense. Finally he said in an adolescent croak, "But what'll I do? I can't play tennis like this – I can't 3; I can't do anything!"

I'd agreed to let Adam stay here for two weeks while he attended an under-15's tennis camp nearby. I'd also expected, upon meeting the unutterably gorgeous lad, to have engaged him in some good-humoured sex-play, out by the pool or in the games room or wherever. But he'd been rather shy and stand-offish. Frustrating, but it happens.

"I've already called Mr. McCreggor and told him you'll be pulling out. He was very sorry to hear it – said you were showing some real promise. I've also rung your mum –"

He looked up at me with sudden clarity. "Yes. I'll have to go home. I can't stay here like this."

"Well, your mum's company is in a rather delicate position at the moment. The negotiations with Gro-core are very close to completion – if she flies back now the whole deal could go to hell."

"But 3;" Tears were threatening to well in the boy's lovely dark-brown eyes.

"I agreed to take care of you until she completes the deal – it's worth millions, her big chance – we don't want to jeopardise that?"

The boy shrugged his shoulders sullenly, not arguing, but finding it hard to be stoic.

"Cheer up, Adam! One good thing – I told her you broke your wrists rock-climbing – so the truth can stay our little secret."

The boy sank back on his pillow, glumly pondering his awful circumstances, possibly not yet aware of just how unable to fend for himself he now was.

"Come on, you'd better get up. You've got an appointment with Dr. Flint in an hour."

"Who?"

"You don't remember him at all?"

The boy shook his head, then started getting out of bed.

"He came last night, after you fell. He set your wrists in plaster. He's very good."

Adam finally stood, a little awkwardly, beside his bed. He'd only recently turned fourteen, and was a bit of a lanky lad, accentuated now by his heavy plastered hands. But he was a striking beauty: Dark liquid eyes; light brown hair, sleep-tousled, but the soft curls round his neck still angelically arranged; dark red lips that showed a sensuality that was quite scandalous on such a genuinely nice shy boy. Above his top lip was just the subtlest hint of first hair, a faint glimmer of fuzz that only seemed to highlight his adolescent smoothness.

He raised his club hands and cried, "I won't even be able to feed myself!"

"We'll work something out," I said. "Now first let's get you changed."

The boy looked at me in shock – it hadn't even crossed his darling mind – he looked around him, frowning. "But, how can I 3;?" Again he stared at the lumps of plaster. "Why couldn't he have left my fingers free out the end? Like Dave had when he broke his arm." Anger flared amid his confusion.

"No, he couldn't," I said. "He said the break will only heal properly if the fingers don't move at all for the next three weeks. Anyway, you can ask the doctor yourself when you see him."

I moved in to start undoing the buttons of his shirt. He stepped back out of reach with a little shake of his head. "No, I'll be right," he said. "I'll just wear these."

"What, for the next three weeks?"

He shrugged with sullen defiance.

"Adam, no offence, but you need a wash." It was true. I had already caught a couple of lovely wafts of his boy funk. After a full day of tennis practice yesterday, he still hadn't showered. "And surely you need to go to the toilet?"

This rocked the boy again. He shook his head – in fact his mouth was dry and he needed a drink of water – but I could see it was also dawning on him that he wouldn't even be able to take a leak by himself, let alone 3; the other.

This time, when I stepped in to start unbuttoning his shirt, he tensed a little, but didn't move away. I quickly got the creased and rumpled shirt unbuttoned and pushed it back down off his shoulders, got it fully off him and dropped it on the bed.

"Nice tan," I said, a little surprised – boys his age are usually kept well covered-up by their safety-obsessed mothers.

"I was, um, at the beach over Easter," he mumbled. He was very self-conscious, as boys his age often are – every visible inch of his young body blazoning forth his rapid sexual awakening.

He'd shot up a bit height-wise, was on the skinny side, but not angular; he was lean and sublimely smooth and only showing the very earliest hints of development round his chest and shoulders.

He swallowed audibly as I started undoing the button of his jeans. Even the feel of his skin on my knuckles was electrifying. I undid his fly, then, kneeling before him, grabbed the sides of the jeans and worked them down – once they were at knee level they fell easily down around his ankles whereupon, without any prompting from me, he cooperated as I yanked them off over his big boy feet. Taking my time with it, I caught some more, funkier, wafts of his scent. "Good boy," I couldn't help saying as I finally got the jeans right off him.

Still on my haunches, I was about to reach for his underpants – but he was gone! He skipped off, pretending to be preoccupied, muttering about finding some clothes to wear.

I stood back up as the flustered lad kicked his bag as part of his amateurish show. Dressed now in just a snug-fitting pair of blue cotton underpants, every lithe and clumsy move he made flashed with the quick-silver beauty of boys.

"Adam, what are you doing?"

"Nuthin – just, I gotta get dressed don't I?"

I walked to the door. "Come over to the bathroom first – you need a quick wash before you see the doctor."

He stood where he was, staring morosely at the floor, while I was already on my way across the upstairs landing to the bathroom.

As I pushed the door open and flicked on the bright lights, I was delighted to see him wandering across, in just his underpants, burning up with self-consciousness the moment I looked at him.

His legs were a wonderful surprise. Boys in the early-days of their growth-spurt, when they get a bit lanky, can often sprout clownish stilts to get around on. But not Adam. Divinely shaped legs, tanned and smooth – despite his awkward clomping gait, I got easily lost in the fluid track of his inside leg.

The cotton undies were a nice fit on him although perhaps a tad small – hard for any of us to keep up with how quickly a boy in his early teens can grow. The slenderness of his hips and the slightly squashed, cupped form of his boy-sex well deserved the deepening blush on his cheeks.

The bathroom only increased his self-consciousness. A large, very bright room with mirrored walls, twin-basin set up along one side, clear glass shower cubicle and bath on the other, and a shiny black-tile floor.

It was perhaps my favourite room – the black floor was a constant revelation – so many boys over the years had strained and flinched over their own unique patterns of shot seed. No two the same. All equally beautiful under the glare of bright lights.

There wasn't many I'd had to work so hard to get in here, though, and I was determined not to slip up.

He loitered in the doorway while I filled the nearest basin with warm water. I grabbed a dispenser of liquid soap from the cupboard underneath and told him to come over.

He did, in his own good time. Then I startled him by straightaway grabbing the sides of his undies and pulling them down – he let out a protesting "Hey!" and even swung one of his plastered hand round hitting me a glancing blow on the wrist.

There was an awkward moment as his sex was first exposed – I stopped dead in my tracks, holding his underpants at his knees. He was looking away, mortified.

"Adam," I said. "Why has your dick got tape wrapped around it?"

He could barely talk, the poor lad. "I 3; it's 3; it's athletic tape from tennis camp – I can't get it off."

My immediate thought was other boys – hazing. It didn't look too bad though, just one strip wrapped round the middle of his shaft, and fairly loosely applied, but also stuck fast to his skin by the look.

"The other boys at camp?" I asked.

"Eh?"

"Did the other boys do this to you?"

"No." He seemed shocked by such an idea.

I slapped him lightly on the hip. "Well what sort of girls are you hanging out with, young man!"

It dug a nervous laugh out of him and seemed to diffuse the tension a bit. Then he said, a little hoarsely, "I did it – I thought it would, um – I wanted to, you know, just, get the skin to stay up."

I resumed taking his undies down and he stepped out of them, flexing his toes and adjusting his stance on the cool tiles.

"You wanted your foreskin to stay retracted?"

He nodded. "Mm."

"Not all that successful then," I said. The head of the boy's penis was fully covered by a generous hood.

"I think I done it wrong," he muttered.

Curious. But it wasn't really the time to badger the boy about it. Still on my haunches before him, I reached for his penis, saying, "Can I?"

But he was quick to dip his hips back and bring his club hands in front to protect himself. "No – no don't – it won't come off – it hurts – I tried all yesterday – it's totally stuck."

I couldn't help bursting out laughing. "Fuck, Adam, you can't leave it like that."

"It'll drop off after a while," he said defensively.

I gave him a look. "That's what I'm worried about."

He laughed. "The tape, I mean!"

I gently moved his plastered hands from in front himself, looked at him for long enough to make him a bit twitchy – about two seconds – and said, "You have a fine cock, Adam."

He gave a yip of surprise, followed quickly by a covering cough. He shifted uneasily on his feet. He was every inch the teenage boy so very embarrassed to be looked at.

But I was speaking the god's own truth. Despite the abominable tape, he obviously had a fine cock. A hint of mongrel, an unexpected bit of thickness and length to him – but more important was the Doric column proportions, the snowy perfection of skin, the Corinthian hint of new hair at the base.

The aesthetics of the penis is a vastly underdeveloped literature. Like the leg, or the face, or the torso, the penis can be sublimely formed or a plain functional tool or something in need of a hessian bag. Size, one small component part of the overall picture, is grossly overrated, a total beat-up. Adam, despite the hideous sticking plaster, was silken perfection. And the as yet only sparse kindling of hair growing round the base of his penis – well it only served to nudge him a few heavenly rungs higher.

I reached to take hold of him and again he dipped back skittishly, saying no, no, no.

"Adam! Quit it!" I grabbed his hips and pulled him roughly to me. "I will be VERY gentle – alright? But you can't leave your goddamned cock wrapped up like an Egyptian mummy for the next three weeks."

He laughed nervously; watched my hands very closely.

I took a moment to feel him, the springy boy-length of him, the anxiety-tightened fullness of his sack, nudging and jostling the hard heat of his balls. I ran my thumb and fingers back and forth through the still softish beginnings of his pubic hair.

He got this adorable, quite intense little quizzical exrpession on his face – I think he suspected I was performing some secret penis ritual that would cause the dread tape to fall magically away.

Then his look quickly changed to one of worry. He squeezed his knees together a couple of times and shifted uncomfortably on his feet. "Ah 3; shit," he mumbled.

I suddenly thought to ask, "Hey, Adam – does it get too tight when you get hard?"

"Ah 3; you mean the foreskin?"

"No, you dope – the tape!"

"Um, it's, no – it gets tight but it's alright."

Just as well – the startling speed with which a fourteen year old boy throws a rod! I knew he was uncomfortable but I kept a hand on his hip so he stayed right in front of me as he became fully hard. Such a sublime expression of form, grace and animal energy: first stirring to life like a hatchling in the nest, then leaping to mid-tumescence like a frisky roebuck from the bushes, before halting with the angry stare of a wild boar impatient for the hunt.

As I let go of him to start soaping up my hands, he again got skittish and moved off – a few yards back, getting side-on with one plaster hand raised to cover his shameful arousal.

Frowning at the space he'd vacated I said: "Wait a minute – I could have sworn there was a cock here a minute ago."

He gave a short laugh, then addressed me seriously: "John, um, I'm getting a stiff."

I fought back a burst of laughter. It would have been wounding. But this boy! Did he seriously think I hadn't noticed – he'd almost taken my eye out with it, for christ's sake! He was like the little kid who thought burying his face in his hands rendered him invisible to others.

But making that verbal confession to me was, I sensed, important to him. He'd grown up sheltered and protected, I knew that much. And, remember, this was in the late eighties, before the information super-highway opened up for everyone's business. An only child like Adam could easily be completely innocent in his mid teens.

So after a pregnant pause, I said, 'Stiff what?"

"Huh?"

"You're getting a stiff what? Stiff drink? If so I'd love a campari and soda."

"My dick," he cried, his voice cracking comically on the final hard syllable – and this time I did laugh and, red-faced as he was, so did the boy. But he felt the need to plough on with his difficult explanation of himself. "When you – before with the tape – you know, touching it – I couldn't help it 3;"

And he dropped his hand to fully expose his shame, his magnificent erection. Interestingly, his foreskin still covered the head of his penis, and did look a little tight. He wasn't full-grown yet but thrummed with youthful vigor. The roused colt of a boy looked to have enough spunk and torsion in him to do some real damage.

"You have a fine cock, Adam," I repeated. There was a hint of paleness to his hard-on, a faint nimbus of translucence – it's something that often attaches to the pubescent boy-erection. It's like a veil of innocence that has yet to be torn, and can act as a ferocious come-on.

"Okay, bring that lord of the dance over here," I said. And he did.

"Lord of the dance?" he muttered, as he came over. "What in the hell's that meant to mean? Geez, John, I dunno what you're on about half the time – haha."

His prattle was mainly to cover the excruciating, thrilling embarrassment of walking over to me completely in the raw and with his stiff cock sticking out so rudely. It was the stuff of nightmare and fantasy.

But when the lad got in position in front of me, there was a tentative hint of pride in his sexual display. The way to a man's heart may be his stomach, but if you love a boy, always put his penis first.

I quickly soaped my hands under the taps and set about wetting his hard-on. I concentrated on the piece of tape, getting it saturated, but the boy found my soapy handling of his penis a bit much. Almost immediately he began flinching and dipping and sucking his tummy in, all the while saying in a consternated whisper: "Ooh – shit – John 3; careful."

At one point I tried pulling the foreskin back to expose the swollen head, but he reacted with a sharp intake of breath, bringing his hands up and saying "No, no – don't – it hurts!"

So I left it. "Hang in there, slugger. Almost there."

Bit by bit I pulled and scraped the tape off him. When it was finally all off, he was greatly relieved, peering intently at his cock to see it was alright. Apart from a little redness, it was gun-barrel perfect. He looked up at me with a big grin and said, "Geez, thanks, John."

Having had the lad skittering so close to his orgasm for the last few minutes, I short-circuited my original plans and fully gripped his hard shaft in my fist. As I started to masturbate him, I said, "Okay – I'll bring you off, buddy."

But this boy! Moving back, pushing at my forearm with his plaster hand, he said urgently, "No, don't John! I don't want to make it spoof!"

I let him go, looked at him disbelievingly. "You serious?"

He nodded, red in the face and grimly determined.

"Well, we're going to have to be careful – an unexpected breeze could set you off right now."

But the boy didn't think it a laughing matter. I couldn't help wondering what was in his history to make him like this. His mother was protective, but not overly prudish or religious.

"Adam, that tape wasn't some sort of anti-wanking measure, was it?"

"No."

"When did you last wank?"

He looked positively appalled by that question. "I don't!" he croaked.

Jesus wept. Why would anyone want to fall in love with a boy like this!

"So," I continued, "who put the tape there?"

"I did."

I shrugged. "Your call, buddy. Still got to get you washed, though."

Taking him by the upper arm, I guided him back into position before the basin, his naked, aroused form reflecting spectacularly in the mirrored wall. Even his smooth chest showed a light pinkish flush of excitement.

"Just keep you hands out of the way, Adam – don't want the plaster to get wet."

Despite everything, he was a good boy, and he and raised his hands out of the way as I finished filling the basin. I plunged my hands in and scooped a big splashing handful onto the boy's midriff.

"Oof!" he cried, wrenching away but then immediately getting himself back in position. I splashed him again, higher on his chest, then got a handful of liquid soap and slapped both my soapy hands on his slender torso.

He was of course desperately ticklish.

I told him to stay still, but it was pointless – running my hands up his sides, pressing into his ribcage, prodding into his soapy armpits – it all had him twisting and cavorting and squealing like a banshee.

"Ahhg – Sheee-it!"

"Careful, Adam – you'll smash a mirror with those plaster casts."

"Ooh! Stop! Don't!"

"Get your hands out of the way – they're getting wet."

"Fuck! Ah – Ahhg! John! Oh God – stop!"

But I kept at him as he twisted and genuflected his way across the room. His shoulder blades and bare butt eventually banged into the glass door of the shower cubicle.

"Try and stay still for just a second or two," I laughed, my hands coming to a halt round his glistening wet waist, his ferocious hard-on touching my thigh.

He was breathing hard, eyes lit up. "But shit that tickles."

"Does it? You should have said something."

"Oh yeah! Right! But John, seriously, I can't stand being tickled."

So I moved my hands slowly up to the smooth form of his young chest, feeling the rise and fall of him, gently soaping the first glimmering shape of his pecs, then focusing in on his nipples, thumbing and rubbing his hard little points until he was again flinching and shivering under me. "Ah – ooh – shit!" For a brief time early in puberty, a boy's nipples can become very sensitive, even swell a little as though his sexual development is as confused as it is rampant. As I stroked and rubbed him, the look on his face changed from startled hilarity to worried arousal, writhing this way and that against the glass door, but careful never to move out of my reach.

I ran a hand down the length of his tight wet torso, acknowledged his tummy button with finger tips – even that put little shivers through him – then down to his smooth boy-pubis, the beginner's hair damply clinging to the base of his hard penis. The boy had his eyes closed. I cupped and fondled his balls. He pushed his butt forward, off the glass door, pushed his aching sex out, bent his knees slightly in an unconscious sexual display. I fondled his soapy inner thighs, his hard hot balls, then back behind his tight-drawn sack, the little seam of him, then pushed two slippery fingers between his tight buttocks, softly rubbed back and forth across his fiercely clenched little sphincter. "Fuck, fuck," he whispered, trying to clench harder and stand up straight – then suddenly flinching forward, almost buckling – it took a split-second or two before I realised he was about to ejaculate.

I quickly brought my hand from between his legs and grabbed his cock in my fist. I didn't want him cumming like some girl getting fingered. I put an iron grip on his shaft – he gave a yelp and pushed his skinny hips forward, making little fuck-motions at the sudden fury of his orgasm. He started to spill and spurt his cum, grunting as it ripped out of him. So I pumped him harder – the boy couldn't stand it – too sexually sensitive at this tender age – he got up on his tippy-toes, grabbing clumsily at my shoulder for support, whimpering at the enormity of his release, trying to ride out the bone-twisting suck and surge of his too-big fuck-climax 3; until eventually gouging out the last dribbles of his pent-up boy-load 3; staggering off to one side, finished, his entire essence having spilt like a milky way onto the shiny black tiles.