Gamin Paramour

23 Days To Go

Thanks For The Light - Casting Call

Boys know truth from counterfeit as quick as the chemist does. They detect weakness in your eye and behavior a week before you open your mouth.

Ralph Waldo Emerson, Education, 1865

23 Days To Go

At breakfast in a hotel, a man is fantasizing about a young boy sitting at a neighboring table.

2,500 words (5 pages)
Man and boy (10yo)
Mb – nosex

The first thing I noticed about him was the reflection of sunlight off of his bare thigh. It instantly struck me that his sweet young skin must be so fresh and smooth it was actually shiny. As the waitress led me past their table I tried not to be obvious as I gathered in the sight of him, and tried not to grin as I realized she was seating me at the very next table. She placed the menu at a seat where I would have been facing away, but I would have none of that, and quickly chose the position at the four-top that would afford me the clearest view of him.

There were three of them at the table. The big man with the jet black hair and the thick moustache wore a uniform with a badge. This was not as frightening as it sounds, since the patch on his arm said "Security". Ain't afraid of no rent-a-cop. Across the table from him, with his back to me, sat a much thinner, somewhat younger man in jeans and a T-shirt, wearing a beeper. They talked of work, so I assumed he was a rent-a-cop as well. Next to the big man sat the boy, doing his best to keep up with the grownup conversation, darting his gaze back and forth between his dad and the smaller man, laughing when they laughed whether he understood the joke or not, occasionally throwing in some comment he hoped the men would find funny. His intelligent grey eyes danced, opening wide now and then to register delight when the men included him in their jokes, then glazing over in boredom when the talk turned to office politics and what a jerk the boss is. During one of these lulls the boy tugged at the brim of his baseball cap, looked around the nearly empty restaurant in an unsuccessful search for something new and interesting, made brief eye contact with me, then settled in to play with the only toy at hand, his own rubbery lips and cheeks. With his hands he pulled and twisted his cute features into grotesque distortions. The men ignored him, but I silently shared his amusement. Then just as suddenly something in the conversation caught his interest, and once again he was a picture of the bright and aware child, piping in with his high, sharp voice, participating with the men as a near-equal.

The floor-to-ceiling windows at my back allowed in plenty of light, even under the table where I had a clear view of one beautiful young thigh. He wore clean white denim shorts, carefully hemmed about halfway between his knee and hip. These unfortunately were fairly snug around his leg, never allowing even a glimpse further up. Still, the visible skin lived up to the promise of my first impression. At this angle there was no shiny reflection, but the streaming sunlight clearly showed that this boy's skin was pink and healthy and utterly devoid of even the softest downy hairs. I've seen kids younger than him whose arms and legs were covered in nearly invisible blond hair, and though such hair is softer than soft I prefer smooth clear skin like this. Above the table his arms were similarly smooth, and I imagined him gloriously nude with not a single hair south of the delicate nape of his neck.

The smaller man teasingly snatched the baseball cap from the boy's head, revealing close-cropped dark brown hair with short bangs across his forehead. Despite the fact that I had been thinking to myself over and over, "Man, this kid is gorgeous!", I suddenly realized that was wrong. He was a cute boy, but not beautiful. He had a slightly crooked smile and somewhat too-bushy eyebrows for one so young, and his two front teeth were just a tad buck for a slight Chip 'N Dale look. The short hair also revealed that his ears stuck out a little, adding to the rodent impression. I'd seen much prettier boys; indeed I'd had several prettier boys. But this one was all boy, and had a great little body, and obviously struck me enough that I'm sitting here now writing about him.

Several times the thinner man moved around in his chair and blocked my view, and I found myself cursing him. "Get out of the way, asshole!" I shouted inside my head, though even as the thought formed I knew the man was not really an asshole. I felt somehow as though I had a right to observe the boy, like we had been brought together so that I could see him, share him, make him part of my world, at least for the duration of breakfast. I found myself leaning over into obviously unnatural positions trying to see him, and knew I'd be noticed if I kept that up, so I reluctantly returned to my magazine. But then the man moved, and once again I had a semi-clear view of the prettiest boy, if not in the world at least in the restaurant.

I only caught snatches of their conversation over the hum of the restaurant air conditioning and the background noise of the few other diners. I could better make out what the boy and his father said by reading their lips, but had no idea at all of the thinner man's contributions, since his back wa to me. Still, it was apparent that they were nice people, and I was glad for the boy that he had a good life and a father who likes him and enjoys his company. He was clean, healthy and well dressed, and his father smiled at him often and encouraged his comments. I never saw the father touch the boy or display any form of physical affection, though I know it's hard to draw any conclusions from twenty minutes of observation in a restaurant. Then the boy made it clear that the thinner man didn't know him, which may have contributed to his father's reluctance to touch him.

The boy looked at the thinner man and said, "There's only 23 days to go until my birthday." I looked him up and down, trying to guess his age, which I put at 10. The thinner man must have asked him his birth date, as the boy answered "July 22nd." In my brain I asked, "How old will you be?", and the man must have asked it out loud because the boy smiled and said, "Eleven."

Eleven! What a fantastic age. Young enough to be a boy, old enough to begin to understand there's a world beyond his own experience. Young enough to still want to sit on laps and cuddle, old enough to know the pleasure that can be had with the right kind of touching, and maybe, just maybe, bold enough to try it. I remembered being eleven, the desperate longing I had for that kind of touching with the other boys, of stroking my young cock every night in bed to visions of all the boys I desired; the ones in my gym class, the ones at the YMCA, the ones in my judo class, the ones in my scout troop; not knowing exactly what I wanted to do but knowing ecstasy was out there somewhere.

What does this cute boy think about when he strokes his hairless little dick in his little bed under his little Power Rangers sheets? Was he like me at that age, holding its short stiffness between his thumb and the tips of two fingers, sliding the taut skin up and down furiously as he pictures one after another of his young friends parading their beautiful bodies before him? At ten years, eleven months and seven days since the miracle of his birth could he experience the miracle of an orgasm, as I could at his age? I already had a little hair then, which I sincerely doubt he has, and I remember the feeling building up in my boyish loins until I thought I would pee all over myself. How many times did I quit before the summit was reached, afraid of what seemed ready to happen? Was that the stage this boy was at now, jacking his immature stiffie and enjoying the incredible sensations, but not understanding the peak he was reaching and backing down too soon? When would he let it happen, and for the first time feel himself rush over the edge, feel his tiny balls clench and strain, feel the universe wash through his being like a giant wave? Would he have any cum that first time? Would he feel it climb the column of that short cock and burst forth into the air, the almost clear droplets showering down on his smooth, flat belly like hot rain? Or would he be like me, feel it climb the short column all right, but rather than burst into the air like fireworks merely bubble out of his red, raw-rubbed penis and dribble down the sides and between his still-stroking fingers, not achieving his magnificent airborne salvos until months later? Or would his first orgasm be intense, thrilling and exciting, but dry? It was frustrating to realize that I would never know.

The waitress brought their food, and I was amazed as she just kept putting plates in front of the boy. He gazed wide-eyed at the feast, which included a huge plate of pancakes smothered in fruit and whipped cream ("Yuk," I thought.) plus two fried eggs and four strips of bacon, plus a small dish of baked apples plus some kind of baked potato-and-cheese casserole. He ate more than either of the men, but I was glad to see he didn't finish everything. I would have hated to see such a cute boy puke.

I watched him enjoy his food as I drank coffee and pretended to read my magazine. Under the table he bounced one leg with nervous energy, just as I always did at the dinner table at his age. His father didn't yell at him for it, though, as mine always did. "Go ahead, sweetheart," I said in my head. "Bounce that pretty thigh for me." I watched the muscles work under his smooth skin, and enjoyed the quivering of his flesh as he bounced. The wooden chair pushed up at the underside of his thigh, warping it out of its normal shape and giving it an oblong appearance. I noticed a small scar at his knee, and wondered if it was a recent injury or a permanent reminder of some more serious mishap in the past. Other than a reddened blemish halfway down his shin which appeared to be a mosquito bite, his young leg was smooth and perfect, somewhat tanned already I fancied, though of course I had no way of knowing his normal skin pigmentation without a glimpse under those tight white shorts. I longed for such a glimpse.

They finished breakfast and their plates were cleared. I was afraid they would leave, but the men settled in to drink coffee and gab some more and the boy slouched in his chair with bored resignation. I watched as he played with a spoon on the table top, pushing the round end down so that the handle popped up from the table (like an erection, as only I would observe) and spinning it around under his fingers. To do this he lifted his upper arm to the level of his shoulder and bent it down to the table at the elbow. Since he wore an oversized T-shirt which could have fit three of his skinny arms through the arm holes I found myself with a view up to his hairless chest and armpit. As he moved I saw his slight pectorals swell and stretch, and cursed the water glass that partially obscured this lovely sight. His armpit was completely hairless and as pink as the rest of him. His chest and side looked soft and ever so slightly rounded with baby fat, and I caught two glimpses of a brown nipple. Looking back I'm tempted to remember it being erect, but in honesty I have to see it as flat and soft as it really was. Still, it was large and prominent, and I'll bet it really does get hard with very little stimulation.

When the spoon handle clinked off the water glass a third time, his father finally reacted and shot the boy a reproachful look, and he stopped his play. The boy slouched there a few more seconds, then suddenly said something to his dad and was out of his chair, walking away. As I stared at his beautiful form moving up the aisle I realized that he was going to the washroom, and I had an impulse to oh-so-casually follow him. I pictured us standing at adjacent urinals, no barrier between us of course, getting the view of that small penis I so desired after all. But I was in the middle of my breakfast, and I realized it might look suspicious to wait all that time for my food and then go to the bathroom when it finally comes. What if someone had noticed me staring at the boy, then saw me follow him to the washroom? The father may not be a real cop, but he was a big guy with a nightstick on his belt. The longer I debated the more I realized it was getting too late, that the boy would be finished by the time I got there. I decided not to go, another opportunity wasted. Paranoia is a bitch.

It was several more minutes before the boy returned, and I drank in his image as he drew closer. He had a very nice body, and walked with poise and confidence back to his seat. I made a point of noticing if he had perhaps failed to zip his fly all the way or anything of the nature, but there was no such luck. He was too young for there to be any discernible bulge in those tight white shorts, though they showed off his nice round ass to great effect. Then he flopped back in the same chair as before and waited for his dad to finish the boring work-related conversation with the thinner man.

I had finished my breakfast and another cup of coffee, and had errands to run, so I reluctantly took my leave. I was brave enough to smile at the boy as I walked by, but he either didn't notice or refused to respond. I didn't look back as I left the restaurant, but I didn't have to. This nameless boy is burned into my memory, and I'm sure I'll wish him a silent Happy Birthday 23 days from now.

The End

Thanks For The Light

A man buys a present for the ninth birthday of his neighbour boy and gets a big thank-you.

4,000 words (8 pages)
Man and Rick (9yo)
Mb – cons oral mast

It did my heart good to see his little face light up. He was nine two days ago, and though my present was a little late he responded to it with the kind of excitement I haven't felt for a birthday gift in 25 years.

"Man, this is awesome!" he cried, the shreds of bright wrapping paper still fluttering to the carpet. "A headlight for my bike! It's just what I wanted!"

Of course I knew that. Not only had Rick mentioned it, oh, five or six thousand times in recent weeks, but his Dad had told me specifically it was the one gift the boy really wanted and wasn't getting from his folks. They had saved it for me, since I wanted to give a very special gift this year. Two steps and a jump later I had a lap full of grinning nine-year-old.

"It's a really excellent one, too!" he continued to gush. "I was saving up for one like this, but it would have taken me all year."

"Well now you don't have to," I said, giving him an all too brief hug and basking in his happiness. "Now you can blow your money on something frivolous, like college." I'm not sure he knew what 'frivolous' meant, but he laughed anyway. He was sitting astride my legs facing me, his little butt so skinny I could see most of my knees on either side of it. There was almost no padding on that narrow ass, and if he had any weight to him his sharp bones might have been uncomfortable for me. I'd lugged home Sunday papers that seemed heavier than Rick.

"You didn't have to give me a present, you know." The mock admonition was betrayed by his smiling eyes.

"Yeah, I know," I said, enjoying the fireworks in those sparkling gray-green orbs. "You came through for me when nobody else could be bothered, my friend. That deserved a reward."

He flushed a light shade of red and looked down at his new headlight. "I just helped you set up some tables and chairs. It was no big deal."

"Three adults who were supposed to help didn't show up, and I had 35 people coming over for a barbecue," I said. "If it wasn't for you I was up Shit Creek."

He giggled as he always did at the use of the s-word, which is of course why I made a point of using it. Shit Creek, shit list, shit from Shinola 3; it always got a laugh from Rick.

"Besides, you did a lot more than that," I continued, embarrassing him even further. "You helped me set the tables and you helped me get 15 bags of ice and you helped carry out the food, and even after the other kids got there you didn't wander off to play until all the work was done. You were amazing, kid, and I'm very grateful and very proud of you."

His angular little face was bright crimson by then, and I wondered why it was that he was so uncomfortable being praised. It wasn't really that hard to figure out, I guess. Rick lived in the dark, cool shadow of his brother Frank, older by eleven short months but clearly the top dog of their house. The older boy was strong, wiry and athletic, perhaps not the best ten-year-old athlete around but still the kind of kid who was picked first every time. Frank was bold and outgoing, too, among the most popular boys in school. And cute 3; let's just say he'd guest starred in quite a number of my fantasies.

Rick was none of those things. He was agonizingly skinny, looking like he'd blow away in a stiff wind. His head appeared too big for his body, and his arms and legs were as spindly as the space aliens in Close Encounters. I don't want to give the impression that he was ugly, because he wasn't. He was just gangly and disproportioned and a bit on the clumsy side. I'd seen baseballs go right between his hands and smack him in the face more than once. He was quiet and shy, playing by himself or reading more often than not. In fact, that's how he got started coming over to my house in the first place.

I'd had his family over to get acquainted when I first moved in next door and saw immediately the polar opposites of the two boys. Frank went straight to the mantle and the game ball I'd been awarded by my college football team, and Rick went straight to the bookcases full of leather-bound classics.

Both boys were frequent visitors for a few weeks, one at a time since they rarely played together. Frank came to talk sports, and when he tired of hearing how I intercepted a Michigan State pass at the goal line to preserve a one-point victory for my Fighting Illini, his visits petered out and then stopped altogether. But Rick continued to visit, working his way through Dickens and Twain and Stevenson, devouring everything I deemed appropriate for a smart little boy and bugging me constantly for the rest.

I was fond of both boys, but Frank didn't need me and this little wisp of a boy sitting on my knees did. He wasn't beautiful, but he was a terrific kid and a sweet boy, with never an unkind word for anyone. He didn't deserve the fag jokes he had to endure, mostly from his brother. So what if he wasn't good at sports and couldn't make the word "shit" come out of his mouth if he was up to his knees in it? And so what if he played with Barbies when he was 5? At 5 you don't know what you're playing with. It could have been the box. None of that made Rick deserving of abuse. My heart really went out to the kid.

"OK," I said, "If you really like your present then I get one more, really good hug."

He grinned broadly, forgetting his embarrassment, and threw both arms around my neck and squeezed until I thought my carotid artery would stand out like a relief map of the Appalachians. The sensation of soft young boy flesh against me had its usual effect, and suddenly I found myself thinking of Rick not just as the lonely little boy from next door, but as a possibility.

I wrapped my arms around his skeletal little frame and held him to me. The headlight fell softly to the carpet.

His warmth was nice. He wore only a T-shirt and shorts, and I could feel his heat almost as if nothing were between us. I found my hand slipping to his bare thigh, petting it gently, hoping it seemed casual. The skin was as smooth as any I'd ever felt, and the thigh was so skinny I could practically touch my fingers around it. He didn't tense at all as I touched him, not even when I slid my hand further along his thigh, even an inch or so under the thin material of his shorts. He just hugged me.

Before I even consciously thought about it I found my lips pressed against his forehead, planting a soft kiss just above his brow. He didn't shrink away. I kissed him again, and this time he leaned his head back and regarded me questioningly, but he never let go of my neck. Then, a look of decision coming into his eyes, he suddenly leaned forward and kissed me lightly on the lips.

I was very surprised but did my best not to show it. I wracked my brain to remember if I had seen how his family kissed. Maybe mouth kissing was something this boy would do with, say, an uncle or a grandfather; the usual thing for his family. But I couldn't remember ever seeing a kiss between any of them, or even a hug for that matter. I didn't think he'd learned that at home.

"What's the matter?" he finally asked, a look of uncertainty in his eyes but still clinging to my neck.

"Nothing," I replied, smiling as calmly as I could. "You kissed me. It was nice." We looked at each other in silence for a moment, until I said, "As a matter of fact, it was very nice. Would you do it again?"

"You want me to?" he asked softly, not sure what to make of it.

"Yes, it's very nice," I repeated.

A tentative smile spread slowly across his face; he wasn't sure if he was being teased. I made a point of looking into his eyes as reassuringly as I could, and after a moment I saw the realization blossom there that I was serious. His smile broadened, and he leaned forward slowly and pressed his lips once again to mine.

It wasn't a quick peck this time. I didn't let it stop at that. I shifted one hand from his narrow shoulder blade to the back of his head, gently holding him to me as we kissed. I felt him start to pull away after five or six seconds, but the gentle pressure of my hand was all it took to stop him. He kissed with eagerness if not passion, and with a trust that struck me straight to the heart.

My excitement increased rapidly as we kissed. After perhaps a minute I found myself moaning softly around his small lips and grinding my mouth against his. He seemed to take this in stride, and though he made no sound I felt him pressing back against me with greater desire. With his little chest crushed against mine I fancied I could feel our hearts pounding in rhythm. I was getting caught up in him, and losing control.

Without thinking I opened my mouth and pushed my tongue against his lips. He pulled back in surprise, and I let him.

"What did you just do?" he asked, without a hint of fear or anger. He was merely curious.

"It's a special kind of kissing," I said, smiling warmly and pressing forward to nibble at his lips again. He allowed that, but clearly wanted further explanation. "It's a kind of kissing that I think is really fun," I continued. "It's called French kissing."

"I've heard of that," he said ponderingly, as if trying to remember where he had read about such things.

"It's where two people kiss with their mouths open and touch their tongues together," I elaborated, hoping I had aroused his curiosity if nothing else. I leaned in to kiss him again, and this time when my tongue pushed forward his lips parted with only a little uncertainty and my tongue slid easily between them.

It took him only a moment to get used to it. My tongue ran over his sharp teeth and quickly encountered his own slippery tongue. I swirled my tongue around his several times and, with a little suction, coaxed him to extend it into my mouth as well. I closed my lips gently around his tongue and sucked it as sensuously as I could, hoping this would somehow trigger in his inexperienced brain a longing for other fun involving suction. I knew I had thought of blow jobs before his age, both getting and giving, and I hoped it was some kind of genetic memory all boys are born with. After a moment his tongue retreated back into his mouth and I followed it with mine, very surprised to feel him clamp his lips around it and suck with a passion easily rivaling my own.

We played this game of tongue tag back and forth for several minutes. I could feel moisture beginning to leak into my shorts, and I knew I'd have to either press Rick for more or get rid of him so I could finish things off myself. Naturally with my cock in command of my brain I started in immediately pressing the boy.

"Man," I gasped, somewhat reluctantly pulling away from his eager mouth. "You're sure good at this. Are you sure you never French kissed before?"

He grinned at me proudly. "Nope. This is my first time."

"You know what really good kissing like that always does to me?" I asked conspiratorially. I looked around as if there might be someone to overhear the secret, though of course we were alone in my house. "It makes my dick get hard."

His eyes grew wide and he immediately flushed bright red, but there was something in his face that let his extreme excitement show through. He glanced down his own skinny body and I suddenly knew.

"Does it do that to you, too?" I pressed. "Does your dick get hard?" He swallowed and for the first time looked a little scared. I smiled encouragingly .

"Yeah," he answered softly, finally showing me his patented embarrassed smile. "It got hard right after you put your tongue in my mouth."

"Oh, yeah," I said, relaxing now that this all-important hurdle was past. "That's about when mine did, too." I leaned forward and kissed him again, mouth open but no tongue. I felt him relax in my arms, and resumed fondling his bare thigh without protest.

"You've had boners before today, right?" I finally asked, trying to sound conversational.

He was still embarrassed, but answered without hesitation. "Yeah, I get them sometimes."

"In bed at night, right?" I said. "That's when I mostly used to get them, when I was your age."

"Yeah, a lot of nights," he said. He was watching my hand trace circles on his smooth thigh.

"I used to rub it and play with it," I said, my throat tight but still somehow sounding casual. "Pretty much every night, you know? It really felt good."

The boy didn't say anything, but his breathing came faster.

"Do you do that sometimes, Rick?" I insisted. I kissed his forehead softly once, then again. Then, in little more than a whisper, "Do you play with your hard dick and make it feel really good?"

"Sometimes," he whispered. My hand traced higher up the leg hole of his shorts. He didn't move.

I pulled him gently to me and placed three or four soft, nibbling kisses on his lips, and again his little body relaxed somewhat and he kissed me back. I scooted his hips closer to me until he was sitting directly on the hard lump in my pants. I ground my cock against him, and I could feel him react to it.

"Do you feel my hard dick, Ricky?" I whispered, using the diminutive name he had never gone by as far as I knew. "Can you feel how big and hard it is?"

"Yeah," he answered, sounding a bit scared but not shrinking away at all.

"It's hard for you, Ricky," I whispered between kisses. "You made it that way." Then, the moment of truth. "Is yours hard for me?"

He hesitated only a fraction of a second, but it was an eternity to me. He kissed my lips, then whispered, "It's hard for you."

I crushed him against me, kissing him deeply and for the first time feeling the insistent prod of his small, stiff prick against my stomach. He ground it against me matching the urgency with which I thrust my big cock up against his tiny ass. We writhed there on the sofa a long time, our tongues darting heatedly back and forth, first in his mouth then in mine, humping our excited cocks against each other in the bright flame of new passion. He was lying on top of me now, and as we groped and gyrated I ran my hands up under his t-shirt to stroke his smooth, soft back and sides, and then down inside his small shorts and underpants to cup the two flat cheeks of his butt. It was incredibly soft and warm, the skin smooth and supple, literally like a baby's ass. There wasn't much meat on it, but I enjoyed it thoroughly nevertheless. I slowly but steadily worked the shorts down until they reached his bony knees.

He hadn't reacted at all, although I knew he must have realized his pants were coming off. He still ground his now-free penis against my belly, and it was only when I began rolling him off of me that he broke his silence.

"What are you gonna do?" he asked breathlessly.

"I want to make you feel better than you ever felt before," I said, kissing him twice more as I maneuvered him onto his back. It was the first time I had ever seen his body, and it seemed beautiful to me, at least in the state of mind I was in. He was incredibly thin, his pelvic bones clearly visible through the soft, smooth skin, and framed by the triangle of those bones was a long, slim, hairless cock. It was bigger than I expected, though perhaps not bigger than other boys his age. Maybe it was his thinness that made an average cock look big. In any event, it looked beautiful to me and I longed to taste it. His hairless balls hung down low and loose between those skinny thighs, and I knew that when he stood up his thighs would not touch each other and those balls would hang down between like the clapper in a church bell. He was intensely hard, the circumcised head of the thin cock a deep pink, quivering with his excitement.

"Are you gonna suck it?"

"Is that what you'd like me to do?" I asked, thinking yes yes YES in my fevered brain, wishing I could transmit that answer into his head by telepathy. I practically held my breath.

"You can if you want to," the boy said in his usual self-effacing way. Even now he couldn't ask for what he wanted, had to put my desires ahead of his own. But I knew that he wanted it as badly as he had ever wanted anything.

I didn't say anything, but smiled as I lowered my face between his little legs. His little boy smell hung sweet in the air, and grew stronger as I drew closer. His thighs opened instinctively to accept me, and as my lips came near enough to finally embrace the virginal young member I saw him lift his hips from the couch, pushing his sex up to me in his eagerness.

"Ohhhh," he sighed as my greedy mouth caressed his pulsingly hard cock. I took it deeply at first, clamping my lips around its base and swirling around the shaft with my tongue. A shudder moved through his lean body, like a wave of pleasure that seemed to start in his legs and ripple upwards through his gut and into his chest. I deliberately avoided his sensitive cockhead for the first moments, allowing him to get used to the idea of both of us enjoying his penis this way. When I felt him push up against my face again I knew he was ready.

I backed off slowly, my lips clinging to the slick young flesh as it slipped back out of my mouth. When just the tiny cockhead was left engulfed, I reached out with the very tip of my tongue and laved the hot, hard knob and covered it in saliva. I flicked my tongue over his burning flesh and heard him cry out in sudden pleasure. I engulfed the cock again fully, sucking firmly and steadily, and when I felt two small hands at the back of my head I knew he was enraptured.

I don't know precisely how long Rick's first blow job lasted, but it was a good long time. I sucked him forcefully at times, and other times light as a feather. He seemed to appreciate both. I licked down to his silky soft hairless balls several times, taking them into my mouth and gently rolling them around inside his tender scrotum. He reached down while I was doing that and began slowly stroking his cock, in what apparently was his accustomed manner, and after a few minutes of that politely asked me to please go back and suck his dick some more. I was glad that he finally relaxed enough to express his own desires, and knowing he was truly participating made it all the better for me. I reached up under his t-shirt and pinched and rolled his tiny nipples, and though they got hard as little pin points he told me later that it had not done all that much for him, and he preferred when I played with his balls.

My own cock was raging hard in my pants, of course, and finally after sucking this sweet little guy for God knows how long my body demanded relief. I released his red, well-worn cock and tore my own pants down. Rick's eyes widened when he saw my angry, blood engorged tool. It's not huge but it was probably the biggest he had ever seen, and he gaped at it in wonder.

"Oh, Ricky, I gotta get off!" I moaned, gripping my cock and beginning to roughly stroke it.

"Get off of what?" he asked innocently, unable to tear his eyes from the mancock before him.

"It's a special feeling a man gets," I panted, impatient with explaining biology at a time like this. "It's a hundred times better than what I just helped you feel. And I'm dyin' to feel it right now!"

"Nothing could be a hundred times better than that," he grinned, and while I appreciated the compliment to my cocksucking skills I was somewhat preoccupied with my own need.

"Believe me," I grunted, my fist flying along my shaft and my balls bouncing like they were doing aerobics. "In about three years you'll know what I'm talking about."

He watched me closely, and I was just starting to feel it building when he said the sweetest words I could have hoped for.

"Can I help you get the special feeling?"

"Oh, Ricky," I moaned. "Oh, yes you can baby, yes you can." I motioned him closer, and he scooted his half naked little body over until our legs touched. "Just take it in your hand and do what I'm doing."

Gamely he reached for my cock. His long slim fingers came in handy for a change, and he was able to grasp the thick pole quite comfortably, unlike other boys his age who had tried. The touch of his soft hand was thrilling, and after a few seconds he got a rhythm going that, while not as fast or as steady as mine, excited me by its very differentness. I grinned at him as he pounded my cock, and he grinned back as he threw himself into the task. Now he was back in his element, doing something for someone else.

The picture of this hairless, skinny little boy with his shorts around his ankles and his small, thin boner still jutting upwards, grinning happily as his hand flew along the length of my cock was almost enough to make me cum all by itself. I had been so hot to get off, but now that I was getting this wonderful hand job I found myself holding back, not ready for it to end. He stroked firmly, switching hands when he got tired, and still grinning his sweet grin. After a few minutes of this exquisite torture I couldn't hold back any longer. I pinched my own nipples and suddenly felt myself rush over the edge.

"Oh, Ricky, it's happening!" I grunted. "Don't stop, no matter what happens! Just please don't stop!"

The jizz erupted out of my cock with a force I'd thought I'd seen the last of when I was 25. The first spurt went higher than Rick's head as he sat on his haunches next to me. Fortunately for him he wasn't in the flight path, and the steaming glob made its graceful arch and splashed down instead on my left collarbone. The boy stared wide-eyed with surprise, but much to his credit he didn't stop stroking even as the second spurt blasted forth and painted my stomach and navel with pearly white fluid. A few more strokes from the boy and I pumped out another few drops, these running down across his small hand and into my pubic hair. The look on his face said he was grossed out by the semen on his hand, but he never stopped stroking my cock even after my convulsions subsided, and I had to somewhat forcefully push his hand away lest he pull my sensitive organ clean off.

You should have seen the look on his face when I held his fingers up to my mouth and licked up a thick pearl of cum. I explained to him what it was, and what it is used for in the procreation of the species, and he beamed at knowing something none of his friends – and especially his brother – knew anything about. He wouldn't taste it himself, at least not that first day.

There were of course other days. Rick continued to visit, and I continued to lend him books, but I also continued his education in another direction, to our mutual enjoyment. Oh, and

I bought him a taillight for his bike, too.

The End

Casting Call

A casting director needs some boy-actors for a commercial to be shot on the beach

4,500 words (9 pages)
The casting director and David 10yo
Mb – cons oral

OK, so I admit it. I agreed to do the series of commercials mostly because I knew I'd be working with a whole gaggle of little boys. Just the right age group, too – 9 to 12. But what the hell? Somebody had to direct those spots, and I'm a pro. I can sell overpriced fruit juice in a bottle shaped like a mackerel as well as anybody else. And if I happen to grab a little fringe benefit along the way, so what? Still, when the whole thing started I had no idea how beneficial the fringe was going to be!

I knew the fish-bottle motif would mean shooting at the beach (I guess the bottle is really supposed to be a shark, but it looked like a mackerel to me) and I thanked my fairy godmother for the prospect of all that young skin staring me in the face 12 hours a day for a week. But all I ever intended was to catch a few peeks, die-hard voyeur that I am. I never thought the casting call would get so out of hand.

I had a series of five spots to cast, with speaking parts for nine boys, seven girls and four or five adults. I was totally unprepared for the hundreds of resumes that poured in in response to open-call ads in Variety, Backstage and other trade rags, and I was even less prepared for the ways of stage mothers, particularly one Mrs. Wanda Furth.

Master Furth was perhaps the thirtieth young hopeful to parade into my office in pursuit of celluloid immortality in the past three days. The earlier interviews had been mostly uneventful, consisting of quick glances through skimpy credits, the usual portfolio of 8-by-10 glossies, a quick reading of Leave-It-To-Beaver dialogue, and repeated suggestions from Mother like, "Show the man how you tap dance, Gilbert." The kids were mostly cute enough, and I intended to hire a few, but no one had exactly bowled me over yet.

I had not yet even released the intercom button after summoning the next one when the door burst open and the entire room was taken over by the commanding presence of the most dominating woman I had ever seen. If my desk had been on fire I think she still would have had my attention. A large woman, she swept into the room with all the intensity of a middle linebacker, and I was evidently the enemy quarterback about to be sacked. Following behind with an embarrassed, "Not again, Mom" look was an absolutely gorgeous boy about ten or eleven years old. My survival instinct screamed at me to keep my eyes on Big Mama, but quite another sort of instinct drew my gaze to those fantastic blue eyes that seemed to be walking in all by themselves, dragging a perfect little body along almost as an afterthought.

I ordinarily rise to shake hands at this point in an interview, but my Calvin Kleins were already pulling tight around the zipper, and standing may well have proven painful. Struggling to close my gaping mouth, I gestured stupidly for the two of them to have a seat. The huge, imposing woman was saying something I probably should have been listening to, but I was falling helplessly into those twin seas of deepest blue, broken occasionally by the flutter of long, soft, gossamer lashes. It was only when the boy made an effort to break the eye contact that I was able to drag my consciousness reluctantly back to the real world. I then also realized that he had been staring back at me as well.

" 3; in the chorus and understudied the role of Patrick in a touring company production of Mame last year," Big Mama was saying. "Plus one line in a Little House to air next month. He can do drama, comedy, he sings like a little bird 3;"

"Mrs. – uh – Furth," I began, noting the displeasure she registered at being interrupted. "We don't need any little birds right now." The boy stifled a giggle and she shot him a sharp look. "What we do need," I continued, "are real, all-American kids who can deliver a line while pretending to like this fruit crap we're selling. I'm not looking for Sir Lawrence Olivier, Jr."

That sort of condescending treatment puts most people on the defensive and I end up signing them for a song. They're usually glad just to get the part, but not Big Mama Furth. Instead of slinking away she launched into a lengthy diatribe about how lucky I should consider myself to have a chance to sign the next Ricky Schroeder, only better. She went on for five minutes without even pausing for breath, going over every part the kid had done since he played one of the four basic food groups in the first grade, complete with an 8-by-10 glossy of each one. I had to admit, little David had a pretty fair background and had played a wide variety of roles. In fact, I had been sold on hiring him the minute I saw those eyes of his, but I hated like hell to let his Amazon Mama think she had bullied me into it.

I almost hoped the kid would botch the reading so I could dismiss him after all, but he really did read like Olivier, Jr. He had a terrific natural quality and a clear, high voice that I knew would record beautifully. And he was so damn pretty I couldn't stand it. I latched onto the last objection I could think of not to hire him on the spot.

"I see no photograph of David in swim wear," I said, rifling through the portfolio. "All of these spots will be done at the beach, so I'm afraid I'll have to see a picture in a bathing suit before I can make any firm offer." Considering the tightness in my jeans I thought the phrase 'firm offer' to be appropriate. I wrenched a halfway plausible reason for such a demand out of the deep recesses of my brain. "Some kids just don't look good in a swim suit. You know, ribs sticking out like a Cambodian refugee, big splotchy birthmarks, that sort of thing." I stepped around the desk and tried to usher the woman to the door. "You understand, don't you? Just have that picture made and send it to me 3;" but the words 'and I'll get back to you' never made it past my lips.

She spun deftly away from me and strode purposefully back into the room, digging into her massive black purse like a hog rooting for truffles. "What an amazing coincidence!" she said. "Mr. Furth and I just took David and his sister to the beach yesterday and I think I still 3; yes! Here it is!"

I was dumb struck when she produced a small blue Speedo-type bathing suit out of the bag like a rabbit out of a hat. David seemed as incredulous as I was, but the boy apparently knew from experience that it was fruitless to argue with his mother. With a sigh of resignation he stood and began to peel the bright green Izod shirt over his head, while my jaw dropped even further. Yet another bolt of lightning struck when Mrs. Furth suddenly announced that her Polaroid camera was right outside in her car, and she knew I'd need a photograph for the file, so she'd be right back. Then she was out the door, leaving me and her rapidly undressing son alone.

I felt for my pulse to be sure I hadn't died and gone to Heaven, but I couldn't find it in my wrist. The blood pounded heavily in a somewhat southerly direction, though. I didn't even have to pretend I wasn't looking at him, since looking at him was supposed to be the whole point, after all.

Bare-chested David was just straightening up after removing his stylish Pony athletic shoes and white socks. He looked like no Cambodian refugee I ever heard of. His smooth, bronzed chest was just slightly filled out by the remnants of baby fat. His shoulders showed the promise of muscular development someday, but for now were soft, round and somehow feminine. Still, he looked every inch a real boy. His smooth, brown belly was trim but not skinny, his cute little navel was neither an 'innie' nor an 'outie', but tied just flush with the line of his stomach. It occurred to me his obstetrician must have been a fisherman who tied his own flies.

The boy gave me a conspiratorial little look as he unfastened his belt and slipped his designer jeans to his ankles. I immediately knew why when he stepped out of them and straightened back up. The pouch of his little BVDs was stretched beyond any hope I might not notice. He looked embarrassed and a bit scared as he figited a little, avoiding my eyes. But he didn't have to worry about eye contact because my gaze was super-glued elsewhere. He gave a little "here goes nothing" smack of the lips, then pulled the brief cotton shorts quickly to the floor.

I was too absorbed to be surprised when he didn't hurry to put on the bathing suit and again cover his stiff, straining little dick. My eyes were riveted in place, watching the young penis bounce slightly before coming to rest at a jaunty angle, pointing back up his flat belly like a flower straining toward the sun. It was good sized for his age, not all that long but thick and substantial. His obstetrician had truly been an artist, as evidenced by the perfectly symmetrical circumcision scar that left the organ looking almost as if the operation had never been done at all, and the boy had simply been born already circumcised. The bright pink of its engorged head contrasted sharply with the alabaster white of the shaft and surrounding skin. While the rest of his beautiful body was a robust tan from uncounted hours in the California sun, this most private part of him remained the milky white he had been born with. The tan lines were sharp and distinct, as if he had one favorite swimsuit worn eternally. His tiny, perfectly hairless balls hung loosely and confidently beneath that proud boner, unshrinking even in the air conditioning. The boy stood with his legs slightly apart and his hands behind him. It was only then that I realized he was deliberately allowing me to examine him.

Looking up to his face I saw nothing of the vaguely frightened and embarrassed child of a moment before. Now there was a confident smile that clearly told who was in charge of the moment. It wasn't a challenging or defiant smile, just a comfortable one. His eyes led mine down my own body, down to the realization that my own jeans looked like a large reptile was trying to escape down one leg. It obviously pleased him to know he was coming between me and my Calvins.

My mind raced as I tried to think of what to do or say. Was I reading the situation correctly? You hear about the Hollywood casting couch all the time, with young starlets sleeping their way into their roles. Is it so outrageous to think a beautiful little boy might try the same thing?

David's hand was on his chest now, tweaking one tiny, erect nipple. He pinched and twirled it between thumb and forefinger until it seemed as sharp as a straight pin, while I could do nothing but gulp and tremble like an imbecile. His hand began to trace down and down, across the bronzed stomach, pausing briefly at the extraordinary belly button, past the glaring tan line and into Never Never Land. With one finger he pushed the tip of his burgeoning member downward, straining its natural bend and making its translucent skin pull even tighter across it. Finally, when it reached the apparent breaking point at nearly a 90-degree angle, he held it there an excruciating second before letting it snap back to its upright position like some medieval catapult of living flesh, slapping loudly against his abdomen and causing a bouncing quiver to reverberate through his loins.

For a second I thought I would stain my jeans. I let out a soft, "Oh, God!" and David laughed. My mind raced, but was at the same time completely blank. I was scared to death that Big Bertha would bust in any second and treat me like a front bumper in a demolition derby, but at the same time uncaring about anything but this incredible specimen of boyhood before me.

Just then David turned on his heel and padded naked toward the office door, reaching for the knob. My heart leaped into my throat, and would likely have escaped entirely had my mouth been open at the time. I had an outer office full of stage mothers and their precious offspring out there, and a naked kid was about to step out and show them just what kind of audition I really run. But even while contemplating my imminent ruin and possible incarceration I couldn't help but admire David's fantastic, dimpled butt as it wiggled away from me. It was round and smooth and looked firm as a ripe cantaloupe. The roundness of that ass was a perfect natural continuation of the gentle curve of his thighs; a study in mathematical precision. Like a Greek statue, everything was in perfect proportion. My cock was doing the Tango in my pants.

When David arrived at the door he didn't fling it open and scream for the constabulary. Instead, he deftly and quietly snapped the lock, turning back to me with a sly smile. This kid was full of surprises, and once again he switched gears on me by not padding softly back across the carpet, but suddenly and unexpectedly SKIPPING back with a wide grin, humming some sort of nursery rhyme and delighting in the way I couldn't tear my eyes away from his bouncing dick and balls.

He stopped directly before me, standing with legs wide apart and hands on his hips. Everything said all pretense was over, from the no-nonsense look in his eye to the steely throb of that ready cock. I'd made love with plenty of boys before, but this was the first time I ever felt like I was about to be raped.

Still grinning he asked, "How long has my Mom been gone?" It was the first time he'd mentioned Big Mama since she'd gone.

I tore my gaze away long enough to look at my watch and strain to recall what time she left. "Ten minutes," I guessed.

"Then we still have twenty minutes to mess around," he said, stepping close enough to take into my arms. Again I was thunderstruck to realize that Big Bertha was in on the whole seduction plot! She was pimping her own son to get him into show business! You live in Hollywood a few years and you think you've seen it all 3;

I spent that twenty minutes tasting every square inch of Master David Furth, a delicacy fit for the most discriminating gourmet. His supple young skin was warm and tender, his lips soft and moist, his touch firm but gentle. It was definitely not his first time, of course. He was aggressive, but at the same time accommodating. He had a natural sense of what was working for me and what wasn't, and while he never rushed he never overstayed his welcome in any one position, either. Sure he was a hustler, and he was peddling his ass to me just the same as if I had picked him up on Santa Monica Boulevard somewhere. But he was so good at making me forget that I was just a stepping-stone to a TV commercial that I didn't care. It was "Lover-Mania": not really a lover but an incredible simulation.

After helping me undress and making with the usual oohs and ahhs over the size of my dick, David climbed on top of me face to face, cock to cock. He ground his little one against my big one and craned his face up to me for a kiss. The instant our lips touched his tongue darted past my teeth and began a spirited game of tag with mine. The French kiss was deep and soulful, first in my mouth and then his. All the time our dicks mashed together and my hands roamed every accessible part of his soft young body. If I outlive the mountains I'll never get over the incredible sense of reverence I feel when I'm touching a perfect young boy's exquisite body. It's as if I'm sharing something of the universe. I can't imagine anything more perfect.

I easily nudged his 70 or 80 pounds [30-35 kg] a bit higher until our mouths were more nearly even and his pulsing pecker jabbed hotly against my belly. My aching cock slid up between those silken thighs and against the tender cleft of his butt. He knew to clamp his legs tightly around my towering prick and ride it like a hobbyhorse. I was in ecstasy as the warm velvet of his soft inner thighs engulfed me. My ultra sensitive cockhead poked once and again at his tiny asshole, and he rocked gently back and forth in rhythm with our probing kisses, rubbing his rosy rectum against my dick tip most provocatively. I could feel that his hot butthole was completely relaxed, and I was just thinking of possibly pushing through that tight ring when he put his lips right next to my ear and said so softly I barely heard him, "You'll need Vaseline for that." He pulled back and smiled lovingly into my face, mouthing the words, "Next time." A bolt of electricity shot through me as I realized there would be a next time!

He resumed his wet and deep kisses, tiny moans escaping from the back of his throat every once in awhile. His eyes were mostly closed but now and again we would lock our gazes together and again I'd be lost in that pair of blue lagoons. A shock of sun-bleached blond hair fell over one eye and I felt its feathery softness against my own brow. If I could have bottled that kid I'd have made a mint.

My favorite part came next, where I put him on his back in classic blow job position and proceeded to suck that little stiffie like there would be no tomorrow. I trembled as I knelt and approached it. It seemed too good to be believed. I leaned forward like slow-motion in a Sam Peckinpah film. With every inch closer I grew even more excited. I noticed the texture of the taut skin; the coloration of the veins running the length of the small shaft; the slow, easy rise and fall of that beautiful dickhead with every breath he took. Even closer and the wonderful aroma of clean boy filled my nose; closer still and the pulsing of his heartbeat showed in tiny quivers of the head; closer yet and the heat of his sexuality fell on my lips and cheeks.

And then I was there! It suddenly seemed important to have it fully, to possess it to the hilt, so I slid my searching lips all the way down to its base in one thrust. I felt a sigh escape from him I'll swear was not faked, and it helped to know for sure that he was genuinely excited, too. The boner felt so comfortable in my mouth it was like we were old lovers doing it for the hundredth time. It was a fine little mouthful, small enough to take all the way to the balls and still run my tongue all around it. The taste and feel were fantastic, but I think I most enjoyed the sensation of being as intimately involved with him as a person can get. My chin was pressed against those silky balls, because of the angle of his erection my nose and forehead were jammed against the softest belly I ever felt, and that sturdy young hard-on was thrust as far into my mouth as it could go. You can't get any more intimate than that.

His legs came a little wider apart and his hips thrust upward a bit, making sure the last possible millimeter of dick was in my mouth. My tongue swirled around its fleshy stiffness, drinking in that musky, slightly salty flavor. I sucked firmly and steadily, pulling back only for a second now and then to swallow. Every time I slid back down that throbbing piece of heaven I made sure my lips were pressed tightly around the sensitive head, giving him a sensation of penetration each time. When he moaned in appreciation I began to pump up and down in a slow, steady rhythm, fucking his lurching little cock in and out between my lips. His breathing cam faster then, his golden thighs coming together to hold my face like a satin vise and his hands coming to the back of my head to help set the rhythm and run sensuously through my hair.

I never wanted it to end. I doubt if anything can top the remarkable feel, smell and taste of an erect young penis. It's soft and tender, yet hard as stone at one and the same time, like an iron bar padded with foam rubber and silk. And the reassuring warmth of his presence was never stronger than when my face was buried so totally in his softness.

We switched positions far too soon for my taste, though I'm sure the businessman in young David had one eye on the clock throughout our lovemaking, making sure I went off before the alarm did. I've always tended toward giving pleasure rather than receiving, deriving my pleasure from the tremendous physical pleasure I know I'm giving and from the sheer joy of being allowed to worship at the altar of youth. But his hot little mouth on my cock quickly made me content to be right where I was.

He surprised me with his aggressiveness and his capacity to engulf my entire organ. I'm not much into adult cocks myself, but I doubt I could take one as big as mine the way this little boy did. He seemed to really enjoy it, periodically allowing its head to stab into his throat for just a second, then drawing back to do unheard-of things with his tongue on my sensitive cockhead. As I looked down at his golden curls bobbing up and down and felt the brush of his pert little upturned nose into my pubic hair, I suddenly felt a moment of despair that this wonderfully loving boy, so open and giving and so talented, was selling himself for the price of a few days work in a fruit juice commercial. I also despaired that I was low enough to buy what he was selling. Not that I would have pulled his moist lips off my cock for anything in the world, mind you. A stiff dick has no conscience.

Suddenly he spun gracefully into a 69 position, that now-familiar three inches of steaming boy boner poking me urgently in the face. Because of its peculiar angle I had to crane my neck to take it again between my lips, and when I did those hairless balls fell loosely across the bridge of my nose and against my eyes. His little-boy odor was the strongest yet in that position, spurring me to suck with renewed intensity. An image came into my mind of those sweet testicles some two or three years hence, covered with the first silky wisps of puberty, and I silently mourned the inexorable passage of time. If only this one beautiful boy could be spared, and stay this beautiful forever!

I looked up past those lovely nuts and saw his tiny pink-brown asshole winking at me from the wide-open crack of his flawless butt. It didn't look big enough to admit me, Vaseline or not. David's little weight felt nice pressing down on my face as his satiny thighs caressed my cheeks. I reached around and gently fondled the jellied roundness of one little ball, and felt him duplicating this on me. While I couldn't pump his cock this time because of our position, he was pumping on me like crazy and seemed to sense my climax was near.

The orgasm approached like a lone horseman far off in the desert, who can be seen for miles but never seems to get any closer until suddenly he's right on top of you. In that instant when it transformed itself from a faint stirring in my guts into a tidal wave of otherworldly proportions I felt a moment of concern over firing my jizz into the boy's mouth, knowing that most boys his age don't like that. But I also knew David was nothing like most boys his age, and that making me come seemed to be the whole point. I also realized that I couldn't have stopped it at that point even if I was inclined to. My concern was unfounded, it turned out, as the boy took it like a pro – a little too much like a pro, actually. Still, a soft small mouth clamped around my pulsing, shooting cock while his throbbing little hairless prong lurched and strained in my mouth 3; what's not to like?

So of course I gave him the job. In fact I used him in all five spots and made the kid a small fortune. He even did a good job, so the fruit juice people got their money's worth.

We made love twice in my motel room on location. It was much more relaxed and lasted a lot longer than the first time, but it wasn't nearly as exciting even though he kept his promise of allowing my Vaseline-slick cock inside his tiny, tight butthole. It was great, don't get me wrong. He had the tightest little ass I've ever been in, bar none, and he took it like it was his favorite thing in the world. But there was something missing, I guess because I knew ahead of time that it was going to happen. That first time was like entering the fucking Twilight Zone.

I haven't seen him now in about six weeks, but I'm trying to get a job directing an Afterschool Special, and maybe I can cast David again. I hope so. I sure miss the little guy.

The End