Guile or Innocence?

PREFACE: For the most pleasure from these pages, read the first chapter. You’ll visit the odd, steamy events of four vignette-size tales within this larger story’s first part – and be ready for the final, connected vignettes in what follows. Meet the players, named and unnamed. Take my ‘trip’ into role-reversal hijinks, I invite you – above all, to enjoy the sexy predicaments ahead.

* * *

Since Gonzalo Mendez took over tending me, I had the old-guy fun of seeing my stories of way-past encounters with boys appear where lots of horny men could enjoy them. Clever caregiver that he is, Gonzalo has been needling me to keep-on-keeping-on. So I have.

Despite his twenty years, over-oiled hair, and interest in “Abnormal Psychology.”

A bullshit subject for college study.

You see, my regular caregiver, Jovino de la Cruz, went off the deep end as a result of taking to heart too much my shenanigans. Nobody’s talking, but rumor is he’s in lockdown or is locked up.

In our group sitz bath the other day, Old Harold and his plastic ukulele were across from me (I was sitting between slobbering Amos and chortling Throcky). The song, off-key but sincere, was “My Old Kentucky Home.” We were sloshing water all over to keep time with Old Harold’s erratic starts and stops, strums and plonks.

Throcky was so into it, he let memorable farts. Well, we waved about and splashed the warm water. A gay old time – until Gonzalo yelled at us, “Cool it! We gotta get you toweled off for your art class.”

The word ‘therapy’ had been dropped. Just ‘art class’ these days. Same thing. Boring.

Now, while colored construction paper, white paste, and scissors (so dull you couldn’t put out an eye with them) were about all my home-for-the-aged friends could handle, I wanted the privilege of getting back to writing. So, I sprang up like a jack-in-the-box – drenching Gonzalo – and helped Old Harold by taking his uke and dumping the water from its sound box.

Gonzalo wrestled with toweling the other fellows (who needed all the help they could get). He eyed me getting out of there, “You gonna write, I hope. The last story of yours left me hanging”

“Are you hung, Gonzalo?”

A bar of Ivory soap flew past my head, but it was thrown with a smile.

When he showed up in a couple of hours with a nice, cold mimosa and some peanuts for me, I handed him this, saying, “I picked up where I left off.”

Forest Scene

I should have known better than to let myself go like that. It had to backfire. It did.

I, who have never had a vice of any kind, gave in to their base desires. Quite a free-for-all.

Nailed the three brats good, egged on – I guess – by my own foolishness.

Bummer: They let me run my course one by one; then, when my proud demonstration of muscular manhood’s determination to dominate (for a change) ran its course and I was drained of my precious bodily fluids, they turned on me.

Boy viragos – really bitches in heat – they wanted more.

What was there to do but run? I grabbed my clothes and ran – off into the woods. Through bushes and ferns and over roots – tripping as I pulled up my trousers and stopping long enough to slip on my sneakers – I ran.

Man, I ran and ran. Everything felt like it was grabbing at me. Got a lot of scratches before I saw the oak. I hit my second wind. Sure needed it for that climb. Bark’s rough.

Whew!

I perched up high in it. Treed, like some frightened animal. Made not a sound except to breathe. Heart did ninety or more. I could hear it.

They were coming.

Tried to align my body with the trunk.

Dared not look down. If I saw them, they might see me.

Try, try to imagine how it feels to be hunted by a pack of proclivity-ridden little assholes bent on predating the man whose bat had made those boy-butts so much money.

Piping voices rose.

Fear rose from my ankles up. My knees knocked. Managed not to pee.

“He headed this way.”

“Yeah, but where’d he go?”

“He’s not smart enough to be good at hiding.”

“How smart were you to let him get away?”

“Stop poking fun at Clyde. It just happened.”

“Wait!” Charley hushed his pack brothers.

“What?”

“Something’s rustling.”

I just knew Charley’s eyes were rolling back and forth like Inspector Clouseau. Scared where I was, my nerves were getting the best of me. Why, my arms were shaking the branch I was clutching for dear life. Oh no!

“What was that?” Oscar felt his head.

“An acorn, you dope.”

“A bunch of ’em,” Charley brushed at his hair.

Oscar looked at Clyde, “It’s raining acorns.”

Slowly, I peered from my perch, breath tight as a noose.

Slowly, like so many Tweety Birds looking for Sylvester in one of those cartoons, the trio’s chins turned upward. The cleft in Clyde’s chin cute as ever. The look in his eye wasn’t – you know – cute.

A brief silence.

Those damn acorns kept cascading.

Oscar opened wide to yell at me but got an acorn in his gullet. Coughing something awful, he needed help.

Charley, calling up a lesson from school, popped it out with a couple of adroit Heimlich squeezes.

“My mom’ll kill you for trying to hurt my vocal career!” Oscar croaked.

“Yeah, she will,” sympathized Charley. With a hand covering his mouth against the acorn assault, said up to me, “Mrs. Menendez-Finkelstein can be a holy terror.”

Shakily, I hollered back, “You boys are terrorizing me!” Take that, I thought.

“We are not. We’re a team ’n’ you’re our mascot ’n’ you have the card to prove it.”

“Or doesn’t he remember The Club?” Charley asked Clyde.

Clyde, showing his meanness, said, “I told you he isn’t very smart.”

“Yeah, he just doesn’t understand,” Oscar recovered his composure.

“Doesn’t get the sense. Better go easy on him,” Charley whispered co-conspiratorially.

They huddled.

Decision time.

My three Tweeties gawked up, mouths protected by small hands. Waited until they had my attention.

Their spokesboy, Clyde, sweet again, announced carefully, “We’re going home to wait. You come down on your own and come back on your own and we won’t tell anybody’s mom what you did.”

Responsibility! – they were granting it to me to make my own decision. I guess I should take them up on it. Besides, sweat was beading on my brow, my neck, in my armpits, in my crotch. And I did need to pee.

They vanished. A cool breeze blew. Birds took up their mating calls. I was thinking…and sweating…and needed to pee badly.

What was a guy to do except to cling for dear life as he made his way to the ground. Nearby bushes got their drink. I fastened my pants. Glanced around. Nope, couldn’t get away. Only one path. I had to face the music.

Oh Lordy, music! Oscar had a new solo with high notes he needed to secure. I knew just how – and I’d get paid for it. That was a reason – hmm – or two, actually. If I could slip into his house from the backyard and the others didn’t know I as there, I could rise to that occasion.

I tiptoed over the roots and through the familiar bushes and those big ferns, in hope.

Not the End

After our cafeteria supper, Gonzalo showed up in my room. He wanted more from me.

He pushed, “What happened next?”

“What’s it worth to you to find out?”

“What do you want, you … reprobate?” He sat by my bed, put a friendly hand on my knee.

“For you to scram out of here – after handing me that legal pad and my pen. And if you can get me waffles, sausages and Vermont maple syrup for breakfast, I’ll write you another, I promise.”

Lo, next morning, he delivered. So did I. Mind you, I’d stayed up way past my bedtime to scribble. And, kicking the Sandman away, got up early to add a flourish or two.

One glance told him my end of the bargain was hunky-dory. “I’ll type this in the computer and get back to you.”

With that, out he flew.

Here’s the result of my handwriting and his work at the keyboard, our ‘joint effort:’

Home Visit

I was smart enough (and jittery) to hide in the underbrush at the edge of the woods until the sun went down and lights came on.

Watched Mrs. Menendez-Finkelstein leave, purse on arm, and get into Alice’s car.

Meant one thing: Little Oscar was at home alone.

Using the back alley, I crept to the kitchen door. Peeked through its small window. There Oscar was, shirtless, reddened nipples a-glow, making a sandwich.

My stomach growled. I shushed it. Gosh, I was hungry. Those hours up a tree, you know.

I rapped.

Oscar jumped.

I rapped again.

He saw my face and opened the door. “I knew it!” he triumphed.

“Oscar, be quiet. Nobody must know I’m here if I’m to help you with your singing.”

“Right,” he realized.

“You still got that pitch-pipe?”

“I do.”

“Okay. Good. But I’m so hungry, I’m weak, though.”

A knowing smile later, he adjusted his jeans, and said in his best flute-like voice, “You smell like a possum. Go in in there,” he pointed to the restroom. “Take a hot shower. I’ll make you a sandwich same as mine. Bananas and peanut butter. I’ve got enough for another one, ’n’ mayonnaise ’n’ white bread, ’n’ I’ll give you a glass of milk.”

I was sold.

In my well-wrapped, damp towel and between gulps and chomps, I started to make my pitch.

“Hold it,” he said. “Mom figured you’d show. She left money.”

He fidgeted while I took my time to say, “We’ll need a lot of time.”

A big smile from the bursting-from-his-pants adolescent. “She went with Alice to play bingo at church. Two hours at least.”

I burped. “Here’s my deal. Now it’s a hard bargain.”

“You promise to drive a hard bargain into little me?”

Diminutive devil thinks quick.

Our deal was struck after he fed me another sandwich. This one, peanut butter and grape jelly with Karo corn syrup for good measure. I had to drink another glass of milk.

“Here’s a note from Mom.”

How these people think – always ahead!

It gave me the choir master’s list labeled “Scales, Arpeggios, and Trills.” There were, in fact, two new solos. With his middle finger, Oscar pointed to Fs, F-sharps, Gs, A-flats, A-naturals, B-flats, and the inevitable High C – only one, at the end of the first solo. The other song ended on a B-flat.

“Different key,” he said. “Duck soup.”

I burped. Drank some tap water to clear my palate.

We went to work…after I made him lock all the doors and close all the curtains and promise the sing everything pianissimo so neither neighbor boy would know we were there.

“If they think I’m here, they’ll bust up the lesson. This is our chance.”

For once, he saw wisdom in an idea of mine.

* * *

In his room with him in his best position and me inside him, Oscar set each exercise at an introductory pace and told me how to do him for every note.

All that sugar and starch had me fully fettled – an eloquent term, eh?

Soon, his single-octave scales were ascending and descending in time with my longest possible strokes, in for the notes going up and out for those heading down. Fluid technique, if you must know, the result of devoted talent. I found such a good stride that Oscar congratulated me.

Arpeggios were harder for us both. Each of their notes, we discovered, required a special poke.

“Whew,” as I’ve gasped in the past. Felt that in my lower back.

Before tackling his four trills, we nailed each note above the staff, inches at a time. When I got my depth right, his pitch was great. If I was off, he went flat or sharp. Fixing the problem, the pitch-pipe was really handy. We checked every one to be sure. Over and over. He was bossy about that. Yeah.

Oscar was impressed, “You’re getting nimble at this.” Smart-aleck, he had a way with words.

Being in his saddle made me feel wonderful. I was under control and firm to the tasks-at-cock.

My undoing came with the third trill. I wriggled too much – and set us both off. Lewd noises escaped his vocal cords. Grunts and more. I had to clamp his mouth because my hard drive was the one that first cued his loud high-C.

A mighty struggle I can tell you. My spasm coincided with the most ferocious writhing of his butt on my dick and his first-ever squirt!

I was speechless. Him, too. We finally stopped shaking and noticed the clock.

“Mom’s due in about ten minutes,” he was hoarse, but fascinated by his pricklet’s performance.

By hasty agreement, we straightened up his room and the kitchen. Barely remembered to open the curtains. It was close.

I went home out the back door and dashed down the dark alley. If I could stay hidden from The Club’s other members, Oscar would slip over tomorrow afternoon after school for a private lesson in my bedroom.

Sleep unraveled such knitted cares as remained in my state of thrilled exhaustion.

I, who used to dream of Clyde’s bottom, dreamed instead of Oscar’s.

Nary a thought about his nipples.

Again, Not the End

“Man, you were really hot back then – giving voice lessons! I never heard of anything like that. Didn’t even know you were musical.

“I learned by doing,” I snickered. “Anyway, Oscar made me. He and his mom. They were something, especially when…”

“When what? You can’t leave me hanging like that.”

“You keep bringing up that subject that you’re hung, Gonzalo. Show me.”

Old guys have a lot of nerve, you know. Me in particular. Especially when we have the money to be in a place such as this. And for what we pay, they should have hot and cold running tricks.

That classy, it ain’t.

The look on his collegiate face was one of those caught-in-the-headlights things. He stuttered, “It’s a-a-against policy,” but touched his placket. Realized it, tried to distract me, “Instead, let me get you something special from the bar. I saw a bottle of chinaberry brandy there – new, with a fancy label.”

My turn to needle him. “Gonzalo, did you get hard when you read ‘Home Visit’?”

He rolled pretty brown eyes and blushed through Hispanic-caramel skin. “How ’bout I get you a hot fudge bonanza split with extra chocolate sauce? That would be nice, wouldn’t it?”

“If you got whacked off reading “Home Visit,” were you identifying with me or with one of the boys?”

“JesusMaryJoseph!”

His hands flew up in the sir so high his pants fell down. Gonzalo froze. I saw. Hung like a stud parakeet. Like a boy.

I was quick, “Thank you. Most informative,” I said as he tugged up his covering, clearly ashamed. “See? That’s all I wanted. Now I’ll write another of my memories – just for you.”

“When?” he barely managed, rubbing his hands together – in hope, I gathered.

“Tomorrow. See me in the late morning, before lunchtime. Now, away with you. I have to think about what happened next.”

The idea appealed to my wicked sense of humor. I’d feed his fantasy. It meant lots of scribbling which took several hours. Wriggled my tired hand. Relaxed. Zonked out. Slept enough. Got up early. Hit the breakfast line first thing, then hied my perked-up (if otherwise decrepit) self to a computer and pounded the keys.

“A Medical Matter” was ready when Gonzalo, practically salivating, appeared in my doorway.

Teased him before making my semi-serious presentation of:

A Medical Matter

What was that awful noise?

Struggled from the bedding. My ’phone.

“Hnngh-o?” was the closest I could get to a hello.

“You are there. I’m so relieved.”

It was Alice, Clyde’s mother (and The Club’s advisor).

“Clyde said you were lost in the forest.”

I cleared my throat. “Uh, no. I needed some space.”

“You ran away?”

I pulled myself halfway up, so my brain would be upright enough to make sense.

“Can I call you back after I’ve made some coffee?” Me, congenial as possible.

“Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“No. Why?” My bedroom alarm faced the carpet. Must’ve knocked the annoyance off my nightstand.

“Nine o’clock,” she deadpanned.

Lightning struck me. “What?”

“Nine o’clock.”

“Oh my god, I’m late for work! Alice, thanks for calling. Gotta go.”

Blam! I hung up on her and stumbled to the kitchen for instant black brew.

Sipping the evil stuff without sugar, I called in. Apologized. Promised to get there a.s.a.p.

With a singed tongue, I drew on appropriate attire and headed out the door.

Alice was waiting, car window down. “Need a ride?”

“Oh,” my spirits sank. I was in for it, but managed to crank out politely, “You’re a life saver.”

“Forget to shave?”

“You know I overslept,” I rubbed stubble.

She drove. “I understand you paid ‘special attention’ to Oscar while his mother and I were playing Bingo with the Methodists.”

Level voice. Oh crap. “He needed me.”

“And my son didn’t? Charley didn’t?”

I countered with a question of my own, “How did you find out?”

“I took all three boys to school at seven-thirty. Smug about something, Oscar wouldn’t tell. Charley started goosing him. By the time Clyde joined in, Oscar was shrieking high-high squeals all over the place. He gave in – and it all came out about his fucking voice lesson.”

From me she got a momentary, crestfallen, “Oh.”

My balls shrank.

A traffic light stopped her. She turned my way slowly, “He said you were, and I quote, ‘fucking awesome.’”

That cheered me. For about one second

Bitch, she saw me blush.

Had to rally. Gulp!

“I guess I was, but so was he. Real dedicated-like.” Then I felt bold enough to blurt, “He was grateful, too, so that was an inspiration.” I’m sure I sounded like the man I knew I was. “Plus, Mrs. Menendez-Finkelstein left me thirty dollars in advance.”

“You expect us to pay you for doing your duty?” Light changed. She stepped on the gas. We went through the intersection. “Didn’t we help you make all that money from Battman and His Buttboys? Without us, where would you be?”

To counter her frump, I tried, “I know, and I’m trying to tell you something, Alice, if you’ll listen.”

She pulled over and stopped next to the curb. “I’m listening.”

Wow. Didn’t seem like she liked my assertiveness. I swallowed hard.

“Charley and your Clyde are, like, selfish. And they aren’t nice about what I do for them. Why yesterday, they already wore me out twice. They were so mean to me, wanting a third go-around. I couldn’t.”

“You should hang your head in shame. You’re their mascot. The Club’s invested a lot of time in you. Building you up and all that. Feeding you seeds, protein shakes, and oysters. Have you any idea what oysters cost these days? Anyway, you’re making me tired. When you’re off this afternoon, I’m taking you to a doctor. You need a check-up.”

“Why? I’m a regular guy. I do what I can, and you’ll admit I’m better at it now than when I got dragged into The Club.”

“Listen, you silly man, D.C. Films has got investors jumping up and down for The Green Hornet and His Hive. You have to be in tip-top shape because filming starts in two weeks. Bigger budget. Better special effects. Aaaand…” – she elongated the preposition or conjunction or whatever it is – “…you won’t believe the contract.”

“Wait. What? We’re gonna make that?”

“Damn right. Here we are. Your work. Get out. I’ll be back at five to pick you up. Doctor’s appointment’s at five-thirty.”

“What kind of doctor?”

“A specialist, Dr. Houser. Just the man you need. His son Doobie, or something like that, who’s thirteen and real cute, has volunteered to participate in your exam.

“Wait. What?”

“You’re repeating yourself. You’ll be put through your paces so a proper diagnosis can be made. We have to get to the bottom of your problem. Now, off with you.”

My work at work that day wasn’t much to brag about. The boss asked if I needed more vacation time off to get myself “back up to snuff.”

I was so embarrassed.

* * *

Shortly after five-thirty, I was more embarrassed. First place, that office was the temperature of Greenland. I was naked. Imagine me, goose-pimpled, a grown man being felt and prodded, asked to cough with a rubber-gloved hand pushed where my ice-cold balls tried to hang down, my frozen penis examined, my prostate evaluated by a chilled finger. I can’t remember what all went on. My head was going numb.

Then Doogie arrived (Alice had his name wrong.).

I began to thaw. My jaw dropped.

Actually, it turned out the boy’s real name was Douglas. Nicknamed Doogie after some TV kid. They looked a lot alike, I was told.

Well, cute certainly fit. His head boasted a cupid’s-bow mouth, big eyes, and golden hair that seemed to spring out from over his brow. Like Alice’s Clyde, he had a slender neck supporting an adorable noggin.

My circulation improved.

“Hi,” he said, charming me with his light handshake and easy smile. “Want to see the rest?”

I hadn’t noticed he was standing there barefoot wearing a white terrycloth robe his size.

All I could think of was, “Sure.”

“Go ahead, son,” the doctor said. “Show him your attractions.”

“And how ready I am?” The voice of an angel couldn’t sound better.

Doc Dad nodded consent.

Douglas-Doogie turned away and lowered the robe to reveal his shoulders – just beginning to show some muscles – his back – which tapered to a waist impossibly narrow – and his butt – a pair of matchless melons.

I know, I’m getting carried away. But please understand.

My most valuable asset did what I call its sproing to life. My mouth opened again and I wasn’t remembering to breathe. Until, that is, he bent over.

Then, I gasped. Nearly lost my cookies.

Something red was…in…there.

“Like my plug?” he sweetly asked.

He looked at me from between his legs and saw – upside down – what I had on offer. About to drip.

Solemnly, he said, “Dad, he’s got an inch on you.”

And, as he straightened up and whirled about, “Oh! Ooooh,” a hand reaching out but not daring to touch.

Flattered by the admiration, I regarded his father, Doc Houser, with caution. Or trepidation.

“What’s a plug – for?”

“To remind him of me. I work long hours. When Doogie’s at school or doing his homework, I can give him a buzz with this remote to let him know he’s in my thoughts.”

Douglas-Doogie said brightly, “Show him, Dad.”

It was a small black plastic do-dad with an extendable antenna.

“See? Battery-powered. I turn it on, mash this to send the signal, and can dial up the rate. Like this.”

The boy shivered, joy obvious. “That’s my frequency. It goes off, I know Dad really loves me.”

“Um, when you’re in a class,” I was curious, “is it a distraction?”

“My teacher likes it when I smile during her lessons.”

A soft knock at the door. Doc Houser cracked it. Sure enough, Alice.

“How’s it going? You getting the cooperation you need? He’d better.”

“We’re about to commence. You finish filling out the forms?”

She passed some pages to him.

He whispered to her and closed the door, turning its lock quietly. “All right, let’s begin.”

Douglas-Doogie was positioned leaning over the exam table. “We remove this carefully,” he withdrew the red plug. I now could hear its soft buzz.

Houser’s darling giggled, “Dad, you forgot to turn it off.”

I liked the kind way the doctor asked me to lubricate myself and to show him how I penetrated boys.

Scientific-like and very mature, I squeezed off a plump caterpillar-sized wad of KY and spread it on my hands. “Gotta warm it – for me and for there.” Then I rubbed some around ‘there,’ the boy’s pulsing pucker, and around my perky pecker. Slicked us up.

“Doogie-boy,” I asked, “how do you want it, slow, maybe?”

“It’s not up to him,” I was warned. “I need to see how you do it.”

Me? I hesitated, thinking this’s a medical matter about me. Still, I wanted to explain. Took a deep breath, I did, and said, “When I start with our Club’s members – there are three – I use this hand to rotate my cock on the area before I surprise ’em with…” – and I slid straight in until something stopped me head-on.

Douglas-Doogie bolted up, flinching, yelping, “Hot damn, Dad! Oh-oh-oh, that’s so great.”

I hugged his back to my chest and held him for dear life. His feet came off the floor. Banged his butt good, him hollering “oh” with each bang.

“Oh-oh-oh-oh!”

Eyes boggled, Doc Houser got Douglas-Doogie’s ejac right in the face.

“Put him down.”

“But I was going good.”

He ignored me. “Son, are you all right?” He wielded a hand towel over his own besprinkled face.

“Gee, Dad, you never did that to me.”

“Are-you-all-right?” It came out as kind of a growl. Same towel – he wiped around Douglas-Doogie’s nickel-wide hole.

“And all tight, too. What’s next?”

What a sunny temperament, I thought, regarding the boy’s backside (which wasn’t that tight).

The exam table had its extension raised.

“Up here now. Face forward. Prop your chin on the cushion-rest at the end. Feet off the table on either side. Okay, you,” he indicated me, “Crawl atop and let me observe what you can do.”

Did I need an engraved invitation? Not with what I saw before me. The Doc placed a step stool for me. That was thoughtfulness on display, again. Nice man.

“We forgot something,” he said as I held my push-up position. A condom, which he proceeded to roll on my cock. A man’s hand sure felt different than…oh never mind. I didn’t. Initially.

“Wait,” he said. He took some pleasure smearing me with KY and sliding his latexed grip back and forth.

Masturbation! Hadn’t needed that since before The Club was founded. Didn’t need it now. Whatever he was about, this part wasn’t medically necessary. Even though there was still a chill in the climate.

He just wanted to feel my dick.

Dirty doctor! I wasn’t about to be his plaything. “Stop that,” I said. “I’ve got a butt to fuck, or have you forgotten?”

“Dad, pay attention. I’m set. Come on, let him do me.”

Without hindrance, I plowed in and set to work as doggedly as any farmer bent on dealing with furrows.

(I’m obviously better now than before with my descriptions. Almost like poetry, right?)

Must say, young Douglas-Doogie’s ass was phenomenal. However, we were so festive, a problem developed.

The sounds he made, the shameless shivers he couldn’t conceal, the way he uncontrollably clawed at the exam table’s black Naugahyde – seemed to unsettle his father’s objectivity.

Nonetheless and steadfastly, I devoted myself to what I’d been trained to do. Fancy flourishes had that boy humming the Hallelujah.

The doctor made notes, clocked us with a stopwatch, and frowned. As minutes were logged, the frown became a scowl.

Definitely.

Maybe he was bored, I was so repetitious. So, I tried some of the moves I developed for Oscar’s vocal lessons.

The Dougie-Doogie boy dug ’em. Started what I guess is called un-du-lating.

That table moved with us. My new trip-hammer drives reverberated a framed diploma hanging nearby.

“STOP!” stopped me. It came from the heaving boy. “I just came.”

The stop-watch clicked. I saw – could practically hear – scribbles being made hastily. The doctor breathed hard and put down his ball point.

“Should I pull out?”

“Dad, don’t let him. Ohmigod, don’t let him.”

Dad was solicitous. “Doogie, you came?” As the question was posed, Doc Houser felt under his teen’s tummy and found the yummy stuff. Brought out some to sniff and taste with the tip of his tongue. “That’s yours all right.”

“You?” he asked me.

“Me what?”

“Did you – um – fill your condom?”

I was witty, “Did you think me some Johnny-come-quickly?”

Scowled at me.

I added, “Isn’t this some sort of endurance test? I mean, why else am I here?”

“Dad, please!”

Sweet thing sounded earnest.

Doc Houser didn’t need to tell me what I ought to do. I’d just show him. Who had been a great Battman anyway? While he was pondering my cock up his son’s pert butt, I wasn’t subtle. Told that kid, “I’m coming out in order to get back in, but with you on your back. So flip around and get those legs up for me.”

My voice’s commanding tone worked. Dougie-Doogie, boyishly alert, whipped into his new position, lifted wide and aloft his willowy legs – and squirmed, ready.

His ass spread around my dick.

Melted butter would have put up more resistance.

“Ready to show your Daddy what his son can take?” That tone again.

He gave me a nod without so much as one in the doc’s direction.

All in, it occurred to give some whispered commands while remaining in my new space inside him.

“Coax me.”

He’d no thirteen-year-old idea how but tried something novel: his tongue peeked through his tightly closed lips and wiggled its tip at me.

“Oh, you’re getting the idea. Now pull at me,” I said, my tongue tickling his.

Over-relaxed muscles clenched and pulled as they could.

“Nice try. Think you can tug? You know you want me. You gotta work for your reward.”

Dad looked on agog.

Sweat beaded the boy’s uncreased brow. Effort! I appreciated that.

“Look at me, baby. Your efforts have earned Battman’s best.”

His whole body flushed with pride. He reached out to me, I think for a kiss. But, I grabbed his arms and pushed them to the table near his head. “No you don’t. You’re getting fucked.”

Seeing him helpless, I became gung-ho from the new get-go and let him have it with one-two-three-pause…one-two-three-pause. A rhythm back-and-forth that, when I used it, would drive members of The Club crazy. My inches were at the outermost on the first pause, at the innermost for the second.

One-two-three-pause.

“Whoo-ee!” he wheezed at my pauses.

The way I had him, his every expression was a provocation.

He deserved my all. Really. Genuine appreciation radiated from that boy.

I performed gradual shifts from this angle to that, from edging his rim to plunging past, from engaging his pink nipples to twisting them red, from smooching his cheeks to sucking his tongue, from his sorry life on Earth to a place in the Galaxy.

Sublimity beyond the power of language to describe.

He didn’t pop. He blew up! Watery sperm flew like Uzi bullets.

From a throat so young, I’d never heard such sounds in my life.

Neither had his dad. “What have you done to my son?” he yelled.

My best superhero voice answered calmly as I looked down with a benign expression of my own at what remained of the Dougie-Doogie Doc Houser had known, “I have fucked him properly.”

With panache, I drew out, watched Doc Houser admire my still-stiff, latexed cock, slipped off the offensive object, dropped it contemptuously (empty of essence) to the floor, sought my clothes and, before Alice (who was banging on the door, screaming, “Let me in! Let me in!”) could be admitted, dashed out the back and, in the gloam, took off for home.

As I ran, I considered how fluently I’d begun using language. Tires screeched a block away, Alice on the hunt. I dodged around, eventually sneaking beyond all detection into my dark house.

Safe at last, I thought.

In my living room’s easy chair, I eased my respiration, put up my feet, mellowed out, and thought how good I’d been. Entire minutes clicked by on my glow-in-the-dark clock dial, boosting confidence.

A funny sound caught my attention – a bicycle stand being kicked into place.

What was that about?

Soft tapping at the front door. A soft tapping that was delivered in spurts. Tap-tap-tap. Tappity-tap-tap.

Had to peek. There was just enough light from the street corner’s lamp post to make out the form of, let’s say, a thirteen-year-old boy, his hair in disarray.

I cracked the door an inch to whisper, “Who is it?”

A whisper came back, “It’s me.”

It was – Douglas-Doogie!

“What do you want?”

“Your dick.”

“What about your father?”

“When I snuck off, he was writing and mumbling about perpetual motion.”

“Slip in, then.”

“Why’s it dark in here?”

“You don’t have whisper now.”

“WHY’S IT SO DARK IN HERE?”

“Not that loud.” Hugged the boy tight. “You feel good even with your clothes on.”

Feelings aside, his question bugged me. I admitted, “I’m hiding from that awful Alice.”

“I’ll protect you,” he said, normal-level. “What’s so awful about her?”

He groped around my you-know while I thought how to answer “Her son and his two friends – they’re younger than you – and they are cruel.”

“Why? You’re so lovable,” he curled all over me.

Impossible not to kiss after that. I was all over him.

“Can we have some light? At least, a little?”

“Follow me. There’s a candle in my bedroom.”

“I can’t see you.”

“Then drop your drawers…”

“They’re bike shorts.”

“Well, peel ’em off and I’ll lead you by your cute pecker.”

“Ooh.”

The way was found. I only bumped into the coat rack.

“This is for power outages,” I said, proudly striking a match to my bedside candle in its quaint brass holder. Automatically, I stripped.

“You look even better in this kinda light than under Dad’s flourescents.”

Naked, he looked real good to me, too. “Now, adorable one, what about my dick?” I asked, cupping his tennis-ball scrotum and reaching further with one finger. The family plug. I yanked and dropped it.

No reaction. Nothing.

He’d become shy.

Tenderly, I turned him around and felt between his melon-like mounds for that certain, now-open wet spot.

I found it; he found his voice. “Ooh. It’s not fair. You got all of my stuff out but you didn’t leave any in me. Dad always does. Says it’s a good infusion for a boy. But I think yours will be better. Please, please, please – can you deliver for me?”

“Sweetheart,” I kissed his shoulder and ran my finger into his toasty warmth, “I would’ve but your father made me wear that rubber. My juices are not to be wasted in some artificial destination. They belong where they belong.”

“In me?” his voice rose, beguiling me.

“You’ll be a pleasure.”

Within mere minutes, he moved from kittenish, alley-cattish, tigerish, to – what? Mmm, something classically great – Delphic – uplifting his butt like an altar in temple architecture, a sanctum in which my cock could worship. I sent heavenward thoughts of heartfelt invocation to boy-butt power as if on Olympus. Called forth blessings from the Titans. Then delivered a flood of biblical proportions in which my cock bobbed like a buoy.

The boy, dear deserving Dougie-Doobie, moaned and sighed and heaved and groaned – and remembered to say thank you as he hopped on his bike to pedal home. Filled full and anxious to keep every drop, plug placed.

As he vanished into the dark, he was whistling, I could have danced all night.

I closed the door, exhausted, happy. Headed for the shower completely content – when a clatter arose at my back door.

The brats were there – with new, night-vision binoculars!

The neighbors likely could hear them hollering, “Who was that? Open this door! You’re cheating on us!”

Damn! I needed a plan quick.

I didn’t have one.

Not the End, Yet

Gonzalo looked faint and was panting after a glance over the beginning and, whipping to the end, at the story’s length. “You mean old man, you’re drawing this out, aren’t you? You’re trying to kill me…with suspense. I’m in college, you know. I can tell.”

“What can you tell?” Pretending interest, I patted the chenille bedspread, “Here, sit on my bed and tell.”

“You’re victimizing me, uh, because you were a victim!”

Triumph resounded.

“Sweetie, calm yourself. I was no victim,” I smiled, “I willingly sacrificed myself for a cause, the greater good of those boys, our widening circle, and fans all over the world.” Added in a low voice, “And for the benefit of my investment account.”

He tried to formulate a come-back. Failed. Seemed to be thinking. Finally, “I’m dying to know what happened next. Please, please…”

“Silly goose, you have the answer in your hands. Read it at your leisure. Analyze it from different angles – because, I think, you want to figure out how you failed when you were a boy to get a man for you the way my boys did. My experiences give you vicarious thrills.”

That startled deer look again! Gonzalo laid his twenty-year-old, greasy head on my shoulder. I patted his bottom. Still boyishly shaped. Ah me! Mmm… I tested his pants rear seam. Gonzalo’s own seam readily parted for my fingers pressing in. He was in need.

My lips kissed his head. “Listen,” I used my conspiratorial voice, “When you’re absorbed this story and have free time, bring me your dildo…

How he jumped at that! Blushed again, too. I pulled him back, rubbed his bottom more, telling him, “I know you have one. Stands to reason. I know you use it. Enables good fantasy. You just go spend time with your dildo and “A Medical Matter,” and bring it with you late tonight. I’ll show you how a man’s knowledge about a bottom boy can make up for lost time.”

He staggered off like an old-movie robot.

As for me, I thought I’d work ahead. Gonzalo’d eventually want another little memoir. I wanted to have one ready for him.

I began to recall, and wrote a slightly cryptic opening:

Jeffrey and Friends

She answered my knock by opening her door and welcoming me all wrapped up – earmuffs, gloves, the works.

I stepped in, immediately feeling the warmth.

“Hi. Took me a while,” I offered, removing my outerwear.

“What’s in the bag?”

“Chestnuts.”

“Oh goodie, Jeffrey can roast them for you by the fire.”

“My nuts?

“We’ve got marshmallows, too. Now don’t keep him up too late. Or let him keep you up,” she smiled. And whirled into her top coat. Snatched gloves and shoulder bag.

In her haste, she had to turn to say, “He’s in the den, watching his friend’s video. That way.”

Remembering her cellphone, she grabbed it from the hall table. Dropping it into her capacious bag, she exited, closing the outer door quietly.

It popped back open. “I forgot, don’t bother Josh. He’s up in his room recovering. Needs his rest.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Who was Josh?

On my approach to the den, muffled voices could be heard. Something familiar? Curious, I peeked through the den door’s open crack.

The back of what seemed a tyke’s head, Jeffrey’s, wasn’t my focus. The screen was. A rather hairy-chested young man whose face was not in the shot and who couldn’t have been more than in his mid-twenties – like me – was screwing a boy. From what I could make out, to either side of the silhouetted head, the parts in action were disproportionate.

Jeffrey sensed my presence.

”C’mere. This is good. You can learn something. Did you remember to bring your nuts?”

I held out my bag.

A small hand, surprisingly strong, snatched it in a move not unlike his mother’s. Looked inside. Looked up at me, “Cold. I like hot nuts.”

He stood, fully five feet tall – amazing for a boy his age. Growth spurt since the photo I’d seen. A bean pole of a boy. My bag in one hand, he pointed with his other to a place near his on the big, sectional sofa, “Sit.”

I started.

“No, wait.” Annoyance crossed his peach-fuzz face. “Take off your shirt.”

The penny-whistle voice was serious. For no more than a second, I’m sure, I closed my eyes while starting with my top. When I opened them, he was opening my zipper and staring.

“Commando! You came ready. I don’t believe it. Oscar Luis warned me.”

“Oh yeah? Guess he must’ve.” My pride grew.

“He recommended you,” he said, reaching in, eyes wider, fingers fondling. “This looks okay.”

“Only okay?”

“Drop ’em,” he ordered, “and sit.”

I plunked where he said. He doffed his robe and carefully placed his still-babyish bottom on my lap. Scrunched into my pubes.

“So what do you think?”

The actors were revving up and getting noisy about it.

He took the remote and reduced the volume. “Don’t want to disturb Josh.”

“Who’s Josh?”

“My big brother.”

“Is Josh ill?”

“No, just worn out.” With a provocative squiggle, Jeffrey confided, “He’s home from college. Not used to my kind of homework. You’re his fill-in.”

As that message sank in, I noticed that the actors were – OMG! – me and neighbor Oscar. We were the video. Dang! As I reacted in surprise, I noticed something was fitting itself on my freshly upstanding part.

“Don’t worry,” his treble informed, “I’m already olive-oiled.”

He sank himself half-way, hovered there, tested the fit by moving side to side, waited. Then sat.

A loud outcry, “Ohmybutt! That’s nice!”

My response was a question, “Enough for you?”

Riding up and plunging down, his voice rose and fell, “Yes, you’re just right like Oscar Luis said. Now stop talking and let’s get to work.”

Thus far, mine was a view of his pale, bony back and an occasional glimpse beyond at Oscar and me. Dawn broke. Jeffrey was using me for his pleasure. Me! A movie star. A man of action in porn films where I was Battman – in charge of his Buttboys. Or was it Buttboyz? – I can’t remember. Age, you know.

What he was doing felt good, and the sight of his scrawny butt gobbling up my cock then revealing it like a curtain being lowered and raised was inspiring. Still, it wasn’t right that this boy should in charge.

Who did he think he was?

I admit being snookered by some of his moves and the ‘ugh’ sounds from his unplumbed throat.

Might have to fix that. Wonder if he’s a singer like Oscar. I should be in control here!

My strong arms reached around, lifted his legs from below his knees, pulled them against his chest, spun him around like a top – the fulcrum, my dick in his young ass – and said, “Bounce facing me, and put some life in it.” With that, I pinched his nipples.

Squawked like a chicken. Eyes bobbed. Arms flailed. And, I tell you, he bounded up and down, using his innards to jerk at me. That was fun!

Before he might pull my tripwire and cause an explosion, I rose to my feet, holding the boy impaled – and let him have it. Floppy as a ragdoll, yet he tried to get back in the act.

Not going to happen. I shagged his ass unmercifully as he dangled where I wanted him to – stuck by gravity and banged into by my brute force. Satisfied he was under control, I spread him beneath me on the den’s carpeted floor and drove in. His wrists I held fast over his kid-size head.

With intermittent changes of angle and speed – straight-in, plowing gut-deep, I took him totally.

In time to my paced climax, he wailed, popping watery streaks. I flooded his tailpipe.

Tangling first, then entangled, we hadn’t heard the door nor the feet treading our way.

“Hi Jeffrey. How was he?”

The voice of Oscar Luis Menendez-Finklestein!

“Real good! He’ll work out.”

“Ungh!” the pinioned boy managed as I poked him in surprise.

A hand – Oscar’s – patted my butt cheeks. Solicitously, he asked, “You’re not tired, are you?”

I’d have replied, but Jeffrey’s mom cut in, “Where are your nuts? I’ll roast them to celebrate. Got some nice cider in the fridge.”

Oscar felt the ones attached to me, confiding, “These are just fine – already warm.”

“Oh Mom, can I keep him?”

Jeffrey was asking her permission? What about mine?

“Of course. That’s why I fetched Oscar Luis. He and his friends want a change of pace, so they’ll take Josh to service them – you know, like a trade. I’ll fix refreshments.”

“Wait just a minute,” I pulled out. My soppy cock flopped indelicately.

“You can live with us,” Jeffrey sounded bright as he admired my now-softened cock. “Josh can live at your place.”

I’d never heard such presumption and was about to stage a walk-out when Oscar chimed in.

“Listen, Clyde and Charley and me – I mean, I – want to make a new movie for D.C. Films and that Slowcum guy where three assertive boys – namely us – make a real teen fuck us under – you know – desert island conditions. Naked except for our low-cost wardrobe – teeny-tiny loin cloths. ‘Lords of the Fuck’ is our working title, and we want Josh. He’s like ready to be bullied into some really good scenes, thanks to Jeffrey here.”

My open-mouthed stare evidently merited more explaining.

“Here’s our deal: You stay over here, upstairs in Josh’s room, fucking Jeffrey all he wants; we pay you rent on your house for Josh to stay in and cut you a share of the profits – say, ten percent.”

“Say-yes-say-yes-say-yes,” Jeffrey lewdly fingered himself in my direction.

“Roasters and toasters in the living room by the fire,” a lady’s voice floated in. “Marshmallows ready for you. And cider, boys”

I thought about this nice place, the hospitality on offer (delicious hot edibles, a hot-boy ass), and the offer. Not for long.

“Deal.”

* * *

After having his bottom plumbed and being lavished with compliments for his responsiveness, Gonzalo wanted to stay the night. He couldn’t – against policy.

Jeff, Josh, and my other little monsters would prove irresistible. He’d be back, serving me during days, paying visits at night – especially because I kept his dildo. Actually, I put it away and retrieved from my closet’s upper shelf a box in which was stored my collection of multi-shaped, devilishly designed dildos.

Gonzalo’s sensitivities were ripe for development.

For a large blast of high eroticism, I blushingly recommend my book on Amazon.

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