(My other work can be found on Nifty in the prolific author category. I have my own web site at novemberhourglass.tripod.com. Thank you Nifty for posting my stories and letting me say what I wish and how I wish; it has been a great freedom--this story is meant as a Christmas present to Michael, with many thanks)
Pardon Me, But Your Penis Seems to be in my Mouth
By
Timothy Stillman
And he liked it, moaning so, hand on my head, pushing me up and down on him. He said he was going away at the end of the summer. I put it out of my mind. I knew he was kidding. I tried to be adult about the whole thing.
But could not imagine one moment without him. We were in our last forum. We were WE. And had been sexing for about six months now. We started small and he huge and I not as much so. We dreamed our sexes together, he a bit more experienced than I, and we were in my mum's flat off Soho, while she was at work. We were in my too small now little boy's bed and his toes were grinding themselves into the sheet, and his penis was warm and hard and pulsing in my mouth that could not get enough of it.
He was a dingy boy, almost like a movie boy in a black and white film, mostly from the streets, and I was the good boy from the lower middle rung. I was light and he was dark and he encapsulated me and now he put both arms around me, hugging me to him and he leaned up to see himself in my muth. His was a darker penis than mine. He had such incredible control of both. Upon seeing him first day or school, or when he came round on weekends to watch telly, my dick always got embarrassingly hard. His own dick, he could control for it seemed we had sex suck offs, always me of him, for hours before he would spurt, usually on his flat corded belly, sometimes on my face, we licked off his cum, he too, depended on where it came to light.
He was smaller than I and had a wicked smile and curly black as coal hair. He was all boy and all freedom and all the world to me, while I was happenstance and night blonde and cold as kraut and seasons in my bones that he had not in his own, and that he saw rarely in anybody else, maybe not at all, for he was fun and games and he was all in it for the thrill, while I was in it because of him, because he made me laugh, because he touched the deep inside of me, because he was a song of midnight in high noon weekends, because he was chilly/warm all at the same time, because he said I turned him on.
And I had never ever expected to hear that from anybody, and I could suck him sometimes for two hours or more, jaw muscles killing me, but into the breach dear boys, and then at the pivotal moment, his balls would tighten, his thin patch of pubic hair would seem almost clinch, as did his stomach and his ass, I liked to feel him back there when he came, for it made him come harder, or so it seemed, this boy of shadows now shooting crystal bright cum in my mouth as I pulled off and let some hit my face, my left eye and the top of my nose specifically and he bucked on the bed and panted and held me tightly and on top of him now, as he licked his boyhood from my face, his tongue scratchy like a cat's or a dog's and it made me giggle.
When he was through taking some of himself back into himself, we lay, exhausted, me on top of him, and later he would wank me and it would be heaven with his hard calloused hand on me, as the late afternoon shadows ate us up and had corded wood in our hearts that seemed to me to mean we were forever, and his parents were not to move to the States and it was all just a pretense on his part to make me love him the more, and to surprise me when on the morning of their leaving, he would come to my front door and say, surprise I'm not going anywhere.
And he would be naked in a trice and I would hold him with my eager hand and stroke him and feel the pleasure go through us at a easy rhythmically way as though we were music to be played together and always in tune, always us and something more than us, he with his lean almost starved body, me with my not starved one, and he going to his knees before me as I eased down to the cold winter floor back then of our flat and he would tell me in no uncertain terms to like his "lolly" now and I had better do a good job of it, and it was pleasure island being able to pretend I could control this street boy who almost flunked out of every class he had, only he had one of the teachers on the side, which I tried not to thing about, for I was even then a boy made of glassed jealousy. For I was even then someone who had to be hurt and turned away from before I could like them and love them. I've no idea why that is, and don't particularly care.
For as the writer Stephen King wrote in one of his novels, psychologists are wrong about so much, many times willfully so, and I needed none of that thank you so much, but I knew he was leaving now as I remembered as he stroked my penis on his warm abdomen and rubbed a hand between my legs, that is was almost end of summer, that rainbows are illusions, and so is love or even sexing, but it was so good to have his warm mitt on my cock, I wished he would suck me off one time, but he said no, and I did not push the matter, for this was quite fine enough right here, and I felt his cum still in my throat and in my stomach it seemed and he held my butt and put his hands further in the warm of it as I sighed and said his first name and felt my heart rate increase, and felt my penis throbbing and my balls tight, as he asked was I cumming? And I managed in that hot sweaty flat to nod yes, and quick as a wink, he managed somehow to turn me over on my back in an instant and put my dick in his mouth and immediately I came in it and came and came and he took all of it, swallowing me, swallowing it, and I looked at him with it in him and I held to his shoulders and he took me and took me and held me till I was flaccid again.
And I was so immensely happy, to have been in that hot mouth, with his warm scratchy tongue diddling my cock, and then he put his head on my abdomen and I ran through the streets of London with him, as we held hands under a dark winter sky and there was all sorts of freedom in us, I not clumsy now, I not scared now or ever more, and we ran through Christmas shoppers, knocking some to flying, and we ran endlessly through magic bows and Christmas trees and all the gaudy Christmas lights and the madness had ended, and our hands touched to each other even more tightly, and he would never go away, and never would I either, and the clothes he wore were not patched and tattered and his face was not dirty and he was not dark as night in noon.
While I was brought up with far more of the comforts of home, not swank you understand, just I had been lucky enough to have more than he, and I thought these things as our legs pinioned onward to the heart of Christmas and the heart of Christmas was the heart of the boy who had just taken my cum and who now lay so softly on top of me, so comforting, so protecting and the night went on, as he reached over and turned on a lamp by my bed, and we would have to get up soon and dress and him be on his way, before our parents got home, and he got up unwillingly and started a strip tease in reverse, as he put on his white briefs as I saw his balls and penis being slowly and ever so slowly hidden, and then his jeans and then his shirt and it was the greatest Christmas present of all time being re-wrapped and taken away from me forever and a day.
We said our clumsy g'nights and kissed, while I stood naked by the bed and he held my penis and made it almost hard again, and then he headed out to the hot sweaty night. I knew when he blew me it was his way of saying goodbye, doing me a favor doing that, thus managing to make me never remember being blown or blowing him or being with him without a dagger seeming to stick in my heart, though he didn't do it for that reason, it was how it came across and when he walked out that door, maybe I said I love you silently or whispered or I hate you silently or whispered, or maybe I said both, and both at the same time. Very probably the latter. As I began to dress again.
And forever after, the smell of poverty and coal dust would always make me immensely sad. And angry that people have to live like that, when bastards live as kings and presidents and deseve none of their luxuries for a moment.