By Chris Carr
Copyright © May, 2003
Eyes dark, the color of roasted chestnuts, they are vibrant, playful, sultry.
Cute button nose, and rosy, soft lips, full and sensuous
High cheekbones that provide character and a fine dusting of downy soft hair above his upper lip
Unruly locks of dark curly hair, it is like lamb’s wool.
Slight… yes, this boy is small and slim, his face almost gaunt.
The house is silent, his razor scooter carelessly left on the living room floor
Were his friends to know
Long forgotten they, no doubt, glide the streets, riding their own scooters
It is a conundrum
In the darkened room he stands, gazing curiously me at me. I am torn, now that it’s a reality. Quietly, I sip from my cognac, hoping to still myself.
Tender, butter brown skin, it is smooth and soft. Across his chest my willful eyes wander, temperature rising as I behold his sleek torso. The symmetry and form, dual pecs struggling to develop, each crowned with a sweet, butterscotch brown nipple. Small, slight shoulders, gangly arms, nimble, long fingers, the fingernails gnawed to the quick…
I sip again, observing him, my hands trembling around the tumbler.
Seizing the moment, he approaches, walking within inches of my chair. I glance up at him, frozen and he returns my gaze.
The boy is in search of his manhood, wrestling with conflicting desires.
My hand raises, halts then retreats. I take another sip, my anxiety temporarily calmed.
When first I saw him, scooting around my neighborhood, I wondered (wished).
But why? Why would he ever?
I spoke, he returned my greeting and I jumped in my car.
It became a ritual, until one day, he asked if had a tape recorder.
The heat from his body radiates, warming me, it stokes the fires within. I wait, hoping he has the nerve. It would be so much better.
He came over often, CD’s he’d borrowed from friends in hand. Plopping down in front of the stereo, he’d fire it up and start the day’s session. Rap, R&B, and an unusual affinity for Marcy Gray.
"You like this?" he’d ask, Marcy’s brisk voice belting out a tune.
Hats… he always wore hats.
Baseball caps, pulled low over his animated eyes.
Beanies, and ski caps.
His clothes, though somewhat worn, were always crisp and clean.
From his freshly ironed shirts, to the creases in his pants, he was a fastidious dresser.
He spoke sparingly, daring to converse when only necessary.
His presence… to be around him, reward enough.
The cognac’s effect welcomed, it dawns on me, we will wait like this forever.
He’s come so far, risking so much, but alas, the boy is but a child.
Like a vision, I saw him standing, head slightly bowed, nude in my room. It is a fantasy I’ve played a thousand times in my mind. Beyond that, I couldn’t fathom much more. Just the thought of him willingly standing there, that adolescent body of his exposed, gave me such a rush, I was certain I’d be discovered for my unholy imaginations.
I’d hidden my attraction well, or so I’d thought. And there were no tell-tell signs of my orientation. None of that mattered to Amiel, his mind obviously set from day one.
There is a soft rustling beside me and the towel drops. He stands demurely, his head deigning to lift, his soft eyes glancing at me, then darting away. Allowing my eyes to scan further, I can hear my breathing becoming thready.
So subtle, I wasn’t aware until it was upon me. I’d retired to my room to read.
"Gotta use the bathroom," he mumbled, walking past my room. I nodded, returning to my book, lost in thought, until I heard him padding softly into my room. Looking up, I gasped, shocked.
I detect his odor.
It is that of soap, mingled with the piquant fragrance of ripe adolescence.
His stomach is taut, the abs but a promise of what is to come.
Its smoothness is alluring and I allow myself to gently caress it.
He shudders, ever so softly, a soft rasp escaping him.
The skin is warm to the touch, velvety. Passing my hand over his navel, I feel him tremble. He closes his eyes, biting his lower lip waiting, my hand traveling further. Below his belly button the muscles grow more defined and I apply more pressure. He dares to look down, following my advancing hand.
As it nears the uppermost hairs of his pubic bush his flaccid member responds, languidly lengthening to stand at attention, pulsing… throbbing. I watch it extend, then, softly, I slip its beating span through my fingers. As they near the distended head, it twitches, expanding within my hand.
Amiel hisses softly, throwing his head back as I slide his shiny knob through my caressing fist. So precious, so erotic.
I release his hair-trigger rifle and cuddle his constricting balls. He widens his stance slightly, granting me full access to his bulging orbs. They are warm, the texture of wrinkled flesh sensuous on my fingers. His missile remains erect, angling upward from his groin as I fondle his cum-heavy balls.
His legs astride, I gaze at each scrumptious column. Nimble, graceful limbs made for sprinting, there is no hair save the fine feathering of fleece about his calves. With this small area I am familiar as he often goes without socks. The way that small growth of hair stops abruptly above his ankles has taunted me for some time.
Below that subtle growth, his ankles are somehow… tantalizing. Their smoothness, the way they are oddly pallid, just above his feet. And now his feet are exposed, twin pedestals extending immodestly beneath him, sustaining his lovely frame.
My hand encircles the base of his distended pole causing his toes to spring up, wiggling in time to the rhythm of his pulsing member. Slipping his rigid 7 inches through my fingers again, a dollop of sweet nectar raises from its swollen head. He gasps softly as I bend and flick that pearl of clear liquid off the end of his rod.
Exasperated, he impatiently reaches down and rips my shirt over my head, tossing it aside. Stooping, he grabs my shoes and wrestles them off, not even bothering to untie them. With great urgency, he pulls first my socks, then my pants off and I watch, intrigued.
"Take them off, too," he whispers, indicating my boxers.
I raise up, slipping them below my hips and he strips them off my feet, tossing them aside too. Standing, he takes my hand and tugs prompting me to stand. I relent, charmed by this sudden display of dominance.
I stand above him by a few inches and he peers up at me blinking, then lowers his head. We stand like this for an eternity, it seems, the warmth from our two bodies reverberating between us. Amiel has the patience of Job.
My quivering hands reach to touch, but miserably fail. I watch as they stop, frozen mid-air, inches from his adorable physique.
Amiel sees this. I can tell, even though his head is still down.
As I start to lower my hands, he inches closer… closer… closer… until…