It is customary for the opening lines of a letter to contain bland pleasantries and enquiries after the health of the person to whom it is addressed. It is a dreadful shame, because now that I do actually want to hear how you keep, my true sentiments are in danger of being lost in a wave of mawkish nothingness. I am, you see, genuinely eager to hear that you are well and happy, and hope that a letter from the one you once saw (and perhaps still see) as your nemesis won’t shake you unduly.
My writing of this letter is entirely selfish, part of my programme of self-cure, of which my doctors are ignorant. For the half-blind men in suits who run this hospital, I have constructed a neat Oedipal complex from which I can quickly and convincingly recover, thus securing my rapid release. This way I don’t have to endure the uncomfortable and embarrassing indignity of having some overpaid buffoon of a psychiatrist poking his fingers into the murky washing-up bowl of my subconscious.
It is a convenient and serendipitous anomaly that Springfield is so utterly lacking in doctors of any calibre, that it has not occurred to even the best ones here that my apparent psychosis may be connect to the person onto whom it was repeatedly manifested. Not once have they asked me about you, Bart; not once have they tried to understand why it was always you I tried to kill; not once have they attempted to discern why you always managed to get away alive.
These are questions I asked myself, and which eventually I could answer. I won’t burden you with the answers at this stage, but when you hear it it sounds so childishly simple you might even laugh. I long to hear you laugh.
All letters in and out of this place are read by both doctors and warders, so naturally I have recourse to a less usual postal service. One of the burlier and less intelligent warders here makes frequent use of me for certain favours. I allow this indignity to take place in order to make use of the power it gives me over him. It is a curious thing, power. He of course believed that when standing over me commanding me to carry out his wishes, he was the one who held the power. He could not have been more wrong. One trembling word from me to my doctor (I am, you will recall, an accomplished actor) and the warder’s career, his marriage, his family, all would come crashing about his ears. I informed him of this yesterday, and as a result he has agreed to deliver this epistle to you in secret, without reading it. When I have finished I will fold the paper so as to make it impossible to open without tearing you will thus know whether he has attempted to read the contents. If this letter was torn before you opened it, I would be grateful if you could let me know, and this canary will sing.
I have got this far and it has only now occurred to me that you might not reply. I entreat you to do so, even if only a few lines. It would mean more to me than you can ever know to receive a letter from you. My brawny but block-headed warder tells me he passes your house each morning. He has been instructed to leave my letter pinned to the wall in your treehouse. If you feel inclined
to pen a few words, kindly leave your reply in the same spot that you find mine.
Yours, hopefully, and almost recovered,
Wow, a letter from a nut house! Don’t get one of those every day. I’m fine, no different to normal. You’re not my nemesis any more no one who sucks so much at trying to kill me gets to think they’re still scary. You’re not scary, you’re just kinda mental (which I guess is why you’re in a nut house). I kinda like it, it’s better than being boring and normal though, so it would be cool if we hung out when you get out. I feel bad for you being locked up. You never actually killed me, so it’s unfair you’re in the loony bin.
What were the answers to the questions you were asking yourself?
See you soon,
P.S. The letter wasn’t ripped, so I guess the warder gets to keep his job. What was it he made you do?
I simply cannot express the joy I experienced on receiving your letter. Thank you. Your simple few lines have done more to set me on the road to recovery than hours of miserable introspection (or anything these doctors could manage).
I am glad to hear that you no longer hate and fear me. I can only hope that one day you will feel for me even a fraction of the affection I now have for you. It made my heart leap to see you say you’d like to spend time with me, and believe me I am doing everything in my power to get out as soon as possible in order that we may see one another again.
I seem, almost by accident, to have given you the answers to the questions I asked of myself. In short (and I hope you will not baulk at the word), it was love that caused my fixation on you. I could not recognise it as love my subconscious logic could not accept that I had a protective, fatherly affection for a 10 year old boy with whom I had no reasonable connection. Perhaps scared that it had the potential to grow into something more sinister (which could have turned out rather worse for you, dear boy), I twisted it and hated it until it emerged as a blind and all-consuming enmity. But even in the snares of my best laid plans, the underlying love I felt for you protected you from harm. In all my attempts to end your life, I managed to hurt not so much as a hair on your head. I saw it as frustrating ineptitude at the time. Now, I see it as the guiding hand of love shielding you from myself.
I suspect it is not possible to fully apologise to someone for trying to kill them, but nevertheless I will try. I am sorry, Bart. I am deeply, deeply sorry.
I hope all this talk of love hasn’t made you vomit in disgust. I promise not to mention it again if it embarrasses you. Be assured that now I can see clearly, my only overwhelming desire is to spend time with you. No more attempts on your life!
I will be with you soon,
All my love,
P.S. You asked about the warder. He made me do something to him which should be a loving and enjoyable act, but in that situation, when forced, was a degrading and despicable thing.
You mean he made you suck him off? Why didn’t you just say so?
All that stuff you said about love I guess it’s a little bit embarrassing, but mostly it’s flattering. You were totally screwed up when you were trying to kill me, weren’t you! I had no idea, I just figured you hated me. Thanks for saying sorry though, it means a lot.
Last night, I remembered to check the treehouse just before I went to bed, and found your letter, and read it under the covers with a flashlight. I guess maybe you were on my mind when I went to sleep, cos then you were in my dream! We were on TV doing Krusty’s show, you were you and I was Krusty. First you gave me an ice lolly, but then you took it back and ate it yourself, then you gave me a banana but when I grabbed it it oozed out of the end onto my hand, so I ate the bit that came out, but then you sprayed me with this massive water pistol and I got soaked. Weird, huh?
My dearest Bart,
I am out! This letter has been left in your treehouse by my own hand. I dare not knock at your front door. Can we meet? My address is 24c Station Road. This weekend?
Yours with love, hope and anticipation,
I did not allow myself to dawdle at the Simpsons’ house. I knew that if I tried to catch a glimpse of my darling boy through the window, I would be unable to tear myself away, and I would be certain to be discovered. So, I left my note in the treehouse, and turned immediately back towards the tiny, one room apartment to which I am reduced. It was almost dark as I rattled my key in the lock and entered, and it had just started to rain. It was perhaps indicative of my current state of mind that on my first night of liberty I would not be found enjoying the freedom of unregulated movement and an unbounded sky instead I was in the cramped, unlovely confines of my room, preparing for a meeting with the boy who was everything.
The meeting came earlier than I had anticipated. Today was Friday, and I had thought the soonest I could possibly hope to see Bart was tomorrow. But, at around 10 o’clock, barely audible over the merciless drumming of the rain, there was a knock on my door.
I leapt up, knowing it could only be him. I opened the door to reveal Bart Simpson, soaked to the skin and shivering. He was wearing just his customary shorts and t-shirt, which clung to his skinny frame, and he was carrying a rucksack slung over one shoulder. His wet hair was plastered down over his forehead, and he looked up at me with large, intense, hopeful eyes that almost made me faint.
My protective instincts kicked in and I cooed and fussed over him, with gentle admonishments for walking alone, at night, in the rain, through the dreadful neighbourhood where I lived. But I couldn’t be too harsh on him he was here, so I was happy.
Bart dismissed my fussing with a shrug and said “It’s just a bit of rain Bob, Jeez.”
So I stopped fussing and instead pulled him in for a hug, his wet hair against my cheek, his small slim body against mine. I felt a slight stirring in myself, but ignored it I was in protective mode at the moment, and such base instincts as sexual desire took a back seat at times like these.
Bar freed himself and said “Dude, I’m freezing.”
I suggested he got in the shower to warm up. “My landlord seems to have had the enlightened idea of putting the bathroom for this apartment in a cupboard.” I opened the door to reveal the smallest bathroom in all Christendom. “It is, unfortunately, more than a little cramped, but the water’s hot and the towels are clean.”
I stepped back into the only other room in the apartment, which contained both my bed and my kitchen, and smiled to hear Bart singing tunelessly to himself as he showered. I was soon picturing the boy naked under the running water, imagining the way the droplets would look on his clear, pale skin, how with unknowing innocence he was probably this moment soaping himself, running his hands over the taut young flesh of his body…
My reverie was interrupted when Bart pushed the door slightly ajar in order to talk to me as he showered. I moved as close to the doorway as I dared. From this position I could see no more of
Bart than one ankle and half a foot, on which I fixated. I went no closer as I was mindful not to let Bart see my desire for him physically. I couldn’t bear the thought of him being damaged, being soiled, least of all by me. My urge to protect him could easily beat down any lurking desire I harboured to force myself upon him.
“So Bob”, he asked, “how come you live in such a crumby apartment?”
“I am not a wealthy man, Bart, I live where I can afford to live.”
“But this place doesn’t even have a TV!”
“I can make my own entertainment.” My entertainment, at this very moment, was watching Bart’s little toe flex and tense as he shifted his balance. It was a detail I would not normally have noticed, but as it was all of Bart I could currently see, it became temporarily enthralling.
“May I ask how you came to be at my apartment so late and alone?”
“Your letter said you wanted to meet, so I came.”
Some shampoo foam ran over Bart’s toes to the drain.
“Yes, and I’m unspeakably glad that you did, but you did you get here tonight? Do your parents know where you are?”
“I’d already planned to sleep over at Milhouse’s tonight when I got your letter, so I went to his house, then started an argument about nothing to give me an excuse to leave. So I came here.”
“In the rain.”
“Dude, I wanted to see you. I wasn’t going to let some stupid rain stop me.”
“I’m glad you didn’t. I wanted to see you too.” I want to see you now. I want to see more than just your foot.
“So your parents think you’re still at Milhouse’s? How long are they expecting you to stay there?”
“Dunno. All weekend I guess.”
I grinned to myself. I had potentially a whole weekend with this angelic creature. Just as long as I didn’t fuck it up by letting him see that I wanted him.
Through the bathroom door, I saw a slender arm, shiny wet, reach from the shower for a towel. I noticed that my erection was clearly visible in my pants, so I moved to sit on the bed and willed it to subside.
Bart stepped into the room with a towel loosely knotted around his waist. I stifled a gasp at the casual beauty of this boy. He grinned at me and dropped his wet clothes in a pile on the floor.
“So is it alright if I crash here tonight?”
“Absolutely Bart,” I replied with a tremor in my voice, “I only have one bed, but it’s big enough for two.”
“That’s cool,” Bart said shyly, “I don’t mind sharing.”
I smiled weakly, and Bart went to pick up his ruck-sack. From it, he pulled a pair of pyjamas. I smirked when I saw the picture on them Krusty the Klown. As Bart pulled the top over his head, I said a silent goodbye to the lovely skin of his stomach, only to be given an even greater treat. He turned away from me and dropped his towel, and in the brief second before he pulled on his pyjama bottoms I had a wonderful glimpse of those buttocks about which I have dreamt so many times. They were exactly as I had imagined, smooth, rounded, fleshy and delectable.
Bart then pulled a toothbrush from his bag and began to brush his teeth. I decided to do the same. Every time the boy bent over the sink to spit, I took the opportunity to appraise the view, doing my best to conceal my erection. On one of these occasions, as my eyes passed from his bottom, snugly wrapped in blue pyjamas, then up the narrow span of his back, I happened to glance up and caught his eye in the mirror. Whether he could see what I was doing, I could not tell. I told myself to be more careful and went to change into my pyjamas. No Krusty brand jim-jams for me I had an elegant blue and white striped pair to wear. I changed facing away from the bed, and as I turned back, I discovered that Bart was watching me without any shame, just openly watching me.
We both hopped into bed, sitting up with me on the left and Bart on the right. Straight away he moved over close to me, and rested his head on my chest. With an artful nonchalance, I put my arm around him, allowing my fingers to rest on his ribs under his arm.
Immediately the physical contact with his warm body, snuggling in against mine, made my blood rise. I prayed he would not brush against it and expose me.
Bart looked up at me and said, “I’m glad you got out of the hospital, Bob. It’s good to see you again.”
My heart raced to hear this from the boy I loved. I gently squeezed him round the waist. “I love you, Bart,” I murmured.
He moved his head slightly and told me, “Your heart’s beating really fast. Is mine?”
I tried to put my ear to his chest, but found that I couldn’t while we were sitting up. He lay down on his back, and I rested my head on his upper torso, with my hand on his belly. I breathed in deeply to take in his warm, clean scent, and said “It’s going like the clappers.”
Bart giggled, and his chest rocked beneath me. I lifted my head and lay next to the child. Neither one of us said anything for a minute or two, and then Bart took hold of my arm and turned away, pulling us both into a spooning position. Bart lay curled, foetal, within an embrace from my entire body. My left arm lay across his chest and my fingers hooked over his shoulder. The whole length of his back was in contact with my torso, and his hair tickled my nose. With an astonishing power of will I made my excitement subside, to allow me to curl up my knees into the crook formed by his. This brought his warm, soft buttocks into contact with my penis, which I kept flaccid only by a constant and sustained concentration. My enforced limpness was made all the more difficult by
the fact that Bart did not lie still. Constant small movements titillated every portion of my body, and I found it necessary to bit hard on my lower lip to distract me from this casually wrought ecstasy.
Eventually Bart settled, but now I was to be the maker of my own temptation. I slowly moved my left hand from Bart’s chest, down his torso, and onto his stomach. I tried to keep the movement as casual as possible, and brought my hand to rest with my index finger in the dimple of his navel and my little finger in the narrow strip of bare flesh exposed between the top and pants of his pyjamas. With gentle movements, I allowed my little finger to brush against the elasticated waistband of his pants, my head full of images of what lay beyond. As I did this I suddenly became aware that his pants were pushed up into a little tent. My heart raced. I bit my lip. I raised my little finger a fraction, and it made contact. I breathed in and held the breath. My finger was in contact, through the fabric of pyjamas, with the tip of Bart Simpson’s erect penis.
I breathed out and tried to work out what this meant. Through my head flashed Bart watching me change, our eye contact when we were brushing our teeth, Bart understanding what the warder made me do, Bart leaning against me when we got into bed. And Bart’s dream! Of course, how had I missed the symbolism there!
To be sure that my finger was touching what I thought it was touching, I lifted my hand and placed it gently onto his penis, feeling with joy the small springy hardness that confirmed the presence of an erection. I left it there for a second and a half, then moved it back to his stomach.
Bart moaned slightly, and with his hot, sweaty hand, moved my fingers back onto his cock. My own erection returned to full strength immediately, but I was too shocked to move for a few seconds. Then, very gently, and still through the fabric of his pyjamas, I began to run my fingers up and down the length of his stiff little knob.
Bart started to respond, pushing his groin forward into my hand, and then his bum back against my dick. I thrusted gently against him, pulling him close, and allowing my cock to prod softly against the cushions of his buttocks. I kissed the back of his neck, and he turned his face up to me and kissed my lips. One peck wasn’t enough for me so again I kissed his neck and again he turned to kiss my mouth. This time I guided him to turn his whole body to face me, and I kissed him again, opening my mouth a little, running my tongue along his bottom lip. He responded to this with his tongue, he used it to explore my mouth, and I his.
I threw back the bedcovers in order to see him properly. He looked up at me with his head tilted down to one side, and he wriggled and squirmed his hips a little and it was the most tantalising sight I have ever seen. I pushed up his pyjama top to expose the unmarked soft flesh of his belly. Lying down, his stomach was completely flat, and I liked the way it gave slightly when I kissed it, like a loose drum skin.
I pulled his top completely off, and marvelled at the lithe desirability of his slender frame beneath. I ran my hands down his torso, planted a kiss on each nipple, then turned my attention to his pants.
The dark blue material was tented around Bart’s hard-on, and I gently flicked it with one finger, watching the way it bounced back to position. With growing anticipation, I pulled the pants over his penis, and let the elastic hold them just below his balls. Bart’s cock was around 2 inches long, entirely hairless, and of a uniform pale colour. Even erect, his foreskin completely covered the glans, so the first thing I did was to roll this back with a finger and thumb. I masturbated him like this for a while, before deciding I could wait no longer without seeing this kid’s ass.
I had deliberately left his pants on so that I got the pleasure of pulling them over those cheeks. I got him to lie face down, and knelt straddling his legs. I began to squeeze and massage his beautiful, full, rounded buttocks, and eventually allowed myself to pull his pants down. I grabbed the material at the top of his thighs and pulled from there, so that I could see it slide slowly over the
soft mounds, bringing them gradually into full view. It was worth the wait. The boy has the most perfect ass ever conceived smooth, hairless, fleshy without being fat, firm without being hard, and the most artfully sculpted shape, Michelangelo could not have done better.
I nuzzled, kissed, licked and bit those buttocks, until I became mindful of Bart’s own pleasure and turned him over.
Bart was now naked, but I still had on my pyjamas, so as I sat next to him he began to undress me. He undid the buttons on my top one by one, and pushed it off my shoulders, then pulled off my pants. He looked at my dick, which was erect and twitching slightly in anticipation. He thought for a moment, then reached out and gently took it in one hand. He seemed to be investigating it, feeling its weight and testing its springiness before starting to stroke it. He started with one hand, but then added a second one pulling up and down the loose skin on the shaft, the other stroking the exposed glans. While doing this, Bart had a look of expectant curiosity on his face, as if waiting for something spectacular to happen. I reached into Bart’s crotch and began to pull on his boner, then pushed him over so that he was lying on his back. I lay on my front between his legs, and started to play with my new toy.
I pushed it down, to watch it spring back, marvelling at its resolute ability to always return to an upright stance, hovering above his belly. It had a wonderful feel to it, firm, with a little bit of give in it, hot, eager, and with so much potential. With one hand I brought it to a right angle with Bart’s body, and ran my tongue up the back of it. I kissed the tip, then pulled down the foreskin and took the whole thing into my mouth. I took it out again and sucked his balls, pressing them gently with my tongue, then ran my tongue the whole length of his cock. Again I took it into my mouth, and with a rhythmic sucking I brought the child towards climax. As he neared it, he sat up and put both hands behind my head to pull me in closer, and thrusted harder and harder into my mouth. Just as he was at the peak, he moaned on each stroke, threw himself backwards onto the bed and arched his back, pushing still deeper into me. I felt his hard little cock throbbing against my tongue as I carried the boy I loved through the palaces of pleasure in a dry orgasm.
Bart relaxed his grip on my head as he coasted down the other side, and I felt his penis soften slightly. I moved up to kiss his mouth, and he eyed me with a contented smile, eyes half closed. He sighed, and said simply, “Wow.”
He took a matter of mere seconds to recover, and was soon eager to return the favour. I noticed that his erection returned within about half a minute without any encouragement from me. Oh for the sexual stamina of a 10 year old boy!
On all fours, he crawled round and took hold of my dick. There was a moment’s hesitation as he let the glans rest against his lips. My cock on his pretty face was a sight wonderful to behold the coarse, animal sensuality of my genitalia contrasted with the expectant innocence of the child’s face, coupled with the anticipation of the act that was to follow. He tentatively touched the end with the tip of his tongue, perhaps to check the taste. Satisfied that it wasn’t unpleasant, he opened his mouth wide and took in the glans.
The hot damp warmth of his mouth around my cock was the most exquisite pleasure I have ever felt. He took just the head in and out of his mouth, running his tongue up the back on each out-
stroke. I gradually pushed more of it in on each thrust, but when it got a little over half way in, he gagged, so I pushed no further and allowed him instead to take just the glans.
I was in such a heightened state of excitement that I didn’t last very long. I exploded into the warmth of his mouth and he swallowed my cum without having been asked, almost as a reflex action. He continued to suck after I had expended all I had, and so I removed my softening dick from his mouth and pulled him up to lie on top of me.
I would have been content to stay like this, underneath my boy, my hands on his bottom, kissing him occasionally, and revelling in the warmth of his keen little body. Bart, however, was not.
I could feel his incredible hard-on pushing into my belly, and while he indulged my post-coital cuddles for a short while, he was soon on his feet demanding a replay.
As he stood over me on the bed, I had again the opportunity to admire the brilliant symmetry and perfection of his physicality. I noticed the slight bulge at his knees, shoulders and elbows, where his slender limbs made their attachments. I noticed the way he had a very slight definition to his pectorals. I noticed that his stomach ended in a tantalising v-shape, at the bottom of which could be found that still upstanding penis. I noticed that he had barely visible downy hair on his legs below the knee, and on his arms below the elbow, but that the rest of his body was smooth and hairless.
But most of all, when he stood sideways, I noticed in profile the exquisite gentle curve of his belly in towards his penis. It is my considered opinion that there is nothing sexier than a slight pot belly on a skinny boy and Bart Simpson proved to have a perfect example. I’m not talking about a large belly I abhor fatness in children but a small graceful curve from a child’s navel to his pubic area is a sight about which I could write tomes.
Bart danced about above me, pulling at his cock every now and then, stroking his belly and bum, trying to entice me back to life. Facing away from me with a knee either side of my torso, he sat on my chest and leant forward to begin coaxing my flaccid dick back to an erection. I was thus presented with a close-up view of his pretty little ass. I ran my hands over the cheeks, then allowed my fingers to travel slowly down the crack. His half kneeling half sitting position pulled the cheeks apart, giving a full view of the small pink asshole. My fingers circled, then softly tickled it. I pushed it gently to test the feel of it it did not give. I pulled Bart closer to me and ran my tongue up the cleft, nudging softly at the hole, circling and then gently pushing the tip of my tongue against it again. I wetted my index finger in my mouth, then slowly eased it into Bart’s bum. There was a sharp intake of breath as it went in, and them more easily the whole length followed suit. I could feel the ring of muscle pulling hard against my finger, and it was with disappointment that I realised that it was so tight I would not be able to put my cock there without hurting the boy. As I had no desire to cause him pain, I would have to be inventive.
I turned Bart around so that he was kneeling over my neck, facing me. I opened my mouth slightly to invite him to put in his boner, but he began by rubbing it over my face, using his hands to tap it against my cheeks, even poking me gently in the eye, and letting his balls drag over my mouth. We started to play a game where he would come close to putting his cock in and then move it away at the last minute, and I’d try to catch it in my mouth.
When I caught it for the third time, Bart’s desire took over and he let me suck him. With my hands on his hips, I started off with long, powerful strokes, sucking hard on the way out. Then I held the tip between my lips and tickled the end with my tongue, while I jerked the shaft with a finger and thumb. We settled into a rhythm of sucking while Bart thrusted into my mouth. I reached through his legs and inserted my finger into his ass. With every thrust, I felt it tense against my finger, and I soon wished it was my cock up there. Bart came with my finger inside him, and again I felt joy as his stiff prick throbbed against my tongue in a dry orgasm.
Bart sat back across my hips, trapping my dick beneath him. He lifted his weight slightly and rocked his hips back and forth, so that he was stroking my cock with his ass. Even if I wouldn’t enter him today, I could at least cum on those cheeks. I allowed him to continue his ungainly shuffle, but his legs were soon aching so I directed him to lie on his front on top of me. I opened his legs and moved him down so that my cock stood up between the top of his thighs. I closed his legs tight, trapping my cock. If I lifted my head, I could just see the glans poking up at the bottom of his butt.
In this position, I thrusted up through his thighs, against his ass. I had a hand on each cheek, and I could feel his boner against my belly. He reached round behind him and rested his hand on my glans, pulling it into the soft flesh of his ass, and giving me something to thrust into. I kissed him as I thrusted, pleased to be able to fuck him without hurting him. As I neared climax, he gently bit my lower lip, and tugged. I let out a cry as I came, filling his cupped hand with jism.
The insatiable boy insisted I suck him off again that night, which I did, following which we lay entangled and sticky on the bed, and fell asleep.
I woke at dawn the following morning, and gazed lovingly at my sleeping delight. We were both still naked, having not bothered to get back into our pyjamas following last night’s exertions. I ran a hand over his hot chest and pulled him into a hug. Half asleep, he entwined his limbs in mine, close and warm and cosy. I breathed in the tantalising boyish musk of sleep and, secure and comfortable, I dozed off again.
I awoke again some time later to find him kneeling over my chest, masturbating. He had a gloriously intense frown of concentration as he gazed at me, and it gave me untold pleasure to see him exciting himself at the mere sight of me. His face flicked into a brief smile as he acknowledged that I was now awake, before returning to the unbelievably enticing frown. The view of this child pulling so intently on his hard little prick was so enthralling that I made no attempt to intervene watching was enough.
Every now and then, he would slightly adjust his position, or arch his back, or lean to one side, and I found these slight movements caused the most delightful changes in the skin and flesh of his torso. The skin would stretch here or wrinkle there, or I would see the faint shape of a muscle as it tensed or relaxed. It was beguiling.
As he neared climax, he leant forward, propping himself on the headboard of the bed with his left hand, his right furiously pumping on his dick. His whole body began to buck and writhe as he repeatedly pulled his belly right in then pushed it out, in a movement that had the rhythm and pace of a sexual thrust, though his hips and groin stayed almost stationary. As he passed the moment of orgasm, he let out a funny groaning, snorting sound as he exhaled through his nose.
He sat back on my belly with a smile of smug contentment, and said, “Morning.”
“Good morning Bart,” I replied. My bladder was uncomfortably full, and this was not helped by having the boy rest on my belly. I told him this, but his only response was to playfully bounce where he was, in order to heighten my need to relieve myself.
“I want to see you jerk off,” he said.
I replied, “I have to pee first,” and moved to get up, but he insisted. Who was I to refuse this charming seductor? Bart slid off me to allow me access to my cock and, ignoring the insistent pressing of my bladder, I began to masturbate. The boy watched with curiosity as I pleasured myself for him, noting how I periodically altered my technique, sometimes fast, sometimes slow, sometimes one hand, sometimes two, sometimes gently tickling, sometimes using force. The sight of him watching with detached curiosity was certainly alluring, but I felt I wanted to make better use of him. I got him to lie with his head propped up on pillows against the headboard, then knelt over his waist as he had done over mine.
My cock now hovered in front of his face, and it was this angelic visage on which I now concentrated. Again, I found small unconscious movements he made absolutely tantalising. He
might scratch his cheek, or wrinkle his nose, or bit his bottom lip, all the while looking up at me with large, longing eyes.
Presented with this nonchalant beauty, it did not take me long to climb to orgasm. In the seconds before I ejaculated, I once again became aware of my bladder, and was suddenly seized with terror lest I accidentally urinate onto him. Thankfully, semen was the only fluid to spurt from my dick. A thick rope of the stuff sprayed diagonally across his slightly surprised face, from his chin, across his open mouth, up to the corner of his eye. I was surprised myself by the bestial satisfaction that was to be had in seeing the base product of my sex sully the innocent beauty of the child. This satisfaction was crowned when he stuck out his tongue to taste a globule suspended from his upper lip, and then swallowed all that his eager fingers could transfer to his mouth.
I kissed his forehead, and then was finally permitted off the bed to savour the glorious release of taking a piss. Bart followed suit, and then we both stepped into the small cubicle shower in order to clean ourselves off. Soapy and slippery, we wriggled and writhed together in the confined space, and I revelled in the slick feel of his body as he squirmed and pressed and thrusted against me. As was customary for Bart, he very quickly regained the magnificent two inches of pointed flesh that signalled he was ready for more. With soaped hands I stood behind him, reaching round to massage the small, keen hardness of his undeveloped boyhood sexuality.
The lubrication afforded by the lather allowed me to be far more inventive that the simple jerking I could have achieved without it. Every tug, every twist, every squeeze slipped effortlessly over the silky skin, bringing Bart to orgasm more rapidly that I had yet seen. I pulled him against me with one arm, his butt against my groin, my lips against his neck, and I delighted in the shuddering I could feel through his whole body, as he throbbed his orgasm into my hand.
When we stepped out of the shower, Bart allowed me to dry him. The act of towelling his body dry I found intensely erotic, tinged with a hint of something protective and paternal. This contradiction in feelings only served to heighted my arousal. After teasing the boy by gently grazing the rough towel over his still sensitive dick, I moved round to his bum, and kept pawing and rubbing at his almost edible buttocks long after they were dry. I eventually abandoned pretence and dropped the towel, nuzzling and licking the rounded cheeks, before pulling them apart to allow my tongue to dip into his crack, prodding at his asshole.
This concentration on his bottom caused Bart to ask, “You know when two men have sex, don’t they normally do it up the bum?”
I quelled my desire to prove him right there and then, and replied, “That’s one of the things they can do, yes.”
“So why didn’t we do it last night?”
Oh, how I wanted to! “Because,” I told him, inserting a finger by way of demonstration, “you have a very tight hole, and it would hurt you. Nothing would induce me to cause you pain, Bart.”
“But that doesn’t hurt, with your finger up there.”
“One finger is considerably narrower than a penis.”
“Can we at least try? I want to see what it’s like.”
My heart leapt. “Of course, as long as you tell me if it hurts too much and I’ll stop.”
Some ten year old bravado showed through and he replied, “I can take it.”
I laughed, and tried not to get over excited. Very likely, he would not cope with more than two fingers and I wouldn’t even get my dick anywhere near his ass. It was best to reign in my expectations to avoid disappointment later on. But still, the mere prospect had me drooling.
I went to the bathroom to look for something slippery, and came back with a tub of Vaseline. Bart was on the bed lying on his front, propped up on his elbows. I paused to admire the graceful curves from his bunched shoulders, down the gentle concave of his spine, and over the perfect hillocks of his backside.
“You are quite, quite exquisite, Bart. I am entranced by your physicality.”
He blushed and giggled, and said nothing. I climbed onto the bed and pulled him up onto all fours, spreading his cheeks. Between his legs, I could reach his balls with my tongue, and from here I moved over the tender flesh until I reached his ass crack. I ran my tongue over his hole, tickling him and teasing him with gentle exploration, before putting my whole mouth over it, making a seal with my lips. I sucked and licked, causing the boy to moan with pleasure.
I opened the Vaseline and greased my fingers, smearing lube onto, around and into his anus. One finger slipped in much more easily than it had done when unlubricated, but even so I was again taken aback by the sheer pressure exerted on it. Once more I wondered if I would ever get my dick in there.
“Two fingers now,” I told him.
As I pushed them in slowly but firmly, I could see the muscle shape itself around them. Bart’s breathing had quickened, but he made no complaint. I slowly twisted them, and pushed in further, pulling almost out and re-entering a couple of times.
When I pulled out, Bart looked round with a grin.
“OK so far?” I asked.
“Alright to try three?”
“Go for it.”
I kissed each bum cheek, reapplied the lube, and worked out what to do. I discovered I couldn’t get three fingers of one hand close enough together, so I used my index and middle fingers on my right hand, with the index from my left. This time the muscle looked stretched almost to breaking point, but Bart made no noise.
I didn’t mess about with three fingers for long because I was too impatient to try it with my cock. I knelt behind him, and allowed my rock solid boner to rest on his bum, lightly rubbing along his crack and nudging against him. Using my hand to direct it, I grazed the glans across the hole, savouring the glorious anticipation of what I was about to do. It didn’t seem quite real. My penis looked enormous against the small round dimple of his asshole. The feeling of power I had had when I ejaculated across his face returned. My strong, animal lust was about to tear the petals form a pristine white flower, and I was relishing the prospect.
I smeared my dick with lube, and put a little more on to his hole.
“Are you ready Bart,” I warned.
Guiding with my hand, I pushed firmly against him. At first there was resistance, but suddenly he opened up and took in the head. The muscle tightened again once over the bulge of my helmet, holding me tight. I let out a cry. The sensation of pressure, hot and strong, was far more intense than I had imagined. It almost hurt, it was that tight.
I pulled out again, as much for my sake as for Bart’s. I regained my breath and pushed in the same amount, this time keeping enough composure to listen out for the boy’s reaction. He grunted slightly under his breath, nothing more. Holding onto his slim hips, I pushed in about half way, then back, then all the way in. As I brought my hips fully against him, he let out a slight whimper. I was hurting him.
I pulled all the way out, and told him, “I want to be able to see your face while I do this. I can’t tell if you’re in pain if you’re facing away from me.”
Even as I said this, I realised it was not quite true. The reality was, I wanted to hurt him, just a little. I wanted him to squirm at my touch. I wanted him to quake beneath the power of me.
I directed the boy to lie on his back, and pushed his legs apart, his knees up by his chest. I knelt over him, my dick rubbing over his, my hands trailing over his chest, resting briefly on his flaccid penis.
I found his entrance by touch, and with our eyes locked, I pushed in to the warm embrace afforded by his asshole. With slow, gentle movements, Bart appeared to experience nothing more than a slight discomfort, even gaining an erection as I pushed myself repeatedly into the constrictive confines of him. In this position, I could admire the small adjustments his torso made in response to the rhythm of my movement, and enjoy the changing expressions that passed over his face, ranging from lust to pain, to resignedness, to admiration. I leant forward to kiss him frequently, his eager lips striving upwards to catch against mine.
As my excitement grew, I increasingly abandoned restraint. He was trying to hide the mounting pain he was experiencing, but a particularly strong thrust from me would show in a twisted expression on his face that lasted a fraction of a second each time. This excited me further, and it became a game, a challenge, to draw this from him.
In the unbelievable tightness surrounding my cock, the rush experienced in the seconds before ejaculating was drawn out to almost unbearable length, as the vice-like grip he had of me actually restricted the physical act of releasing semen. In these tantalising moments, my desire to release led me to thrust with considerable force into and against the frail body of the child. He cried out in pain as I emptied myself into him.
I collapsed next to him, unable to move. He made no move towards me for physical contact, and I realised he was gently easing his legs back down to the bed. He had an abstracted look in his eyes, which gradually dissolved into a slight smile.
I was suddenly overcome with remorse for having harmed the angelic creature.
“I’m sorry Bart, I got carried away. Are you alright?”
“Yeah, I’ll be alright. Just a little sore is all.”
“Are you badly hurt?”
“No, it’s alright. I told you I could take it. It just hurt more than I thought it would. But I can take it. I’d have told you if I couldn’t take it.”
He rolled towards me with a smirk, and kissed my forehead and pinched my cheek, as an adult would to a child. He was restating his superiority over me. I made no objection, and looked up at him with a look which I hoped showed submission.
He stuck his fingers into the jar of lube, and coaxed his limp dick into an erection, smearing both it and his balls with the lube as he did so. They looked good enough to eat, shiny and glistening, standing proud.
He slapped me on the thigh and ordered me to turn over. I obeyed, getting onto all fours, and he immediately began inserting fingers. He was too rough for it to be pleasurable, seeing how many digits he could get in at once, and pulling and twisting them around.
I felt his hands, still slippery with lube, grasp me around the hips, and he pushed his small but well-used erection into my hole. He was deliberately energetic and forceful in this rhythm, in an effort to get revenge. I was surprised to find that he succeeded in hurting me a little, even with his prepubescent genitalia. He dug his nails into my hips and virtually threw himself against me on each stroke, with exaggerated grunts and cries as he thrusted. When he orgasmed, he wrapped both arms around my body and squeezed against me, his legs trembling as they pushed against mine to force himself as deep as he could go.
When he pulled out he gave me a lazy smile and kissed me on the mouth, and then I was allowed to hold him again, hold the boy I loved, close and warm and mine.