Boy

I called him boy. Boy, of course, wasn’t really accurate as he was legally an adult - he was however 35 years younger than I was. His name was Andy. I never called him that. Just boy.

I was a more or less contented married man in my early fifties. My two children had finished high school. My son was interstate at college while my daughter had moved into an apartment with some friends in a nearby suburb. I’d recently resigned a managerial job with a large company and was operating a one-person consultancy from home and doing satisfactorily at it. My wife was still working long hours in a senior government position.

We’d been married for 30 years. Before getting together we’d each had a little sexual experience but basically we’d learnt about sex together and enjoyed it in a variety of forms and places. We weren’t staid or conservative and we thought we were rather sexually adventurous although not too much so. Over the years we’d had the usual ups and downs; my wife had had 3 or 4 affairs that I knew of, one of which was quite serious and which had at the time hurt me deeply. Probably she had had other sexual adventures as well which I never discovered. For my part I had enjoyed a number of end-of-conference one-night stands, some of which she suspected and one longer-term relationship with a work colleague that I was sure she never knew about. We’d muddled through these episodes as well as anyone and we could still kiss and cuddle and say with truth to each other ‘I love you’.

Yet, like many of our age, generation and experience we were slowly and quite comfortably, drifting apart. Sex between us became more and more infrequent. I was finding that my erections were not as hard and that sometimes I was impotent. I was thinking about the need for Viagra when sex between us just petered out and my performance was no longer an issue.

It wasn’t that I thought less about sex. On the contrary, I seemed to think of little else. Some days, alone in my home office, I would put off work and spend the entire time on the Net, surfing porn sites participating in chat rooms and masturbating, two, three or four times a day. My cyber-sexual interests were extraordinarily varied and I was finding myself turned on by almost everything available in the vicarious cornucopia of sex available on the World Wide Web. I surprised even myself with the way I behaved in chat rooms and in the email dalliances I pursued. I always pretended to be someone else and although I knew that this was supposed to be normal cyber practice, I was taken aback at how naturally and easily I fell into the habit. Sometimes I would be young woman, leading on men my own age; sometimes an older woman seducing would be and inexperienced studs. Sometimes I would act the submissive, at others I was a master and occasionally I chanced a foray into bisexuality, gay roles and fetishism. Much of this was new to me; all turned me on to greater or lesser degree.

I was in this state of heightened sexual awareness when it happened. My daughter came to dinner with her new boyfriend, a boy she had been at school with.

‘Dad, this is Andy,’ she introduced him to me at the door.

‘Hi Andy,’ I responded mechanically as a plethora of images, thoughts and sensations felt like they were melting my synapses and I, a calm, rational, normal person, tried to wrestle with what this meant.

The boy was ordinary. He was smallish and slight, almost girlish looking, badly cut blondish hair, and with nervous jerky movements. Only his eyes seemed remarkable: piercingly pale blue and large. He was dressed in fashionable grunge that concealed the detail of his body. He was nothing like my daughter’s previous boyfriends and was I guess the sort of young man one would normally not even register as he passed by in the street many times every day. And I, except for my recent cyber curiosity, as far as I knew myself, a totally heterosexual middle-aged man, was standing there feeling my nipples tingle unbearably and my cock growing, as I desperately wanting to touch this boy.

And what is more, what was frightening and overwhelming to me, was that immediately I looked into his eyes, I knew that he knew I wanted him. And I knew that he knew that I knew.

The meal went by in a daze. I kept looking at the boy while my mouth spouted the usual family dinner conversation. We locked eyes several times but apart from a reinforcement of the knowledge that he knew, I could read nothing in them. I tried to match my trip to the bathroom to his so I could grab a second or two alone just to see if my feelings were right although I had no idea what I would say. I just knew I had to say something.

As the night wound up and they prepared to leave I surreptitiously took one of my business cards, wrote ‘call me’ on it, and as I shook hands goodbye with him I passed it to him. I saw him look at it, read it and put it in his pocket without any sort of response to me. My daughter and the boy left.

And then immediately I was in agony. How could I have been so stupid? Clearly I had misread the situation and now he would tell my daughter about my foolishness. I was undone. I went to bed and tossed and turned all night thinking of the pain and cost of the forthcoming exposure of my stupidity and trying to think up plausible, non-sexual, reasons for asking him to call. I wanted to offer him some part-time work; I could assist him to meet someone he had expressed interest in meeting over dinner, something like that perhaps. I finally slept.

In the morning I still felt nervous but as the day wore on I began to realise nothing was going to happen. I put it down to a learning experience and told myself never to be so stupid again. Then the doorbell rang.

The boy was standing there.

‘You wanted me to call.’

‘Come in,’ I said, holding the door for him. He was more nervous than last night and I knew then that I was on safe ground.

I took his hand and led him into my office. He didn’t resist and followed me quietly. I knew that the soft stroke of his finger against my wrist was his sign of agreement and I stopped and turned him to face me. My cock was as hard as if I was 20 again.

‘Stay there boy,’ I said, surprised at the words I uttered and their form as well as at the certainty in my mind of what I was going to do, ‘Don’t move.’

He looked into my eyes and without speaking communicated his submission to me. I dragged his sweater over his head and then his T-shirt. He was so small and frail. His ribs showed clearly through his white almost translucent skin; his nipples’ pinkness the only contrast. I flicked one of them with my fingernail and he shivered and a smile played around his mouth. I pulled off his sneakers and slowly dragged his trousers down over his hips. He wasn’t wearing the boxers I had anticipated but a black satin thong, clearly originally meant for a woman. His cock, stood up strongly against the shiny material and a wet spot was visible on it. His body was hairless and smooth. I groaned as I clasped him and then slowly stroked my way down his torso feeling the swell of his buttocks, then round the front to touch his satin clad balls and finally the hard small cock. I knelt in front of him and lowered my mouth to it. Now he groaned and arched his back.

I licked softly, then scrabbled down the panties, freeing the five erect inches and letting my wet and waiting mouth find its nirvana. I licked my way down the shaft, glorying in its feel, its taste its shape. As I moved my head up and down, licking, sucking and worshipping him, my right hand moved to caress his still satin cupped balls while my left rose to rub and flick a nipple. He lasted but a few minutes and I suddenly felt his spasm before he gushed into my mouth and I welcomed his semen as if it was his spirit. I sucked until he stopped.

I felt him gently shaking. I looked up at him, his spent cock still softly in my mouth.

There were tears running freely down both his cheeks.

My story of boy will be continued...