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Ollie stormed from the room, muttering "Fucking paedo!" at me as he went, eyes boring into me with unconcealed hatred. I watched him go, sighing inwardly. His cute little brother, Ryan, looked round from his prone position on the floor, chin cupped in hands, eyebrows knitted in confusion.

"Is he OK?" he asked, to which I responded with a shrug. He obviously hadn't heard what Ollie said.

"Dunno, mate. I'll go and find out."

I couldn't tell Ryan why Ollie had left in such a hurry. Couldn't explain to him that his brother had caught me staring at his cute little behind, wiggling about as he watched TV. Couldn't explain that Ollie was bang on the money, that I wanted to get inside Ryan's y-fronts. Instead I stood awkwardly, concealing the lump in my jeans, and went off to find Ollie.

He hadn't gone far, thankfully. He was sitting on the swinging bench in the corner of the garden, his favourite spot. He liked to sit in the shade of the clematis which adorned it, reading a book. Unusual for a kid his age, perhaps, at least if you believe the media. Now he was huddled with his knees up beneath his chin, arms wrapped around his shins as though it were the middle of winter and not a sultry August evening full of the threat of thunder.

I sat down next to him, setting the seat swinging slightly. For a minute I said nothing, just sat there feeling the waves of hatred emanating from him, washing over me. When I did break the silence, I was surprised at the strength in my own voice. I had expected it to be shaky.

"What was that about?" I asked, as if I didn't know. He turned his head to glare at me, then returned his gaze to the garden, addressing his reply to the nearby stand of raspberry bushes, heavy with late cropping fruit.

"You're just like that wanker Dave mum went out with. Fucking paedo scum. Only want to get in his pants, don't you? You want to bum him. Sick wanker."

There wasn't the conviction in his tone that his words hoped to convey. He was resigned, beaten down by experience, perhaps feeling that only being a child himself he was unlikely to be taken seriously. I declined to be so crass as to deny that I'd thought about it, but it wouldn't be a lie to say that I'd decided not to go there.

"Ollie, I'm not going to try to do anything to Ryan, ok? He's nine years old, for fuck's sake! Why would you think that?"

I hoped that by casually swearing in front of him, something his mother strongly discouraged, I would gain his trust.

"That's bullshit. I saw your computer. I saw those stories you wrote."

Well, fuck, that changed everything, didn't it? I had written fantasies about Ryan, and they were on my computer. And all over Nifty, too, though somehow I doubted Ollie had been there. I chose to ignore the fact that I should have been giving him a bollocking for using my computer - it was probably my fault anyway; must have left it unlocked.

"Ollie, they were just stories, that's all. I wouldn't actually do that stuff to him."

"Yeah, right."

"Seriously, mate. I'm not going to do that to Ryan."

"You want to, though, don't you? Why would you have those stories if you didn't?"

"Mate, it's not about wanting to do those things to Ryan. It's about imagining doing those things to a version of Ryan which doesn't exist. The real Ryan would be messed up if those things happened to him. I don't want to hurt him. What did this 'Dave' bloke do to him?"

"He... he made him show him his willy for a Playstation game. Then he made him touch him."

I didn't even try to decipher the 'hims'. Clearly 'Dave' was not beyond grooming a boy. Not really my kind of guy, even if we shared rather similar tastes in boys.

"Well, that's wrong, isn't it? What did Ryan think about it?" I asked.

"He got really upset one day. He doesn't like playing on the Playstation anymore. He thought he was going to be in trouble."

"See?" I said, perhaps a little triumphantly. "That's why you can't do the stuff in the stories. Boys are too young to know what they want. They always get hurt."

He sat there sulkily for a moment, then said,

"I'm not too young."

It was barely more than a whisper. I looked across at him, recently twelve years old, just beginning to enter puberty, and thought to myself, "No, you're not so young any more, are you?". Ollie and Ryan are my nephews, though my brother is no longer with their mum. But they used to hang out at my place a fair amount anyway, because it was free childcare and I had the time to look after them.

"You got a girlfriend, then, Ollie?" I asked, changing tack slightly. He shrugged.

"If I did, you'd know about it, wouldn't you?"

"I don't know, mate. You used to tell me everything that went on. Best mates and all that. Doesn't happen so much now, does it?"

"Well, you didn't use to be a pervert, did you?" he shot back at me. I sighed heavily.

"Ok, fine. Look, Ollie, I'm not going to attack anyone, ok? Least of all Ryan. Sounds like Dave already messed him up. Does your mum know about that happening."

He nodded solemnly.

"Yeah. She kicked him out. Didn't go to the police because she said that would just make it worse for Ryan."

"She told you that, did she?"

"Well, I kept saying we should tell on him, but mum didn't want to, so she told me why we couldn't."

I nodded. "Fair enough. Are you going to tell her about me?"

He sat silently for a while.

"If you promise not to touch Ryan, I won't tell."

I looked him in the eyes. I needed him to know I was telling the truth. "Cross my heart and hope to die," I said. He gave me a half-hearted smile, and we sat in silence for a few minutes.

"Umm....." he started, suddenly seeming loud in the newly still air; the promised storm was on its way. "Did you ever write stories about me?"

I wasn't sure how to answer. The truth was yes, I had. But would that freak him out too much? Only one way to find out...

"Yeah, there were a couple."

"Can I... can I read them?" he asked. "To find out how much of a pervert you are, obviously," he added rather too quickly. I couldn't gauge his intentions in asking, but then I couldn't see a solid reason why not. Things couldn't get any weirder between us at that point in time.

"Ok, sure. Yes. Do you want me to get my laptop now?"

He shook his head. "No, later. After Ryan's in bed, ok?"

"Sure," I answered. Just then, a sonorous peal of thunder echoed round the nearby hills. As the first, fat drops of rain began to slam into the dry earth, kicking up little puffs of dust, we made a dash for the safety of the house.

---

I was barely back in the living room when Ollie came to me with my computer. I'd just tucked Ryan in, making sure he was going to sleep. The whole time I could feel Ollie's eyes on my back, watching from the hallway, making sure I wasn't doing anything inappropriate with his brother. I railed at the injustice of his accusing stare, but if I was honest he had every right to act the way he did.

He dropped the laptop on the sofa beside me, then sat down on the far side of it, legs crossed beneath himself. It was already booted up, on the login screen waiting for my password. The fact that he didn't know the password at least confirmed that it was my fault Ollie had seen what was on my computer, even if he must have snooped around a bit to find the stories. I must have left it logged in at some point, and so I only had myself to blame. Idiot.

"There you go," I said, handing him the computer. Its screen showed a text file containing all five short stories I had written about him. I sat nervously watching him read, seeing his eyes widen at several points, and a troubled frown cross his face more than once. When he had finished he sat and stared at the screen for a moment, before scrolling back up and re-reading some parts, subconsciously reaching a hand down to adjust the front of his jeans. Perhaps it had had the desired effect on him, though if I'm honest it was just as likely to have been an itch he was scratching.

"You're really good at writing, you know," he said after a few moments. I suppose it was a nice neutral statement to make while he digested my fantasies, but it told me nothing of what he thought about them. "Um, how did you know about my... Well, you know..."

Actually, I really didn't know, and told him so. He sighed.

"My willy. How did you know about my willy?"

I grinned at him. "Well, I saw it when you were younger. I figured it was probably still quite big for your age. Was I right?"

He shrugged. "Don't know. It's about this long," he said, holding his palms about five inches apart. I was a bit surprised, and surmised that he was exaggerating significantly.

"Wow..." I said softly, showing every sign that I believed him.

"So... you want to do all that stuff with me?" he asked, his tone deliberately neutral, giving me no indication of whether his question was a simple query or an offer. I imagined it to be the former.

"Ollie, like I said, I don't want to do that to the real you. You'd freak out. You're quite a lot freaked out right now, aren't you?"

He shrugged, but then nodded. "It's just weird knowing you would put it in your mouth. And you want me to put my mouth on yours. Do people really do that?"

"Oh yeah, they definitely do that, mate," I replied, smiling.

"Why?"

"Well, it feels amazing to get it done, and quite a lot of people like doing it, too."

"Do you like doing it?"

"I don't actually know, mate. I've never put a boy's willy in my mouth. I want to try it to see what it's like. I reckon I'd like it. It makes me horny thinking about doing it."

"Are you horny now?" he asked, eyebrows shooting skywards. I laughed.

"Yes, as a matter of fact. Talking with you about this stuff makes me horny."

"You're not going to do anything to me are you?" he asked, a little panic entering his voice. I could see his legs moving underneath him, ready to fly if needed. I desperately wanted him to trust me, to believe that I wouldn't hurt him, but after the day's revelations that was more than I could reasonably expect. I shook my head emphatically.

"No, Ollie, I'm not going to do anything to you. I thought I told you that already."

"Yeah, I know, but then I read the story and..."

He left it hanging there, not needing to say explicitly what he felt. He was right to freak out - here he was, sitting on the sofa with a previously trustworthy uncle who had just shown him fantasies about wanking, sucking and in the last case fucking him. He had every right to be well and truly scared of me right then, and I had no right whatsoever to demand that he behave otherwise.

"If I wanted you to - I don't  - but if I wanted you to do it, would you do it to me?" he asked. I sighed. I hated being asked that question, because I knew the truth. The truth which, on this occasion, I hid from him. Or rather, tried to hide from him.

"No, mate, I wouldn't. It wouldn't be right."

"But what if I knew what I was asking for and begged you?"

"Well, for one, you wouldn't --"

"I might!" he interrupted, but then burst out laughing.

"Yeah, right. Anyway, the answer is still no, Ollie. I wouldn't do it even if you begged me to."

"But you want to, right?"

Something inside me snapped. Not in an angry way, or a lustful one. But my patience was worn beyond its limits by his questioning. I made the classic tickling fingers pose and pretended to make a grab for his ribs. He squealed and bolted, running over to the other side of the room. Thankfully he was laughing as he did so, so the tension had at least been broken.

When he and Ryan left the next morning I wandered out into the garden and sat heavily on the wall of one of my raised beds. For nearly an hour I sat and watched nature doing its thing around me. Bees wandered lazily amongst the flowers in my borders, and an industrious trail of ants worked feverishly to clear the undisolved grains of sugar stuck to the rim of my discarded morning coffee mug. All around me plants and insects grew and matured. Just like Ollie, I thought.

What the hell was happening with him? I reflected on the previous day's conversations, and concluded that I still had no clue what he was thinking. I was fairly confident that he would keep my secret, though I lacked any evidence to that effect. Nothing in what he had said or done convinced me of any opinion on his part. I tried not to focus on his insistence on reading the stories, the fact that he had eagerly re-read some passages, the quick adjustment with his hand in his lap. All of those things meant nothing, if I was brutally honest with myself.

What did I want of him? Why was I agonising over this so much? It was true that I had promised myself I would never touch Ollie or Ryan. That was for lots of reasons, and though I tried to convince myself that they were all noble, a large part of it must have been that I was simply scared of the legal ramifications. Of course I didn't want to hurt them, but was that all that was stopping me? No, not if I'm honest. If I could be sure that I wouldn't hurt Ollie in the long run, would I try to seduce him? It was a question I couldn't answer, and a moot point regardless - I could never know for certain that I wouldn't hurt him, so I could never take the risk.

Frustrated and unresolved, I sat alone and let the warm rays of the sun cleanse my mind of thoughts of boys.

---

It was a week before I saw Ollie and Ryan again, another Friday when their mum would be working late and the boys would stay over at my place. They both sloped in after school, discarding shoes, blazers, ties, bags and anything else they could manage all over the hallway, before Ryan sat down in front of the TV and Ollie disappeared out the back with a book.

"You two not going to the Rec to play football?" I asked Ryan.

"Nope."

"Because..."

"Matt and his brother are away and John's with his dad this weekend, so we couldn't be bothered."

"Right," I said, leaving him to his kid's TV and heading out to where his brother was, sitting on the swing seat, staining his grey school socks by running them through the grass beneath. He had a book in his hand, but wasn't reading it, instead starting into space. He looked round and smiled when I approached.

"Hey," I said, sitting down next to him.

"Hey."

"Long week at school?"

"Yeah. Glad it's the weekend. Loads of homework though."

"Ryan said you're not going to the Rec this afternoon."

He shrugged. "No-one's about."

"Want me to go over with you and kick a ball around?"

Ollie looked up from his study of the floor. "Yeah, that would be cool. Are you sure?"

"Of course I am, mate. Go and chuck some shorts on and pull your brother away from the TV, and I'll get some trainers on and get the ball out of the garage."

I found an old beaten up pair of Nikes, and fished the ball out of the garage, giving it a quick shot of air and being pleased with myself for putting the adapter somewhere I could find it. Ollie and Ryan were waiting by the front door when I got there.

We were practically the only people at the Rec, apart from a few younger kids with someone's mum, playing on the swings. For an hour or so we kicked the ball about, taking turns at being goalie, and having epic rounds of keepy-uppy (best score: 33!). We finally gave up when the boys were both too thirsty to carry on, and then stumbled across an ice-cream van on the way out, which ended up costing me a few quid but made the boys inordinately happy. On the way back, with Ryan walking in front of us and kicking the ball along the pavement, I looked over at Ollie. With a glint in his eye he did something utterly obscene with his ice lolly and then doubled over with silent laughter at my rapidly reddening face.

---

When Ryan was in bed, and with Ollie in possession of two hours of his own time, I was once again presented with the laptop. I raised my eyebrows at him.

"I want to read the stories again. And the ones about Ryan. And have you written any others?"

"I don't know, Ollie. I shouldn't be showing you this stuff."

"Come on, uncle Zack! Please! I won't tell anyone you showed it to me."

"How come you're so interested in reading them anyway?"

He shrugged, breaking eye contact. "Just want to read them. Find out how much of a pervert you really are."

He'd used that line before, and this time it held even less plausibility. Without another word I unlocked the computer, then spent a few minutes collecting all the stories I could find in one folder. I disappeared out into the garden while he read, ostensibly to use the last of the day's light for some weeding, but largely to avoid his accusing stares.

When I returned, he was still reading. He lay on the sofa, laptop on his stomach, legs crossed at the ankle. Perhaps because the screen shielded his view of his body below the chest, he had made no effort to hide a rather obvious lump at the crotch of his satiny football shorts. I almost doubled over at the sudden jolt of sexual excitement which shot through me at the sight. Even with me in the room he made no effort to cover himself, wilfully oblivious of the show he was giving me.

"Enjoying yourself?" I asked, managing with some difficulty to keep any hint of mocking out of my voice. I sat down on a chair at right angles to the sofa and tried to keep my own mounting excitement from becoming too visible.

"Mm," he replied, which could have meant 'yes', 'no' or 'my face is being eaten by zombies' for all that I could discern. I sat back and let him carry on reading, heart hammering against my ribcage, my excitement in no way lessened when he reached down a hand a squeezed his impressive erection through the fabric of his shorts. He pushed it down hard and released it, making the tent all that much more obvious. If I hadn't known how utterly absorbed he could become in a story, I would have thought it deliberate. But with Ollie, it may well have been subconscious.

When he was finally done he dropped the computer on the sofa and without a word disappeared in the direction of the bathroom. I heard the door close and the lock snick into place, and I could only imagine what was going on inside. Even the thought of it was too much for me to handle, and I rushed into the kitchen, grabbing a handful of kitchen towel just quickly enough to avoid making a mess of my boxers. I binned the evidence, cleaned my sticky fingers and went back to the living room to retrieve my computer.

He emerged ten minutes later, looking flushed but not otherwise showing any signs of embarrassment. In silence, as though the events of the last half hour had not transpired, he flicked on the TV and tuned into a repeat of QI.

Twenty minutes later Ollie had come back to life a bit. He was a huge fan of the program, and somewhat idolised Stephen Fry, though I wondered idly if he realised the great Mr Fry is gay. Would it have made any difference to him? Was his twelve year old mind yet full of the propaganda which inevitably sweeps the playground? Was 'gay' an insult his peers used? I felt almost certain that it must be. I wondered what he felt privately, too, whether his obvious physical appreciation of my stories meant that he perhaps had tendencies in that direction. Of course you can't know for sure at twelve whether or not someone is gay. But you can have an idea... if I was honest, though, I knew Ollie was nothing more or less than a horny twelve year old boy, and that horniness would be directed wherever it could safely be released.

"Do you have any pictures?" he asked, out of the blue.

I wasn't quite sure what he was referring to, and so I asked, "Of what?"

"You know. Of boys and that."

I was flabbergasted. I couldn't quite work out if he was trying to entrap me somehow.

"Well, I've got pictures of you and Ryan playing football," I replied, deliberately misunderstanding him in the hope that he would leave the subject alone. I should have known better than to hope for that, though.

"No, stupid, not pictures like that. Naked pictures. Come on, I know all you paedos swap them all the time, don't you. Bet you've got loads."

He said it with a smile, but there was the hint of something else beneath his expression. Not malice, exactly, but a certain enjoyment gained from my obvious discomfort. When it came to pictures, though, he was dead out of luck. Nothing like that was kept on my laptop.

"Ollie, let me make it absolutely clear that I don't have a single picture or video of a boy getting abused on my computer. That would be very wrong."

"But you wrote those stories. What's the difference?"

"The stories are made up, Ollie. No-one was abused so that those stories could happen. The only real person involved in making them was the author. But boys in pictures, no matter how happy they look, no matter how much fun they appear to be having, are probably being abused."

"What if they wanted to be in pictures?"

I shrugged. "You can never know."

"Unless you were the one taking the pictures and the boy told you he wanted you to take them."

"Even then," I replied, "he might regret me taking them later. Then it's too late."

"Dad always says 'no regrets'."

I couldn't decipher quite what bearing that had on the conversation. It was just the sort of throwaway comment my stupid brother would make. Ollie didn't seem willing to expand on the point, and so the conversation, thankfully, ended there.

I sent him off to bed half an hour later. He was in a genial mood, though there was a glint in his eye which suggested some variety of impending naughtiness. The form it took utterly astounded me, for not five minutes later, when I assumed him to be changing into his pyjamas and settling into bed, I heard the thunder (never a patter!) of his feet down the stairs. Ahead of him came the cry 'no regrets!' and then he appeared in all his glory, naked as the day he was born, preceded by a half-mast erection of the most excellent calibre, a chubby, pale, perfectly smooth rod of flesh which bounced around to a rhythm of its own, jutting a comfortable hand's width from his unfettered groin. He stopped for a moment, dancing sensually, hands roaming over his crotch and tugging at his tumescent boyhood, his face contorted into apparent rapture, before once more giving his cry of 'no regrets!' and sprinting from the room.

Heedless of possible ramifications I grabbed a handful of tissues from the box on the coffee table and pumped a sudden, unexpected emission into them.

---

I lay in bed playing back the evening's events, determined to derive what meaning I could from Ollie's act of streaking. His war cry suggested that it was linked to our earlier conversation, though what meaning he intended to convey wasn't clear. I knew what I hoped he meant by it - that he was willing to do something. To show himself to me, and not just as a defiant act, but in a sexual manner, full of intent and deliberation. It wasn't a boy streaking for the mere effect his streaking would have. It was a sexually charged situation, the tension heightened by his clearly visible excitement.

Oh, and what a sight it was! Such a weapon for such a skinny young boy! The air of wishful thinking in my stories was swept aside by a surprising reality. His boyhood, last glimpsed in the swimming pool changing room at the age of eight, had grown with him. Oh, I knew alright, knew it was big for his age, for a child of any age.  What had been impressive when dormant was positively shocking when erect, quite easily four and a half inches in length, and proportionally thick, a stark contrast to his narrow hips and boyish torso. I longed to feel it, to feel the steel hardness of it, to gently skin the foreskin back behind the head and wrap my lips around it, to feel its blunt warmth pushing against the roof of my mouth, to experience the smooth skin of his crotch on my lips as I dipped my head into his lap, devouring him whole. I ached to feel it pulse and kick in my mouth as he came, maybe spitting out a thin, slimy ejaculate, tangy with youthful vitality. His testes had appeared large enough that I held onto hope. Oh God, worst of all, most depraved of all, I wanted to part his rounded cheeks with the sabre of my passion and deflower him, to feel myself rush into the warm confines of his bowels again and again, to mount him face to face and see the expressions of agonising pleasure distort his features, to send his penis, flaccid from my penetration, bouncing around and dribbling pre-seminal fluid across the creased skin of his stomach as I hunched into him in search of my release, of spilling myself within the hot, dark depths of him, of owning him in such an utter manner as this. I wanted to know what it felt like to reach the ultimate state of being with him.

I couldn't sleep. Nothing would clear my mind of thoughts of him, least of all mere fatigue. I stumbled blearily from my room and downstairs to the living room, flicking on the TV and blinking heavily to clear the mist from my eyes. Baseball was on ESPN (one of the only reasons to buy Sky, in my opinion), so I half-heartedly watched that with my hand shoved down the front of my sleeping shorts, idly toying with myself.

I wasn't aware of him in the room at first. It was probably half an hour after I had adjourned there, and something at the very edge of vision caused me to look around. He stood there, entranced in the TV, face bathed in its sterile blue glow. As subtly as I could I removed my hand from its location in my crotch, and hoped that the darkness had hidden my actions.

"Hey," I said, sounding suddenly very loud. "I didn't mean to wake you. You should get back to bed."

He shook his head. "Not sleepy."

Normally I would have told him to go to bed anyway, but something told me he wasn't being simply naughty, but really couldn't sleep. I waved him over to where I lay on the couch and to my surprise, rather than sitting down he lay full length in front of me, head resting in his arm. I revelled in the intimacy, whilst also hoping that he made no move backwards, for he would surely bump into the dull prong of my half erection where it tented my shorts. He wore nothing more than a flimsy pair of cotton shorts to sleep in, leaving his bare back resting against my chest, similarly devoid of cloth. With nowhere else to put it, and hoping that it would be taken as simply the act of a loving uncle, I draped my upper arm over his torso, placing the hand flat upon the surface of the sofa cushion.

For several minutes we lay this way, until with a deep breath and a sigh Ollie snuggled back into me, pushing his back into my chest and his bottom, clad only in that very thin sheen of fabric, into my crotch. A hand reached down and plucked my own from the sofa, moving it to lie very deliberately on his soft, warm lower tummy, mere fractions of a hand's width from the crinkled hem of his shorts. At first I simply held it there, but driven by passion and forgetting all of the promises I made to myself and to him, I started moving it in circles on his delicate torso. The circles grew wider by the turn, running fingers across the indent of his belly button, then on the downstroke letting my caress stray into the valley which led to his crotch on the left hip, across to the right, trailing along the edge of the hem, and then back up the right hip and round once more. Even in the TV's dim light the growth of his excitement was apparent, and before long it tented strongly in front of him, the blunted tip of it (confined as it was by cotton stretched to its limit) sat higher than the hem, and finally came so far up his body that the back of my knuckles brushed against it.

I lurched and so did he. His motion, a sudden stiffening so strong that he all but jumped away from me, was due to surprise. My own was down to the jolt of sudden, excruciating sexual excitement which surged to the pit of my stomach and sent spasms of cramp through my abdomen. He pushed urgently back into me, grabbing my hand and pushing it downwards, but I, in a sudden moment of remorse, resisted his movement.

"Please!" he whispered urgently, but yet I resisted.

"No, Ollie. I can't. I promised you I wouldn't!"

"Fucking hell, Uncle Zack! Please! I know what I'm doing! I'm old enough!"

"No, Ollie, no!"

"Fucking hell!" he spat at me, and tore himself from my grip. He dropped his shorts as he moved to the chair nearby, and then, watching me through half-closed eyelids, began an amateurish, not-yet-well-practised wank.

What would you do? Would you be able to resist doing something? Would you be able to walk from the room and leave him there to his business, knowing that he wanted you to feel his body, to take his boyhood in hand and give him the greatest feelings a human body can experience? Oh, for fuck's sake, I'm not a saint, and I wasn't then. He grinned as I knelt by his chair, and gave an 'oh!' of surprised pleasure as my hand closed around his shaft. The hot hardness of him was enclosed in my fist, the peak of it, sheathed in a foreskin which tapered to a nipple-like point, just emerging from the confines of my grip. I held him a moment, not quite willing to believe that I did so, until it sank home and I ejaculated into the confines of my shorts.

My ardour was in no way dampened, my lust undiminished by the spilling of my seed. No, the change which came over me was more subtle. I was now in control of my emotions, of my libido. I could approach wanking Ollie with a detached mind, determined to make it as thoroughly exceptional for him as possible. I began slowly, letting a loose fist run up and down his shaft, snagging the foreskin slightly on the downstroke, watching the opening of it stretch around his bulbous head before springing back as I released it. Against all likelihood (and the evidence of his smooth, utterly hairless crotch) he was damp with precum, though judging by the plump fullness of his crinkled scrotum I shouldn't have been surprised. It jiggled up and down pleasantly as I wanked him with a firmer motion.

He was lost to the feelings growing within, squirming around on the chair as the pleasure grew to a crescendo, the tip of his rod on fire, the flesh ever stiffer beneath my roaming fingers. He needed desperately to reach his peak, and switching to thumb and fingers I pushed him over the edge, feeling the kick of his orgasm hammering through his penis, as his face contorted, brows knitted together as pleasure grew so great it resembled pain. Two almost clear bolts of semen exploded from the exposed head of his willy, landing lightly on the tensed board of his stomach, before a third dribbled slowly over my fingers. He expelled his held breath through pursed lips as he came down from his high, and then panted with the exertion of his orgasm.

As he came back to earth I rolled the skin back over the head of his rapidly deflating boyhood, squeezing another half drop from the opening of his foreskin and bringing it to my lips, tasting the salty tang of his youthful emission. His eyes flickered open, and with a grin he propelled himself forward out of the chair, throwing his arms around me, hugging tightly around my neck. He kissed me quickly on the lips, a hard peck, and then whispered a quick 'thank you!' in my ear, before retreating to his bed. When he returned a few moments later for his shorts, he gave me a sheepish grin and waved his willy in my direction as I sat dumbfounded on the sofa.

---

How could things not change between us following that? How could we ever have the same uncle-nephew relationship? As I sat opposite the boys over breakfast the following morning I was bombarded with secret smiles from Ollie, a wordless conversation about our mutually held secret. And a secret it most definitely would remain. Ollie clearly felt himself a legitimate partner in the seduction. For him it was no form of abuse, because he had demanded my touch. To my mind, I had still taken advantage of him, but if there was a crumb of comfort to be had, it was in his cheeky grins and knowing smiles. He had wanted it. He had wanted it.

And he wanted it again. In the briefest window of opportunity, Ryan's daily excretions, Ollie had his shorts around his ankles, naked bum in my lap as I rapidly rubbed him to another orgasm, drier this time but no less potent in sensation. He gave my bulging manhood a quick squeeze as he hopped from my lap, laughing as I doubled over in pleasurable pain, once more filling my underwear at the slightest stimulation. And again, as we went swimming, sending Ryan ahead into a changing cubicle of his own and when his brother was unaware dragging me in with him into a family cubicle, touching me when I was naked, watching with pleasure as the thick splatters of my semen coated the tiled floor, wiping the residue from his fingers on his towel and then insisting as I sat on the bench and he stood in front of me that I take his immature load in little marks all over my body, and what's more leave it there as we walked to the pool. And again, as we adjourned to the toilets half way through a movie, giggling as he pulled me by the hand into a stall and watched with delight as I wanked myself, doing himself at the same time, though not arriving at his peak so quickly and then insisting that I finish him. And again, when his brother was in bed, this time suggesting meekly that I might like to see what it was like to suck him off, just like I had in my stories, and lying there on the sofa, knees up as I crouched between his legs, bobbing my head on the shaft and experiencing something so much better than my fiction could possibly have predicted.

God, I make it sound like it was non-stop sex. It wasn't. But if I was to suggest that there was anything more deep and meaningful to it than sheer physical fulfilment, it would be a lie. This wasn't the meeting of two great lovers, nor the opening gambit of a sizzling affair between us. Ollie was a horny boy, and I was his outlet, and as soon as another, less intimidating outlet was found our activities would cease.

Actually, that's entirely what happened. Ollie, for his twelfth birthday only weeks later was given a laptop, and his mother, bless her, paid no heed to warnings of easily available pornography on the internet. Ollie had his outlet, and instantly our sexual contact ceased, to be replaced by a surprisingly close and loving friendship. Ollie became my best mate again, something he had been before, and something which I was pleased to find he was again. He might have been too embarrassed by our prior intimacy to take that step, but instead those few occasions were simply forgotten as though they had never happened. I was quite thankful for that, too, because it diminished my own guilt.

Looking back, I should never have allowed my urges to overwhelm me in that way. I should have stayed resolute, because although Ollie was unaffected in the long term, that may not have been the outcome. I could have hurt him, could have skewed his world view. His safe, loving uncle, his rock in the world in amongst the raging torrent that was his parents' destructive relationship, had turned out to be a child's nightmare, a paedophile, a boylover. Someone sexually interested in him. He could have been so thrown by the revelation that he lost trust in all adults, and especially in me. But wonder of all wonders, he remained, at least to the best of my knowledge, largely unworried about my actions, and indeed his own.