Allen felt that familiar tingle in his loins as they returned to the hotel. Evan, as always, was at his side. Nobody questioned it, of course. Allen had been coaching for 11 years now. He had moved to the area five years ago, starting as an assistant coach, but the league soon recognized his talents and offered him a head-coaching gig. He had asked for the eight-year-olds, the first year of competitive travel soccer, but with a twist: He would stay with them as they aged. More consistent coaching would make for more competitive teams, right? The league approved the plan. What choice did they have? Allen had played Division I and already was popular with the boys and their parents. If they wanted his expertise, they would give him what he wanted.

What he wanted was boys. Preteen boys, to be specific. Smooth, hairless, fit, athletic, preteen boys. He liked soccer just fine, but he loved boys even more. For Allen, coaching was a means to a soft, supple end.

Evan. Age eight. Middle-of-the pack when it came to soccer skills, top-of-the-charts when it came to little boys. Allen noticed him on the first day of practice over four years ago. The more he got to know him, the more he decided he was the one. Not only was he beautiful, but his home life signaled opportunity. No father. No Mr. Wallace. Allen wasn't sure the boy had ever even met the man who sired him. It was the man's loss. Allen thought everything about Evan was ideal. Chocolate eyes. Smooth, lithe figure. Supple limbs. Eyelashes long enough to make a supermodel jealous. And those lips. Allen imagined tasting them. Not right away, of course. He knew not to rush things.

Could he drop Evan off at home after practice? Of course, he could; he would. Allen had been about to offer, but Evan's mother had beaten him to the punch. All the better. She seemed to like him, but Allen had disappointed so many women before. At 36, he kept himself soccer-fit. Lisa – was she Mrs. Wallace? Allen didn't know – was roughly the same age. She was eligible, and from the look of it, so was he. But no. Lisa didn't interest Allen at all other than for her remarkable skill at gestating beautiful little boys. She had two in her possession, but Evan, Jr. was only three years old. The child of a different father, he was still a looker. Maybe someday.

It hadn't taken long for Allen to win Evan over as his special boy. A friendly pat here. A wink there. A quick hug – appearing spontaneous, but decidedly not. The man had groomed before, successfully as it were. Eight-year-olds were so trusting. A bit young for the man's taste, but they tended to get older. Evan would. He did.

Now he was – dare Allen say it – approaching too old. Evan was a big boy, now. 12. Sleek. Still smooth. But growing, always growing. They had secrets together, so many of them. Travel soccer meant time on the road. There were out-of-town tournaments – several each year. Hotel rooms. Boys. Swimming pools. Breakfast buffets. Evening movies. And, of course, the live, in-room entertainment. That was always Allen's favorite.

Nobody questioned that Evan would room with Allen. The Wallaces were a single-parent household; Lisa worked at Sunny's as a waitress. These things were confidential but there was little doubt that Evan's fees were taken care of by the league. Mr. Dellamonte's estate had bequeathed a sizable fund for just that very purpose. Allen personally took care of the boy's equipment. Evan always had a new pair of cleats when he needed them. Allen always said they were used but they certainly looked new. One pair came fresh from the box, but they were a demonstration pair – a floor sample – Allen assured the boy. Evan wasn't a charity case, but they couldn't be sold. The store manager had asked Allen if he knew any talented soccer players who would make good use of them and he had immediately thought of Evan, his best player. His favorite player. His special boy.

Allen was a patient man. Pushing things too fast could lead to disaster of cataclysmic proportions. Year two – nine years old. So sleek. The investment was paying off. Allen was Evan's ride home. Lots of one-on-one time after practice and in the car. Ice cream at the McDonald's drive through. Frosties at Wendy's. Evan knew he was a special boy. Allen told him often.

Light touches, a slow building of pats and hugs. Soft, supple thighs made for squeezing and caressing. Those eyes. The darkest, chocolate brown, yet full of life and vigor. Nine years old. Entering his prime.

The Payton Invitational Tournament. It was Allen's favorite. Three days and two nights of boy bliss. Such a long drive – 120 miles. It was a shame that he and Evan couldn't be alone for it, but two other boys needed rides this year. Nick Swanson would follow them after work, and could Allen just keep an eye on his son and one other until he arrived? Of course, he could; he would. The Swanson boy was a little looker. But for Evan, he might have been Allen's favorite. Cornflower-blue eyes. Blond – with eyes like that, at nine, could his hair be any other color? Still carrying some baby fat, despite the pace of the practices. Some boys were like that. The other boy was Dante. Skinny as a rail, fast as a gazelle, black as a cup of coffee without cream. Nice kid, great player, but not Allen's type. Besides, he had Evan. They would again share a room. Allen's cock twitched at the thought. He had plans for the evening.

The Payton. The biggest tournament of the year. Fitting that it would be the setting for Allen's big day. Evan's, too. It was over a year in the coming – or the cumming, but then again Allen already had done a lot of that. He had the team photo to work with, of course, but Lisa had given him a wallet-sized one of Evan – for all he had done.

"Evan thinks the world of you," she had said, and Allen had assured her that the feeling was mutual. The photo had been well-used after that, indeed.

Allen had done this before. Evan was ready. A year of grooming was a long time. It had all gone according to plan. Burger King on the way. Check in at the hotel. Swim. Oh, the sights! Nine-year-olds in swimsuits. Frolicking, playing, high-pitched voices squealing. Cannonballs. Splashing. Someone brought a plastic football. Allen watched, chatting first with Kevin Pollack, father of Kyle, then with Nick Swanson. Not too much staring. Mustn't appear too interested in the glistening, tantalizing young boy skin.

Big day tomorrow. Three games. It was the most organized damn thing. Twenty fields. How did a single organization have access to twenty fields? But that was tomorrow. Allen still had tonight, and he had Evan.

He did have Evan. The boy was putty in his hands, submitting easily to his insistence on a shower – don't want to itch from the chlorine, do you? If the boy had a nudity taboo, it wasn't apparent. He made for a succulent nude. The best word to describe him, even at the age of nine, was sleek. Or perhaps beautiful. Either worked. Evan was a specimen.

Allen helped the boy dry off. Nude boy flesh, pink and moist, in need of a vigorous toweling. Nine-year-old boy flesh. Sleek boy flesh. Allen spared nothing. This was not the time to be bashful. That bottom. It was made for fucking. He toweled it dry. The boy's genitals, too.

Levity had always worked best with the evanescent boys who had preceded Evan. It worked with Evan, too. Irreverent young-boy humor. Remember, you're just like them at heart. Playful. Mischievous. Fun-loving. Rule-breaking. Secret-keeping.

"Hey, your willy's looking at me!" was the line Allen had used, his finger and thumb manipulating the boy's squidgy little snake, pointing the one-eyed worm upright and making it look in Allen's direction. The man was still on his knees. Boy feet needed drying, after all, and Evan's feet were to die for.

They didn't fuck at Payton. Not that year, anyway. Patience was a virtue, and after over a year of Evan-craving celibacy, it was enough to touch, kiss, lick, suck, and rim the nine-year-old. Everything was so playful and fun. So new. Allen explored that sleekness, every inch of it. If he overdid anything, it was the hour. It was 11:45 p.m. before Allen reluctantly relinquished the little boy to an exhausted sleep. They wouldn't share a bed this year. All in good time. It would come.

It came the next year. Allen came, too, several times. Same weekend, same tournament, same hotel, same boy. Older, now. Evan was 10. They fucked three times that night and twice the next, the second bed untouched. The boy took to Greek love like a fish to water; the fatherless ones always did. Allen couldn't remember the lines he used, but just about any would have worked. Evan was his special boy. More special than any other boy on the team. Allen gave him every inch of his special love.

Those chocolate eyes. Trusting. Loving. Allen liked to give Evan gifts. He always wrapped them, no matter how trivial. Evan liked to unwrap them, just as Allen liked to unwrap the boy. It was every tournament now. Allen always paid for the hotel room, and Lisa was grateful. Allen was so generous. Evan really looked up to him, did he know?

Allen knew. The boy often looked up while he was sucking on the man's cock. Chocolate-brown, 10-year-old pupils, straining to look up at Allen even as the boy's head was angled down. Blowjob eyes, Allen called them, and in Evan's case they were beautiful. Everything about the boy was beautiful. He had a magnificent mouth. It was soft, warm, wet, and velvety. Evan took to sucking with an eagerness. Whatever he lacked in talent he made up in enthusiasm. Those lips. That tongue. It never took Allen long.

By 11, Evan swallowed without encouragement. Allen would detour to his place on the way home from practice. He always kept them on a strict timer – 15 minutes, 20 tops. Enough for two blowjobs, one for each. Evan would be moist from practice. Allen would lick the sweat from his body and suck the boy to a dry orgasm. Evan would reciprocate. The boy was a gulper. He gulped 28 times that season. They fucked, too. There were three tournaments that year. Three different hotel rooms. Eight different fucks. It was divine. The boy was still so tight. So sleek.

Now 12. Three years removed from that first unwrapping. The Payton again. Same hotel. The boy taller. Sleeker. Still hairless, but back in June, his first wet cum. They celebrated together. The boy downplayed the event, but Allen would have none of that. His ebullience countered the boy's sheepishness. The boy was special, after all, and that was a special accomplishment. They were wet every time after that – thin, and mostly tasteless. They both swallowed, now, post-practice.

Allen knew it was time to move on. The boy was growing older. Taller. Soon he would have hair in places he shouldn't. Allen had started over before. He would do so again.

But here, now, the same Marriott. The same pool. Mostly the same boys and parents. The same Evan. They'd been together for four years now. Evan had been his special boy for three of those. They would fuck tonight, more than once. They always did. Three years running, but this would be their last time together at the Payton.

But what was this? Evan had seemed a bit aloof and quiet on the drive. Allen knew him by now, every mood and contour. The door clicked shut. Queen beds, of course, but they wouldn't use more than one. They hadn't needed separate beds since the boy was nine years old. They wouldn't tonight. They'd be up late. Evan would be tired and a bit sore tomorrow. It was a given. It was the first night of the Payton.

Allen undressed down to his boxers. Evan remained seated on the bed, flipping channels with the remote. Allen joined him, sitting on the edge.

"What's up?" the man asked simply. They always undressed together. It was a tradition.

Evan shrugged. His eyes remained fixed on the television. He didn't look at the man.

Allen cocked his eyebrow.

"Problem?" he asked.

Evan shrugged again. Allen rose to his feet and retrieved the lube from his bag. He returned to the same position on the bed, sat, and tossed the tube to the youngster. Evan flinched, caught it, and placed it to the side.

"I don't really feel like it," he said, looking down again.

Allen studied the boy. Evan was 12. Still mercifully hairless, but it would be only a matter of months, now, perhaps only weeks. Middle school. Modified soccer. Trumpet. Were there other interests? Girls? Allen didn't know one way or the other. Nor did he care. Evan was his special boy. And the Payton was their special place.

"Stomach upset?"

The boy shrugged.

"Something else? Talk to me, Evan."

"I just . . . I'm just kind of tired."

"I'm tired, too, Evan. That was a 120-mile drive." Guilt worked wonders with boys.

The boy shrugged.

The man waited.

Silence persisted.

"Evan?"

A pause.

"I just don't want to."

The man's upper lip twitched with anger. The boy was looking away and couldn't have noticed.

"What's going on, Evan?"

Another shrug.

Allen's eyes were fixed on the boy. More silence.

"I just thought, maybe, like . . . maybe we shouldn't . . . you know."

The man's lip twitched again. He had been planning on ending it soon, but it wasn't ending here, and the boy wasn't going to be the one to end it.

"After I drove you all the way here? After I paid for the room? After I got you cleats?"

Did the boy really want to play this game? Really?

Evan shrugged. He swallowed nervously. He hadn't planned this, not this way, not exactly. It was harder than he thought it would be.

"Evan?"

What could he say? What should he say? That he didn't like it anymore? After all those times? That it had all been a lie? He shrugged. He was 12. At that age, words could be hard, especially when you don't know what to say.

Allen inhaled a loud breath and exhaled it just as loudly. It was a warning. This was not happening. He would decide when it ended. He had already decided to start back with the eight-year-olds. 12 was pushing it, and 13 – and hairy – was not his thing. But he hadn't told Evan any of that.

The man reached for the lube and tossed it at the boy's chest.

"Enough, Evan. Unless you have a stomachache." The man's voice was firm, as was his resolve.

The boy froze. He hadn't expected this. He hadn't roleplayed it in his mind. Whatever plan he had or didn't have, this wasn't going according to it.

"I just don't want to."

Allen stood from the bed and pulled the boy by his ankle to the floor. He landed with a grunt in a surprised heap.

"Stand up," ordered the man.

Cringing, his eyes watering with tears, Evan stood. Even taller, even sleeker, the man still had him by well over a foot. The boy's heart raced in his chest.

"I'm disappointed, Evan. You're my special boy. That's why you're here and not Kyle, or Jon, or Taylor. You. That's why I drive you places. That's why I buy you things. That's why I do special things with you. No one else, Evan. Just you."

Tears welled from the youngster's eyes as he stood beside the bed with his shoulders slightly hunched. He couldn't speak. The words wouldn't come. He didn't feel special.

"Well?" the man persisted.

Another shrug.

"Are you my special boy?"

Evan knew he was. He always had been, but the question was a loaded one, and the boy knew it. How to answer?

"I- . . . yes."

"Are you sure Evan? You don't seem sure."

This was all going to shit. Evan regretted it.

"I'm sure, coach," he said, swallowing, with a little nod.

Allen eyed the boy. The Payton was his favorite tournament. There would be another hotel stay for the one in Baxter, and that was it. Five or six more fucks, a dozen post-practice blowjobs — maybe 15 — and then it would end.

The boy looked unhappy; the tears were a dead giveaway. It often happened around this age. Allen would throw him a bone before he gave him another. It was up to the boy if they remained friends afterwards.

"You're 12, Evan. Growing up. We've had fun. Lots of fun. But this is it. I was going to tell you. I won't be your coach next year."

Evan looked up with surprise in his eyes along with the tears.

"I'm starting over with a new group. Once you guys reach middle school, Holcomb takes over on the modified team and teaches you a bunch of garbage. I'm not competing with that."

Evan nodded and swallowed, surprised at the man's candor.

"So, we go till the end of the season," Allen continued. "And then it's up to you. I'll always be there for you if you need me. You'll probably start dating some cute girl and forget all about me, but I'll always be your friend. And you'll always be my special boy."

The man's words brought more tears and another nod. After a slight pause, the boy reached for the hem of his shirt and reluctantly skinned it off his sleek frame. He handed it to Allen. It was still warm.

"Good boy," said the man, as he tossed the shirt to the floor and reached for the lube once again. His cock started to erect in his boxers. The man was horny, and the boy was sleek, hairless, and beautiful. His eyes were like chocolate.

The Payton was their anniversary, and it was time to renew their vows. They had all night together and they were going to fuck.

And that's exactly what they did.

The End