And Abraham said unto his young men, Abide ye here with the ass; and I and the lad will go yonder and worship…

— Genesis 22:5

I could have said obscurely: "Cast about

for what, though given freely, won't run out.

Give to me now what you may later seek

to give in vain, once fuzz invests your cheek;

what Jove has savored when his aquiline

abductee greets his lover with his wine."

It's easier to say, "I want your ass."

Well, what did you expect? My muse is crass.

— The Priapus Poems, No. 3 (tr. Richard W Hooper)

One thing you have to be, if boys are your raison d'etre, is flexible. Ready to adapt and seize on the most fleeting opportunity — boy-lightning can strike anywhere, anytime.

Take a recent conquest of mine. How it transpired surprised me almost as much as the boy. Not my usual sort of tryst at all, rather a hectic business, and not a little dangerous. I really shouldn't have done it. But, as a wise scout-master once told me: Cometh the boy, cometh the man…

It was down at the beach, second week of the school holidays, the place buzzing with boys sporting fresh haircuts and an eye for adventure, but who, for the most part, were hemmed in by tedious chaperones and protrectresses, the tiresomely thorough and complacent middle-class puritans who strive every day to smother the natural course of boyhood. The usual hurdles.

Yes, I was getting bitter. I'd struck out twice with comely lads, fine prospects, and was starting to doubt my form. Was I losing my edge? Then I saw this sweet blond lad, around the twelve or thirteen mark, poised with blissfully unaware perfection on the taut new springboard of his puberty.

But the Greek gods were not kind this summer break. The boy was near-buried in a phalanx of female overlords, the whole family catastrophe: gorgon mother and three — three — loud gregarious daughters. Call the bloody marines, I thought, trying not to lose heart.

I tracked them from a discreet distance. He never swam on his own, he never went to the shops on his own, he never used the shower block. On one of his rare trips to the public toilets, I followed him in, passing Daughter Number Two standing guard, yammering with a bandsaw voice into her phone. Inside, the boy went straight to a cubicle, even though I soon heard him direct a nice healthy stream into the bowl. For a wild moment I was tempted to knock on the door, inform the lad, in my most authoritative voice, that it was against health regulations to urinate in the stalls; would he please grow up and disport himself at the trough like a man…

Instead I stood impotently by the washbasins, imagining the lad tugging down the front of his brightly-coloured briefs, carefully (or carelessly) aiming his boyhood… it took me back to my grim college days, when yearning-at-a-distance seemed a life sentence.

And he didn't muck around. The speed with which a boy will dash into a toilet, have a pee, a quick shake, then rush off, is one of their many wonders to behold. After he flushed — he was definitely a good boy — and unlocked the cubicle and emerged at pace, just finishing off the business of getting his boyhood back in reasonable order, he was almost back out of the door before I could say, "Hey, kid, you didn't happen to see a girl in here when you came in, did you?"

He barely paused to give a startled, quick shake of his head, and was gone.

Hopeless. In the one to two seconds he'd stopped and faced me, I'd got my first proper look at him: his sweet budding form, a nice beginner's development of chest and shoulders, a good sporty shapeliness to his legs. But his briefs, with their broad diagonal stripes of bold colours–blue, red, green, yellow–were loose enough to offer no real indication of his boy-sex. I was slightly cheered, though, by the little dark spot on the front of his briefs, his final droplet, right at the border of the red and royal blue.

But, as I say, in a trice he was gone. Those two seconds looked to be about it. I tried to tell myself to move on. There were other boys around of a similar age who were a much better prospect. Unfortunately, though, they weren't in this boy's league for beauty, for sweetness and eye-watering sexual provocation.

So I kept up a forlorn vigil, rarely even getting a full glimpse of his near-naked form, being, as he always was, partially or totally obscured by his female phalanx. It was like trying to spot a rare parakeet amidst a hideous jungle of hairy trunks and low-swinging vines and creepers.

It must have been four or five days after I first spotted him that a change in the dreary drama took place. Not one offering much hope, but any change was welcome.

Wandering back down to the beach after a trip into town, I saw my blond angel walking along the beach, carrying a big bag of gear — with only one sister in attendance. The youngest one. She looked about fifteen or sixteen, and was quite stunningly attractive herself. Without the boy around, she'd have been a legitimate target herself. But with the boy around, she was an obstacle, nothing more.

They were looking for a spot to sit down, and as they picked out a reasonable bit of clear space, suddenly two other girls appeared — about the boy's age, although, as girls are at that time of life, more mature, more cock-sure.

They stood around, Blondie, his sister, and the two giggling interlopers — and it was very obvious that one of the girls, the pretty one with a dazzling spray of light-brown ringlets, was flirting with the boy — even from a distance I could see him blushing, laughing, all of a sudden rather self-conscious to be just in a pair of briefs, sort of swinging the bag protectively in front of himself.

And Sister Number Three seemed to be encouraging all this! Some protectress! Couldn't even save the lad from the sting of some toxic box jellyfish leapt fresh from the salty waves to gobble him up. In fact, the youngest sister seemed positively to be pushing the lad into the girl's shrill peals of carnivorous laughter. Apollo save us! Is no one in this blighted age prepared to properly look out for a boy?

At this stage I said, Enough! The way I was going, I'd end up like Gustav von Aschenbach, melting into an impotent puddle of thwarted bliss and slowly dispersing into a self-begotten ocean of diseased imagination… That very afternoon, after a good long swim, I decided I would repair to the eastern beach for some good reliable seedy rent-boy fare. A fifteen-year-old with a drug habit can be guaranteed to knock the romantic boy-dreams out of any man.

And of course that was the cue for a miracle. Hermes the trickster and thief I dedicate this little encounter to.

After spending a good fifty or sixty minutes in the surf, I set off on a short-cut through the hairy old sand dunes, wanting to get over to those emaciated rent boys as quickly as possible. And just as I was striding purposefully between two lushly erect tussocks, I saw him. The boy. All alone, lying on his back on a large yellow towel, fast asleep, his big beach bag perched beside him like a petrified protectress.

What a stunning little chap, the childish physique showing a precocious hint of solidity, his sexual development starting to seriously mass and gather, getting ready to kit him out and mess him up. Gosh, his legs: the tender swell of his boyish quadriceps was enough to finish off a weaker man than I. And those little bather briefs, multi-coloured with a slightly tatty elasticised band, still maddeningly slack and unwilling to outline his boyhood.

What was he doing here? All, all alone. Had he tired of his gaggle of chaperones and found a secluded spot for some peaceful dreaming? Had he been ejected from the family bosom for some indiscretion? Or, sudden thought, had he come here to meet little Miss Ringlets?

It mattered not. The gods had spoken and, being very superstitious in these matters, I obeyed the call.

Gently putting my own bag on the ground, I knelt carefully beside the boy, took a good look around. We weren't exactly hidden from view, but the dozen or so people I could see on the beach were a long way off, obediently facing the sea, certainly unable to see right down into this sheltered, saucer-shaped dip in the undulating dunes. And there was no sign of his family, which was… good? Bad? Who knew?

Shifting my attention fully to the boy, I ran a hand back and forth just above his face, casting a moving shadow, watching for a reaction. None. Among the many talents of the young is how soundly they nap. I gently cleared my throat, then a little louder. Nothing from the boy except the rhythmic slow breaths, in and out, through his pristine little nose.

I edged a little closer on my knees, gently put my hands to the sides of his briefs, got a good pinched hold on them, then dragged them downwards with sudden, sustained force — they dragged and stretched and got stuck under his bottom, but did eventually rasp their way clear, and I got the tangled scrap of nylon all the way down to his knees — and, oh, the bare smooth whiteness of the exposed boy, made more stark by the first dark-golden curls damply clinging round the base of his penis. Not a child's penis and certainly not a man's, its silken boy-length jutted a little over his impressively fat, tightly pulled-up ballbag, with the soft little bud of his foreskin showing just a hint of his inner dewy pinkness. But the boy-balls, yes, they grounded the lad, spoke to his first pubescent surge, powered the first budding hint of his young form.

It was a good two or three beats after I'd pulled his pants down that he stirred slightly. Just the briefest frown, the lightest caress of his brow, and a small outward flex of his left leg, although not able to move far with his briefs around his knees. But he slept blissfully on.

Fully expecting all hell to break loose, I very gently took hold of his penis, just with finger and thumb, and began to very lightly feel and rub him, watching for what I assumed would be the inevitable explosion into consciousness… but no, the boy didn't stir, his breathing regular and rhythmic… so I worked him more boldly, adjusted my hold to move the foreskin better on his still soft, squishy little penis, finally getting to the point of masturbating him rather than just playing… and then the regular shallow breathing was suddenly broken by a deep intake of breath, almost a sigh, swelling his tender chest, sucking his tummy in a little; his right arm moved, elbow sliding to the edge of the towel as he again flexed his left knee outward, almost as though the dreaming boy was trying to splay himself a little — damn those restricting little briefs around his knees!

Was he dreaming? No sign on his still placidly sleep-composed face, but, oh, his little boy-cock suddenly getting up and at 'em like a good little marine at daybreak. Soon the foreskin was tightening on his quick stiffy, and the pink glans began to peep and sparkle in the bright glare of the sun. I became a little dizzy at it — it was hard to tell whose dream was absorbing whom.

And then he woke up. Just like that. His eyes opened. I kept rubbing him with unbroken pace, his cocklet now fully and fiercely hard, and it was a curious moment, as I looked into his unfocussed, non-comprehending blue eyes… for long, drawn-out seconds he remained where he was, elbows digging into the firm give of the sand, tummy perhaps sucking in a little more, jiggling his briefs once or twice with his knees, but otherwise lying passively, staring blankly, as I masturbated him to rising levels of spike-hard boy-excitement.

Then reality started to crash in on him. The sweet face contorted; he looked and saw his exposed sex, the stiffy, pants down, a strange man's hand — with a croaked cry of, "Uh… wha… don't…" he suddenly unleashed an explosion of physical energy, trying to leap up and away. With lightning reflexes I hit him square in the chest, knocking him back flat on the towel — my stroke on his cock faltered briefly, but I quickly got back to his groove, bunching foreskin back and forth on his sweet spot, rubbing across the subtle little ridge of his swollen knob.

"Stay down!" I said forcefully. But he instantly attempted the same explosive escape move, so I hit him again square in the chest, harder this time, making a hollow thud as he was forced flat on his back again. "Don't move!" I thundered. "You're in big trouble, boy! That girl was just here — the pretty little girl with the ringlets — she's very upset with you."

He may have vaguely registered what I was saying — a confused look, a startled recognition, did seem to mix in with his terrified confusion.

"She said you tried to take her pants down, you dirty boy. Is that true? She's very upset, crying and everything."

But his predicament ruled. He said, "Stop… don't… lemme go…" And he again tried to escape. Not, this time, trying to leap up and away in a single bound; instead he tried to wrench himself away from me, bringing his leg up protectively, reaching to grab and push at my forearm, which remained steely in its relentless focus on the job at hand. This was a bit trickier to combat, and I was losing my rhythm on him. So I had to let his cock go, grabbed him by thigh and shoulder, and shoved him forcefully back into position on his towel.

"Stay there or you'll seriously get hurt!" I said with enough force to still the boy, at least for a moment, his magnificent stiffy the only part of him showing a coltish refusal to lie down. Just the tip of his pink glans was showing. I couldn't be sure, but I'd swear there was a tiny drop of dew forming on him.

I took hold of his cock again, wanked him good. He let out a lovely protesting Nnngh and even gave an angry sideways buck of his hips. As his masturbated excitement increased my hold over him, he shook his head a couple of times, a sweet if disingenuous attempt to say no.

I said, "What's her name? That girl?"

His face was all screwed up but still lovely enough to die for. "Huh…? Who…? What are you — who are you?"

This was a change for the better. His escape attempts had been comprehensively flattened, so he was trying now, in a hopelessly addled fashion, to work out the true nature of his waking nightmare.

"What's her name?" I pressed. "The pretty girl with the ringlets? She said you invited her up here and then you pulled down your pants and tried to make her touch your penis — is that true? You're in a lot of trouble, son. I think she's gone to get your mother."

"No! I — stop! I didn't!"

But he was gone for all money now. I guess we'll never know the true composition of the pink flush spreading across his upper chest, reddening his cheeks — was it predominantly anger, fear, humiliation, sexual arousal? Whatever, it all rushed together in a boyish fury towards his startlingly quick little orgasm — so very quick but, like a car crash, the split seconds froze: the boy grabbing at his towel, turning his head away, bending up his knees and squeezing them tight together as he pushed a clenched fist down across his tummy towards the source of his woes. And right at the last moment, he arched his back, with an aching tenderness, so that he almost seemed to levitate up from his own strain and tension as he knifed hard into his climax.

And, oh, that first grunty spasm — a true boy wonder. He gave a tight little squirt, then a healthy splodge of good milky boy-juice, landing just below his belly-button. But that was all. Despite an impressive follow-up of rapid-fire pulses, helped along by some little fuck-movements, he only gouged out a further dribble or two, running down to glaze his little honey ringlets.

In the dazed, abyss-floaty moments that followed, we both seemed content to just listen to the dopey boy's laboured breathing. I ran my hand gently across his tight tummy, got a nice flutter from him, and rubbed the spots of boy essence into his soft skin. The woozy look he gave me — well, you could interpret it any which way the wind blowed. It did seem, though, that the rude conversion of his childish terror to sexual excitement had poleaxed him somewhat.

I took hold of his briefs, preparing to pull them up, make the lad decent before leaving, when something funny happened. Instead of pulling his briefs up, I started tugging them further down, taking them right off over his growing boy-feet. He gave a concerted "No, don't!" at that, flexing his torso to one side, but staying put, a good boy.

"What's your name, son?" I asked him.

"Lin-con," he said, then cleared his croaky throat: "Lincoln."

"Convertible?"

He stared sullenly, fear starting to creep back up. But he was still a little drugged. Woozy boy just watchin'. He even reached to briefly take hold of his penis, softening but still sexually swollen, and he tilted it to look at the gooey tip, then let it loll back down like a fatted morsel.

I threw his briefs aside — the boy's gaze followed them, a jolt of alarm reanimating him, but not yet creating an impulse to action; he flicked a glance at me, at the bag beside him, towards the beach now so far, far away. What was he to do?

I ran my hand up the inside length of his smoothly shaped leg, pausing to pull it towards me, start getting his legs apart, then let my hand glide on, right up to his bare white crotch to gently nudge into his tight ball-bag, trying to loosen him a little, feel his dense heat. Oh yeah, the boy had some beginner's grunt, no doubt about it.

Was there a subtle shift in the warm, almost still air? As I got between his legs, pushing the other one to make room, a few wafts of his roused boy-scent reached me, hit a nerve, like an axe between the eyes.

I put a hand under each of his knees and lifted them up, spreading his legs nice and wide, his heels planting in the sand — and it sure as hell worried him. He said, "No-no, uh…" tensing, trying to bend his knees inward, but all the while staying in position on the towel.

"And what was her name?"

"Huh?"

"The pretty little girl with the ringlets."

"…Chloe." He cleared his throat again.

"And you like her?" I was running my hands along the length of his impossibly smooth thighs, occasionally gliding to his slender hip and across to gently cup and nudge his balls with just the crook of one finger. "Lincoln? You like her?"

"Mm…." He even gave a slight roll of one shoulder.

He was nicely distracted by it all, anyway, as I reached over to his beach bag, found the obligatory tube of maximum strength sunscreen.

"And you came here to meet her?" Flipping the cap, squeezing a large dollop of goo into my hand.

He shook his head, frowning.

"So why did you make her cry?"

"I didn't… who said?"

"Lincoln, you have to be careful. Before you pull a girl's pants down, you have to make sure you have her fully in your power… understand?"

He didn't. I don't think he even heard. I'd slopped the sunscreen on him, and it made him gasp, slopping it directly on his ball-bag, sliding it up to coat his increasingly soft boy-cock, letting it run down between the spread of his little butt cheeks, dribbling onto the towel.

It jolted him out of his reverie, and the kid reprised his up-and-away jag. Trying to sit up, trying to jump up, legs working to rectify the suddenly appalling splayed presentation of himself.

I put out one hand, not forcefully, just touching his chest. I said, "Lincoln, lie the fuck back down, now! Now. You want me to hurt you? You want this to end badly?" It started working straight away. "Don't fuck up all your good work, okay? You've been a much bigger boy than I thought you were — don't ruin it, don't become a little cry-baby like Chloe, okay?"

Not happy, but, good boy, he lay back down, just keeping his head raised, looking worriedly down between his spread knees. "What's that stuff?" he asked with genuine worry.

"It's just sunscreen." I couldn't help laughing, that scared little voice of his. "Look how white you are down here," I added, indicating his pubic area. "You'll burn like a little baby."

He muttered something, quite possibly the "F" word.

Don't know what the kid thought was happening, but he seemed to go with the parental-application-of-sunscreen story. I began gently rubbing the lotion into his thighs, hips, up across his tummy a bit, which even seemed to soothe him a little, while also stiffening him back up a bit. I gripped his goo-slicked cock in my fist, and it made a squelching sound as I gave him a couple of squeezes and rubs.

"Ahh — ooh — don't!" He flinched, obviously still tender from his orgasm, so I let him go and moved quickly to slide a couple of fingers from his slippery ball-bag, down his little seam to rub directly across his exposed little rosebud.

Boy did that get a response!

"Fuck! Don't!" he exploded with quite a high-pitched cry, wrenching sideways right off his towel, me holding one of his legs as he twisted around like a fucken boa-constrictor.

It was a tedious business, took a lot of effort — some real fire in the little fella — getting him back roughly into position, the boy full-on wrestling me and not stopping, red in the face, swearing when he could gasp a breath.

Words clearly weren't going to work this time — I had to get serious about throwing him roughly onto his back on the towel, crushing a knee down on his upper thigh, then clamping a hand to his throat, enough to make him splutter and grab my wrist with both his hands wrenching impotently at it.

"You finished?" I said calmly, then removed my hand from his neck, waiting for his next move. He stayed in heavy-breathing pause mode for the moment. "Cos it's up to you, Lincoln — we can do this together, or I can rip you apart like a rag doll and throw the pieces in the ocean."

"Just…" His attempt to convert his fear to anger was very sweet.

"What?"

"Don't touch my butt," he said, hating even to have to say it.

I tried to be reasonable. "Of course I'm going to touch your butt, Lincoln. Get serious, buddy."

He pulled the angriest, stubbornest pout as he kept shaking his head with finality. "No way. Not… just don't."

"Lincoln," I said, getting more serious. "That's not your call to make. Okay?"

He stared back at me with fierce defiance. It was pretty impressive, and astoundingly sexy. Along with his defiance, though, I noted he'd again put aside his silly escape attempts. The poor boy could have no idea how much he was provoking me to act. I had no more choice than he did right now. Beauty creates its own laws: some of them harsh, some painful, but all of them fatal in the end.

Then he winced and reached down to his thigh — I was still leaning pretty heavily on him with my knee.

"Sorry, bud," I said, lifting off him. He flexed his quad a bit, raising a milky gossamer of muscle outline. But, most provocative of all, as he reached with a hand to rub it, he took care not to move from his designated flat-on-his-back position. This was getting dangerous. This could turn into love.

"Come on," I said, tapping his thigh with the back of my hand. "Put your legs back how they were."

The voltage of his stare went up a notch, but he didn't move.

"Your time for choosing is running out, Lincoln. Seriously."

"Well, just…" was all that finally broke from him, in a voice containing the tremor of his decision to comply.

Then he lifted his knees, planted his feet on the towel, edged them apart, but not too far, not even to the edges of his yellow towel, but it was a fine effort, and I couldn't help feeling quite proud of him.

"Good boy," I said, but he just stared daggers at me as I watched him show me his little rosebud, his partly splayed thighs and butt all greasy with lotion.

I got quickly back between his legs, brusquely forcing them wider apart, the boy tensing all over, his fat little ball-bag spreading its bulge a bit, his penis now soft, even shrunken, tilted off to the side, his foreskin bud closed like a little flower gone to sleep.

I grabbed the tube of sunscreen to get another healthy dollop. Moving more quickly now, throwing the uncapped tube aside, again starting with a cupping and nudging of his balls, which had an elastic resistance to any free movement, pulled up so tight, the big boy-orbs almost forcing their way back up into their original sockets, so that he made small discomfited noises in his throat.

Then I pressed my fingers on his slippery boy-taint, firm and springy there, almost with a secret bulge of its own, before using one well-lubed finger to gently feel across the surface contours of his squeezed-tight little pucker.

He couldn't help the electric jolts of his legs, the flinching jerks of his slim hips, but he really was a good boy, and stayed roughly in position as I gently fingered him, teasing, playful, giving him rude little yips of pleasure, soon visible in his boy-cock starting to stiffen and rise, like a protest raised at his own treacherous response.

"Nnnngh." His face screwed up, and he grabbed bunches of towel as he tried to resist, shake off his own horrible response.

It never ceases to amaze, the heightened anal sensitivity of boys in early puberty, almost as though Nature had something in mind when she fell a-doting.

Then I pushed my middle finger into him with sudden blunt force, opening his tightly resisting sphincter and getting a sharp cry from him, quickly sinking the full length of my finger into the gripping heat of him.

He gave an almost plaintive, rising little Aaahhh, as he dug his heels in and raised his butt, which made him angrily cry out "Don't!" as he realised he was only presenting himself more fully to me.

I kept my finger fully penetrating him, occasionally forcing in deeper, mashing my fist into his spread little cheeks, letting him grunt and twist with resistance, his slender ribcage flaring into prominence as he sucked his tummy right in. "Don't," he occasionally said, although not with any great focus.

The feel of the boy inside, the slo-mo tacky give and suck of his tight viscera, occasionally lit up by his soft little cries of don't, always resisting the blunt penetration but never stopping it, always giving, inviting, like endless veils of slow heat giving way to further heavier veils, as though at the very heart of the boy's tightest virginal bud was a limitless realm of cloying, teasing give.

But when I gently crooked my finger to find his secret little boy-nub, then he found renewed vigour of protest.

"Oh shit! Stop! Fuck! Nnngh…" Heels dug in, raising his butt high up off the towel, trying to clamp shut his tight little buttocks, so that I had shove in with great force to stay with him. Then he was twisting off to one side, bringing up a boy-foot to kick at me.

I ignored his theatrics as best I could, wrapping my free arm about his other leg, waiting him out — and his initial rearing-up faded fairly quickly, hips lowering, returning to position almost on auto-pilot. As he did this, I brought my own vigour to bear — started fucking him hard with my finger, quickly, four, five, six times, then harder and faster, working a slick groove in him, the boy whining but mainly concentrating on coping with it, even finding little ways, little pushes, that could help make it better.

But when I worked my way back to his sensitive little nub, it still undid him, got from him an unbearably sweet little Aaawwww… as he shuddered, gritting his teeth and emitting sharp, spit-flecked breaths, swearing at me to stop it, stop it, and making some ragged bucking attempts to get clear of it.

"Lincoln," I said, easing up on his prostate, working my finger in and out with a gentle, soothing action. "Lincoln! Listen to me!"

"No."

"Stop this cry-baby nonsense. Okay? Work with me. Go with it. Just for a minute. C'mon, try. Be a big boy for me, just for a minute."

His eyes fleetingly made contact with mine: anger, refusal, but also the slightest hint of… maybe? Could this be his only way out?

"Okay?" I persisted.

After a long pause: "Mm…"

Having no choice is sometimes oddly similar to making a decision. Such a brave good boy, his face screwed up and turned aside as I increased my tempo into him, learning more of his inner secrets, finding the dungeon passes to his untapped little boy-pits of sex heat… here on the warm sunny beach, playing tiddly-winks with the freshly-minted play-things of his puberty.

He groped a hand to his penis. The edge had gone off it during all the hullaballoo, but now it was back to a fiercely stiff, pink-tipped little boy-weapon. He grabbed it, making little protest noises in his throat, then with the flat of his hand he pushed his jolting cock flat down on his tummy, as though looking for the OFF button.

"Lincoln," I said. "Lincoln!"

"Mm?" flicking a brief, hopeful glance at me.

"Take your hand off your cock. You're doing great. Don't hold onto your cock like some silly little boy."

But he ignored me, which pissed me off a bit. For the first time in a while I took my finger out of him and stared down at him. After a couple of beats, he flicked a glance at me, trying not to show his fear, trying even to put a little fuck-you into it (although with minimal success) — and it instantly won back my affection: let's face it, the kid had me wrapped round his little finger.

I said, slowly and calmly and distinctly, "Take your hand off your cock and leave it off."

And he did, putting his bunched fist on the towel beside him.

"Good boy."

I continued to wait, curious just to watch him. His gaze drifted a little, but regularly flicked back to me. He rolled one of his shoulders, plucked at a thread in his towel, watched his cock twang up and down a bit, took a big deep breath, filling his achingly tender chest, raising up his tiny pale-pink nipples like summer kisses. And then he made a small movement, the most significant of any he'd yet made, an infinitesimal movement, but one that I'd swear on his dragon's grave was there — he shifted one heel slightly while flexing both knees, just the tiniest bit, outward. An unconscious display of impatience? Well that's how I would always choose to read it… sweet darling little Lincoln was such a good boy it was starting to hurt.

I moved my finger back to his lubed, glistening little rosebud, and felt him give a reflex squeeze at my first touch; the power of that boy-sphincter! I gently prodded with some playful swirls — he was so warm and slicked-up now, his slippery little crenulations so sensitive. He clenched his fists at his sides, waiting for it, and as I started to gradually press, and press harder, and then to penetrate, his resisting squeeze dissolved — yes, I'd detected him doing this earlier — he met my forced entry with a tentative push, working with me, allowing me to slide my finger fully into him with a single clean motion.

And he almost guided me, with his little bucks and squirms, to find his groove again, get back to fingering him the way he hated it so good, his hot little nub opening soft pits of fuck-heat in him. So that he was soon letting out intense little sighs of don't!… and putting his clenched fists on his thighs, then back down, then grabbing the towel — nothing seemed to work. At one point, as I concentrated on his swollen prostate, he even grabbed the backs of his thighs, as though to pull them back, to give himself fully up to the blood-dimmed tide, the little lamb stretching his neck obediently across the altar.

But he kept moving a hand to grab his cock, before he remembered to let it alone, with his poor aching too-hard spike trying to find something, needing some resistance, but left stranded all, all alone, occasionally tickling his tummy, making little sticky strings of contact with his tight smooth skin.

He'd already built well beyond the point I expected him to orgasm, so I removed my finger, gently toyed at his entrance, then jammed two fingers hard up him, fully penetrating, causing him a renewed shocked spasm, hurting him, ripping from him a sharp cry of pain. He still had a lot to learn. I fucked him like that, hard, fast, as he strained to cope, fluttering between squeezed resistance, which stabbed him painfully, and trying to go with it, which opened him up to too much too deep. The protesting noises in his straining throat competed with lewd slick noises of my fingers thrusting up him. He dug one heel in the sand while the other foot lifted off the ground, hovering in mid air, as though he was calling on some Eastern martial art to help align him with the way.

And he coped eventually, my brave beautiful boy, got around it, owned it, eyes tightly closed, fist on his tummy. And when the sluiced waves of fuck-heat began to swell up big again, melting him, he went from sharp little, ow-ow-ows, to that cute, croaky, Aaawwww…

And he was right there, surging up towards an entrail-ripping orgasm — so I pulled my fingers from him, put my hands on his knees, calmed the lad just short of toppling over the edge.

In his dreadfully undone and unfinished state, he squinted open one eye to look. What the fuck? is how I read it, but I might be biased.

I stood up, hauling my T-shirt off, then my shorts, letting my own savagely hard cock strain to find its lebensraum, its place in the sun.

So I was quite shocked and hurt when the boy suddenly saw this as his golden opportunity to escape. He was up and off and running in an instant — the dirty rotten fucking faker! How these boys can turn on a dime!

I took after him like Zeus's thunderbolt — only just caught him — on a grassy knoll above — dangerously exposed — didn't care — just managed to knock him off balance, sent him sprawling face-down into the sand and beach-grass, got a satisfying cry of panic from him — didn't care — quickly straddled him, killed his final struggles with a hard shoving grip on the back of his neck, lined my cock up, gave him a teasing, maliciously gentle little prod with a blunt weapon too big for him, then —

Then he said, "Please… stop… I'm sorry… I won't run off… I'll be good…"

Eh? What the fuck?

Is there no limit to the cruelty of these boys?

With the agony of a damned cataract, like an ocean liner throwing the pistons into reverse, I staggered, listed heavily to one side, my cock waving foolishly in open air. "Huh?" I said. "Whaddaya mean? Don't bullshit me, Lincoln."

The boy didn't even turn his head, staying face down in the grass. "I'll… we can go back to the towel and I'll be good and you can… but you won't hurt me, like you said before."

I took a moment to take some breaths, then stood back up. "Jesus, Lincoln," I muttered, and he turned his head up to see. "Come on, then," I said.

He clambered up with spring-chicken adroitness, shooting me very watchful, appraising glances. Did he have a small sense of a shift in the power balance here? Dunno, but I know I did.

His front was all covered in sand and grass. I gave him a brooding, suspicious look and began brushing the detritus off him, being careful to remove the concentration of grit and grass stuck to his damp little ringlets and at the end of his half-mast, gently out-curving boy-cock.

"Get going, then," I said, and he walked off, me close behind, barely a short wooden plank between us, back down the gentle slope to where his rumpled towel lay bleaching in the bright sunshine.

As he crouched and straightened the towel, I went to my bag, got a tube of proper boy-lube. Time and biology might be our enemies out here, but not the sun.

Then he sat on the towel, all of a sudden shy about lying back down. "So…?" he said.

"Back down as you were, soldier."

"Mm…"

"If we're lucky, we might wrap this up before your graduation."

He lay back down, even fully spreading his knees apart, although he gave a start as I got heavily down before him, my hard cock giving the familiar scene a whole new flavour.

I reached forward with the lube and ran a clear line along the semi-soft length of his cock.

"What's that?" Oddly, not quite so worried now. No matter how precarious the little craft he was stranded in, he at least felt he'd found half a rickety two-bob oar to wield.

"Lube. You never tried it?"

He shook his head, watching it glisten on him.

"Okay, get yourself hard, Lincoln."

He looked up. "Pull myself?"

"Yeah, well, I'm open to suggestions — you got a better way?"

And, out of the clear blue yonder, he breaks into this brief, nervously smiling little laugh as he says, "No," and tentatively takes hold of his dick. Flirting? Here? Now? Christ on the cross!

Goliath gonna end up stone cold dead at the feet of this David, the way we were going.

"Okay, wank properly. I want you to wank just like you do at home at night when you're thinking of Chloe."

Screwed his face up at that, muttered something I couldn't catch, that nervy little smile of his still flitting in and out.

At first he smooshed the lube about, feeling the slipperiness of it under his fingers, getting himself fully stiff pretty damn quick.

"That's how you do it? You need to go back to school, boy. Looks like you're trying to write a letter to your mum."

"Oh, yeah…" He took himself in a tight full-fisted grip and started up a clearly familiar, well-practiced stroke — speed seeming an important requirement. "Uh, like that…?" he asked, cheeks reddening a little.

And I said that it was good.

I brought a healthy dollop of lube to his pinkly squeezing little boy-pucker, teased at him and watched him flinch and begin to wrangle his cock with a broken rhythm. Damn this boy's butt was an outrageous delicacy.

Then I got my hands under his knees, started to lift and push his legs right back over him, getting in position to bring my cock to him.

And, boy, was that a mood-killer!

"Shit! — no, don't — you said you wouldn't!"

"Here's the deal, Lincoln. I've agreed not to hurt you. And I won't. So, if you need to, just say, 'Please Stop.' Just like that, those two words, just like you did up there. 'Please Stop' — say that and I'll stop, okay? Believe me, it'll take twenty years off my life, but I'll stop, no fucking around."

He nodded uncertainly.

"But," I continued, "you gotta work with me here, buddy. You gotta try and go with it, as far as you can; that's part of the deal as well. Okay?"

He gave another, even more uncertain, nod. Deal accepted.

His hand was still on his cock now as I bundled him up, exposed him way beyond the pale, then let one of his ankles rest on my shoulder as I lined him up, ran the swollen head of my cock along his slippery groove, then just a nudge at him, barely pressing, then sliding up and down, like a carefree helmeted boy at a skate park, up and down, before settling to give a couple more gentle nudges and a longer, slightly harder, sustained press. But he squeezed tight shut — eyes, sphincter, fists — as though his previous experience was already void.

"Uhh… no, no…"

"C'mon, Lincoln. Don't make it more than it is." I was trying to stay casual, light-hearted, just a coupla guys taking a dip in the skate park, here in the lovely sunshine… "Does that hurt?" as I gave another gentle nudge.

"No, but…"

"What about that?" Slightly harder, and the pressure sustained. "That wouldn't even knock over a playing card. My cock's no meaner than your grandma's feather duster. Cut me some slack, bud."

Still he kept his core in total lockdown. Had to admire his stamina if nothing else.

"How's yours?" I asked, just shooting the breeze, nudging, passing the time.

"Huh?"

"Your cock. How's it doing? You look like you're trying to strangle a mouse down there."

He took his clenched hand from his cock and we both got a bit of a surprise.

"Shit, buddy — you killed it!"

The edge had gone off his hard-on, and in his doubled-up position — it'd taken years off him, like he had a little kiddie tiddler. But it only made his up-risen fat ball sack a more colossal statement of his surging boyhood. Male chimpanzees have enormous testicles in order to compete with their buddies' semen, the lady-chimps accepting all comers. Sure as eggs, no one was going to keep this kid from claiming his share of the loot.

He tried stretching it — and, damn, that foreskin stretched like well-chewed bubble-gum.

"Don't do that," I said. "I'll fix it." He moved his hand as I got a finger and thumb on his lubed little knob, rubbed it up quick and swollen, glistening and deep pink, like the blood in him was thicker now, his foreskin all red raw, moving so slippery back and across him. And all the while pressing my too-big cock at his tight little entrance, rhythmically, sometimes getting a tentative stretch, only to be shut down with a reflex tightening. It was tough on him, though, with the wanking getting him roused up — it was like when a boy tries to pat his head while rubbing his stomach, and gets them all jumbled up.

Jesus! — you had to watch this boy! — with a sudden flush and flinch, he was about to cum — I only just let him go in time. Worse than working with gelignite on a burning bridge!

Knocking his hand away as he groped for himself, I said, "Remember when you came before — shot that big stud load of yours?"

He squinted a frown at me, lagging a few beats behind my words.

"Work with me, buddy, and I'll make you cum ten times harder."

A protesting shake of his head.

I pushed his legs up a little further, a little wider, adjusting my wide-kneed stance in the sand, got perfectly lined up, started to press into him more seriously, felt his tight resistance start to stretch and give, so close, but then, tiresome boy, he redoubled his efforts to hold the line, eyes squeezing shut…

"Uuuuggh… no — don't — stop!"

Jesus, now my life was on the line — if he called a halt now, I'd need half-a-dozen pall-bearers to get off this beach.

"Lincoln."

No response.

"Lincoln!"

"Mm."

"Look at me."

He did — but I won't try to interpret that squint.

"C'mon, buddy. Work with me. You know what to do."

"Twice…" he breathed, although it's anyone's guess what the hell he was referring to.

"Okay? Lincoln? You ready?"

A strained shake of his head.

"Yes. Come on, buddy, say yes."

Nothing. Unbelievable. Somewhere, way out over the distantly booming surf, I heard the sound of seagulls, a Greek chorus, the final satirical screeching of a satyr play.

"Lincoln. Look at me. Say yes."

He looked at me, mute, woozy.

"Lincoln, for the love of Zeus, boy…"

And then, almost as though tasting a sour olive for the first time, he pouted, then took a breath, then nodded… and after a pause, me waiting, he finally said, "Okay…"

Close enough.

Gently, brutally, with steadily increased pressure, I forced the head of my cock into the boy, just in, popping him open — ah! ah! fuck! — and he tried so hard to be good and, after a shocked reflex spasm, made a red-faced little push and I slid a tight full inch further in, which got a further cry from him. He moved his hand to shove at my lower stomach, like a brick wall closing in — but he seemed more to be bracing himself… his cock had sure fled the scene, though.

"Okay, Lincoln, you're fuckin' amazing, we're almost there" — which was perhaps a bit optimistic — "give me one more big effort, okay?"

I re-girded, knees planted, and began a steady forced pressure, adult-sized and serious now, that was going to keep going till the boy was fully penetrated. And he was so good, a little boy-whine coming from deep down, an intimate little communique, as I gradually forced a hot slick fuck-hole in him. He then gave a higher yip, going higher, almost a screech, but the sweet lad grabbed his legs, taking over from me to pull them up, and gave his bravest little push into the abyss, provoking me, pushing me over the edge as I let go with a final brutal fuck-thrust, burying myself to the hilt, hoary hairy skin set alight by the tingling softness of the boy.

Right over him now, like God creating Adam, able to breathe in his overheated aura — a bright sheen of sweat breaking out on his face and torso — maddened by the fully-tapped sex-smell of the boy.

He was now preoccupied with trying to take in gulps of air, but was only able to manage quick shallow breaths, as though there was no room for oxygen in the lad's straining form, just cock.

A slow, flinching eternity of small movements, getting my stance a bit more upright, splaying the boy's legs wide, letting him tense and breathe his way into it, so gradual, so painfully insistent and nudging and cajoling, the brute pain of penetration slowly deepening, melting his core, twisting his hot face aside, scrunching up the towel.

Until I met him, deep down, with a shared pre-dawn rhythm, man and boy, hunter and gatherer, ape and adolescent. He started to whimper as I grunted to increase speed and force, pulling right back and then in and out, fast, hard, starting to properly fuck him, then pausing just a moment to readjust and fuck him harder, knocking his raw nub, bludgeoning and bruising it, turning his pleas to gasps and abject groans, completely undoing him, ruining him forever to make him mine. Which is when, shockingly quick, his brave little boy-cock came stabbing back from the dead — a sweet stiff triumph of boyhood, a splinter of future manliness rising from his muddy debauch. The pink tip of his cock was painfully swollen and shiny with new danger.

My own climax was fast approaching… then the boy was crying out as a savage orgasm began ripping through him, coming from too deep, the splayed fucked little fella unable to cope, the little squirts onto his tummy gouged from the rent depths of his viscera that spasmed and clenched and lewdly gobbled at my cock till I was gone for all money, exploding into the boy's wrecked fuck-heat with the biblical force of forty days and forty nights.

The End