Blake Sherman sat at the circular dining table in Harold Miller's flat to do his homework. Harold Miller was the building's proprietor. The rent control nature of the building allowed Harold to handpick his tenants.

There was always a flood of people looking for a more affordable living space. He knew how to pick out just who all he would let into the building. In particular, he liked having young boys in need of a wealthy benefactor. Harold had many buildings, others far more profitable that offset the cost of this building. He kept a flat in this building properly stocked and decorated to accommodate his romantic encounters, just like Blake.

Blake was just the kind of boy that Harold wanted. He was ten-years-old, no father in the picture, single-mother struggling to get by.

Before moving in, Blake had a limited wardrobe. It was entirely second hand or donation bin items. Soap had to be rationed, and the cheap detergent didn't quite do the job. Blake had no modern game machines, his lunch (if he had one) was often stale or questionable. All of this culminated in some of the most degrading ammo for bullying by other kids at school. Blake was the victim of fights and constant harassment; more than a few times, he'd been found crying in his room after a particularly hard day where the others refused to relent. It was a nightmare for him.

That was until Mr. Miller turned his attention to Blake. It was small at first. Little gifts like a unique bath soap gift basket. Shampoo, conditioner, body wash, face wash, lotions, pore refiner, deodorant. It was like a pot full of gold to him after some of the more stressful weeks he'd had. Blake had, for the first time since he could remember, lavished in a bath. Mr. Miller turned up the water heater a bit after giving him the gift basket making it easier to take a hot bath.

Shortly after that, Mr. Miller gave him a small supply of other, simple hygiene products. A new toothbrush and paste, floss, mouthwash. Then he slipped the boy a few vouchers for concentrated detergents. It was part of his strategy to make sure to time himself to be around to give the boy the items when his mother wasn't there so she wouldn't get in the way of accepting them. It would give Blake a little sense of supporting himself and his mother when he would be able to get the items himself.

After getting the laundry done and folded, Blake buried his face into the pile of clothes. They still looked like crap, but they finally smelled clean. Blake took what pocket money he had and commandeered most of the machines at the laundromat down the street. The one that also happened to be owned by Mr. Miller. Blake spent most of Friday and Saturday doing loads of laundry, getting the bed sheets and blankets and slipcovers all cleaned. That night, exhausted, he slept the best most comfortable sleep he had in recent memory.

It was about this time that Mr. Miller was becoming a bit more physical. He would start with patting Blake on the back, giving him a light side hug, but it was Blake who pushed the envelope.

When Mr. Miller would start stopping by to leave some other little gift, Blake would give the man a full bear hug. Mr. Miller would slowly move his hands down a little more each time, from his back to his waist to his hips. He got Blake more comfortable with touching until he would give a light kiss to the top of his head, then to his cheek. It wasn't long before Blake returned the gesture. He was so happy and loving. Had no trouble showing how grateful he was to the man who saw fit to give him so much – so freely.

The gifts slowly became a bit more expensive – lunch vouchers, new clothes, even a very modest cologne. Putting on his first-ever brand new pair of jeans that fit him just right was a marveling experience. They felt made for him, weren't faded, and were probably the most expensive thing he owned. He even made sure of it. Looking at the brand name online and finding the cut he was wearing, the jeans were fifty dollars even without tax and shipping. That was a month's worth of groceries. That was more than the rest of his wardrobe put together.

All of these gifts had been kept somewhat secretive. Blake would untuck his shirt to hide the label on his jeans at home. He had had to convince his mother that they were his old ones and that he'd just used a little blue dye to make them look newer. He had his soaps and detergents hidden in the back of the closet and kept any of the vouchers and coupons that Mr. Miller slipped to him in his wallet, one that Mr. Miller had also picked up in a little store when thinking of him.

His mother wasn't as comfortable taking gifts, but Blake was convinced. After all, she didn't have to put up with the bullying for being so poor. So what if someone wanted to give him nice things? Why was it so wrong to accept any help ever? A few dropped comments from Mr. Miller had planted ideas in Blake's head. His mother's misfortune with jobs, food, shelter, and everything else had likely all been because of how she refused help. She would scold Blake for accepting help. It was easier not to tell her anything if she was going to make a big deal out of it.

Mr. Miller, after all, liked helping people. He ran the building at low rent to make living affordable; he freely gave to people around him. Blake saw him giving things away to others on occasion. Even helped him load items to be donated into a truck for a local charity – a chore for which he was paid with a large pizza. Whatever his mother didn't know wouldn't hurt him. She had no idea what she was talking about!

Then, last week, Blake's aunt took ill. His mother needed to go out of town to help her for a while. Mr. Miller, who owned the diner where Blake's mother worked, had the manager assure her that her job would be held for her. Despite her misgivings, she decided to allow Blake to stay with Mr. Miller for the two weeks while she would be away. He was still too young to be left alone legally, and there was no one else to watch him. He couldn't be taken out of school that long without causing problems. Blake added that he had a big presentation to give soon and missing it would cause him to fail.

This was a stretch of the truth, but, in his eyes, a necessary one. Everyone she knew was in the same situation she was living paycheck to paycheck and barely any time for their kids much less someone else's. Mr. Miller told her that Blake would be no trouble, and he could even use a couple of extra hands with groundskeeping and some light maintenance like painting an empty room to get it ready for the next tenant. He'd be making a few extra bucks under the table, and he'd be cared for while she was gone.

Now, it was Wednesday afternoon, and Blake was sitting at the dining table in Mr. Miller's flat. The smell of fresh-baked rolls filled the air and mixed with the cinnamon air freshener in the living room. The wallpaper was nicer, the carpet cleaner, and all of the furniture looked polished. Blake pushed his fingertips back and forth across the table. He could feel the difference between the oak table and whatever compressed plywood a step above cardboard was in his room.

Blake's freckled face scrunched as he looked at the quadratic formula in the header again. He'd earn bonus points at the end of the week if he'd had it memorized. Another bite from the warmed pop tarts and his chocolate-colored eyes were darting back and forth across the page. He played with the button on the new shirt Mr. Miller had bought him. A thick flannel. He loved it. Most shirts he'd ever had were nearly paper-thin. The kind of material one expects as some giveaway at a tractor pull. But this one had some weight to it, and Blake found himself unable to stop touching it. A gold chain around his neck, yet another gift from Mr. Miller, he told his mom he'd found on the sidewalk, swung gently between his shirt and the white tank top he wore under it. His strawberry blonde hair had just been freshly cut. Short on the sides and long enough on top to spike or style a few different ways. Something that Mr. Miller paid for his first day of 'freedom.'

While looking over his shoulder, Mr. Miller gently massaged Blake's neck. Blake smiled. His toes curling in his new boots. The story was that his previous ones had been destroyed while painting, and Mr. Miller couldn't let him work without proper footwear. It was all necessary. All a building story that consistently gave the boy more and more distance.

"Math homework," Mr. Miller said plainly. "That's your best subject, isn't it?" He'd gotten to know Blake well enough. His favorite classes, his friends, his bullies. It was more than his mother had time to note of him lately.

"Yeah," came Blake's reply, "I'm almost done. I need do this last one. Then I can help you if you need me to." Blake turned to look up at Mr. Miller. He pushed back into the man's grip. He felt safer and happier in the man's big, strong arms. More than once he'd caught himself just before calling him 'dad.'

"Well, I don't have much work to do. Not today. But I think we can find something to do with ourselves."

Blake smiled widely and turned back to his homework. He hurriedly scribbled down an answer to the problem. Working out the last few steps less carefully, then closing his notebook and put the pencil in his textbook and slid it back into his backpack.

"Okay, I'm done!"

"Did she notice the new pencils or any of that?"

Mr. Miller kept close tabs on Blake. He had been teaching him how to be more secretive. Making sure things were out of sight and not to be too open about anything, keeping light on details, watching what he said.

The number of things that he couldn't tell his mother was getting more and more numerous. It was beginning to get easier not to talk to her at all. Much of this was being written off as angst and puberty. Fine. The cover worked well enough and if she wasn't going to go deeper than that it was her problem.

"No, I do my homework in my room. I don't need a fight about pencils."

"Well, that's for the best. Schoolwork is important. You need something to write with that isn't going to keep breaking if she won't let you use a computer or printer."

"I know, right!?" Blake was exasperated.

Everything felt like a fight. Blake's mother wanted him to do better in school but not by having even the most essential things he needed. If she heard that they came from someone else, he got some bootstrap speech. Sometimes items would be confiscated. He couldn't be sure that she wouldn't ransack his room and get rid of his things. So he had asked Mr. Miller if he could hide some of them in his flat.

Over a period of months, it had slowly turned into Blake having his room in Mr. Miller's flat. "I need reports to be typed. My science teacher doesn't even accept handwritten homework. They think I can go to the library or use the school computer. But they're not free! And they're not available all day and night."

"You know mine's always open to you. You should be able to do enough on your phone to type it up, and it's linked right to my computer and printer. All you have to do is run it off, and I'll hand it to you in the morning."

Mr. Miller kept tabs on Blake's school schedule, knew who he was with, and when what assignments he had. With the phone he could track Blake's movements with a hidden app. Blake trusted him so implicitly that he never bothered to question it.

"How's that phone working, by the way?"

"It's great. I love it. The data plan is great. The wifi even reaches my room."

If Blake knew any better, he'd realize that the only way to get a signal from the first floor to the third was with a series of range extenders. The signal was wired directly into the boy's room to give him a strong and very easily monitored connection. Mr. Miller was able to not only watch Blake's growing internet habits but also what videos and sites he visited. From there, he was able to control a few things like redirecting him from straight porn to gay porn and editing a few things on the phone that would encourage specific pop-ups. Blake couldn't tell anyone other than his few friends that he had a phone at all. Another means of cutting him off and feeding him precise information.

"Probably helps you feel normal. Able to watch the same videos and things as your little friends."

Blake chuckled. "Yeah, it's so nice. I can text people now. I keep freaking out that my mom might find it. I hate it. It's like the only place I can't just be normal is at home."

"We can consider this a little vacation from that. You can kick your shoes off, hang out, be normal."

Mr. Miller walked over to the couch in front of the big screen TV. Another amenity that Blake had come to love. The more taste for luxury that he got, the more resentful of his home life he became. Blake quickly hopped over to join Mr. Miller on the couch. He was cuddling up under his arm. Mr. Miller's hand landing on Blake's thigh, rubbing him gently, slowly working between his legs well below his groin. Mr. Miller flipped through the stations until he landed on one of the more adult networks. This particular show was the live-action version of 'The Man-Ventures.' A graphically gay, superhero show that involved daddies and twinks getting into sexual situations while wearing tight-fitting spandex that left nothing to the imagination of their horse-like organs.

Blake watched but said nothing. He was timidly biting his lower lip. He wasn't about to say anything against Mr. Miller. Instead, he pulled in closer. The show didn't shy away from nudity or sex: no censor bars, no cutaways. The show was alternating scenes of heroic action sequences and rough, gay sex. Blake swallowed nervously.

It wasn't long before both of them were very much aware of the boner growing in Blake's jeans. He tried to, as subtly as possible, shift his hips or brush his hand over his groin to try moving it in position to no avail. If anything, even the slightest touch seemed to make things worse. Blake arched his back a little trying to find some spot that would mask his tent pole. Again, no success. It was becoming increasingly difficult to hide his erection.

"If you need to take care of that, you can." Mr. Miller lightly tapped the boy's groin with the tips of his fingers. "I'm about halfway there myself."

"I'm sorry." Blake tried to readjust himself quickly. "It just happens."

"Not worried about it. It's natural. Watching a couple of hot, young men get it on like that, and it's bound to happen."

Blake sat in a deadpan silence. Watching the men fucking, hearing them grunting and moaning, it was only making his stiffy feel even harder like a five-inch spike in his pants. His hand moved to his groin, the edge of his little finger grazing Mr. Miller's large paw on his lap.

Blake's heart pounded as he felt the man's rough, hairy hand against his own soft, smooth flesh. Everything started to feel a little fuzzier. He was less and less sure of himself the more time he had spent online. He kept somehow clicking through to gay porn, kept getting many ads for it, gay parts of porn sites would load faster while straight sections would take forever if they ran at all. He couldn't help but find himself questioning. Worrying about it only seemed to give him more to worry about. But here, under Mr. Miller's arm, his feeling of safety seemed resolute. His head gently turned in towards Mr. Miller's chest, and he could smell him. His scent. It was distinctly manly. And it made his little balls tingle like never before.

Mr. Miller flexed his arm around Blake, holding him tightly. Hearing a moan and a gasp escape him and feeling him shudder, he was on the edge already, and they were just getting started. Blake's hot breath from his little nose permeated Mr. Miller's shirt. His moan was soft and much more audible than Blake had thought it might be. He could feel Blake's throat bobbing as he swallowed again. His lips parting as he started to breathe a little heavier.

Mr. Miller reached down and palmed Blake's bottom then rotated his hips in. Blake's eyes lost focus as he felt his dicklette press against Mr. Miller's leg. Pushing further, Blake rolled onto Mr. Miller's lap. His haunches tightened as his legs stiffened, and his feet braced against the heavy coffee table. Blake pressed his face into Mr. Miller's chest. His shoulders rising and falling as he took several deep breaths. Mr. Miller's hands moved to Blake's waist, cupping his butt cheeks and squeezing them. As he did, he could hear the quick scrape of the coffee table budging under Blake's feet.

The man's large hands gently swept up and down the boy's soft form, uprooting his shirt from beneath his waistband. A little gentle coaxing and Blake's jeans were down around his knees – his boxer shorts followed shortly after. Blake's bare, smooth, and tightly clenched cheeks were in full view. His stiff dicklette digging into Mr. Miller's abdomen.

Blake stayed in place. His heart pounding hard enough that the sound of his blood circulating was all he could hear. Blake pressed the side of his face against Mr. Miller's chest. He felt the rough texture of his shirt, buttons, and the man's furry pecs. His skin felt more sensitive than before. His hands slid up the man's sides and gripped him tightly. Blake's breath was shuddering. Mr. Miller lifted him by his bottom. Blake's eyes met with his. Their mouths were an inch apart. Blake looked him straight in the eye. His fingers curled tighter, Blake pushed up just enough, and their lips touched. His soft lips pressed against Mr. Miller's. His whole body felt warm with electricity – his first kiss.

Mr. Miller pulled Blake closer, their kiss deepening. Blake's tension shifted; his shoulders relaxed, his jaw clenched as he pressed in, and his hips thrust forward. Blake felt a hand slide up under his shirt. Rough, calloused hand against his smooth back. He moaned, quivered, and pushed out his little tongue. He was young, a bit sloppy, and spent more time practicing romance with his chub than his tongue, but he could be taught.

The two rolled to the side on the couch – Blake on his back, Mr. Miller over him, imposing in size and strength, but Blake felt safe where he was. He had never been naked around a grown man before other than a doctor or the gym teacher, but it didn't seem to matter.

Blake's beautiful brown eyes looked up at Mr. Miller – wantingly. His eyes, lips, hands, and hips all said yes. Blake gasped as he felt Mr. Miller's hand wrapping around his penis. His legs clamped tightly on the man's flanks – his heels digging into the man's sides – his little lip curling as he felt the man's hand on his privates. His breathing came as gasps and groans – the sound of a young tenor being fondled. Mr. Miller moved slowly, doing more to tease Blake than to help him along. As Blake drew closer, Mr. Miller pushed him down, pinning his hips to the couch, continuing his slow, mechanical pace of bringing the boy to the edge and stopping.

Blake's moans turned to whimpers then to frustrated grunts. His grip on Mr. Miller's shirt had become balled fists. The harder he struggled to move his hips, the more firmly Mr. Miller leaned on him to keep him in place. His little balls moved up and down of their own accord, trying and failing to fire as Mr. Miller would exercise complete control. Blake clenched his legs tighter. When he tried to reach down to move Mr. Miller's hands for him they were batted away. Blake grunted. He was used to cumming and going, being forced to stay on the edge for so long felt like it was killing him.

"You're going to learn to do this the right way," Mr. Miller said in a flat voice. He gave Blake another kiss. As the boy tried to turn his face away, Mr. Miller pulled him back. He took a kiss from him – holding him steady.

"You've been at this all wrong. I can tell. You're not going to please anyone like that, not even yourself. If you did the job properly you wouldn't need to come back to it every twenty minutes."

Blake looked confused, unsure exactly what Mr. Miller was talking about. All he could be sure of was that his balls felt like they were ready to crack, and his shaft felt like it was on a live wire.

"I don't normally have to take this long."

"That's because you're not doing it right! You can't cut corners on this, or you're going to end up pushing rope before you're 14." Mr. Miller's stern voice seemed to stifle Blake's whimpering for the moment.

Blake's breathing slowed. He felt the energy building in his gonads more than he had before. His mouth was dry. His cock was aching. The minutes ticked by slowly – then he felt it. Mr. Miller's tongue swiping his shaft.

Mr. Miller took the whole of Blake's cock into his mouth and sucked. His tongue pressing against the underside as he pulled the foreskin up and down with his lips. Blake nearly screamed. Mr. Miller had pulled his hand away allowing Blake to thrust his hips up and down. His hands moved to Mr. Miller's hair as he did. Another near scream, and he grunted. His balls tightening as he fired the largest load of his young life right into Mr. Miller's mouth.

Blake shook. His whole body attempting to fire off at once. His legs were curling under Mr. Miller. His toes trying to go in every direction at once. He crunched forward as his balls discharged their banked repository. For a solid minute Blake grunted and moaned harder than he'd ever heard himself before. Then all of his strength left him, and he collapsed. Panting. Like he'd just run around the block. Little twitches in his arms and legs as the aftershock rolled through him. Mr. Miller pulled up and patted him on the chest.

"That's the result of a job done properly."

The boy's head rolled in small circles as his ears rang. His body was slowly falling back into a normal rhythm. He blinked several times and pulled his head to meet Mr. Miller's gaze. He moved his hand to cover Mr. Miller's. He felt nearly indescribable. All that the man had given him and still he seemed always to have more.

Blake smiled softly, sweetly. Mr. Miller's arms wrapped around him as they laid there on the couch. The boy, nearly naked, and the man with his arms around his newest little convert. Blake felt relaxed. He felt safe and happy. He pressed back against Mr. Miller's body as they laid there watching older movies. His young body still lightly tingling from the experience and hoping that it would never quite fully go away.

The End