“Downstairs.” Tom orders.

Peter knows what he wants. “Do I have to?” he pleads.

“You heard me.” Peter reluctantly shuffles over to the basement door. If there’s one thing that Peter likes less than what Tom is going to do to him, it’s what he could but doesn’t do, and that’s why he’s never told Mom. But it really isn’t all that bad because Tom usually gives him something after, a couple of bucks or maybe a tape he’s stolen, for his Walkman. And it doesn’t happen all that often either, only when he’s hot after some chic he can’t get, or when just gotten into a new issue of Hustler and he’s real horny. And then he lets Peter look at it after which is OK. And it really doesn’t hurt all that much — Peter pretends it does — if Tom uses lots of that slippery stuff.

Peter notices a new centrefold over Tom’s bed with a big boobed, blond chic reclining on a Harley, and there’s a new set showing a dark chic all tied up in different positions including one with her suspended and her arse spread open. Tom undresses, picks up his Stretcherciser and does some warm-ups. Then he goes through a series of muscleman poses in front of his mirror, making his cock bob up and down as he does. Peter watches closely admiring Tom’s build, and feels a strange excitement he cannot explain. He wishes he were strong like Tom.

“OK, off with them.” Tom orders. Peter slowly but obediently takes off his jeans and gaunch. “And your shirt too.” Tom adds.

“Do I have to?” Peter pleads. Tom raises his hand threateningly and Peter complies.

“But why?”

“Cause I like to feel flesh, all over… And I don’t want to hear you babbling all the time. It spoils it.”

“Make sure you use lots of that K-Y stuff.”

“Sorry kid, I’m all out. You’ll have to settle for Vaseline.”

Tom strikes a muscle pose with his hands clenched behind his neck. “Now, I want you to run your hands all over my arms and pecs, and the down over my stomach, gentle like, like a chic who’s never really seen a man before, then down the outside and up the inside of my thighs and play with my balls… like this.” He demonstrates the last technique on Peter. “But don’t say anything, don’t make a sound.” Returning to his pose Tom closes his eyes and Peter tries his best. This is something new and Peter doesn’t mind doing it. He is however tempted, but doesn’t dare to tickle as his hands slide by Tom’s armpits. The hair, the beautiful dark hair on Tom’s arms and legs, and the bush that’s starting to creep up his belly. Peter would love to have a body like his. And feeling his balls IS exciting, he’s never done that before. “No, no! Asshole. Not like that… You’re supposed to take one in each hand and gently massage them like I showed you.”

“OK. OK. I couldn’t tell.” Peter apologizes.

“And I told you not to talk — you’re spoiling it… Now start all over again.” Tom changes his pose and closes his eyes, and Peter figures he must be doing a better job this time because Tom ‘aaahs’ and moans and his cock becomes superhard. “OK, now lie down.” Peter quietly obeys, handing Tom the jar of Vaseline to make sure, and puts the pillow beneath his own hips like he’s supposed to. He braces himself and is relieved when it doesn’t hurt all that much when Tom starts screwing him, ever so slowly Peter thinks, with all sorts of stopping and starting. Peter feels his shoulder blades being massaged as if they were some kind of boobs, and Tom occasionally looking up at the blond chic on the Harley aahs and moans and pants, “Maria…. Maria….”

This is real stupid. But Peter keeps it to himself, and then Tom’s hair is tickling his neck and he wants to laugh. And the thought of laughing makes him want to laugh all the more. Then he thinks of the pictures of the tied up dark chic, he can just see them to the side. Do they just tie them up and fuck them?…. And he recalls when Alex was beaten. Or maybe beat them first? The idea interests, excites Peter. Would guys really do that? And then Tom stops, resting his full weight on him. Peter’s again tempted to say something, he feels hot and sticky and besides his ass is starting to get sore. Then Tom starts in again with a long slow rhythm, and his belly makes a wet ‘shluk-shluk’ sound in the small of his back which reminds Peter of the sound of getting a toilet unplugged. This time Peter laughs out loud and can’t stop.

“Shut up, Asshole.”

“Sorry.” Peter giggles.

“If you want to say something, well, when I get going… you say, ‘Oh Thomas, Thomas… more… more… Harder and deeper… Oh Thomas… fuck me… fuck me.’ and sound real sweet.”

Peter tries. “Oh Thomas, Thomas.”

“No. No. Not like that. You’re too squeaky and you say it too fast. Like this, ‘Ooh Thommaas… Thommaaas… fuh — uck meee, huh — aarder… duh — eeeper… fuh — uck meee moe — orrr’, like that.” He finishes tersely. Peter tries again but Tom isn’t satisfied. After a minute Tom pants, “Wiggle.”

“Huh?” Peter asks.

“Shut up. Wiggle your ass like you’re doing the hula… and like you’re really enjoying it… and keep quiet.” Peter tries perhaps too enthusiastically. “Not that much.” Tom complains as his cock slips out. Peter gets into a slow rocking motion imagining that he is fucking the tied up dark chic. He even gets hard himself for a while but then his ass is really starting to get sore, and that is that. Finally Tom works away furiously for a few seconds, “Maria… Maria…”, and collapses on top of him twice as heavy as before. As Peter squirms free Tom grabs his wrist, “You’re getting better kid.”

“So….?” Tom reaches for his pants and gives him five dollars from his wallet. Peter quickly calculates the number of video games he can play. After they have dressed Peter asks, “Do you ever do the same thing to Alex?”

SMACK Tom enraged slaps his face. “You think I’m some fucking pervert?” Blood is trickling out of Peter’s nose, but for the first time in his life he does not cry when hit. Peter feels a different, deeper kind of hurt.

Peter’s hurt feelings are assuaged by the Pac-Man machine at the 7-Eleven. He has never got to play so many games at once or such high scores, and he has two Cokes and a Supersub which are on sale for a dollar forty-nine. He’s feeling pretty good, he even has a couple of little kids watching him and he gives each of them a sip on his Coke. Later when he gets home Mom and Alex are watching The Wonderful World of Wrestling and eating popcorn. It’s stupid, so he goes to his room. Peter says, “Hello.” to himself or ‘He’ in the mirror when he enters. ‘He’ smiles and gazes back with an attitude of admiration. Peter reacts with a smug grin followed by an air of nonchalance, and turns away.

Peter goes to the window to pee out of it, one of his convenient ‘labour saving’ habits even though the smell becomes obvious in warm weather. He decides not to try for a record this time, he will soak the rotten boards below Mr. Hicks windowsill, to make them rot faster… Suppose my pee was some corrosive acid, I could rot the whole wall just like that, and their house would collapse! He visualizes the neighbours, the Lopez family and Mr. Hicks trying to escape. Maybe Mr. Hicks or one of the children would fall in a puddle of acid… But I’d really need to shoot farther. Like maybe I could get some doctors to install a pressure pump bladder in me. Why not? They already do hearts and lungs and kidneys. And then I could reach twenty feet… maybe a mile? Seconds later Peter is destroying entire divisions and winning wars with his high pressure acid penis gun. On second thought he decides to call it his Rapid Acid Piss Emitter, RAPE. He likes the acronym, he thinks it’s funny too. And I could watch it’s golden tracers mowing down fleeing populations.

When he finishes peeing he rubs his pecker hard and arranges it so that when he does up his fly it makes a big bulge. He turns back to ‘He’ to get his considered opinion. ‘He’ smiles back approvingly as if to say “Not bad.“ Peter decides it looks best in profile and then he reopens his fly to let it stick out. Pecker pink looks good with denim blue. He undoes his belt and pushes his jeans down a few inches, so it can all hang out. Peter goes through several fashion poses, ‘He’ is ecstatic, so with stylized motions he gradually removes his jeans, and very coyly his shirt. He keeps his gaunch on for a while so he can flip it down teasingly while ‘He’ makes expressions of mock disgust. Finally naked he does his most erotic poses with the appropriate expressions. ‘He’ is delighted. Peter retires to his bed to more leisurely fondle himself.

Of all Peter’s many toys his favourite is his penis. And it’s an educational toy because boys can learn a lot by playing with it. However Peter is not quite yet at the stage where stimulation leads to any substantial gratification. Part of Peter’s fascination with his penis is that it is not obedient to his mind’s commands, he cannot simply will it up and down like his arms. It seems to have a mind of it’s own unlike any other part of his body. And when he plays with it, it isn’t quite like playing with himself. And when it doesn’t do what it’s supposed to do, like go soft when he has to stand up at the end of class, there is no way of punishing it without hurting himself. He knows other boys have names for theirs, often Peter as a matter of fact, and this amuses him. Peter’s peter peed a pail of pecker piss. He’s proud of that one. Nevertheless he decides to call his Roland to be different. The name suggests a knight in armour charging into battle on his steed, slaying enemies and rescuing fair maidens. He finds a piece of tinfoil left over from a model and wraps it around his penis like a coat of mail, and makes like Roland is riding a horse, bouncing up and down.

Peter wishes Roland was bigger, and could shoot. Tom showed him how to jack off years ago, and he used to make Peter watch him while he did. Peter wonders if he will ever be able to shoot cum. Maybe it is getting bigger? Peter finds his old ruler with inches on it but even with pushing and pulling it’s under three and a half. He watches in disappointment as Roland collapses and goes soft.

His mind drifts back to the afternoon when Tom had smacked him after he’d asked if he did the same to Alex. He’d felt the insult at the time. But why me and not Alex? Why can he do it to me and not Alex? Peter knows Tom couldn’t be a pervert with all his chics and centrefolds. Maybe I am a homofrodite and it doesn’t matter. He wipes the tears away and discovers his nose is still sore. And he remembers he hadn’t cried and feels a bit better. He rubs his nose and plays with the pain for a moment and decides, I’m not going to let Tom do it to me anymore. But then he’d had a lot of fun at the 7-Eleven.

The next day leaving the corner store Mr. Hicks hands Peter a big Oh Henry bar and a box of Smarties. Peter takes them in passing and does not stop or speak, he’d completely forgotten about his window the night before.

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Content of this website is released with ‘copyleft’ license, that is you are free to copy, redistribute or use it for your own purposes provided you retain the present copyleft notice including my name and contact information, allowing others to subsequently reuse the material.  Robin Sharpe,