Vignette 2
by Jack Kendle

It was a small group anyway. When I had put the group together last fall, I had made sure it was made up of boys aged between thirteen and nineteen. Now, in May, with school exams everywhere, attendance at my tutorials had been poor. Today, late and rather flustered, H walked in.

‘Uh, sorry I’m late, I had an exam.’

‘That’s okay,’ I replied, closing the door behind him, taking in the blond teen’s slim form. He had obviously been running; his cheeks were flushed, his shoulder-length silky-blond hair all tousled and his tee-shirt hanging out of his tight blue jeans.

‘Sit down and get your breath back,’ I said, smiling at the lad, who, smiling back, perched his slim butt on a table, giving me a good view of a promising bulge at his crotch. He raked his slim fingers through his unruly locks, before settling down.

‘How did the exam go?’ I enquired.

‘Fine, thanks. Biology.’

‘No problems?’

He paused, his small pink tongue licking his cupid-bow lips.

‘I might have got a couple of names muddled up,’ he laughed gently, piercing blue eyes staring into mine.

I felt myself colouring slightly, knowing what was coming. ‘Oh really? Which ones?’

‘Perineum and scrotum,’ came the easy reply. ‘I think I got them mixed up.’ Two faintly pink patches appeared on his creamy-coloured cheeks. I saw his gaze flick down to my crotch area and back again to my face. As if unconsciously, his hand moved to his own bulge and rested there. His gaze held mine; almost challenging me to say something.

I felt my tool hardening, beginning to press against the material of my clothing. With a glance towards the locked door, H quickly eased himself off the table he had been perching on and with a quickness which amazed me, had popped the buttons on his 501’s and pulled them down over his slim hips. He was naked beneath and from behind the dark blue denim, his 7-inch boycock sprang out, rigid and pulsing. Like a fakir’s snake, I stood rooted to the spot, mesmerised by the sight before me. I knelt before the boy, his hardness inches from my mouth. I could feel the heat of his engorged flesh. Hesitantly, I reached for the slim boycock, pulling the skin back exposing his precum-covered glans. Breathing in the musky scent of aroused teen, I ran my tongue over the throbbing mushroom head, tasting the slightly sweet, slightly salty emanation. Running my tongue past the glans, I looked up at the boy, ‘glans’ I whispered, my tongue slaking the ridge at the base of his plum-coloured helmet. I felt him shudder. With my right hand, I massaged his low-hanging plum-sized balls, churning in their hairless sac. ‘Scrotum,’ I continued, as the boy moaned. Reaching back behind his testicles, “Perineum” my finger found his crack, easing itself into his private place. I felt his muscle grip my digit, then pull me in. Pushing deeper, I massaged H’s gland at the root of his throbbing member.

‘Prostate.’ I whispered, ‘that’s for next time.’ I began to thrust my finger rhythmically sucking on his cock at the same time. With a long, loud moan from deep within his being, H released his saved-up boycum in five or six powerful spurts down my throat. His hands pushing down on my head, legs shaking, he collapsed on top of me.

A little while later, as H was licking the rest of the cum from my deflating tool, I tousled his blond hair.

‘You must try and remember these names,’ I said, laughingly. ‘It’s the same every week!’

‘I’ll try,’ replied the boy, also laughing,‘but you know I have the memory of a goldfish!’

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