Catalina Cherries
by Joe Butterman


Chapter 3: The King

Last night, at dinner, my Grandfather announced that he had business to conduct in San Diego next week. He would be leaving on Monday, and returning on Thursday or Friday. I assumed that he had nothing to do on Monday. Sunday, of course, was the “Lord’s Day,” so he wouldn’t want to travel then unless it was absolutely profitable: freeways were not yet a commonplace and it would take him several hours to get to San Diego, even allowing for the fact that he drove like a maniac, and the Packard was equipped with a straight eight; I knew about straight eights, we liked them in Nevada where there were no posted speed limits, they weren’t very quick off the line (who, in any event, would expect a Packard or a Cadillac to be quick off the line?), but they would absolutely purr along all day at 100 miles an hour or so.

Grand Belle contributed that she had a Church Tea to attend this afternoon. This probably would have something to do with heathens. I was becoming increasingly enchanted with heathens, though I suspect that this was because I tended to equate heathens with naked. I thoroughly enjoyed the latter, so it was no great intellectual leap to view the former with favor. You have to know, though, that this approval did not extend to attending a Church Tea in which, even if they did mention naked, it would be with grim disapproval. We were eating pork chops. They had been simmered in a Dutch oven in the Pennsylvania Dutch manner; we also had mashed potatoes and gravy. The potatoes had a very few tiny lumps in them as they had been mashed by hand. Everyone knows, of course, that there must be a few tiny lumps in the mashed potatoes if they’re to be authentic. We also had fresh green beans. Left to my own devices, I would have put mayonnaise on my green beans. But Bobbin considered this entirely too “French” which was, of course, the same thing as “decadent.” I would have said “delicious” but we had to make do with salt and pepper. Peach cobbler for dessert.

Yesterday, when parting, Johnny had told me that he was going to the dentist this morning so that his Mom would miss a minimum of work while she picked him up and dropped him off. This meant that I had nothing to do this morning but think heathenish thoughts about Johnny and me. Actually, Grand Belle, who subscribed to the notion that “idle hands are the Devil’s workshop,” managed to find lots of little things for me to do around the kitchen and the backyard, but this was really okay because I do love my Grandparents an awful lot, and to tell the truth, none of these tasks were very arduous and did not interfere with my daydreams about a naked Johnny in the least. I mean, it’s not like I had a horse barn to muck out or anything like that.

At length, Grand Belle retired to her bedroom to make all preparations for discussing heathens. I began to think about things that could be done in the backyard. There was the Catalina Cherry jungle, which would be suitable for any number of themes from Tarzan to the ever-popular Indians; or we might climb trees, but our scope of action would be somewhat limited in a tree. I began to think that a tree house might be something to consider in the future. I went into the grape arbor and began to see some possibilities. Nobody would be in the house during the afternoon. Bobbin would drive Grand Belle to her tea, and then would occupy himself in some manner in greater-metropolitan-downtown Anaheim until tea was over, and then he would pick-up Grand Belle and they would return. The arbor, thanks to the grape leaves, was completely screened from the house and the neighbors; I was speculating on the arbor, and the germ of an idea had come to me, when I heard the Packard murmuring into the driveway and I went to greet Bobbin. He was, as always, impeccably attired in a summer weight suit, starched white shirt, and a responsible tie; my Grandfather was a 19th Century gentleman in many respects. There was a Brooks Brothers Panama hat in the back seat that he would don when he got out of the car for any purpose downtown. We exchanged pleasantries. I’m sure Bobbin did not approve of my uniform of cut-offs and sneakers (no socks) for the Southern California summer; but apparently, he did not consider it a battle worth waging so long as I was neatly attired for church, meals, or for any other joint excursion. And, truth to tell, I thoroughly enjoy dressing up, though I would never admit it and always complain about it.

Just then, mounted on his Schwinn, Johnny came wheeling gloriously onto our driveway (two strips of concrete, separated by grass that ran back to the garage). He was dressed like me save that he wasn’t even wearing sneakers. He dismounted with a clatter then, with an instantaneous change of demeanor, turned and greeted my Grandfather with solemn courtesy. Bobbin responded with quiet dignity and then left us on the grounds that he would “just hurry along” my Grandmother. This was just an excuse to avoid too much conversation across the march of years with Johnny and me. I’d heard him say this before and never, in my experience, had Grand Belle increased her tempo by even the tiniest bit. The screen door banged.

I looked at Johnny’s crotch; I think he had a boner already. My dick stirred gently in my cut offs.

“They’re gonna be gone all afternoon. Do ya wanna play here today?”

“That’ll be fun,” Johnny said giving me his beautiful smile and pulling gently at the fabric of his cut-offs at his crotch, “What’re we gonna do?”

“Dunno,” I replied, though I’d been considering just this question most of the morning. “Let’s make a sandwich first, then decide.”

“Kay,” and we trooped into the kitchen.

“Granbelle, can I make sandwiches for Johnny and me?” I inquired of my Grandmother who was standing in front of the living room mirror, seeing to the adjustment of her hat.

“Johnny and I,” she riposted, as I really knew that she would, but hadn’t thought of because I was kind of excited about other things.

“Yes’um: Johnny and I.”

“You certainly may,” she returned to the original question, and began to catalog the lunch appropriate contents of the refrigerator and the kitchen at large while she drew her gloves on.

She gave Bobbin one of those: I’ve-been-waiting-long-enough-now looks and he rose and followed her into the kitchen. She kissed me. She never wore lipstick as that would have been vanity, but she wafted lilac and talc wherever she went. She kissed Johnny and rumpled his hair and asked him when he would like to come to dinner? He opined that he would love to eat with us at her convenience. “Sometime soon,” she determined as she enjoyed having “three men at table.” Of course, Johnny ate with us routinely; but here Grand Belle is discussing a feast. She left with my Grandfather in tow. The doors of the Packard closed with the dignified thunk of a dignified car, it purred to life, and they were gone.

Johnny and I opted for Swiss cheese sandwiches with lettuce and mayonnaise, Fritos, stuffed green olives, and milk.

“I’ve been thinking that we can play in the grape arbor,” I suggested with some diffidence, because Johnny had taken the lead yesterday with a sexual game, and I really didn’t much care so long as the game involved sex. Sounding like me, he wondered, “Yeah, but what’re we gonna play?”

“Let’s play King,” I suggested, as one of my earlier daydreams became a real idea. “You’ll be the King and I’ll be your slave that takes care of you. Here, let me show ya,” I put down the remnants of my sandwich and dashed off to my bedroom. I returned with an aged copy of The Book of Knowledge. It had been published before World War One. I opened it to a picture that I think was of Alexander the Great; I don’t remember for sure, but he was sitting on a kind of marble throne. He was naked except for a sheet that was kinda draped over him, but didn’t really cover anything because the picture was a profile. But there was this naked slave standing next to the throne with a bowl of fruit or something and you could see his butt.

“There are lots of grapes in the arbor,” I added helpfully, “I’ve got your costume all figured out and everything.” Johnny smiled grandly; he was going to be a Great King. I could tell that already.

We went to the back of the arbor and Johnny was admiring the abundant grapes. He started picking and eating them carefully, one at a time. I unbuttoned and unzipped his cut-offs and got them off him in an instant. He did have a boner and it was standing royally up. I’m gonna have to measure him some day, I thought, as I stroked him and he ate another grape. I pulled this old metal lawn chair into the arbor and told him that it was going to be his throne.

“Don’t sit in it yet cuz it might be hot…I’ll get your costume.”   I was really pretty bossy for the boy who would be slave. I dashed into the house and returned with two large towels. These were beach towels that my Grandparents would never use unless I’d managed to engineer a trip to the beach – not the good towels from the bathroom. I draped one of them over the chair in what seemed a suitably regal manner. I took the other to Johnny. I put the center of the towel under his right arm, and I pulled the two ends up and over his left shoulder and knotted it over his shoulder. While the result was not nearly as classical as my imagination had made it, Johnny was beautiful with his left side bare, and with his boner tenting the terry cloth. He strode down the arbor and turned with a flourish. The shoulder knot came loose. And his robe would have fallen if he’d not pinned it to his side with his arm. He gave me a royal LOOK: I remembered that he was the King and I was Slave. I rushed to his assistance and re-tied the knot over his shoulder. While re-tying the knot, I managed to rub the cheeks of his ass, stroke and fondle him pretty thoroughly. I also arranged the cloak so that it did not interfere with the view of his boner.

“Strip. Slave.” Johnny intoned regally. I did.

Johnny turned, he raised his left hand to just above his shoulder, as if he were acknowledging the cheers of the multitudes; he put his right fist on his hip, with chin and boner jutting he slowly strode down the arbor to his throne. He turned and faced me regally from the throne. The knot was coming lose again. He sat slowly on his throne, spreading his legs as wide as the throne allowed; he reached over and untied the knot, and flung his cloak open and over the arm of his throne. His cock stood straight up, the head glistening, and his balls hung all loose below, resting comfortably in the heat of the day, on the terry cloth covering of his throne.

“Grapes,” His Majesty proclaimed.

I hastened to obey. I plucked a large bunch from the side of the arbor and rushed to the foot of the throne. Remembering, I rushed back into the kitchen and rinsed them off at the sink and put them in a bowl. I rushed back and kneeled in the leaves and the dust, I offered the bunch of grapes up to him with both hands, then I nuzzled his boner and carefully licked him clean. I tongued him devotedly as I imagined a devoted slave would. I looked up at him: his head was slightly back, his eyes were closed, he had pushed his tongue slightly between his smiling lips, and he seemed to move it over his lips in time with my tongue on his majesty. He didn’t move his arms at all; he was, after all, the king. I set the bowl on the ground beside me and then took a grape; I looked at him as I worked on his boner, and reached up and put the grape between his lips. He took the grape, moaning gently in the back of his throat. I gave him another. And another. And another.

He was moaning with pleasure when he reached down and took the grapes from the bowl. “Scratch my balls,” the Great King decreed. He scooted forward on the throne so that he hung free over the edge of the throne. I dropped him from my mouth and sat back to consider this. God, I thought, he is the most beautiful thing in the world. But I’d never scratched any balls but my own, so I considered his command carefully. Deciding not to use my nails, I gently pinched his sac between the balls and pulled down and then started running the finger tips of my free hand up-and-down over one ball, and then the other.

“Harder,” he demanded. I complied. “They won’t break,” he complained. I applied just a little bit of fingernail and continued energetically. A thread of glistening goo fell from his bobbing dick and I had to have that. I stopped scratching long enough to grab that from my fingers with my tongue and follow it back to the tip of his dick, which I again took in my mouth to savor. I was now fully occupied: pulling, scratching gently, sucking and licking.

“Yeah. Suck me,” he breathed – not at all regal. He scooted forward again and I hunched up and over his boner so that I could get it all. I abandoned his balls and grabbed him by the waist with one hand while I ran the other up and down his silky smooth leg. Both of his hands were now on my head, gently caressing, but also gently insistent and very rhythmic. “Ahhhhhh,” he murmured, “oooooohhh.” And then shuddering, he came in my mouth, spurting and spurting again, and I gulped and swallowed with almost as much passion. I continued to suck, not wanting a drop of him to escape. He sagged back on the chair, “God, I love you,” he whispered. I nodded with his softening boner in my mouth, but I couldn’t say anything. He put his hands under my arms and slowly stood us up. We kissed passionately for a few moments. He tasted delicious. Then he started licking down my throat and onto my chest, he washed both of my nipples and his tongue was like fire, and then he had me in his mouth, licking and sucking. I’m sure that I moaned, as he had done, but I don’t remember hearing it. I was wild with heat. Sucking him off had made me as hard as a rock and he was working over every inch of my straining boner. He licked and sucked my balls too, but then I got him back onto me, and I kept his head there with my hands, tousling his hair, but keeping him at work. It didn’t take long, and I was gushing into him. I was moaning, shuddering, and thrusting deeply; he continued to suck and swallow and work his tongue for every drop. When I got my breath back, I whispered, “I love you too Johnny. Beautiful king.”

I began to soften a little in his mouth. I pulled out of his mouth and got down on my knees so that we were face to face. We kissed and hugged as our cocks fell quiet together.

“Let’s lay down together somewhere,” he suggested.

“We can take the towels back under those trees,” I said, nodding to the Catalina Cherry jungle.


There was a perfect hiding spot back in the far corner, it had more than enough room for the two of us, and there were several rose bushes in verdant bloom that provided even more camouflage for the corner: we could see out, but no one could see in. We gathered-up the towels and I led Johnny through a barely visible break in the trees and down a path to the corner. It was like one of those photos in National Geographic: naked boys surrounded by a lush jungle. I started to spread the towels on the carpet of leaves in our nook. Johnny thought that we needed the grapes, so he went back down the path to the arbor and returned with the bowl, which he had filled with more grapes, as well as our cut-offs. You know – just in case. I knelt on our towels and admired his lithe nudity as he moved through the vegetation. We were Southern California heathens if ever there was such a thing.

“Will you lay on your stomach,” Johnny asked when he was safely back from his naked expedition. “I wanna try something new.”

“Sure,” I said: whatever you want sweetheart, I thought. I moved over on the towels and obediently lay on my stomach. Johnny knelt by my waist, “spread your legs some, baby” and he worked at getting my legs into the desired angle. Still, it wasn’t quite right. But I really liked that he’d called me “baby.”

“Here,” he said, “you need to put your head in that corner and lay across the towels like this,” and he shuffled me all around till he had me in the proper position for what he only knew. He knelt between my spread legs and started putting grapes, one by one, into the crack of my butt. Okay, I thought dreamily. It was hot. We had just cum. Whatever you wanna do is just fine by me. With one hand on each of my butt cheeks, Johnny stuck his tongue into my crack and moved it slowly up to the first grape. He took the grape into his mouth, with his lips still between my cheeks; he chewed his grape, swallowed, and stuck his tongue back into my crack and lapped around a little, slowly moving up to the next grape. When he got to the grape that was right by my hole, he chewed it as before, and then he ran his tongue all around my hole and gently prodded the center of me several times before moving on to the next grape. This felt really great, and gave me half a woodie, even though I’d just cum.

“Did you like that,” Johnny asked reasonably.

“Yeah, lay down on your back and let me eat grapes offa you.” Johnny quickly complied as I grabbed the grapes. I took great care placing individual grapes alongside his cock, and lodging them carefully in the folds of his sac and on his balls. Then I ate them, one by one, and thoroughly licked him clean. When I was done, he had half a woodie too. We lay together, kissed dreamily, and dozed lightly in soft embrace in the heat of the afternoon.

When the Packard swept into the driveway, we were properly attired and the very picture of virtuous youth. We were in the backyard in lawn chairs. We had a bowl of grapes and half a pitcher of lemonade on the lawn beside us. Several copies of Superman and Prince Valiant lay about as well. What made it really perfect, though, was that we’d cut the grass.

Grand Belle smiled sweetly, said that dinner would be in about an hour, and went into the house. Bobbin had me pull the Packard into the garage as he surveyed our yard work; he nodded approvingly saying that we’d been busy, and went into the house. I walked Johnny home. We’d been very busy indeed.


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