Disclaimer: Dear reader, "The Invitation," a loosely autobiographical story, is about sexual encounters between two fifteen-year-old boys in a small southern town in the 1950s. If you object to same-sex relationships or if you are too young to read this story legally, please abandon nifty.org now without going further. I have no desire to offend anyone or to influence the sexual attitudes of under-aged young people. Your comments are welcome at stoicactor@hotmail.com. Thank you.
The Invitation Chapter 2: "A Second Invitation"
My usual morning erection was unusually hard that Saturday, and I resisted doing anything about it beyond a pleasurable fondling. Oliver was on my mind. Nothing he said Friday gave a clue as to what he might have planned, but I kept thinking about the look he gave me, that gentle visual sweep of my early adolescent body. How, I wondered, would that look feel brushing over my naked skin?
I dressed quickly, grabbed a biscuit and a piece of cold salt pork and hopped on my trusty Cushman Highland motor scooter for the short trip up the hill to where Oliver lived with his widowed mother.
The morning air was chilly, but the oddest sensations of alternating temperatures played about in my briefs. I had never before been so conscious of everything stuffed into the pouch of my underwear.
When I pulled up at Oliver's porch, I had the tentative beginning of another erection partially subdued by understandable anxiety. After hesitating for an awkward moment, I knocked on the door. For another awkward moment, it seemed no one was home. Then suddenly a grinning Oliver snapped the door open and stood before me in his underwear. Because the porch was a step down from the door, I found myself at eye level with Oliver's tantalizing bulge. Fifty years later I still can recall exactly where his dick curled over his right testicle. And I can picture the left testicle, the larger and lower of his beautiful balls, nestled snugly in the briefs. He legs, slightly hairy, were taut, slender, rather sculpted for his age.
I have no recall of what I said or how long I stared at this stunningly sexy boy so boldly displaying his maleness.
"Come in," Oliver said. His eyes swept over me once again.
That's all I needed. I bounded through the door and followed him to his bedroom, enjoying the sight of his tight butt swaying slightly as he walked.
His room was crowded with furniture. He slept on a twin bed near the door. The other twin was positioned at an odd angle off the opposite wall. A chest of drawers was in the middle of the room. When he reached his bed, Oliver sprang onto it and sprawled out with his arms folded behind his head and his legs spread invitingly. He had placed a chair for me beside the bed near his mid-section.
His dick and balls were revealed even better now. I could see the outline of the large head with its flaring rim. The way he had his arms lifted and folded, the tee shirt was pulled up to expose about three inches of lower belly, a flat expanse of mostly smooth skin adorned with the beginning of a trail. I was entranced.
I trembled slightly in anticipation of whatever life had in store for me that morning. I had no idea what was coming. It was the fall of 1956. I had never seen a picture of a naked male and had only vague embryonic notions of what two boys might do together. One boy sucking the dick of another was beyond my ken. Fucking just didn't occur to me. I didn't even consider that two horny teenaged boys could derive pleasure from kissing.
Oliver initiated a conversation, but my memory of it doesn't reach back to anything he said before he started talking about masturbation--a subject near and dear to my boy heart. The way he talked about it was both clinical and intimate at the same time. He looked me right in the eye and asked simply, "Do you masturbate?" The question alone sent little impulses down my body to a focal point in my groin. The words were ones a physician might use, but the earnest charm of his tone of voice and the way he rolled to his side and faced me to say those words opened the floodgates of blood to my eager penis. He went on to quiz me about how often I did it and how much cum I had and whether I used lotion. We talked about our favorite time of day to jack off and what it was like to do it in front of a mirror. Oliver wanted to know if I always got totally naked to do it. I felt a shiver of arousal every time we used "do it" to refer to masturbating.
His next question intensified the anticipation.
"Have you ever done it with another boy?" he asked.
This time, he leaned close and lowered his voice. Then his lips parted slightly as he awaited my reply, and I looked right into his mouth and watched his soft pink tongue move lazily across his lower teeth.
"Ummm, I really haven't," I replied sheepishly.
Oliver jumped right in with another question. This time he sat upright, his legs in the lotus position.
"Winston, do you know what I was about to do when I heard you step up on the porch?"
Well, of course, I had no idea what he was talking about.
Oliver grinned.
"I was totally naked," he said conspiratorially, sliding his hand up over his right thigh and bringing it to rest on his dick.
"What were you about to do?" I asked quite innocently but beginning to get the picture.
"I was gonna beat my meat!" Oliver said happily, groping his crotch.
That got my attention. I loved that expression. Sometimes when I was really feeling nasty and was preparing myself for major masturbation, I would say aloud, "I'm gonna beat my meat." The words were hot, moist and earthy and exquisitely sensual.
"Well, uh, Oliver, you want me to go in the living room and wait so you can do it?"
Was that not obliging? I think I really meant it. Too. I was being polite in the grand tradition of the South.
"You don't have to leave me alone," Oliver said. "Would you like to join me?" He said it as politely as one might offer to share lunch with a guest.
Oh, my god! Now in a flash I knew why I was there in the dimly-lit bedroom of a schoolmate I scarcely knew.
I pounced on the invitation.
"YES!"
As he hopped out of bed and headed toward the bathroom, Oliver said, "you're gonna love this. I promise."
I was overcome with a welter of emotions that I could hardly identify. I think I was briefly fearful, a kid standing at the edge of a dark forest not knowing what lay ahead. Yet I was excited like a little child the night before the first Christmas he would remember. Back somewhere in my psyche was the notion that I was about to break the rules, though I didn't understand exactly what the rules were. It was the Fifties in the South, and unpleasantness often was swept under the rug. Homosexuality was seldom mentioned anywhere, but most of us understood that it was something one just didn't do. But in those moments, as I listened to Oliver pee, then brush his teeth, I was not thinking of homosexuality, and I was not worried that I was about to become one of the dreaded queers. Not finding some rule at hand, I managed to rationalize what was about to happen as outside the rules, not proscribed, merely a single glorious act that would be our secret and would never be punished.
Oliver heard my belt buckle jingle as I began undressing and barked with mock sternness, "hey, don't undress without me! I wanna watch you get naked."
My god, he could say the simplest things in a way that stirred me right into my balls and made the head of my dick tingle. I wanted him to watch me get naked. So I stood there, I re-buckled my belt and waited, not wanting to miss a single thrill of this wild adventure.
When he came back into the room, I did not wait for instructions. After kicking my tennis shoes out of the way and skinning the socks off my little feet, I unbuckled the belt, unbuttoned my Levis, dropped them to the floor, shucked my tee shirt off and paused to stare at Oliver and the huge tent in his briefs.
"Can I see you naked now?" he said softly.
Because puberty had arrived late for me and I did not like the slow growth of my penis, I always approached locker rooms with ambivalence. I didn't want the boys to see me, but I wanted to see them and getting naked was the only way. So desire would win over modesty. Today, however, I wanted Oliver to see me, all of me. I snapped the Fruit of the Looms to my knees and let them fall the rest of the way to the floor.
Oliver smiled and licked his lips. Then he slowly removed his tee shirt and dropped the briefs.
We stood naked for long minutes as the brownness of the room closed around us like a warm cocoon, shielding us from all the cares of our lives. For the first time in my fifteen years, I could openly gape at another boy. I looked at his slender, neatly defined body from his fairly broad shoulders down to light brown nipples and over the flat hairless belly and his tight abs. His pubic hair was a dense brown tangle that I would soon be able to explore with eager fingers. His bush wasn't large but already was extending its lovely hairs onto a scrotum that was longer and looser than any I had managed to see before.
I was speechless, totally captivated, until he asked softly, "can I touch you?"
I stepped close to him and said yes quickly.
Oliver slid his left hand under my balls and ever so gently cupped them in his palm. I sucked in my breath. Then he eased his right hand over the head of my dick and covered the top of my shaft. My knees felt as if they would buckle.
"Oh, Oliver, I never felt this good," I whispered.
Stepping up very close to me so that his dick brushed against mine, Oliver asked his next question:
"Would you let me jack you off?"
I felt a drop of precum leave my little slit as I said, "YES!"
He took my by the hand and led me to the other twin bed and directed me to lie down in the middle of the bed with my head resting on two pillows.
The cocoon of pleasure moved with us to surround the bed. Desire and joy reigned. Even now I haven't the words to describe how it felt to stretch out naked before Oliver, my legs spread slightly, my dick throbbing as if I had been hard for hours, my breathing shallow and uneven.
"Put your hands under your head and keep them there. No matter how bad you want to touch yourself or grab my hands, DON'T! Just let me do it all."
Oliver sat beside me on the bed, his beautiful cock standing erect, his lips parted, exposing the tip of his tongue. I stared at his cock almost continuously as he began what he later explained to me was "foreplay." His fingertips were soft and he skillfully held them in the slightest contact with my skin, skimming over my neck and face and gradually moving downward over my chest, belly and abs. At first he went no further than my little black bush before circling my genitals and moving down my legs to just below my thighs. By then I was squirming and moaning.
When he finally moved in on my most tender parts, I began telling him how each touch felt. Any lingering inhibitions--and there weren't many--were shed as I begged him to "touch my balls," "play with my dick," "jack me off, please," "Oliver, beat my meat."
When I reached a frenzy of yearning like I had never felt before, Oliver reached for a bottle of lotion, a dark pink viscous goo with a mild medicinal smell. Holding my dick straight up in his right hand, Oliver poured lotion onto the tip and let it flow downward as he opened his fist to slather it over the hard flesh.
"Jack me off, man, I am going crazy!"
Oliver smiled and the tip of his tongue crept over his lower lip as he savored the sight of the slowest stroking I had ever felt. No fifteen-year-old would go that slowly on his own dick. He moved up and down with a slow, firm stroke that never changed speed.
Soon, I was begging Oliver to "go faster," but he never did. He just smiled and attended to the task of bringing me to orgasm at a pace he set. As my young sexual apparatus prepared me for relief, it felt as if my balls were going to turn wrong side out. They ached and drew up tight against the base of my dick. I felt what I thought was a spasm somewhere between my hips, an area I had never considered a sexual zone. I was a complete novice. Oliver, I soon realized, might not have been a journeyman, but he had served an apprenticeship some time before I came along.
When I thought I would scream with desire, Oliver gave one last downward stroke, and more semen than I had ever seen at one time exploded from my little dick. The first little rope landed high on my forehead, some of it in my hair, I was shouting. I felt the warm gob linger on my skin as three more bolts of the wondrous stuff landed between my neck and my bush. As a tingling sensation suffused my body to the ends of every extremity, I shuddered as if having a chill and crumpled against the white sheets. All tension was gone. I watched my dick slowly go soft after a last bit of cum burbled out of the slit and dribbled onto my bush. I stared at the thick cum lingering on top of the canopy of pubic hairs.
I looked up at Oliver, who was obviously pleased with his handiwork.
"You like?" he asked.
"Oh, man, I never knew shooting my wad could be that good. Never shot this much either."
"Just lie there and let me clean the cum off."
I loved the earthy things he would say with such perfect innocence.
Some of the oddest thoughts can occur right after an orgasm. For some reason, I noticed how carefully Oliver had said "lie" instead of "lay," a usage matter we had just studied in English. As what I would learn years later was called the refractory period set in, I momentarily lost interest in sex and the cocoon faded. Outside the world waited. It was nearly noon; my mother would be wondering what I was up to. But when Oliver returned with a damp washcloth and began mopping the now melting cum from my face and body, my interest was revived. The sight of him standing over me, his hard dick waving like a flag, became my focus. The cocoon closed around us again.
"Would you like to do the same for me?" Oliver asked.
"Yeah, but I probably won't be as good at it."
This beautiful boy stretched out before me without a trace of shyness, his splayed legs and arms and smiling eyes inviting me to study ever nook and cranny of his nude body. I drank it all in and began my tender attempt at foreplay, trying to emulate his moves exactly. His soft moans and comments let me know that I had learned my first lesson well.
I must have anticipated Oliver's orgasm as much as he did. In my wildest masturbatory fantasies, I would try to picture a boy shooting a mammoth load of semen all over himself. The thrill of the huge burst of cum from Oliver's long dick was beyond the boundaries of my wildest fantasy. He sucked in his abs, shouted, "I am cumming" and thrust his pelvis high his dick jettisoned thick cream in long ropes. I could swear that I heard the sounds of it squirting from his broad head.
Oliver sighed and fell silent, looking up at me tenderly, his mischievous tongue appearing briefly.
"How did I do?" I asked as I was cleaning him up.
"You did it perfect!" he replied.
Later I lingered over my clothes, not wanting to leave the cocoon, but Mother would be growing irritated. I had chores to do.
I needed a shower.
As we parted at the door, Oliver uttered a traditional southern invitation:
"Come back to see me."
I could hardly wait.
Chapter 3 is coming. I hope you will send your comments to stoicactor@hotmail.com