JAMES AT NINE
By Zachyboy
M/b, oral, anal, romantic

I still have a picture of James at 9, and even though it was many years
ago, he still fills my senses with that sweet, aching memory that's so hard
to articulate. It's impossible to fully put my finger on it, no pun
intended. He's the one who's still my tenderest ache. My yearning-sweet
pain. The one that never really went away. Just a perfect, beautiful,
sad-willing boy. And there have been many since him, for you and for me,
but James is the one I will never forget. We all have our James. You have
one too.

He's sitting on my couch in the picture I have. Leaning back on his
hands. Shoulders scrunched. Back slightly arched. Light blue polo shirt,
all three buttons open, a hint of skin and Adam's apple underneath. He's
looking away from the camera. Eyes beautiful. Freckled nose kissable and
sweet. Lips together, curled and peaceful, in just the slightest hint of a
smile. Ears shiny and sweet. Hair the color of yesterday and tomorrow.
Pieces of gold. Pieces of brown. Shady, shimmery red-blonde boymix. Light
and dark. Shiny and soft. I smelled that hair so many times with his naked
body wrapped in my arms. Smelled his hair and the back of his neck.
Remembered him, boyish and beautiful in this photo, magical and mine, the
night that we first made love.

It was a different era. The music was Tiffany and INXS and George Michael's
"Faith." MJ and Whitney were still alive and vibrant with hope. People
still danced then. Billy Ocean's "Get out of my Dreams, Get Into my Car"
was playing on the radio when I first met him. Perfect, really, because
there I was in my driveway, washing my car. I was 22 that summer, and I'd
been dreaming of someone just like him for a long, long time.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey," I said back.

"I'm James from down the street."

"Hi James from down the street. I'm Ryan from right here."

"Hey."

"Hey."

He picked up a sponge.

"Want some help?"

"Sure."

And that's how it started.

# # # # # # # # # #

In the next three weeks, I learned a lot about James. His hopes, his
dreams, his talents (there were many), his burgeoning intelligence. His
almost uncanny wisdom for a boy so young. And I guess I fell in love with
him.

No. That's not right. There was no guesswork.

"I guess" is what writers say to soften a story.

I did fall in love with him.

Deeply. Forever.

# # # # # # # # # #

"Can I stay overnight?" he asked me out of the blue one day.

"Sure," I said. "But what will your parents think?"

"That I'm somewhere else," he shrugged. "With a friend. With a classmate."

"Okay," I said, rubbing his shoulders.

We were in my back yard, by the pool.

We swam together a lot that summer.

I rubbed some cream on his freckly-soft skin.

He burned easily that summer, James at 9.

"Will we do stuff?" he asked softly.

He blushed. Looked down.

We had already kissed that summer.

Kissed a lot and held each other in private, secret moments.

"I don't know," I said honestly, my dick already hardening in my swim
trunks. "Would you like to do stuff?"

"Uh-huh," he nodded.

"Okay," I said simply. "Then we'll do stuff."

"Okay," he said, with an audible sigh of relief.

He'd asked, and I said yes. It was out in the open.

"I'm sorry I'm not prettier," he mumbled, embarrassed.

"Not what?" I asked, incredulously.

"Prettier," he shrugged. "Guys who like boys like them to be really pretty,
right?"

He looked up at me. Such sincerity. Not even understanding he was the most
beautiful boy in the world to me.

Such a smart boy. So wise. So knowing. But his own desirability was
completely beyond his grasp.

He was so beautiful and perfect back then. And he never even knew it.

"Look at me," I said, tilting his chin up with my finger.

He looked up. Eyes searching. Glistening wet.

"You're beautiful, James." I told him. "Beautiful."

"I'm not," he said. And a tear ran down his cheek. "My dad won't...dad
won't..."

"What?" I said softly.

"Notice me," he said. And then his quivering lip turned into a sob. To
tears. To pain.

And he huddled to my chest to hide and cry.

I stroked his hair and kissed his forehead, my heart beating along with his
sad, quiet anguish.

"It's okay, James," I whispered. "I'm here. I notice."

He held me tighter.

"And you're beautiful," I repeated, lifting his head and kissing his tears
away. "The most beautiful boy in the world."

# # # # # # # # # #

It was night. He was scared. But he knew why he came here. Shaking,
nervous, he knew this was something he'd been searching for.

Didn't truly even understand the context yet. Or the implication once it
started. But he knew he had to be here.

And I knew I was glad it was me.

The open door of the unspoken bedroom yawned enticingly before us, but he
didn't know how to lead me there. And I didn't know how to ask. I turned on
the radio instead. Richard Marx.

He leaned back on my couch and I took his picture. Leaning back on his
hands. Shoulders scrunched. Back slightly arched. Light blue polo shirt,
all three buttons open, a hint of skin and Adam's apple underneath.

He looked away from the camera. Stared out of my window at the moonlit
sky. Eyes beautiful. Freckled nose kissable and sweet. Lips together,
curled and peaceful, in just the slightest hint of a smile. Ears shiny and
sweet. Hair the color of yesterday and tomorrow. Pieces of gold. Pieces of
brown.

"Dance with me James," I said softly, smiling at him.

"Okay," he shrugged, standing up.

He wrapped his arms around my middle. Nestled his head into my chest. He
sighed. He swayed with me.

I sang to him. Sang along to the pretty-soft song on the radio:

"Saw your smile, and my mind could not erase the beauty of your face. Just
for awhile, won't you let me shelter you?"

He sighed and hugged me tighter.

I held his head up, kissed him.

He held his arms up. I lifted his shirt up and off. Took mine off too.

Shirtless and warm, tummy to tummy, I danced with him. His little voice
sang back in the softest, scared quiver, understanding what we were about
to do. Sweet trembling treble:

"Hold onto the nights," he sang softly to me. "Hold onto the memories..."

He looked right at me and kept singing softly:

"I wish that I could give you something more. That I could be yours."

I picked him up. His legs wrapped around my middle. I held him and kissed
him and we danced.

# # # # # # # # # #

Naked in my bed, he came to me.

"Are you sure?" I asked him.

"I'm sure," he said, with grown-up eyes.

He was such a little boy, but his eyes were so grown-up.

An ancient soul in the body of a child.

A long-gone poem. A sonnet once-celebrated.

He laid naked on top of me, my hard-on grinding up into the soft pillowy
give of his tummy. His hairless pubis wet with my pre-cum. His equally hard
cocklet, a tiny little spear, grinding down into mine. We kissed. Shared
tongues. I reached up into the crack of his bottom, pressed my fingertip
lightly against the hot stickiness of his boyhole. Found it burning with
fire. He pushed back against me and moaned into my mouth, making my lips
vibrate with his sweet, electric, "nnnnnnnn." He whimpered as I touched his
most private place, like a soft, hungry puppy.

He turned around. Turned his butt to my face. Beautiful, pale, creamy-sweet
skin. I kissed each cheek. I kissed in between. I licked him there. I put
my tongue inside him. He moaned even more.

He hunched over me. Took my cock in his mouth. Too much. Too fast. He
gagged. I felt him tense.

"Go slow," I whispered, stroking his head. "You don't have to hurry,
James. No race. Go slow."

"Don't wanna go slow," he whimpered with sad longing in his voice. It was a
longing I still don't fully understand. Not even today.

"I can't go slow," he whimpered. "I need this to happen!"

I didn't understand how somebody that young could be this much in
heart-pain.

In distress to be loved.

"It's okay, James," I reassured him. "I'm not going anywhere."

He turned around, looked at me, and now there were tears in his eyes.

"I just want this to last forever," he cried. "And it won't."

"Shhh," I whispered. "Come here."

And he did. He laid on my chest and he sobbed as I held him.

My little Lost Boy. He cried and I held him. And the rest of my life, from
that moment on, was Neverland.

# # # # # # # # # #

Making love to James was a moment of incredible tenderness.

In the end, he opened up for me like a flower, scared at first, then
growing more confident, until finally he was open and awed, proud that he
could do this.

This special big boy thing.

This thing that I wanted from him and he was so glad to give me.

This thing that he wanted for himself. From someone. From anyone.

And the sweet, knowing universe, in this summer of hope and angels, just
happened to lend him to me.

"Just for a while," I sang softly to him as he sat on my cock, moving
slowly up and down, "will you let me shelter you?"

"Hold on to the nights," he whispered, filling himself up with my love.

I came in him quietly, pulling him down onto my cock and filling his sheath
with my cum.

His eyes closed. His head tilted back, and he sighed and smiled in deep
satisfaction.

James at 9, with his tummy full of my cum. And he laughed. And he smiled.

# # # # # # # # # #

The second time that night, I took him harder, and he was surprised.

He was still a boy, after all, and didn't understand the urgency of my
need.

The first time had been soft, and gentle and loving.

The second time was urgent, and hot, and needful.

He had fallen asleep in my arms. I was spooning him. Arms wrapped around
his chest, my cum still swimming in his bottom. He was breathtakingly
beautiful, and warm, and enticing. And I wanted him again. Wanted him more
desperately than I could even understand. Physically. Emotionally. Just
needed him at that mmoment. Craved him with every atom in my body.

He was breathhing softly, shallow and slow. His tiny chest was rising and
falling under my hand. His back was sweaty. His neck was salty and
white-feather down. I kissed it. I licked it. He tasted so good.

I pulled him against me tighter, my cock already hard against his sleeping
form. I smelled his hair. So warm. So hot. Pieces of gold. Pieces of
brown. Shady, shimmery red-blonde boy. Light and dark. Shiny and soft. I
smelled his hair deeply with his naked body wrapped in my arms. Smelled his
hair and licked the hot salt off the back of his neck.

I was hard. I was hot and hard, and I needed to fuck him so badly. So now.

His ass was still wet with our lube and my cum. I entered him quickly, in a
single slide. He gasped and came awake.

"Ow," he said. "Too fast. Go slow."

"I'm sorry," I said.

"S'okay," he said. "It's good, go slow."

I tried to go slow. I tried, but he consumed me. I needed to fuck him.

And he woke and realize he needed to be fucked.

Not just "made love to." But fucked. Taken, needed, body and soul.

After the first slow lunges, he wanted it faster. He needed me fast. I
could tell by the way he was grinding back against me. The way his ass was
grasping at my cock shaft. The little grunts he made as I stuck it further
into him. Long-dicking him. Fucking him perfectly. Making him my life.

"Nnngh," he grunted, coming to life in my arms. "It's good. It's good."

"You like it?" I whispered. I teased. I tested him.

"Fuck me," he groaned. He whispered it tentatively.

"What?" I asked in a husky voice.

"Fuck me," he said with more confidence. More volume.

"Fuck you with what?" I teased, pulling it back.

"With your cock," he whispered, pushing back against me, needing it more.

"With my cock?" I growled, grabbing his hips and pulling him onto it again.

"Nnngh," he grunted back. "Yeah. With your cock. Hard. Fuck me with your
cock."

And I did. I fucked him hard. I fucked him good.

I have never known anything as good as that fuck. As hot as that boy. As
open and willing to give himself totally.

Not scared anymore. Just open. And hungry. And needing to be loved by a
man.

He came, hard, shaking in my arms. Shaking as he jacked himself. Little
cocklet dry-cum quivering.

His orgasm set off my own.

"Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh...NNNGGGH! Oh James!!!"

I felt his rectum contract around my dick shaft as I jammed it forward and
unleashed myself.

"Your cum," he whispered. "Fuck me full of cum."

"I fucked you," I panted. "I filled you with my love."

He sighed and melted into me. He was sleeping in seconds.

Sleeping soundly with my dick up his ass, still dripping, still softening.

I felt the cum ooze back around my shaft, matting us together. Sticking us
in gluey-hot couplehood. The air smelled like sex. Like boy ass and man
cock. It was an unforgettable smell. It smelled like how Lost Boys make
love.

We slept. We woke. We fucked again.

I sucked his cock. He sucked mine too.

We kissed. We cried. We needed each other.

We held onto the night.

# # # # # # # # # #

He's sitting on my couch in the picture I have. Leaning back on his
hands. Shoulders scrunched. Back slightly arched. Light blue polo shirt,
all three buttons open, a hint of skin and Adam's apple underneath. He's
looking away from the camera. Eyes beautiful. Freckled nose kissable and
sweet. Lips together, curled and peaceful, in just the slightest hint of a
smile. Ears shiny and sweet. Hair the color of yesterday and
tomorrow. Pieces of gold. Pieces of brown. Shady, shimmery red-blonde
boymix. Light and dark. Shiny and soft.

I smelled that hair so many times with his naked body wrapped in my arms
that summer. Smelled his hair and the back of his neck. Remembered him,
boyish and beautiful in this photo, magical and mine, the summer that we
first made love.

I still have that picture of James at 9, and even though it was many years
ago, he still fills my senses with that sweet, aching memory that's so hard
to articulate. My tenderest ache. My yearning-sweet pain. The one that
never really went away. Just a perfect, beautiful, sad-willing boy.

There have been many since him, for you and for me, but James is the one I
will never forget.

We all have our James.

You have one too.

But this one was special.

This one was mine.

# # # # # # # # # #

Love,
Zachyboy
z.blake@mail.com