PABLO WAS THIRTEEN YEARS OLD
by Bambino
Author's disclaimer: The following a work of fiction. All characters are purely fictitious; any resemblance to real persons is purely coincidental. Although this story describes minor boys involved in consensual sexual activity, it bears no relation to real events and as a work of literature is protected under the First Amendment to the Constitution of the United States of America.
The author retains the copyright on this work. Distribution or posting of this work without the author's permission is a violation of that copyright.
Sunbeams filtered through the Venetian blinds of the bedroom, painting zebra-stripes of alternating light and shadow across the boy's face; from the street outside came shouts and splashing of the neighborhood children, playing in the hydrant. Pablo opened his eyes and squinted them shut again almost on the same instant; he stirred a lazy arm and let it fall across his face, to shield away the glare. He'd overslept again, far into the morning. That tended to happen now that his mother worked on Saturdays, and wasn't home to wake him up.
In a shiftless torpor, Pablo stretched his legs, fanned out his toes, flexed and wiggled them. Growing accustomed to the daylight, he let his left hand slip from his forehead to the pillow, tucked it under his pelt of unruly black tousles. For a few minutes he lay lazing and drowsing, blinking languidly up at the ceiling through half-lidded eyes. He had, in fact, awakened at the usual schoolday hour, roused by some inner alarm clock set by long conditioning, only to nod off again into a dreaming doze: a weekend habit. And again he had dreamt of Joselito Santos, in what lately seemed to be becoming a pattern. Only lately.
Pablo's wide, velveteen-shadowed lip curled into a frown as he considered the provocative content of the dream. What did it mean? Dreams were funny things. His uncle, Rafael -- his mother's notorious brother who used to live with them -- had told him that if he slept on his stomach he wouldn't have nightmares.... But the dream, like the others before it, hadn't been a nightmare -- in fact, it hadn't been even remotely unpleasant. A pleasant dream -- not quite as pleasant as the 'wet' ones -- but pleasant enough.
With his left hand still pinned under his head, its right counterpart drifted absently down under the sheets, slid across the slender midriff, with bold stealth, almost by a will apart, like a wild jungle cat guided by its own exploratory instincts. Still only three-quarters conscious, Pablo entertained a kind of waking dream, in which his right hand became a furtive creature of the savanna, cautiously investigating the complex and varied landscape of his young body. First he traversed the flat, taut terrain of his belly, sliding over a dimpled sequence of shallow dips and rises, hollows and gently rolling mounds of firm topsoil -- very pleasant underfoot -- over the solid bedrock of youthful muscle. Passing the navel, the hunting beast skimmed lower, to where the abdominal knolls give way to a sensitive expanse sloping smoothly down to a fringe of wiry black scrub, a curious little bushy thicket which marks a sudden dramatic rise to the topography. Here the beast made a catch; it clung to its prize with feral tenacity....
Pablo opened his eyes, which had somehow fallen shut a second time. Reluctantly relinquishing his grip on his penis, he threw aside the covers. Sunlight instantly splashed across his naked body in patterns of dazzling gold, deep bronze, muted copper; lying on his back and twisting sinuously, Pablo resembled a young tabby cat in a mood of cozy playfulness.
It was from Uncle Rafael that he had learned, among other things, the joys of sleeping nude. "Real men sleep in the buff," his uncle had sworn firmly. "You want to be a man or a boy?"
"A man!" Pablo had dutifully answered. Whether or not anybody had ever heard of a ten-year-old man, they both believed in him. And later, amid caresses and embraces in the dark, his uncle had whispered, "You are a man, Pablito. Tonight you became a man."
The memory was vivid, but it all seemed an eternity ago.
Crossing his feet at the ankles, Pablo gazed down at his exposed self, watched his penis come fully erect: a wonderful elemental process, like dawning of the sky or the blooming of a flower. He resisted the urge to help the process along with an encouraging hand; he would let it occur in nature's own sweet time.
A gentle ballooning, and Pablo's penis plumped and lengthened, a pulse at a time, until it stood up tall and firm. He liked the way the round, shiny head reared from the scruffy folds of its protective sheath, which stretched taut and disappeared as the organ swelled to its fullest reach, almost to his navel. He also liked the way the color of the skin faded from cocoa-brown to cafe con leche as it expanded over its hardening core like a sausage casing.
It had grown a lot in the last year -- more, it seemed, than it had ever grown in all the years before. The growth had been mostly in the way of thickness. He knew he had a big dick, and he'd known for a while, since even before Uncle Rafael told him he did. Nevertheless his uncle's compliments had been quite a boost to the blossoming juvenile ego. He had told Pablo that even if his dick didn't grow any more, it was already big enough for any man to be proud of. And the best news of all was: it would grow more. He was only thirteen -- his birthday had barely passed. It would keep growing until he was sixteen or seventeen.
This morning, looking down his nose at his big dick, Pablo wondered when his body would start catching up. He was still so short and puny -- not yet five feet tall. If not for his faint moustache and husky, crackling voice, people would have still taken him for a little kid. All the other boys in his seventh grade class stood at least a couple inches taller than he -- and it didn't matter if he had a bigger dick to make up for it, since unlike height it didn't show (unless you were looking at his crotch, where you might notice a promising bulge). His height didn't help in sports, either, where he could have really used a growth spurt in every direction. He made good in baseball and even soccer, and he was an excellent swimmer -- but in boxing, where Pablo's heart was, there wasn't even a weight category light enough for him.
Lost in his vague morning thoughts, Pablo absent-mindedly twirled a lock of his kinky black pubic hair around his finger before once again wrapping his palm around his now fully awake cock. The stroking began.
At the foot of the bed lay a rumpled white garment, a trifle of white cotton, where Joselito had lain only yesterday. Pablo interrupted himself a second time to pull himself upright and pick up the garment, letting it hang loose: a pint-sized T-shirt, the kind that came in a package with matching briefs. Pablo let Joselito's T-shirt fall, completely covering his face, and inhaled with all avidity. Yesterday afternoon Pablo had used the T-shirt to sop up his own cum, and little Joselito, outraged, had refused to wear it until Pablo washed it.
The cotton fabric still reeked faintly of his own pungent juices as he breathed in deeply, but Pablo, now earnestly stroking off, thought that he could detect fleeting snatches of the younger boy's fresh, clean scent under the heady rancid aroma of leftover sperm. Such a cutie, Joselito Santos. He laughed like any other boy; his eyes were like other eyes, his mouth like other mouths, his little butt no rounder and firmer than other little boys' butts... but his spunky and adorable mannerisms made him absolutely unique: the single Joselito Santos in all the universe. Pablo had already dallied with lots of boys, from school, from the neighborhood.... All in some way were unique, but Joselito only recently had started to get his first 'tingles.' He still hadn't quite gotten the hang of beating off all the way to a satisfying finish every time like Pablo could, but then Pablo had already been able to squirt the juice for at least a couple of years. He wasn't quite sure. He knew that he had started early. It didn't matter, anyway. The important thing was the feeling you got at the end, not the stuff that came out. That's what he had promised Joselito the first time he had played with him: the best feeling in the world. Joselito had made him promise before he consented to take out his little penis and let Pablo manipulate it. And from the unmistakable, unforgettable reaction that spread across the younger boy's face as his body went stiff and his little toes curled, Pablo knew that he hadn't disappointed Joselito. If anything, the younger boy's expectations were far exceeded.
Pablo stroked faster, squeezed tighter, clung fervently to the image of little Joselito's ecstasy-stricken face that lingered in his mind's eye from yesterday afternoon and, more recently, from his dreaming. Cute little adorable spunky Joselito, already so tough and sweet and wild, with his lovable little two-inch dick and sweet little angel's ass...
That did it. A rush of hormones flooded Pablo's bloodstream and he began pounding his dick with a vengeance. There was no stopping the natural progression of events that had been set into motion by his fierce action. He was bound for the big pay-off and he knew it was only moments away. Often he wondered why he thought and dreamt about boys instead of girls. The other boys in class were more or less girl-crazy, but he jacked off thinking about Joselito, who was not only a boy but half his age. Maybe, he thought, he would turn out like Uncle Rafael after all -- he knew the words. Gay, homo, maricon.... Is that what I am? he wondered.
At the moment he couldn't be bothered with those concerns. Becoming tense, he strained to recall the Joselito's exquisite configuration to his tightly lidded eyes, to withdraw the savor of his perfume from the discarded T-shirt, to evoke the little boy's frantic gasps of pleasure, his furious breath in his ears, while Pablo rapid-stroked his taut little penis for him between two fingers. Opening his mouth and doing some heavy breathing of his own, Pablo strove to summon the scent of Joselito's hair, the taste of his mouth, skin, smooth marble-sized balls, back to his tongue....
Intermittent trembles began to wrack his body between intervals of stiff tension, giving way to a violent chronic shuddering, his thighs and buttocks working in and out with the rhythm of his pumping hips.
He had entered the home stretch. The tension mounted... mounted... mounted to a thunderhead of intensity -- and then the pleasure, the mind-annihilating pleasure, exploded through the core of his pubescent dick. A convulsion shook him from head to foot, dislodging the T-shirt partially from his face, revealing his teeth bared and clenched in a grimace.
"Ufffhhhh!" puffed Pablo as he ejaculated. Hot milky sperm burst forth in three, four, five consecutive rapid jets, splattering an abstract pattern of pearl-write splotches against the writhing, satiny brown skin. He felt a stray clot splash as far as his neck and threw back his head into the pillow, arching his back and squeezing his eyes shut in a teeth-grinding wince for this sweet taste of heaven he wished would go on forever. His fist jerked spasmodically up and down to work out the last precious orgasmic kinks, as the after-blow of his boyish load ran over his brown knuckles, puddling in his navel.
At last his fist slowed and relaxed. For several minutes he sprawled prone among the rumpled bedding. His hoarse panting graduated to a deep sighing, at last subsiding to regular respiration. The warm, salty-sweet reek of fresh adolescent semen rose into the cramped air of the little bedroom. He lifted his head from the pillow and looked down at the abundant aftermath of his pleasure. What a mess! The scattered load coursed down the side of his torso, forming little rivers in the hollows of his ribs where the clear, runny fluid started to separate from the white creamy mass.
A mindless, satisfied calm settled over the boy. He lay inert, still clutching his penis, now a spongy, slimy slab of softening flesh. Its coating of semen had grown cold, and it felt like a big banana slug in his hand.
Masturbating had made him drowsy again. He needed a quick shower to rinse off and wake up, or maybe he would just go out and join the neighborhood kids in the hydrant. Momentarily he thought to hear Joselito's voice within the chorus of calls and giggles, a sweet meaningful note he would recognize amidst a thousand, a hundred thousand voices.
Putting the defiled T-shirt to further use, he wiped off the webs of semen between his fingers, the sticky mess all over his body. The T-shirt was his now. He would never wash it, never give it back to Joselito. It was a sacred token to him now, an object of worship, a holy shroud. He'd keep using it to soak up his loads until it grew starched and crusty, and then he'd keep it in his treasure chest. If Joselito asked about it again, he'd say he lost it.
Another Saturday with the house to himself -- to share. It was going to be another scorcher -- both indoors and out. Joselito and he would make a little heat of their own. Slipping from the bed and standing naked, he yawned and stretched, a full five feet or so on his tip-toes, his muscular little body silhouetted before the sun-streamed blinds. The glorious vision was wasted on an empty room, with no inspired painter to preserve it in moody chiaroscuro.
Now he was sure that it was Joselito's laughter he heard. His heart beat all the quicker for his certainty. Pablo took a moment to thank God that the boy he loved, the boy for whom he would go to the ends of the earth, was only just outside his front door. Then he put on a pair of shorts, stepped into his flip-flops and went outside to play.
-- Bambino 2001