Sam Johnson

Home is Danelaw

We were cruising down the highway, making pretty good time, when I saw a flash of something I couldn't ignore. I dragged myself up from my prone position on the back seat and looked out the rear window.

"Stop!" I yelled at Ed, the driver. "Stop the fucking car, Ed, for chrissakes!"

"Jesus Sam," Ed muttered. "We ain't got the time, man…"

"You stop this fucking car, Ed, or I'll drive us off the road," I said, leaning over his shoulder, threatening to grab the wheel.

Ed had already slowed the big old station wagon dramatically. He'd seen the boy. A man has to have standards in this world. You don't drive past a boy like that.

When Ed got fully off the road, he began slowly reversing along the shoulder. The boy stood with a bag at his feet, not moving, staring at the car slowly approaching.

Even when we came to stop, just a dozen yards away, the lad just stood there, staring.

I opened the back door and yelled at him, "You looking for a ride, kid?"

"Um, yeah," he yelled back. "I'm hitchhiking."

And still he stood there.

I laughed. "Well get your ass in here: you're hitchhiking, this is a car – we're a perfect match!"

So he picked up his bag and came toward the car, tentatively, but trying to bear himself like a man. He clearly hadn't done this before.

As he got to the open back door, with me sliding across to make room, he leant in to ask, "Are you going to Grantham?"

"Why not?" I said.

"Huh?"

"Kid, hitchhiking's illegal on this highway, so just get in."

"Oh, yeah, right," he said, clambering in with his stuffed school bag. I took it from him and lobbed it over the back.

"Geez, thanks for stopping," he said, conscientiously looking around for the seatbelt which didn't exist. As the station wagon pulled back onto the highway, he said, "It doesn't matter if you're not going to Grantham – I can get another ride from wherever you guys stop."

"You probably could at that, kid," I said. He was gorgeous. He could get a ride at the north pole, as long as Mrs. Claus didn't stick her beak in.

"I couldn't believe it when you stopped," he kept going, obviously a bit nervous. "I was only there for about two minutes – I wasn't sure how to hitchhike – I haven't done it before – you're meant to stick your thumb out, right? Does it matter how?" He gave a thumbs up sign with his right hand.

"I would guarantee you – stand just like you did back there, and you'll get a ride inside ten minutes every time."

"Huh, I thought nobody would pick up a kid my age."

Ed from the front seat let out a loud HA!

"So what's your name, anyway?"

"Dane," the boy said.

"I'm Sam, and that's Ed," I said, pointing. Ed waved and the boy smiled and nodded politely.

"How old are you, Dane?" I asked.

"Almost fourteen," he said, in a way that suggested it had been his standard answer from the moment he turned thirteen.

He was right on the button, this boy, just starting to hit his pubescent surge, his slender form, in jeans and tee shirt, perkily lit up by the beginnings of his sexual development.

"And what do you do for a living, Dane?" I asked

He frowned seriously. "I'm still at school."

"Ah! Yes, well, that makes sense. So why are you hitchhiking to Grantham?"

He got more serious still. "I'm gunna live with my Auntie there."

"Home no good?"

He shook his head. "I'm not going back either."

"What's the problem?"

"Just…my step dad. He's a bastard. And now his two daughters are moving in and they just think they own the place. It's no good there anymore."

"How old are his daughters?"

"Older. Um, Sheryl's 17 and Dianne's 15 I think."

"Well, they're not related to you – you could be fucking 'em."

"Ha!" the boy laughed, trying to cover a sudden rise of colour in his cheeks, "You should see 'em – they're fat ugly hags!"

He really was gorgeous. You see a runaway standing by the road, you naturally assume he'll be some sly little punk on the make. But not Dane. Very sweet and with a budding hint of masculinity to him – the way he sat, put his hand on his thigh, the well-mannered lad was determined to be a man well before he got there.

I reached behind me, got two stubbies of beer from the esky, handed one over to the boy.

He took it, reading the label. "Um, I'm not – I mean, I don't really drink beer, thanks anyway," and he held it out for me to take back.

"What you've been through, Dane – having to make it to Grantham on your own – you've more than earned the right." I pushed it back at him, and he took it uncertainly.

He fumbled impotently at the cap of the stubbie, then watched me as I twisted the screw-top off and tossed it back behind the seat. He immediately copied, winced a bit as the metal cap bit into the flesh of his palm, but soon heard the satisfying fizz as it gave. Holding the bottle top in his hand he motioned toward the back of the station wagon, asking my permission to also toss it behind

"Hurl it over, buddy – we don't stand on ceremony here."

"Ain't that the truth!" Ed called from the front.

Dane took a sip of his beer, his lips forming a tight little O on the neck of the stubbie. As he removed the bottle, he carefully controlled any reaction that might be visible on his face.

"You like it?" I asked.

"Yeah, it's okay. I've had wine before, at my dad's wedding last year, but not much beer."

"Have you ever had beer before?"

"Um…not that I can remember. My step dad never drinks any alcohol. Mum never has either."

The lad continued to take small, careful sips, and I did notice him pulling a bit of a face once or twice. A strange brew on first contact, to be sure.

So we settled into the drive nicely. Cruising along in the big old station wagon, me and the boy leaning back in our respective corners, me with one leg hooked up to rest on the big bench seat, the boy a little more prim in his posture, although always with a slightly self-conscious manliness, arm slightly akimbo with hand rested on knee; full fisted swig of the stubbie, even if his sweet face pinched a little at the taste of it.

We chatted easily, mainly about him – as much as possible keeping it about him. He lived on a farm, was a bit isolated by the sound of it. An only child. Dad split fairly early and mum hired a succession of farm hands to run the place while she worked in a local cafe. Not easy, and the boy had taken on an older boy's responsibilities very early on. It was a painful decision to "run away" but he felt he had no choice. His mum was absolutely stuck on this new guy, Frank Garth, and the new guy made it plain he didn't want the boy around. The two daughters sounded positively Cinderella-esque in their ugliness. And the older one, Sheryl – she seemed a right shocker. She was always barging into the bathroom while the boy was showering in the clear glass shower cubicle; always demanding he undress before her in the laundry to save her the trouble of collecting his clothes – it sounded very much like she was homing in on him. The incident that really humiliated and angered the boy was when she berated him, in front of all the others, over how "disgustingly dirty and stained" his bed sheets were. He had expressly said he didn't want anyone going in his room, but not even his mum would back him up on it.

It was a testament to the beer and our quickly strengthening friendship that the boy would discuss such unpleasant personal business. Needless to say I sounded off against this Sheryl bitch in a way that had the lad laughing in scandalised delight.

I edged the conversation toward girls a few times, just to get a rough guide to his sexual development. His interest seemed keen, his blushes deep, and his experience close to nil.

Before very long the lad said, "Um, I gotta go to the toilet, Sam."

"No worries," I said, leant over the back seat, found the empty two-litre orange juice container, and passed it over.

He looked at it, frowning. "What…"

"Piss in that. We can't stop now, we're running late as it is."

"But…" the boy smiled falteringly, "Pee in this? You're joking. I won't be long – if we stop for a minute."

I shook my head. "No, too risky, Dane. Any cop sees that he's gunna give us the once over. You're an underage runaway, and we've got open containers of alcohol – no way we can risk it buddy."

The boy paused before handing back the container. "Nah, I don't need to that bad – I'll wait."

"Sure," I said, taking the container back, but leaving it on the seat between us. "It's a good hour, hour and half to the next stop, though."

The boy shrugged as if it was no matter.

He became a bit quieter, though, staring out the window with a worried frown setting in.

His position sitting on the big old bench seat started to alter. He sat more upright, tenser, finally bending forward a bit and and saying, "Geez, Sam, I'm really busting."

"Let her rip, bud," I said, giving the empty plastic container a shove in his direction.

"I can't go in that," he said, with a bitter laugh. "I mean, right here?" He gave me a beseeching look, appealing to my better reason – how on earth could he pee right here, into a bottle, in front of two men. Impossible, right?

"Shit, Dane," I said good humouredly, "the bottle's got a big neck on it – I brought it specially. I've already done it myself just before we picked you up."

The boy suddenly held the plastic container gingerly out from him, studied it, the tiny bit of cloudly liquid quivering in the bottom. "But it's empty."

"Fill her up, then we just open the door, pour it out on the road – like they do in airplanes. Foolproof."

The boy was starting to make classic little "busting" moves, clenching his legs together and rocking forward. The couple of beers he'd downed in quick succession were wreaking havoc on his immature bladder.

"You know it's not good to hold it in too long," I said. I was actually starting to think I'd have to get Ed to pull over.

But the boy suddenly grabbed up the container. "Uh, I better go." He slid forward on the seat, experimenting with how he'd hold the container between his legs, frowning, not seeing the logistics come together. "How will I…?" he muttered.

I took the container off him. "Here, get up on your knees on the seat – I'll hold the container for you."

He made a low protesting noise in his throat, but got up on his knees, having to crouch his head down to fit under the roof. As he unzipped his fly I held the container in position for him. The flush on his cheeks deepened considerably as he fumbled at his undies and – voila – suddenly flipped his uncircumcised penis out through his open fly – and he had a nice one! An impressive bit of early teen length, boyishly springy and smooth, showed some nice flop and curve as he adjusted his knees a trifle wider on the seat, pushed his hips forward, carefully directed the silken bud of his foreskin at the bottle opening, and then…nothing.

He couldn't go. The longer he stayed there, not moving, not peeing, cheeks getting redder, the more hopeless it got – but then suddenly a small dribble of his urine came out, scattering unpredictably off the end of his foreskin bud, getting on my hand, down onto the vinyl seat. "Shit," he muttered, and girded himself, trying to follow up with a much-needed stream, but it was a false dawn.

Then he suddenly started stuffing his penis back in his undies. "I can't go," he said, voice cracking with pained embarrassment.

"Wait a minute," I said. "Hold this." I shoved the container at him making him take it and leave off from doing his zip up. "You didn't have your cock out properly – it was cut off by your undies – that's why you couldn't pee." It obviously wasn't true, but the boy said nothing. I thought if I could play round with him a bit, get him past his debilitating shyness, all would be well.

I undid the button of his jeans and worked them right down to his knees, But as I reached for his undies he arced up in protest – grabbed the band to stop 'em being tugged down. He said, "Don't, Sam – I can wait till we stop – I don't need to go anymore."

So we had quite a vigorous little tug of war with his undies. I played with him a bit, letting him just keep them in place, bumping and rubbing at his penis a bit, occasionally exposing his little tuft of pubic hair – all of which made him "Ooh" and giggle and angrily tell me to stop. We ended up stretching those undies to the point of ruining them. Let go, I'd tell him. With flashing eyes he'd say, No, you let go. Until enough was enough and I firmly moved his hand away and pulled his undies right down to join his pants at his knees. The poor lad's troubles were compounding in all directions – he was now almost fully erect! A good fistful and a bit of thickish boy-cock, made to look even bigger and ruder by the little baby-size fringe of pubic hair he had. You think he didn't find that embarrassing!

I tilted my head to look at him. "You do enjoy a good piss, don't you?"

But he didn't see the joke, furiously red-cheeked, dropped the bottle on the floor beside him and reached down for his undies and started pulling them back up with fierce determination. I didn't let him get them back up, though, tugging down on 'em, stretching the poor cotton briefs horribly out of shape, this time totally wrecking the elasticised band.

"Sam!" he grunted. "Let me…fuck, let go." He was serious and pissed off and lit up and scowling and laughing. He wrenched at my hand that was tugging down his undies – so I shoved him in the chest, toppled him back, then yanked his jeans toward me, bringing his legs forward, flipping him onto his back, being careful to control his fall and not hurt him. His head ended in corner, as his arms flailed, grabbing at the back of the seat to try and pull himself back up. But he was badly compromised – his pants down around his knees made it very difficult and every twisty move he made just hurt him more with his painful need to piss. "Fuck, Sam."

"Sorry, bud," I said firmly. "You had your chance, now I'm taking charge till the job's done, okay?"

"No, it's not!" he said hotly, and made another attempt to get up from his trapped position lying back into the corner of the big bench seat.

I reached down to his smooth boy tummy and pressed firmly on his lower abdomen, sending a brutal shockwave of piss pain through him.

"Jesus fuck!" he cried, closing his eyes, bringing his legs up, almost assuming a fetal position, trying to lessen the anguish. "Fuck, Sam. Don't!"

It allowed me to quickly yank his sneakers off, drop 'em on the floor. Then I started on his jeans, the boy trying to twist to prevent me, but I was in a position of domination now, and too much effort on his part hurt his distended bladder. So I got 'em down and off him, so that he was just in his tee shirt and socks and his ruined little pair of undies at half-mast.

His hardness, if anything, had only increased, the tip of his fully sheathed shiv lying flat on the white of his lower tummy, the first of his pubic hair peeking either side of the base of his boy-cock, his tight ball bag a perfect smooth white mound.

I got his legs up, put his big boy feet over my shoulders, got him lying flat on the back seat, just his head slightly raised against the door.

"Sam…jesus…" he said, the pain of his embarrassment cancelling out the little bit of bladder-pain relief this position gave him. He turned to his sweet face aside, jaw clenched angrily.

"Just relax, bud. Here," I said, handing him the plastic container. "Now hold it in place, and just relax and piss. You have to do it, otherwise you'll damage yourself. Okay?"

With his legs over my shoulders I lifted his butt up off the seat a bit, his tee shirt falling down around his chest. He tensed up and made angry resisting noises as he looked at how I had him trussed.

"Dane," I said. "Close your eyes. Relax. And piss. Nothing could be easier, buddy." As I spoke I ran my hands soothingly up and down the front of his slim thighs, avoiding contact with his aroused sex, just calming him down.

He put the open neck of the plastic bottle to where his stiff cock was pointing down his body, got the foreskin-enclosed glans just inside the neck, and did as I told him. He finally made a conscious effort to relax, closing his eyes, letting me carry the weight of his lower body on my shoulders.

It still took a while. The car hummed on with its gently vibrating motion, occasionally making us sway a little in unison, before finally a first tentative squirt of his pee trickled down into the container he held. That was quickly followed by another, then another, and he finally broke into a stream with a deep sigh. "Oh god…" he moaned as a vibrant, thin stream shot from his fully hard boy-cock. The car filled with his rich scent, a sweet dizzy cloud of the boy's surging testosterone. He actually moved his legs around a bit on my shoulders, lifting his butt up further, using his internal muscles to increase the force of his flow, sending his golden stream crashing and foaming into the bottom of the container.

I slid a hand down one thigh and onto his smooth tummy, could feel the pain and tension draining out of him; his vigorously relieved grunts subsided into soft cooing. "Oh fuck…oh fuck…" he murmured in a gentle whisper.

Maybe he drifted into a dream state and didn't realise. But well before his dwindling stream had finished, he absent-mindedly moved the bottle from its position, as if to hand it up to me – and he pissed onto his tummy, the urine flooding down and wetting his tee shirt, over his slim sides onto the vinyl seat, the floor…

"Dane! Put the bottle back, buddy!" I yelled, not able to stop from laughing as the boy's eyes widened in horror; he frantically tried to shove the bottle back in place.

I reached down automatically and cupped the still stiff end of the boy, feeling his warm flow flush in the palm of my hand, running out between my fingers.

"Jesus, kiddo," I said, trying to encourage him to see the funny side, "When you start you don't stop, do you?"

He finally got the bottle back in place – not easy now that it was heavy with his water – and his final few trickles and dribbles made their way in to the golden pond now gathered there. He very carefully shook his stiff cock, banging his knob from side to side in the bottle's neck, a good boy shaking off every last drop.

Of course he was still rather wet with his own piss. And he didn't like it. I had thought we would seamlessly segue into me giving him a long hot hand-job, but it now wasn't to be. The first thing he did, after I'd taken the bottle from him, safely capped it, and put it behind the seat, was to sit up and peel off his tee shirt, the bottom third wet through with urine. I spread it out in the back to dry.

So there he was, a divine slip of a stud-boy, sitting beside me in the back seat of my car, in a muzzy cloud of his own pheromones, completely naked except for a pair of white and orange socks. He was still fully hard, with even a tiny tip of pink showing at the end of his tightish foreskin now. I felt it would have been ungentlemanly not to reach out to him – but he was adamant in pushing my hand away. He said he stunk of pee and it was gross. I found some old newspaper he could use to wipe his tummy, chest and legs down – carefully avoiding his tender stiffness – but the smell of his urine remained strong in the car, and I wasn't for winding the windows down.

Then he was quick to grab up his undies and jeans to get dressed again. He was dismayed to find these articles had also copped a bit of a sprinkling, and after he wrenched and bunny-hopped his way quickly back into them – ruthlessly squashing down his erection in the process – he sat back in the corner in a bit of a downer. The relief of the big piss had faded fast. I decided it was best to leave the lad be for the moment, and within ten minutes he was fast asleep, his naked upper torso forming a mini masterpiece reclining in the corner. When he lazily stretched an arm to scratch his head, briefly showing a smooth armpit, it stirred me to uncomfortable depths. Still, there was a long journey ahead of us, and I had, if anything, an increased good feeling about this beautiful boy.

* * *

About forty minutes later we approached Marrickville, a large country town at the centre of a dairy farming district. Ed swung the big old station wagon into a newly built service station and restaurant complex.

As we came to halt at a vacant bowser, the boy stirred, sighed deeply, but stayed sleeping in the corner. The day was heating up now and the bare skin of his back stuck to the vinyl seat as he moved. The fringe of his light brown hair was damply plastered to his forehead.

I joined Ed at the bowser filling the tank.

"I think I might keep going, Ed."

"All the way to Grantham, eh?" he said with a wry smile.

"I've got two months to kill before I go to China…and I haven't been to Grantham in a while, so why not?"

Ed laughed. "How long since you've been to the farm?"

"About five years," I said.

After a pause, Ed said, "You know, his mum'll have the cops out looking for him soon. Nothing surer."

"Yeah, maybe. Unless she's relieved he's gone. I'll get him to ring her."

"And the Aunt in Grantham? It's a situation that could blow up in a dozen different ways."

"It's a bit dicey, isn't it. But the kid, Ed."

"Yeah," Ed said with a sigh. "Boy that innocent has to be trouble."

I laughed. "We live in hope"

"Well, if you get the farm up and running again, let me know," Ed said as the bowser cut off, a little spurt of petrol spilling out.

"No," I said firmly. "No chance of that. Not with this China trip coming up." I leaned over a little to look at the boy shifting restlessly in the corner, trying to burrow back into the cocoon of sleep. "That's the last thing I need."

I went off to the toilet while Ed finished up and went to pay. I picked up a healthy selection of junk food for the drive and returned to the car. After dumping the food in the front, I went to door where Dane was sleeping, opened it and gently shook him. "Dane, buddy, time to wake up."

He opened his eyes, stretched, looked blearily around, taking a few moments to remember the tumultuous reality of his situation.

"Come on, buddy – get out and stretch your legs."

"Where…?" he mumbled, not fully conscious yet.

Finally he started clambering out, but then turned back to look for something. "My tee shirt…"

"It's back there," I said, pointing to where it was laid out. "It might be dry now – check it."

And more of his situation came back to him. "Jesus…no, I'm not wearing that." Then he sniffed in the direction of his bare torso, worriedly checking for the smell of his urine. After that he made a reflexive sniff of one armpit. He was a little slick with sweat in the afternoon heat, but that smooth pit of his as yet gave off only the freshest tang of boy-scent.

"Well, just go to the toilet – you can wash up a bit – then we'll get going."

"But I need something to wear," he said.

"No you don't. It's a warm day, you've got a good body – it's a perfect match." I looked around the large forecourt area, saw a fat hairy man wearing nothing but a pair of Bermuda shorts coming out of the shop's automatic doors. "There, see," I said, pointing, "no shirt required."

The boy turned back to the car, seemingly nonplussed. I had to admit, the hirsute porker looked like an entirely different species to the lissom lad by my side.

Dane got his sneakers on, then stood up by the open car door. He came just up to shoulder level on me. He hovered a hand near his midriff, a typically body-conscious young teen boy. "Where is it?" he asked, looking across the forecourt.

I pointed out the sign for the Gents and he headed off. Leaning against the side of the car, I watched him go, and remained exactly where I was not to miss a moment of his coming back.

The perfection of his build was almost painful to watch, the smooth slim boy-body showing the lightest hint of development. His pale pink nipples like little air-brushed spots on him, so subtly photoshopped that you had to look hard to see the soft little nubs. The skin of a boy this age is beyond smooth, touched by pubescent sex magic.

I wasn't the only one watching him walk with a self-conscious stride across the forecourt. A businessman at bowser 3 was overt and obvious in his gaze. As Dane passed by a woman and daughter combo at bowser 15, the daughter – similar age to the boy – actually whipped her head around and proceeded to stare after the lad with an almost angry frown, a sort of Who-Goes-There, Where-Do-You-Think-You're-Going, Get-Back-Here type of stare that girls are so good at. The boy tried valiantly not to show he'd noticed her looking.

But what really did me in was the boy's fresh blonde-like visage. He wasn't strictly speaking a blonde – his short hair graded from brown on top, where he had a bit of tousled length, to almost fully blonde at the sides where the hair was clipped short around sweet little ears. In the bright sunshine, where the short blonde hairs graded seamlessly into peach fuzz then to soft skin, he seemed to give off more light than he received. His eyebrows were blonde and his smile was killer, took all this delicate lit-up aura around him and turned it supernova. The cute young-boy's little nose was just a flat out provocation and scandal.

He flicked glances at me as he approached, again hovering a hand around his tummy, adjusting his jeans, fighting off a silly childish grin that kept playing across his lips.

"All set?" I said, turning to get in the drivers seat.

"Where's the other guy?"

"This is where he lives – he owns this place."

"Oh." He seemed quite surprised.

"Just you and me, bud. Get in," I indicated the passenger seat.

He went first to the back of the station wagon to check on his tee shirt. "Oh shit!" he suddenly cried. "I've got clothes in my bag! I forgot all about 'em!" He dragged the bag to him and rummaged through, but came up empty handed.

"What's in there?" I asked.

He started pulling things out. "Just…two jumpers, some socks, and my jacket. I was in a rush. I was thinking it might get cold, you know, if I slept outside." He gave me a serious look, meant to convey how grave his life circumstances were.

"Don't sweat it, bud – we're passing through town – we'll get something from Darcys."

He picked up the tee shirt that was laid out to dry, and sniffed the bottom third, still damp with his urine. He pulled a face. "Yuk, stinks," he muttered, throwing it back down.

Before closing the back of the station wagon he had another thought, and reached for the plastic orange juice bottle. He frowned, seeing it was now empty. Maybe it had all been a nightmare. Whatever, he quickly dropped the bottle out of sight and got in the passenger seat, shirtless.

"Hungry?" I asked, as we pulled out of the servo. He'd been giving the stash of chips and chocolate constant looks. He was starving and, given the go ahead, made straight for the big bag of salt and vinegar chips.

"Did you see the way that girl was ogling you back there?" I said as we pulled out onto the highway.

"Huh? What girl?" He said it in a tone that hopelessly betrayed his knowing very well what girl. But I was more than willing to play.

"You walked past her on the way back from the toilet. You must have noticed her. Very pretty little thing."

"Oh, um, yeah I noticed a girl there – I don't think she was ogling me."

"I bet if we went back there right now," I continued in low voice, "put her on the bonnet of the car, flipped her little skirt up, you'd find her panties wet through."

"Sam!" he cried, laughing. "Gross, man!" After chomping a few chips he said, "But why would she piss herself?"

I explained she wouldn't have pissed herself, and gave him a vivid description of her pussy getting all wet and slippery because she wanted Dane's big dick shoved up her. I gave him some technical detail to go along with it. He was fascinated, excited, embarrassed and covered his ignorance with, "Oh, yeah, girls get all wet for sex stuff, I know that…" as though it had just momentarily slipped his mind.

He quickly followed up with, "Glenn Rabeson at school, he reckons his older sister got licked out by her boyfriend and it made her sick so she missed two days school. Could that happen?"

"No, she wouldn't have gotten sick from oral sex. He's getting his facts mixed up somewhere."

"Do you have to lick a girl out before you can do it with her?"

"Well, like what we were talking about, a girl getting wet – you have to spend some time getting a girl 'in the mood', get her all excited and wet and ready for you to stick it in. 'Licking her out' is one way – a very good way, but there are other ways."

"So…where do you lick?" he asked.

"You've seen a girl's pussy?"

"Ah, well, I've seen a girl without any clothes on."

"In real life or pictures?"

"Pictures – Glenn brought a picture to school."

In the pre-internet era, ignorance of sexual matters in a boy Dane's age was quite common. Even in today's porn saturated environment, myths and fallacies abound to a surprising degree.

"Did she have her legs spread, so you could see her pussy spread open, where you shove your cock in?"

It was all getting a bit much for the boy. He shook his head, adjusting the lump in his pants. "She was just standing beside a tree, with the biggest boobs ever, and, like, you could see her pubes." He gave a little laugh, adjusting himself again.

"Right, well, we can soon improve on that."

"How do you mean?"

"We'll get some porno mags – I would have got some at the servo if I'd known."

"Really?" the boy said. "Yeah, that'd be cool," he said with affected casualness. I'd seen his boy-cock in full splendour – I knew the kid had a bit of work to do to accommodate himself once fully roused. And he was pretty damn randy right now. I imagined I could see it on the surface of his bare skin, like a patina of invisible goose-bumps; a slight pricking of his nipples, invisible hairs standing up on his lower tummy; a rosy hue rising in his cheeks.

And of course the bold, brash cock lump in his jeans. That spoke volumes.

"But first we'll pick up some gear here," I said as I swung into Darcy's carpark. It was a monolithic departments store that towered over the western side of the shopping precinct.

"What am I going to wear?" the boy said before getting out, making a final shove at his crotch to flatten the tent. "I can't go in like this," looking down at his bare torso.

"Just put your tee shirt on – it's only till we buy something."

But the boy screwed up his face. "No way – it's soaked in piss, Sam."

"It'll be dry by now, and it's probably cleaner than before you pissed on it."

But the boy was adamant. He wouldn't wear it. So he had to settle for putting one of his jumpers on – a big blue hand-knitted thing that looked horribly hot and stuffy in the afternoon heat.

Half way across the car park the boy was complaining good-humouredly. "Jesus, this thing itches!" He kept rubbing the woolen jumper up and down, across his sensitive skin, exposing little flashes of his tummy. The amazing thing was, I'd been watching this boy for the last two hours with his shirt off, but now, catching quick glimpses of his tummy as he scratched was a tremendously exciting coup.

We located the boys-wear section on the third floor. Dane stopped at the first display of tee shirts, picked up a blue and white striped one, and said, "This one's alright."

Then he looked at the price tag and swore. "Forty five bucks! I've only got forty!" And started putting it back.

"Dane," I said, picking the tee shirt back up and handing it to him. "You're in my car – you play by my rules, okay? I thought that was obvious." I gave him a look but he stared blankly at me. "Now pick out half a dozen shirts, a couple of pair of pants, whatever else you need."

The boy frowned, uncertain. I shoved his shoulder. "Come on. We haven't got all day."

The middle-aged woman on duty bustled helpfully up to see if she could help. She told me my son was a very handsome lad – which caused the boy quite a deal of mirth – and made some suggestions, until I politely said we'd be fine just looking around ourselves. If anything, she seemed relieved to be released from her duty.

So we got him loaded up with pants and tee shirts – me insisting on one very smart, conservative long-sleeved shirt – just in case we needed to go somewhere fancy. The boy acquiesced with no hint of a frown this time.

"Sam – I can't get all this!" he finally said, heaving the great load of clothing over his arms.

"Well, let's go and try some of it on." I looked around and spotted the change-rooms on the far side of the large floor. "Over there," I said, pointing. "You go – I'll be there in a moment."

He looked over, saw the doorway to the changing rooms and a young woman at a desk beside it. "Do I have to ask…do I just go in, or do I ask her?"

He was capable of a quite pronounced shyness at times. It made a powerfully attractive combination with his increasing hints of manliness.

"Yeah, just ask her, or walk straight in – I don't think it matters."

As he wandered off, I went to the underwear section and picked out half a dozen pairs of undies. Five plain navy blue briefs, similar to what he was wearing, and one small boy's pair with pictures of sailing boats on 'em.

I took them to the counter where the middle aged lady smiled politely. I explained to her that the boy had "had a bit of an accident while dozing on the long drive – you know boys that age" and so could I please purchase these now so he could put a pair on right now.

She hurriedly waved away my explanation. "That's fine, just fine." She rung up the sale, pausing only briefly to frown at the little sailing-boat pair, before putting it all in a bag. "You know, when my son was that age…" she shook her head. "Dear oh dear. Best to just look the other way, I think."

As I took the bag from her, I said, "Or not."

Over at the change rooms, when I pushed open the door to the only occupied cubicle, Dane looked round in surprise, reflexively covering himself a bit. He was wearing the blue and white striped tee shirt, and just his undies underneath, and was about to pick up a new pair of pants. The undies were only just staying up, the stretched waistband not doing its job very well. He kept making quick tugs at 'em to keep them reasonably decent.

"The tee shirt looks alright," I said, looking both at him and the many reflected images of him in the small multi-mirrored room.

"Yeah, it's okay," the boy said, checking himself out. "Will I get it?"

"Is it big enough? You might need the next size up." I took the jeans from him, put them aside. "Stretch your arms up."

After another impulsive tug up of his undies, he raised his hands in the air, looking at the effect in the mirrors. His undies were hopeless, slipping at the back to show half his tight little butt, and at the front the band only stopped slipping down once it rested on the base of his penis, where his boy sex jutted out a bit. He couldn't leave his arms up for long before reaching down for some corrective action on the slipping cotton briefs.

"You're underpants aren't worth the material they're weaved from, Dane," I said, and was pleased to see the red-cheeked boy laugh.

"They got stretched in the car…" he said, as if in explanation, which was a bit odd, given my rather central role in his ordeal by urine.

"By your cock being too big?" I asked.

"Ha! Yeah, right!" Then continuing with a more overt fishing attempt: "It's not that big."

"Your cock's a pretty good size, buddy," I said seriously. "Above average, definitely."

"Really?"

"For your age, absolutely. And still growing. That's why that poor girl at the servo was all pouty and put out. She could tell by the way you walked. She knew you were packing heat."

"Bullshit," the boy scoffed. "That's bullshit…isn't it?"

"Well, I might be doing her more credit than she deserves, but she was responding to your stud heat – no doubt about that."

Some nervous laughter from the boy. He said, "I had a girlfriend earlier this year at school, but nothing much happened."

"You didn't even get your hand between her legs?"

"Ha! Geez! Ya know – almost once!" The boy suddenly blurted a barely comprehensible tale of himself and Glenn being with their girlfriends at Glenn's place, and Glenn had done something which had caused both girls to run away, although Dane was a little too over excited in the telling to make a lot of sense.

As he told his tale, Dane began worriedly squeezing at his boy-package, trying to quell the sudden surge of arousal. It's a reliable bit of old black magic – say the word "sex" three times to a thirteen year old boy and he'll change into a horny toad. Only kissing him will make him charming again.

I came close. "Here, let me fix 'em," indicating his droopy undies.

"They're too stretched," he said, making another effort to squash his erection flat to one side.

"Leave it," I said, tapping his hand away. "Take your tee shirt off."

"Huh? But I like this one," he said.

"But I want you to take it off," I said.

After a final, obsessive straightening of his undies, he started lifting the tee up over his head, showing the tender flare of his rib cage. I took over adjusting the soft cotton undies on him. At the back, with the palm of my hand, I slid them up and over and around his half-exposed butt. My hand spanned almost the entire width of his tight little cheeks, and he repeatedly dipped his knees, discarding his tee shirt, as I kept sliding the soft fabric on his smooth bottom.

Just in his underpants and socks, he was massively, fully erect. He couldn't stop flicking glances at himself in the mirror. His loose undies were held up by his hard-on that still bent inside them hard to one side. He reacted skittishly when I rubbed his hard penis – twitching and curving away, laughing and grabbing at my hand and saying, "Shit…geez, Sam, I'm getting a stiff…" I think it was a bit much for him – surrounded by three mirror images of his fully aroused form, so he couldn't help but see his own embarrassing arousal and so get more embarrassed by it, and so get more and more aroused – a rather giddy feedback loop.

I hooked one finger in the loose band of his undies, tugged him toward me, back dead centre of the brightly lit change room. "Stand still a minute, Dane. I want to get a proper look at you." I moved to take his undies off. As soon as I unhooked them from his cock, got them around the perky rise of his butt, they fell directly down the length of his smooth legs into a little puddle round his ankles. He looked down at himself, gave a classic boy-gulp at his stiffie sticking out. His foreskin still completely covered the glans, tightish, like a virginal sheath needing to be torn. Despite his impressive boy-size, his penis still had the tender quality of immaturity, as though he still needed to be rubbed and ripened a little more. And the sheer, perfect straightness of his hard pale shaft – another trait of pubescence, as though a boy's sexual excitement at that age takes place at a higher level, not yet dulled and muddied with adult engorgement.

"Stand up straight," I said. "Arms by your side."

"Sam…" he muttered. "It's too…stiff." But he did as I said, jigging on his feet a bit, flicking glances from me to the reflection of himself on either side, so that he could even see the flex of his buttocks as he shifted on his feet.

"Chest out," I said, standing beside him, putting a hand on his lower back, the other on his young chest, guiding him to a manly stance. "Good boy," I said. "Feet slightly apart. Good. You're a fucking stud, Dane," I said, getting a predictably scoffing laugh from the lad, but he checked to see if I was serious, and I was serious. I got behind him. Hands on his shoulders, running down across his chest, the early development there, a soft hint of future musculature. I felt his small pale nipples, the non-existent little nubs suddenly springing into hard little points as he twisted and curved his upper body in response

"Show me your biceps, Dane," I said, bringing a hand to grip him there. He automatically raised his arm to flex his bicep. It was perfect – a sweet poignant little boy lump, but with a genuine kernel of hardness. "Good hard stud muscle," I said, pressing my thumb into the apex. "Good boy. That's fucking hard, bud."

So that he was having a lot trouble standing still, fidgeting boyishly, regularly clenching his butt as he made his too-stiff cock lurch and buck. He was well past the point a lad would normally jack himself off with a fast hard snarl.

"You should get naked more often, Dane," I said.

"Ha-ha." He gulped. "And flash my stiffy everywhere."

"Sure."

"Walk down the street in the raw," the kid continued facetiously, but loving it.

"Well, no, I wouldn't recommend that. But in the right places, say in the change-rooms at a public pool. You should walk around naked, show the men your sex…" I moved to his side a bit, running a hand down his front, across his tight tummy to his smooth white pubic mound, the part of him that looked so white and naked and virginal.

"No way…I don't flash myself…perverted."

"Not for boys your age, Dane," I said, and started ever so lightly caressing his fiercely hard cock. "You're supposed to show your sex to the menfolk. Puberty is a visual spectacle. Men should be allowed to see your cock getting bigger, your constant erections, your first pubic hair starting to grow. It's important for men to know when a boy starts producing semen." I plucked at his tiny fringe of dark pubic hair, tightly hugging the base of his penis. "Then men know to take an interest in a boy, to help him become a stud who will fuck lots of pretty little girls in service stations."

He gave an impatient grunt.

I got behind him again, the boy's face showing serious signs of sexual frustration. I put my hands on his tight, slim little hips. "You've got some serious fuck power here, Dane. Stud power, buddy. You can see it, you can feel it." And right now I could feel it humming in him, like a nuclear core. A couple of times he reached to his painful cock and squeezed the knob, pinched the foreskin down over the end, gave a frustrated little grunt.

"I want to see you fuck, Dane," I said, letting his hips go, reaching into my top pocket.

"Huh? A girl…?" the dazed boy murmured, looking around but seeing only his own nude arousal beaming at him from all directions.

I pulled out a little bottle of body oil and unscrewed the cap. "One step at a time, bud. Walk before you fuck, and all that."

He watched closely as I squeezed a generous amount of runny oil onto his cock, quickly taking him in my hand to coat and rub him.

"Ah – fuck – Sam!" His hips recoiled like I'd burnt him, his hands shooting in to ward off my sudden stimulation – it was too much – the boy was instantly one exquisite slippery squeeze away from blowing his load.

"Come on," I said with a laugh, letting his glazed cock go, taking him by the arm and guiding him forward, closer to the mirror in front.

"Wha-?"

"Lean against the mirror, like I'm a cop about to frisk you."

"Why?" he said, not hesitating to take up the position.

"Good boy." I formed my fist into a ready-for-masturbation shape, and poured oil all over it, got it completely coated and slippery.

"What are you going to do?" he asked, not so much curious as urgently needing something sexy to happen.

"I'm not going to do anything," I said, "but you are."

I brought my fist under the lithe curve of the boy's arched form – put it near the head of his straining cock. "Now show me how you fuck, stud."

"Wha-?" He wasn't at his mentally most acute right now. But every tiny little blonde hair on the nape of his neck stood on end. The body electric knew what to do.

Indicating my oil-dripping fist, I said, "This is a girl's tight little pussy, and your job is to fuck it. See if you can destroy it with your big stud cock."

The boy, with an excited little laugh and jiggling his knees a bit, peering down at the oily orifice of my fist, said, "What, so, like, stick my dick in…?"

"That's it exactly, bud."

And with a big excited silly grin, the boy began to position himself – spread his stance a bit, push his hips forward to bring the tip of his cock to my firm, unmoving fist. Then, like the cute dabs of a kindergarten finger-painter, he poked his knob gently against the opening of my fist. But I had it curled up nice and tight and there would be no easy slipping it in for the boy. He again adjusted his position, hands on the mirror, feet a little wider – the slender young form of him on magnificent display – and jabbed a little more purposefully at my fist, but still got nowhere.

"Sam," he said with a frustrated laugh. "Make it bigger."

"No. You fuck it harder," I said. "You're carrying on like a little boy trying to suck his thumb. You've got a stud cock – use it."

It stung him a bit. He reached a hand down to grapple slightly with my fist. I kept it as immobile as I could, but the determined boy tilted it slightly and jammed his cock at it with good strong thrust. He didn't get it in, but it forced his foreskin right back over his glans – the boy made a sharp intake of breath, pulled back for a quick peek at his cock before he quickly put it back and made another powerful thrust. I made sure to let him get a small way in, and he gave quit an aggressive little grunt and straight away thrust again, harder, and then quicker again and again with sudden ragged breaths.

"Good boy," I said.

The colour had risen in his cheeks and he had a gorgeous snarl starting on his face. With a good feel for it, he jammed his boy-cock fully into my tightly resisting fist – I felt the tiny tickle of his pubic hair and the padded press of his pubic bone – but only for an instant – the boy was in a hurry, and he started unleashing some urgent, sexy little boy-fuck moves. Not proper in and out fucking, but furiously fast little grinds and jabs, trying to get his knob rubbed just right – hard and fast and nasty. I now adjusted my grip to properly masturbate him. I pumped my slippery fist to try and match his frantic burst of rabbit fucks. In an instant he was savagely excited, making some angry grunts, getting too hot too fast, the grunts quickly turning to a rising whine. His tender little knob started appearing out the end of my fist, as a blur, a painfully swollen purple that looked like it might pop like a grape.

He was never going to last long – but the savagery of his pace took my breath away. And I helped him belt to his orgasm just as fast and frantically as he could get there. He let out a stifled yelp, taking tiny steps forward, little butt clenched hard, then almost genuflected back out of my hand at the final too-exquisite peak, before he burst into his hot liquid orgasm, made a lovely string of little humps and bucks, grunting with spittle, neck tendons straining, as he shot his little squirts of boy-milk into my hand, running down on the carpet, spattering the mirror a little. My slick oiled fist turned instantly to a milky spermy cock bath, sloppy and dripping with the generous flow of his boy juice.

As he came to a slow shivery finish, he very quickly flinched out of my grip, his cock suddenly too tender to touch. After some dazed breaths, he became concerned with easing his foreskin back down over the head of his cock. I was about to suggest he let it be, wait till his erection went down, when there was a sudden startling knock at the door.

"How is everything gentleman?" the middle-aged woman enquired with polite professionalism.

"Splendid, thanks," I said, putting a calming hand on the boy's thigh, who was now frantically grabbing for clothes, anything to cover himself with. "We should be out in just a minute."

"Did everything fit alright?"

And the exquisite agony suffered by both me and the boy, as we fought down a volcanic eruption of suppressed laughter, was almost as intense as the boy's magnificent sexual display. Almost.

The End