"Do you remember me, Claude?" The hand that grasped Claude's own gave it a slight squeeze, as if to convey some secret message. The hand was slim and bony, almost without hair. It was neither masculine nor feminine, but warm. The voice was more interesting, Claude thought. The pitch, which was high, was not important-sounding. Rather, what struck Claude was the rise and fall of certain stressed syllables.
Claude had seen other male homosexuals, and he knew what they were and what they did. Yet it was already clear to him that the effeminacy that he had seen television comedians – and even other children at school – ridicule, had little relation to the behavior of any women he had known – not his mother, and certainly not any of her more mannish women friends, nor any of his friends' mothers. In the behavior of men like Tony, the imitation of women seemed to gain something. If it lost anything, Claude was not quite sure of what that was.
"What's for dinner?" Tony asked casually, his tone expectant but not at all serious.
"Shrimp Creole," Elaine replied for Irene, who was preparing it at the stove. The homosexual's eyes traveled again to the boy, who looked away. Claude did not suspect it, but Tony was suppressing a dirty joke about dessert.
Something about the man – who must have been thirty, though everything about him, dress, hair-style, and even speech, was calculated to make him seem younger – impressed Claude. Irene had prepared him for the visit by showing him photographs of clothes Tony had designed for women. The bright colors and the designer's almost geometric concern with line and flow had pleased the boy's primitive aesthetic sense, and he was impressed by the mentions Elaine had made of his wealth. He was gratified when his mother had excitedly opened the present Tony had brought her. The dress the package contained was certainly prettier than the one he had brought for Elaine – though Elaine always professed unconcern for fashion.
Tony seemed genuinely interested in Claude; the boy was almost embarrassed at having his opinions – on a variety of matters – taken quite so seriously. He knew that Tony was treating him as a clever child, but there was nothing condescending about his attitude.
All four moved to the living room with coffee after dinner, but Irene returned to the kitchen to wash the dishes while Elaine and Tony talked. The television set was on, but Claude could barely hear it under the camouflage of conversation. He was left out of the discussion – it almost seemed as if Elaine was competing with him for Tony's attention.
Perhaps she felt she had won, but in any case she rose after ten minutes. Claude could not have said why he stayed; why he did not return to his own room. But he had felt the fascination with male adults before.
"Do you have any girlfriends?" The tone was casual, and Claude could detect the irony in the question. He shook his head. "Do you like boys?"
The blood rushed through Claude's chest was not fear, and Claude did not recoil. It was a nervousness similar to what he had felt when Francine had made him touch her. Yet Tony had not touched him. Blood made his penis swell, and a growing erection surprised the boy as it strained against his cotton underpants.
"Elaine said you knew the facts of life, Claude." The voice was sly. He shifted a few inches closer on the couch. Claude looked at him appraisingly; he did not know what to make of the proposition he knew was coming. The uncertainty, in turn, evoked passivity, and when Tony's hand rested, cupped over his knee, he merely waited for the next move.
Tony was pleasantly surprised that Claude did not move back, shocked, out of his reach. Claude had advanced to a point where shock and even mild surprise were no longer a possibility. Each new indignity was but the fulfillment of the prophecy of prior indignities. And the feeling inside his warm prick would have made him wait, in any case, out of curiosity for what he would feel when the hand finally did grasp his phallus.
That contact was delayed, however. Tony turned and faced him completely, just as Tony's hand reached under his arm and, pressing at the small of his back, drew him closer. Tony's mouth breathed warm air into Claude's nostrils. The designer nudged closer, and Claude felt a bristle from the man's light beard tickle his lower lip, just as the lips pushed forward and covered Claude's thinner lips with their moist softness.
Tony's tongue shoved forward between the boy's lips and caressed his tongue. The tip rolled against his inner cheek, ran over the surface of his side teeth, then wrapped itself over and over again around Claude's tongue, which was passive as the older man made love to it with his own tongue. The glossy spit wet Claude's lips, and the rustling of Tony's teeth made them ache.
The designer raised his hand to Claude's chest, and he rubbed the boy's cotton shirt over the nipple until it was stiff and felt raw. He pulled the shirt out of Claude's trousers and moved his hand lightly against the naked skin beneath. Tony rolled his fingertip inside the navel and Claude breathed in deeply. His cock twitched and slid against the drop of gummy fluid that had spurted onto the front flap of the briefs.
Tony noticed the movement below Claude's stomach and moved his hand down from the adolescent's chest to his crotch. He pulled at the zipper, and Claude held his breath while the man extricated his penis from inside his briefs. Tony pulled at the head, his fingertips tight around the shaft. He bent the cock down and then released it, letting it spring back until it was stiff and upright once again. His other hand jammed against the small of Claude's back, drilling the boy to him, supporting him as Tony began to play with his sex. His hand turned at the wrist so that when he had pulled the skin around the cock to expose the glans, he could brush his small finger against the scrotum. Claude's balls wriggled inside.
The cock pointed straight out of the undone zipper and undershorts. Tony held it motionless for a moment before he dropped to his knees before the couch. Pushing the boy's limbs apart with his hands, Tony kissed the cockhead with closed lips, then washed the head clean of the seminal spray with his tongue. The cock moved in a spasm as Claude's fists clenched at his side.
Tony rose and pulled at his belt. He unbuttoned his tight pants and pushed them down almost to his knees. They clung to his skin and would not go further. He wore no underclothing, and his penis was straight and hard. It was the color of marble, surrounded at its root by a web of blond pubic hair that almost obscured the small pink bag that hung under the cock's base. The scrotum seemed out of proportion to the rest of his sex.
Kneeling, the man bent back, his palms supporting his upper torso. Claude knew what Tony wanted him to do, but he hesitated, afraid of the giant cock, afraid it would choke him.
Impatient or over-excited, Tony sprang forward and stood up, his firm organ pointing into Claude's face. He would have moved forward immediately had the child not looked down so wonderingly at the cock, devouring it with admiring eyes. Tentatively Claude reached out to touch it, then closed his hand around it.
Tony leaned forward and put both hands against the back of the couch. He raised one knee and then the other to the couch, his legs spread wide. His prick pushed against Claude's diaphragm. He reached behind him and tugged at Claude's knees.
"Move down," he told the boy. "You don't have to take it in your mouth. Just lick it with your tongue."
Claude obeyed willingly. His hips and then his back slid against the seat cushion. His lips touched the prick and he sniffed it. He pushed his tongue up against the dry slit. A single bead of white foam answered the pressure, and he curled the tongue back inside his mouth, taking it, while his lips pressed forward. The white goo left a heavy film like that of butterfat on his upper palate. His tongue moved instinctively out of his mouth and washed the round slope of the prick until the tip touched the glans, and Tony moaned approvingly.
Claude knew he had struck home, and he moved along the rim of the exposed head, fascinated by his discovery. Tony's pelvis shifted as Claude's head bobbed, his tongue tracing the purple line under the prick and back again. He ducked and pulled the scrotum toward himself, taking the entire small sac into his mouth. He was instinctively gentle with the delicate testicles, and his hand moved back up the groin, the fingers playing with Tony's thick pubic hair. Tony reached down and guided the boy's small hand back to the prick itself. Now his fingertips raced across the shaft, not manipulating the foreskin but grazing all along the side of the penis. His nose bumped the flatter underside as his head moved back to the tip.
This time he dared to take, it in. He opened his mouth as wide as if he were trying to show a doctor his throat. Frightened, he brought his teeth down against the foreskin, lightening the pressure when Tony grunted his pain.
At first his tongue rolled around the bulb, while his teeth pushed against the rounded top of the erection. "Suck in, Claude," the man sighed, running his sweating palm tenderly against the boy's ear. Claude dug his teeth in and started to inhale. The air whistled through the openings in his teeth as he sucked hard. His tongue flexed against the bottom side of the tool and moved against the ridge of the glans. Tony tried to move forward in the child's small mouth, but the teeth bit down and kept him stationary.
Instead, the designer moved backward and then rolled his stomach forward, re-inserting the cock. Claude grabbed the staff with his hand to keep it from surging forward and overwhelming him, choking him on its bulk.
But Tony was content to wiggle, touching the insides of the young boy's cheek with the head, rubbing his foreskin against the edges of the lower front teeth. He pulled back with force and then wrapped his own hand over Claude's, wiping the head against the thick young lips, smoothing the cum that had already started to dribble from the slit over the outside of Claude's mouth.
Claude's eyes widened as Tony's hand disappeared under his buttock. The man seemed to be pushing a single finger inside his own rectum. The plugging excited him, and the anxious movement of the cock against the outside of his own mouth excited Claude, who raced to take it inside, not thinking what the conclusion to the act would be, only knowing the object of the game was to give the prick safe harbor.
Not only his tongue but the roof of his mouth worked on the solid cock, rubbing down the glans. His hand tightened around the base, and he felt the wires of blond hair rustle against the side of his clenched fist as he pulled the skin down, then rode it up again. He opened his tired hand, then pressed his fingers against one side of the rod, his thumb against the other; he began jerking the cock off with blurring speed. His other hand found the scrotum; the fingertips rolled over the surface, forcing movement of the tiny globes inside. He drew his mouth away from the bulbous dome to breathe in a mouthful of air, and just then the stiff prick began to erupt, pouring out in great white sprays against the boy's face. It stuck to his cheek, his lips, his chin – and a single clump landed on the shoulder of his cotton shirt.
His hand had not let go of the cock, and he pumped the organ until the cum was completely drained. Only then did he begin to feel the heat against his fingertips, only then did he sense the moisture, the sweat which had been drawn from the skin. The smell was more intense now. There were two competing odors, one almost sickly sweet, the other a heavy sexual smell, hormones and juices, not all that different than the smell of his fingers when he had drawn them away from Francine's cunt. It was salty, this smell, and sour at the same time.
More cum had run down the sides of Tony's prick. It was still stiff, still huge. It seemed to blush, but perhaps that was the contrast of the skin with the pure white fluid. Tony rested his buttocks on his heels, and he touched Claude's penis with the same hand that had plied his own asshole. The index especially was warm, and it was drier than the rest of the fingers, which were clammy with perspiration. He moved his belly up off the couch, following the head of his cock into Tony's folding hand.
Tony's other arm was at his side, his hand pulling at Claude's ass cheek. He turned around and sank down on the cock, drawing his own buttock away to make the way easier. He jabbed his whole weight against the head, aiming Claude's cock at his sphincter.
The tight filament of skin was so warm it burned the slit at the penis' tip. A bubble of pre-cum pushed out and covered the small slash, and Tony sighed as he moved Claude's penis against his anus to wash the outside of the tight hole with the cum. He pushed down again, and this time the hole swallowed up the cock like a vacuum. In one stroke the thin column moved up the converging dry walls, until Tony's muscular buttocks touched the adolescent's thighs. Then he pushed up again. Each new descent on the fleshy pole was easier. The phallus was large enough to rub the inner muscle tissue, yet not so big as to tear at it.
The fit was tighter than Francine's cunt had been, but the way was less well-oiled. The muscles clamped down on the penis, which was not much more than two fingers in width. The tissue hugged the exposed glans as Tony squatted to accommodate the erection.
Claude did not push up to meet the counter-thrusts, afraid he would slip from the fleshy vise. Each new stroke was like a squeezing of his phallus, and the blood inside seemed to percolate, almost clotting as he waited for the speed to grow faster and force the cum out of him.
He came before Tony's movements could accelerate much, and Claude's sperm made the final movements easier, bathing the inside of the rectum with warm, thick goo that foamed against the raw, contracted tissue.
Tony was pulling down on his own foreskin as he rammed his ass down on the small prick, and as Claude's orgasm ended his own wad spurted out.
They were both tired, and neither moved. Unconscious of his body now, Tony let his weight press against Claude's limbs, until the boy squirmed underneath him, breaking Tony's reverie.
"I'm sorry," he said, rising up off the couch. A long strand of cum connected his stomach to the tip of his cock, which had not yet begun to go limp. Claude's penis was a wrinkled, limp muscle, and when the child touched it, the glans seemed rubbed raw by the anus' friction.
Irene rose from the kitchen floor, exhausted from the orgasm Elaine's tongue had given her. She smoothed her clothing, but the creases were apparent. Her hair was disheveled; she tried to rearrange her hair by her reflection in the bottom of a copper frying pan, but she was largely unsuccessful. Elaine looked at her with some amusement at the feminine concern for neatness. She pulled at the single hair which she had accidentally yanked from Irene's cunt when she sucked her, and which was now caught between two lower teeth near the front of her mouth. When she had removed it, her tongue licked the back of the teeth unconsciously, as if to polish the enamel.
Irene entered the living room. Elaine, watching her from behind, stayed in the kitchen.
"What…?" There was a hollow ring to the question; before the single word was completed, Irene had her answer. All at once her eyes picked up details – the stains on Claude's clothing. Tony's unzippered trousers.
Tony turned to Elaine, and when Irene saw his eyes focus behind her, she turned to face her lover.
"I told him," the lesbian said calmly.
"You told him what?" There was more impatience than anger in the response; though she knew she would hate the answer, Irene was compelled to ask it.
"I told him that you wanted Claude to be one of us."
Irene's mind contracted like a single aching muscle, so tight that thought was impossible for a moment. For a moment, she thought she must address her reply not to Elaine but to Terry. Then she realized that Terry had gone. Terry had almost always been gone. She could hardly remember when Terry had been with her…
She knew instantly that there was no reply she could give that would make sense. Her impulse to object was emotional; not logical. And the weakness she felt when confronting Elaine – the same weakness she had offered up to previous lovers, none of whom had wanted unconditional surrender as badly as Elaine – drowned the emotion before it could find words…
"It's all right, Mom," Claude said softly. "It was fun." She had been forgiven before her mind could comprehend the sin.