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| This Boys Life | |
| By Leo | ||||||||||||||
| 05 August 2006 | ||||||||||||||
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I suppose we all have to accept that we are the product of our genetic inheritance and upbringing. Contains some adult themes. 1951 His real parents had given him up. They fled their homeland had been torn apart by violence and destruction, it was not safe for him to stay. He didn’t really have any choice, he was no more than a baby at the time. Later, when he looked back, it really hurt to think that maybe, just maybe, they didn’t love him enough to keep him. Maybe that was why he so needed to be loved and liked so much. His adolescent awkwardness the only barrier to him articulating his need. His new parents, Jon and Martha, were simple rural folks. They weren’t exactly young but they took him into their lives and treated him like he was their own. Their farm became his first real home. His surrogate father was a powerful man, who knew only honest toil. His big hands callused by gripping farm implements these past forty years. He worked hard in the fields and lived only for the company of his beloved wife. Tonight she lay on their bed. Her wrists tied to the bedposts by the shot silk scarves she’d picked up from the thrift store on the corner of maple and fourth. Her tousled hair clung to the sweat on her brow. The smell of sex musk clung heavy in the hot moist air. The ceiling fan doing little to dislodge its powerful odour on this humid summer night. Her husband stood at the bottom of the bed, breathing hard and heavy. He was stood naked except for her pantyhose. Her dress ones she’d worn to church last Sunday. He rubbed himself through the sheer, silky denier whose gentle contact so aroused him. Their gossamer delicacy clung tight to his thick muscular legs and engorged member. Sometimes when his new parents were out the boy would slip into their bedroom and stand in front of the mirror. Wearing the same soft, sensuous apparel. Part of the scintillating excitement was the knowledge that his mother would likely be home from the store at any time. This was his deep, dark secret. And he knew he could be found out at any moment. The artifice and cunning he was required to exercise only heightened the excitement he felt pulse through his body as he indulged his covert needs. His breath deepening as he stood there and surrendered his imagination to the possible. A nervous tremor would sometimes seize his leg as he swallowed hard, as it did now. Just then, his mother called out. “Help!.. Help me!.…” She implored her husband. A damsel in distress. Tied to the symbolic train tracks. “Save me, and I will surely do just anything you want… anything..” “Fear not pretty lady, your rescuer is at hand..” he replied as he clutched himself, thick and hard. Arriving at the headboard, he tore away the flimsy silk restraints, and turned her over. She drew her knees up to her stomach and offered herself. He thrust his nylon swathed loin up against her warm sex and rubbed himself. Building a warm, satisfying friction in moments. Gritting his teeth, he rode the early waves of the resultant frotteural ecstasy. “Tell me you’re grateful… tell me… tell me!”, he implored. “Oh kind sir, thank you… thank you for rescuing me… you are so fine.. so very fine…” With that he peaked, his face contorting in a naked expression of primal release. His breathing became even more laboured as he collapsed onto the bed, a wet patch forming along the waistband of the tights, as his spent seed leaked out. Just then he turned his head toward the door. His eyes widened. Was that his imagination or did he hear something outside the door? The boy pulled back from the keyhole, breathless, his heart racing. He paused for a moment, listening intently. Nothing. Quickly he pulled up his pyjama bottoms and made haste in his stocking feet along the hall towards the safety of his room. He clambered onto his bed and quickly pulled his bed sheets up over himself. Covering his flushed face, he waited for his heart rate and breathing to return to normal. There were no footsteps. Nobody came. He had survived once again. Laying in the darkness he ran everything through his mind. Over and over again. Even at this tender age, he had already decided, that when he grew up, he would not hide who he was, or how he felt. His needs were powerful. They intensified every day. And his body was changing too, growing bigger and stronger. As he pondered his future, the moon cast light through his open window and illuminated the tin soldiers that lay scattered on the floor. The survivors of yet another battle against the evil tyrants that would try daily to take over the planet. The war would continue to be waged tomorrow. He would fight to save his homeland, nothing and nobody would force him to leave. Ever. But just now he needed rest. Sleep finally overwhelmed him. He was exhausted and could fight the fatigue no more. So the young Clarke Kent closed his eyes and waited for the fantastical dreams to come..
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