Pure as the Driven Snow

Copyrighted 2014 © Sam Johnson

Edited by Andrew Cass

“Okay, that’s good,” I said, immediately checking the camera to see how the shot had worked. Pretty damn fine, unsurprisingly. “But if we’re really going to impress her, you’ll have to drop your pants as well. Just having your shirt off doesn’t quite do it.”

The boy, looking at me cheekily from under his grey beanie, made as if to start unbuttoning his jeans…but broke off laughing. “Yeah, right – you wish!”

And he was right – I did wish. For the last five days, since I’d met Blake from Chalet No. 3, I’d done nothing but wish. But now, I felt, was the moment to man up.

“Come on, Blake!” I said. “I’m trying to help here – I’m trying to work on your generational level. If you want to impress this girl, you’ve got to send her a picture of your dick. Everyone knows that. Don’t worry about flowers and chocolates – sexting is where it’s at.”

He laughed, enjoying the attention, but shaking his head. He leaned back on the old striped beach chair, the seat just inches off the ground, an incongruous find of the boy’s in this secluded little snowfield. Stretching his legs further out in front of him, he put his hands behind his head, showing off his smooth boy-pits.

“At least unzip your jeans – let her see your bulge – girls expect a boy to sex it up these days, Blake.”

He grabbed the sides of the chair, dug the heels of his sneakers into the snow-dusted earth, and pushed his hips up while making a jokingly lewd grope of his crotch. “How about that?” he asked.

“Good! That’s good!” I quickly brought the camera up but he just as quickly took his hand away and sat back down.

Oh this boy was too much. When I met him five days ago, he just happened to have his shirt off, out the front of his chalet, dicking around with his skis. He LOVED walking around without a shirt on. The late winter sunshine was a godsend for us all. That tight little boy-body with its budding form was obviously his pride and joy. Whenever I wandered over to chat to him (which was often), and he had his shirt off (which was always), there was always a frisson, an unspoken awareness of his sexual display

But so far I’d hadn’t laid a finger on him – him in his tight jeans and sneakers, on the balls of his feet, always dancing and laughing just out reach, while adjusting his beanie, swiping the hair from his eyes.

“So we’re just going to go with this, are we?” I said, taking a few more shots of him sitting in the chair, legs spread just a little wider than innocence would admit. He was getting bored by the photo thing, and flipped the bird at me, then stuck his tongue out.

“Tongue,” I said, nodding. “That’s good, Blake – that’ll get her wet.”

“Gross!” he cried, in his still quite high voice.

Young Blake was in the red zone. His randiness had kicked in big time, the thought of seeing this girl’s tits got him horribly excited (Nicole, I think her name was, or Sylvia or something). But he was also held in check by a lingering girl-germ phobia. We both knew it was all a game for now. From my questioning of him, he hadn’t as yet sought out the hard core porn freely available to boys these days. Titties he liked, but nothing grosser. He was all sexed up with nowhere to stick it at the moment.

Then he called, “Why don’t we send her a picture of YOUR dick!” making it echo dangerously off the nearby line of trees.

“Buddy,” I said, making an exaggerated grab of my cock. “Poor little Mary couldn’t cope with this monster – she’d be so scared she’d have to join a nunnery.”

Laughing, the boy said, “It’s ‘Annabel’, Sam! You never get her name right!” He was about to stand up out of the chair.

“Stay there!” I said. “Seriously, bud – let’s get a decent photo.”

“You’ve already taken a hundred!” he protested, but relaxed back into the chair, willing to put up with being the centre of attention a bit longer. When we’d wandered out here, past the resort’s storage sheds to this private little place, Blake had picked up an old discarded beach chair and promptly set himself down in it. One thing led to another and he readily agreed to take his jumper and shirt off – he was keen on the joke idea of sending Sally a photo of his shirtless self.

“What,” I said to him. “Cindy’s not worth taking a little time?”

“ANNABEL!” he yelled

“Jesus, Blake, how many girl are you screwing, anyway?”

“Ha! Yeah, right. I wish.”

“Okay, show off your muscles – you’ve got a bullshit body for a boy your age, Blake – now work it.”

He rolled his eyes, and in a mocking way did a bicep pose with both arms out. “I can’t do this – it’ll just look stupid.” But he had quick look at his biceps, quietly straining hard to make them bulge up, which they did, fresh little lumps of boy dough, just starting to rise.

“No, not like that,” I said, and came forward, tucking the camera away in my pocket. I plonked down on my knees between the boys spread legs. “Your strength is here,” I said, putting my hands onto his shoulders. “Lift your arms up, straight out to the sides, work your shoulder muscles.”

He had pushed back a bit in the chair, a little startled at my sudden close contact, after five days of very chaste, hands-off flirting. But he raised his arms up, and I felt the lad’s young shoulders bunch and thicken, not with hardened muscle, but firmly budding boy flesh.

I squeezed his shoulders. “Impressive, Blake. You pick up some weights in a year or two, you’ll fucken explode into a muscle-bound stud. Seriously.”

He scoffed a bit, still pushing back in his chair, taking quick glances at my hands on him. “I do push ups,” he said, “like, at school an’ that.”

“It shows.”

I moved one hand down across his chest, feeling the subtle shape of his boyish pecs, the soft little point of a nipple under my fingers. “But here, Blake,” I said, running my hand right down his front, across his tight tummy to the top of his jeans, and slowly back up. “Your upper body has form and compactness – a natural strength to it. I noticed it the first time I saw you with your shirt off. You’re coming to my local gym when we get back to the city.”

He made a sort of protesting clearing of his throat, as if to deny my compliments. But mainly he was a bit buzzed and freaked by my bold touching of him. The boy had, for five days now, been displaying his developing body to me – and the fact that he wasn’t fully conscious of his actions only drove me wilder. His strutting and posing was both brazen and innocent. So, to be noticed and responded to like this was a shock to him, what with our adult society being so determined to avert its gaze from the blooming buds of youth.

I gripped the sides of his waist, thumbs pointing in to his tummy button. “Show me your six pack,” I told him.

He tensed his tummy hard, a little bit of colour starting to rise in his cheeks.

“Good boy,” I said, pushing my thumbs firmly into the hard muscle under the soft little layer of boy skin. “Fuck yeah, feel that.”

“Huh?” he said, looking down at himself, shifting a bit in the chair.

“This,” I said, removing my hand to run a knuckle gently down one side of his tummy, along the gentle crease of a future plate-like stomach muscle. “I can read your future in lines like this, Blake – better than a palm reader.”

“Yeah?” The boy looked, with a bit of a shiver, at my knuckle tracing down his smooth skin. “What’s my future, then?” he said in his tenor voice.

“You’ll be a fucking stud,” I said, moving to undo the button of his jeans. It was a tight little bastard of a button, worthy of its owner, and I had to work at it, digging my knuckles into his lower tummy, making the boy suck in, shift to one side in his chair, slide a heel along the snow-dusted earth. But he chose to stay there and watch me undo his pants.

“A fucking stud,” I continued, “who little Megan will be whimpering and begging to please fuck her.”

The boy gave a nervous laugh as I finally undid the button of his jeans. The pants were a tight fit on his slim little hips, and even working the fly down was a bit tricky, especially as I was now bumping and nudging his boy sex, which got him a bit jumpy.

“Sam,” he said, moving his hands to mine, although not making a really serious attempt to intervene. “Sam, don’t,” he said, in a more serious voice: “I’ve only got a small one.”

I stopped and looked at him. He only briefly glanced at me, used his fingers to try and pull the top of his jeans back together again.

“Blake, buddy, I don’t want to be mean, but you’ve only got a small everything – even your stud’s body is small – you’re still a kid.”

His face was set. “I’ve got a small one, I know that.”

“How do you know that?” I asked, quite seriously interested. “When I asked you yesterday about how many boys are circumcised these days, you said you didn’t know – you haven’t seen the other boys’ dicks.”

“Yeah, but…even in sex ed they have pictures an’ that,” he muttered.

“Come on, show me the damage,” I said. But, quite dexterously, he’d already got his jeans button done back up, goddamn it.

I thought I’d lost him, but he was still making no move to get up out of the chair, so I persisted. “Seriously, Blake, show me your cock – I’ll tell you exactly what you’ve got, how bad your situation is. Surely it’s better to know the worst.”

He took a breath, gave a small shrug, and moved his hands up to adjust the beanie on his head, again showing me his boy pits, and leaving his jeans free from obstruction.

I wasn’t sure whether his claim of having a “small one” was a genuine fear about his size, or whether it was shyness at the prospect of exposing himself. Like most boys these days, he simply didn’t get naked in front of other boys or men. During puberty, that’s a recipe for neurotic shyness. It doesn’t have to be that way, but it is easy for it to become that way

“Jesus,” I muttered with mock exasperation. “Now I’ve gotta get this damn button undone again.”

But I got it undone in a flash this time. The green light was on, but perilously so, and I wasn’t going to muck around. I worked the fly right down, the jeans spreading to show a nice swathe of his dark blue undies.

Obviously, in the position he was, with his legs spread either side of me, I wasn’t going to be able to get his jeans pulled down very far, but I reached behind him, got my hands under the denim waistline and started yanking them down over his butt. It was surprisingly difficult, and the boy made a few startled “careful” and “ooh-ow” expressions – but he did finally put his hands on the side-bars of the chair to lift himself up a bit.

So I got his pants pulled down to fully expose his undies and his upper thighs – his undies had dragged down a bit with the jeans – half his little butt was showing, as snowy white as the ground below. And in front the undies had also dragged down, but not showing anything other than the smooth white skin of his pubic region, a region that in a few short years would be a dense and tangled forest, but right now was as starkly virginal as our surroundings.

I hooked my fingers under the waistband of his undies and pulled them down, stretching and wrenching them to get him fully exposed.

And I was a bit surprised, to be honest – surprised at him and surprised at my heartbeat. I could die for this boy, or tear him apart.

It wasn’t that he had a “small one”. It was that he was still quite immature – young Blake had no pubic hair and a boy penis that still had most of its growing to do. Given the precociously budding form his upper body, I was expecting a bit of adolescent mongrel – certainly I thought he’d have hair. Now you’d have to suppose he didn’t yet have semen.

“See, I told ya,” the boy said in a tight voice, and reached down to himself, unstuck his little penis from where it nestled to one side on his ball sack, then pinched the end of his foreskin and stretched it right out – it made me wince – then let it go, so it now showed a little more prominently on him.

“You’ve got it all wrong, Blake,” I said. “For the stage of development you’re at, you’re not small at all – you’re either average or even slightly above average. I mean, you haven’t even got pubic hair yet, so you can’t – “

The boy interrupted stridently: “Yeah – I’ve got pubes!”

“Eh?” I said, trying not to laugh. I mean, I’d heard of the Emperor’s clothes, but the Beautiful Boy’s Pubes? What would the moral of that tale be?

But the boy was adamant and he bent forward over himself, using both hands to show me. He felt the smooth skin just above the base of his penis, and pulled the skin taut. “See? Here,” directing me to it.

And I saw what he meant – he did indeed have a light bit of blonde fuzz growing there. He moved his hands away to let me feel him. And I could feel the tiniest tickle of his fur with the pads of my fingers. While there I also made sure to jostle the base of his penis and run a nudging finger down beside his soft scrotum which was starting to tighten in the nipping air.

“That’s not actually pubic hair, buddy,” I said.

He frowned, studying it again. “But, it’ll grow, won’t it?”

“You will get pubic hair, absolutely – but that’s not it. That stuff will disappear once your pubes start.”

“So when will I get pubes?” he asked.

I moved my fingers to his ball sack, which was fast becoming a tough little walnut. He swallowed noticeably, but if anything spread his legs a bit, giving me full access to handle him, although watching like a hawk.

As I gently moved his testes about, I felt the sure sign of his puberty gathering momentum.

“Ah, well – very soon – you know your balls are getting big on you. These are good balls.”

“Ah!” he cried, flinching a bit as I accidentally pushed one a little firmly up into its socket.

“Sorry, bud,” I said, cupping him protectively, running a gentle thumb along his softly stirring penis. “Within six months, I guarantee you’ll have your first pubes. Probably sooner.”

“Really?” he said.

“I’ll bet you a hundred bucks.”

“What about my dick – will it grow bigger?”

“Of course. But give your cock a break, buddy – it’s not a bad size right now. Seriously, you’re just a year or two later out of the blocks than other kids, that’s all. My guess is that your fuck energy is being directed into your upper body at the moment – that’s where you’re developing – but don’t worry, that’ll change very soon.”

But the boy’s interest remained stubbornly focussed on the basics. “How much will it grow?”

“Ah, well, you’re in luck,” I said, breaking into a grin. “I can read a boy’s penis better than a gypsy woman can read your palm.”

The boy snorted a small laugh. “Yeah, right.”

“So you don’t want me to give it go?” I asked him. “See what you’ve got coming?”

The boy shrugged his shoulders with feigned nonchalance, but as I put my hands firmly on his bare upper thighs, he pushed his clenched fists back behind him, giving me mute permission. When I bent forward and down to take him in my mouth, he let out a “Sam!” and put a restraining hand on my head.

I lifted my head up and said, “Blake, I don’t tell you how to woo Katrina – so don’t tell me how to read a boy’s dick, okay?”

“You’re ALWAYS telling me what to do about Annabel!” he cried, nervously jiggling his knees, bumping them against me – signs of impatience starting up in the little monkey.

“Yeah, well, someone’s gotta – poor Lucy’s sitting in her room, waiting for -“

“It’s Annabel!” the boy yelled, and gave my head another playful shove – although whether it was a shove away or a shove to get on with it, probably neither of us could say for sure. But his boy-prick was showing definite signs of arousal – starting to stick up from him.

“Annabel?” I frowned quizzically. “Really, Blake, I can’t keep up – how many girls are you screwing?”

“About a hundred according to you!” He made the cutest little faux snarl and actually pushed down on my head and made a couple of upward bucks of his slim little hips – it was supposed to be joking around, like before, but the boy was getting randy as I hovered close to him, breathing on his bare skin, his tummy and his privates, and the joking fell away and he wanted something sexy to happen as his penis got fully stiff, almost touching my chin as he bumped his butt up off the seat.

I took a few more moments to savour him, the faint rising tang of his boy odour, fresh from all day in his undies – yes, a definite waft of beginner’s heat coming off him. I dipped my head down and ran my lips, barely touching, along his slender, straining little shiv, and up to his hidden glans, still unwrapped, a tight bud still hidden in his foreskin. And the poor boy – he put a hand on my head, took it away, arched sideways to look at his teased stiffy, to see what I was – or infuriatingly wasn’t – doing.

Until he finally reached down to grab his penis, and he gave it several quite fierce squeezes, made his moist pale knob bulge and poke out a bit. It gave me another clear piece of knowledge about him – he hadn’t as yet learned to masturbate.

“Do this,” I said, as I moved his hand away from himself. I took hold of his boy-prick between finger and thumb and began to masturbate him. A boy’s penis is a sublime paradox at this stage of life – such an impossibly tender little sprig, such a fierce little dagger.

He watched me working him with intense, almost pained, interest. In fact I paused my stroking of him to ask if it was alright, if it was hurting at all – I thought maybe his foreskin was too tight or something.

His response was a classic little grunt of boy-frustration, letting me know in no uncertain terms what he wanted me to do. But you can’t let a boy completely rule the roost. So I surprised him by putting my hands to his slim naked hips and bending to take his erection fully into my mouth.

“Sam!” he breathed as he put his hands on my head – the lad obviously startled by the sight of a big shaggy man’s head right down between his legs, completely swallowing his boy-sex from view.

But as I shaped my mouth to give his shaft maximum wet stimulation, working with rhythmic pulses on his sweet spot, I was rewarded by the most darling little yips and flinches from him as his sexual excitement quickly built and shot way past his previous polymorphous experiences, made him a bit confused and dirty in the way he strained his pubic region up at me, digging his heels in the ground, spreading his legs a little bit wider. One moment he was trying to push my head away – it was too much! – and the next he was rudely trying to force it down as he shoved his little boy-cock hard up, instinctively trying to fuck the soft wet membranous pleasure that was making him such a hot little animal.

He was obviously close to orgasm, so I lifted off him, again ran my lips barely touching along his glistening little shaft. The way his prick twitched and reared, I thought for a moment he was having a dry orgasm, but the pained “nngh, ngh,” from the back of his throat indicated he still needed to get there.

And then he made me laugh. He took hold of the base of his stiff penis with his finger and thumb, and tried valiantly to guide it back to my mouth. But I hovered and teased and wouldn’t quite take him. So he put a hand on my head, my brave, demanding little soldier, and tried to force the issue. So I played him a bit, let him push a tantalising tip between my lips before I moved off, started grazing across his thighs, occasionally rasping my stubbled jaw across his painfully tender arousal, getting some nice flinches from him, before wandering further off, kissing into the little crook beside his tight ball bag. He had no time for such frippery, and kept trying to get me back on track, kept grappling with my recalcitrant head, as ineffectually as a pre-schooler trying to pick up a bowling ball. All the while I moved a hand over his straining tummy, up to his chest and tight little nipples, feeling the shivery sex response of his entire young body.

I had wanted to bring him off by hand, to watch him orgasm, watch for any little beginner spots of juice he might produce. But I couldn’t do it. He badly needed to put his dick back in the wet warmth of my mouth and I wasn’t going to deny it him.

In one quick movement I took his entire slender length and gave him my full oral attention, enough to give a man the staggers, let alone this too-sensitive virgin boy. And with his hands on the sides of the chair, he bucked his hips up hard, really driving his boy cock with strength and purpose, knowing this was the end game, about to discover what it was he so badly wanted to do – no longer wanting to just have his dick played with but wanting to fuck with it, and his darling little face screwed up fiercely with intent.

Until, with the softest of cries, he broke into a startlingly rapid volley of twitching spasms, his first orgasm, unencumbered by ejaculate, like a fairy wand delivering a riot of stars and streamers, his engulfed prick lurching like a manic little seahorse off the leash. And all the while he kept his hips straining up to the utmost, buried in my mouth, whimpering at the deeper splits and eruptions of his awakening sexuality. Until finally he had finished, and slowly lowered his newly spent self back into the chair, looking with some wonder at what the hell could have happened.

The End

Copyrighted 2014 © samjohnson77@mail.com