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Subject: Cordially Yours Cordially Yours The following text is fiction. Fiction describes activities happening between imagination and a keyboard, not in real life. Nothing below is intended to encourage unsafe or illegal liaisons or violence. Summary: Descendant of Northeastern US commune members, an indolent photographer finds relief. Cordially Yours About Mr. Toomey I considered Mr. Toomey our pity-roomer. He lived in the attic above my bedroom in an old lake house in Vermont. Grandpa and Toomey were old childhood friends. Hard-shelled man, Toomey. Shell was made of a brass-cuprite alloy. He sparked insults at breakfast, dinner. My grandparents explained Mr. Toomey’s attitude: some boys are told that the humanity only needed two or three men to survive. Boys who took that seriously decided they wouldn’t be chosen, then lived damaged by the possibility of that gender-rectification looming in their minds. They matured into mean, insecure men, lashing out at perceived genetic insults. “He really wants to be loved, like the rest of us.” Grandma advised, “Just ignore his meanness.” My grandparents ignored his meanness every week. When my grandmother was upstairs with him, I couldn’t hear the words, but I heard her tone of voice. Soft, reassuring voice like she used with me when I scraped my knees. I heard grunts, “God!” and “Fuck!” when Grandpa was personally ignoring Toomey. They were loud for a while, then snored in unison. Curious about Toomey’s strange arrangement with my grandparents, I knocked on his door on a Saturday afternoon. “Whadda want?” He opened the door in his boxers. “I’m trying to rest up for t’night.” “I just want to know…” Hadn’t thought that far ahead, “what you do up here with my grandparents.” Fly of his boxers stood open in front of my eyes, dark hair under his navel swirled against his skin, the tip of his cock swung from the leg of the loose fabric. “Seein’ if you can get a piece of Toomey? Forget it. I don’t touch kids, they stink. They’re filthy. Covered with parasites, fleas, nasty little curs.” His voice was loud, shook me down to my bare feet. “I’m not filthy!” “Yeah y’are. Wait till you’re eighteen, the city’ll run you through the vat. Like dipping sheep. Big, long trough in the ground, filled with arsenic and chemicals to get you clean.” I ran down the stairs to my grandmother. “Do I have parasites?” “Do you itch?” “Toomey told me kids are filthy….” “He, well, he keeps a peculiar attitude about children. You’re fine, just ignore him.” Ignoring him was easy. The thought of being run through a vat of chemicals when I was eighteen stayed with me for years. The Incident My grandparents were raised in a commune during the back-to-the-land movement in the sixties. Commune had one rule: there are no rules. Things rumbled fast and loose those days, nudity, sex, drugs then the kids began coming. One big house, one big garden, most members enjoyed the lax atmosphere and home-grown jane. Through those years, some members yearned for but never found a substitute for their “keeping up with the Joneses” mindset. They sold out to the establishment. Moonies came through, then other cults with strange ideas about reincarnation and karma. Spiritual beliefs clashed; peace vanished. The no-rule policy couldn’t keep the skinny crew in orbit around their hand-made nirvana. Tired of the constant griping, my grandparents renounced communal membership. They got an old lake house, restored it and Mr. Toomey brought his blurry past and peculiar attitude from another kind of commune. Grandpa worked in town. Grandma had my mother. My mother was allowed to run free and naked, as a child, ate brown rice and miso, homeschooled, following ways of the commune. My mother didn’t have a “first moon” celebration, she was pregnant before her menses began. She left shortly thereafter, disagreements about parenting they said. Mom met a man named Ziggy, they went to hitchhike through Europe. Ziggy had a camera, he met up with the first wave of gonzo journalists in Paris, began shooting photos for them. We never heard from Mom and Ziggy, but fixed their location by credits on photos in the international news column every now and then. Nudged unhurriedly by a sluggish imagination, my childhood was comfortable with my grandparents and Toomey until my twelfth birthday when Ziggy sent me a camera. He told me to start shooting the area, our town, things were changing quickly, and I could ride on his professional coattails. At best Zig was a third-rate photographer riding on the coattails of the daring journalists who felt objectivity wasn’t a necessity. The clean, square lines, chrome and brushed aluminum camera sparked my creativity. Light, colors and shapes came alive around me. Summer brought vacationers to the lake. Small coves filled with naked swimmers. Got some good photos until I found out the drugstore wouldn’t print them for me. Dear Grandpa sent away for a kit so I could develop my own film, print my own photos. He liked my work. Didn’t have the camera with me the day I met Franklin. He was ten, from the Bronx and made me feel like a clod. Slick, worldly, super-cool, konyaaltı sınırsız escort kid. His parents rented a houseboat for the week. They left us to stay on the boat with strict instructions not to swim. As boys do when left on their own, we began comparing our dicks, our growing toys, centers of our universes. Took about two seconds to get hard. Used our spikes like swords, enjoying ourselves. Wasn’t long before we exchanged wanking techniques. Franklin made his hand into a small fist, spit on the curl of his fingers behind his thumb and bumped it against the tip of his rod, “Like getting sucked, feels electric.” “Sucked? Suck a willy?” My mind whirled. Don’t recall how I got into the sucker position, but I assumed a kneeling pose in front of Franklin, breathing hard. My knees felt it first, the boat swayed a little as he held his stem at my lips, took a whiff and opened my lips, tongue came out to explore that smell. Then the screaming started. I was jerked up to my feet by my shirt, my ragged shorts fell down my bony legs. Walked back home by Franklin’s parents in only my shirt and sneakers. Grandma saved the day after I got dressed and taken down to the courthouse. Franklin’s parents said I’d assaulted their boy. Franklin was no longer cool but crimson-tinged. I was confused by all the religious references his parents used. Grandmother was quiet, smiled and waved at the Justice of the Peace, they’d toked together as teens I found out later. No charges, he dismissed Franklin and his parents saying small towns cut a lot of slack and winked at me, “I’ll keep an eye on him myself.” Over dinner that night, Toomey laughed so hard, his beer came out his nose, Grandpa was serious. He explained the law to me about sexual perversions. That was news, my life had few restrictions, but he mentioned a “permanent record.” Told me to keep bratwurst in my pants and in the house. Singlehood Through Granddad’s continuing tutelage, my gayness emerged along with my sub-specialty. I preferred boys. Boys who teetered hairlessly on the brink of maturation–the pre-spermers and they were problematic. Fulfilling relationships weren’t going to happen for me. “Find yourself a nice guy. There’s always Mr. Schaeffer at the library.” Dad advised. Mr. Shaffer was a goofy man who wore his pants high, belted under his tits and made jokes in Latin. Socks seldom matched, no one understood his jokes. The town puzzlement lurking in the stacks. Reluctant and reticent, I fixated on my “permanent record.” Felt people around town treated me differently, not sure if it was because I was so tall and skinny or because I kept the camera in front of my face. Did they know about my perversion? Hid myself behind my lens or in my dark room, but found a new interest. Tinting. Grandma had shoeboxes of ancient sepia photos. Some were colored with pink cheeks and lips. Started poking around in antique shops for old photos. Scoured the obits for people who’d died, waited for the house to be cleared and negotiated with the haulers for any paper goods. Hit the motherlode when that old Justice of the Peace died. Got a bundle o’ porn from his estate, marked as “law school files.” Grandad and Toomey had a field day that night. Ancient, yellowed photos with wavy edges, men and women engaged tastefully, some weren’t so classy. I set them aside and worked on the more respectable photos. Framed the best, sold them online as “Instant Ancestors.” A personalized story included for an additional fee, gonzo family histories. A resurgence of interest in genealogy funded my improved processing equipment. Quickly learned how to cruise the dark net, not much interest in buying photos of naked boys swimming at the Y during the early 1900s. They wanted hard-core, I did too but sure my e-trail would lengthen my permanent record. Grandma found my niche for me. She took a number of my framed photos to the county fair and they sold. City called me to document the current politicians, and the historic buildings. Soon, I became the photographer of the area. Career-wise doing well for the local dead-beat deviant. Years passed, I tracked down my mom in Greece, called her. Toomey had left for a nursing home, grandparents needed help. Zig and Mom were busy, started new lives abroad. That left me to carry on as a dutiful son to my grandparents. Sorted through their paperwork, found my birth certificate, signed by a midwife. “Father” listed Reginald Toomey. Made me wonder about my mother and Toomey’s peculiarities. That old rounder Toomey died, he left me a chunk of money. Wanted to find that vat of chemicals and bury him in it. Grandparents passed, left me the house and an empty life. Turned the first floor into a portrait studio, tall windows, great afternoon light. My tinting skills led to retouching, manipulating images a more valuable skill. Reshaping noses, removing blemishes or tattoos, adding beauty marks was available at an additional charge. Cordially yours, Queen Anne By this time, I had regular local customers. Kids straight from the hair salons, new clothes, looking uncomfortable, konyaaltı türbanlı escort usually surly. I fuzzed, faded and softened their looks to their parent’s ideas of perfection. End of the baseball season, Mrs. Martinez brought her children by with their uniforms. The younger boy carried a nonchalant look on his face, unperturbed by the world. Older boy was overly-confident. Pre-disposed to friction, those two. At twelve and fifteen, they knew the routine, disappeared behind the screen to put their uniforms on leaving their gloves and a bright red aluminum bat in the front room. “If your boys fit off-the-rack, have you thought of them modeling? Nice looking lads, easy for the stores to dress for photos in their ads.” I told her, hoping for a portfolio gig. She thought about it as I posed the boys, tucking in their shirts tightly, gathering the fabric to the back of their bodies. Stretch pants strained over their developing groins. Went through the standard poses, one with the older boy’s foot on a crate, with bat and glove. Got them with their caps on the backs of their heads. The younger boy, Russel had curly hair. His face held a knowing look, like he was about to hot-box a runner or coerce a coach. We went through the photos on a small screen before she left me a large order, delighted with the shots. Next week, I began sorting out my old photos, the one’s I sold on the dark net, when I heard a car in the drive. Out the window, Russel bounded up the porch steps as the car backed out and pulled away. “Russel, did you leave something? Where’s your mom?” He looked around the studio, “Brother dropped me off, I’ll walk back home.” He took his shirt off, shoes were next, “Take some pictures of me. Make me look good.” “You like being without your clothes?” He stood in his briefs and socks. I broke a sweat, testicles roiled. “Yeah. Don’t you?” Felt like prey being circled. “I need some good pics of my body. Gotta look sexy.” “Sexy.” I repeated while permanent record alarms clanged between my ears. “Who are these for?” Russel met another boy online. “Are you sure he’s a boy?” “Yeah.” He scrolled through a number of photos on his phone, a young, dark-haired boy at various ages. “Stop. Let me see that one again.” Damn, if it wasn’t one I sold on the net. Got up, found the original. “That’s one I altered. This boy must be almost eighty years old by now. You’re getting set-up. No telling what this guy wants with you.” “That’s him. He told me his name is Jack.” “Does he want to meet you?” “Yeah. His parents are coming up this summer.” Took a while to get him to realize the scam, “Take a photo of my face and send it to Jack. I’ll put the text in.” He did. Underneath my smiling face, “This is Russel’s dad and I got your number.” I handed his phone back, “Give me his number, I’ll take care of it without your parents knowing. Get all his messages off your phone. Now, we’ll get some shots just for you.” A young man’s body doesn’t need any props, nothing to enhance the fluid, smooth lines, the slight curves or the almost translucent skin of the warmest places, yet a prop can relax a subject. Threw a deep red cotton cloth over the chaise and motioned him to lay on it. Afternoon sun slanted across the porch to flood the room with warm, golden light. I looked through my box of standard props, then went to the back porch and came back through the kitchen. Noticed a box of holiday bonbons on top of the fridge. My studio warmed, I considered letting the chocolate melt on him, but asked him to turn over and be very still. “Will you let me set a candy on your butt?” He nodded. “Be still.” Even-toned pale skin, hair follicles rose momentarily into tiny mountains when he pushed his briefs down. He lay face down, parted his legs, slight tilt to his hips. Shadows were sharp and would soften soon. Took the Queen Anne cherry, bit a corner of it and placed it at the tip of the boy’s tailbone, sugary syrup poised, ready to run down his cleft, then the small, brightly-dyed cherry became visible. “Open your legs, just a bit.” Lens was snapping as the liquid filling liquified and the misshaped cherry slid over his pale cleft downward, almost, almost. Pushed his knees apart to allow gravity to work on the confection. Got a closer shot as the knot of cherry nestled into the center of his nickel-sized closure, delayed by the tiny radial ridges. His butt muscle flinched once. “Be still, this is classic.” Bright scarlet fruit on that fresh, pink skin, I got it from every angle. Warmed, the syrup dissolved further, glimmered in the sunlight. Smell of sugar and the boy’s butt-musk mingled, kindling arousal. Just the edge of his balls showed through the dark space between his legs underneath him. “Are you comfortable?” “What’s in my crack?” “A candied cherry.” Tossed the lid of the box where he could see it. “Stay still, I have to get the chocolate off.” Something snapped inside me. Heart beat wildly, I put the camera down silently, hands hovered over his cleft. Each thumb placed into the fleshy sides of his rear, pulled his muscles apart as the konyaaltı ucuz escort syrupy filling ran quickly. Just in time, I caught the cherry with the tip of my tongue. Pressed the red globe into him with my tongue, and my face into the sticky path along his short vale. Soft moan as my lips began kissing, my tongue licking. My nose nuzzled against the chocolate cup, now softened by the boy’s warmth and afternoon rays. Boy-musk, chocolate, squelching, thick with bonbon goop and my saliva filled my being, coated my face. Rich mix, sauce of lust. My swollen, aching balls and oozing prick buzzed. I was held in a powerful grip of tastes, smells and touch. Sweat from my forehead dripped, salted my desires sharply. I bit him softly with my lips, then grazed along his short fold with my teeth through the viscous syrup on the thin skin over a million nerve endings heading straight to his brain. He grunted a few times, pushed his rear into my face. Stickiness smeared across my cheeks, coated my chin. Without resolve, I tried to dig the cherry out with my tongue. Quickly positioned my thumbs near his hole but the oil in the chocolate caused slippage. Pressed my face hard into him, working my jaws slowly, the feel of his skin, the wrinkles around his hole. Reveled with every movement his muscles made against my face, my lips. Drew a quick breath through my nose, cooling the upper part of his short division and dove downward again. Tucked my hands beneath his hips, brought him upward and pressed my face hard into him. The sticky muck made small smacking sounds as the boy humped. He was jerking off. Backed away, pulled his hips up till he was on his knees. Russel grunted, hummed and cooed softly. Invigorated with his responses, I gored him lingually, reveling in him. Left hand reached under him and I pushed his hand aside and began gripping his shaft, at first gently, then with a milking motion through the candied moisture of saliva and syrup. Young scrotum had enough drop for a short swing against my thumb. I was relentless in my effort to crawl inside him lips first, to please him, to hear him squeal. He trembled with his short orgasm. Short yelp and he pulled away, moving my feast from my lips, my hand from his warmth. Noticed my briefs rubbing me, I’d let one load go, on the verge of another. He’d stopped that, now what do I do? What do I say? Big, red, “APPREHENDED” appeared on my permanent record in my mind. “Where’s the cherry?” Russel’s voice spiked through the silence. He stood, shaking his legs out, and twisting to see what was all over his rear. Anxious and tense, I swallowed hard, feeling the chocolate goo crust on my cheeks, “I think it’s hiding.” Tears came to my eyes, I was doomed, the kid was going to snitch. I was sure of it. A cinderblock felt like it was forming inside my chest. “Get it out.” His small hand came to my damp jeans, he smiled at the damp spots, poked his finger on them. Gripping the beltloops, he tugged them downward. Humbly, I pulled them down to my knees. “Sit.” He ordered. I sat on the chaise, feeling several dots of dampness from my previous snacking. The boy climbed on my lap, encircled my waist with his legs, “Use your finger. Get it out.” Heady whiffs of chocolate, musk, cum and sweat hit my face as he drew my straining rod upward, between us. Bewildered, I stared at his face, he grinned. I must have looked a monster with chocolate on my nose, cheeks smeared with candy-boy mess. Grabbing my ears, he pulled me forward, his short, pointed tongue jumped out and licked the chocolate on the tip of my nose. Leaning forward, placing his smooth cheek on my pec, he gently grabbed my rod. “Get it out.” Mind slammed into gear, fingers explored behind his balls, into the messy marsh to find his hole, gently pressed. He sighed and stroked along my weepy, straining shaft. Inquiring fingertip wanted to know if he matured enough… slipped my middle finger in slowly, other hand held his back, caressing. Leaned to kiss his hair. Curls stuck to my lips and chin. Felt the cherry, but couldn’t grasp it, only shoved it further in. Inch, inch and a half, I couldn’t gauge the depth, but along his rectal tube were small mounds. Gingerly, I stroked and rubbed, feeling his rib cage jump with a quick breath. “I think the cherry’s stuck.” “Get it out.” Gripped my shaft aside his, began stroking as his hips flinched, thighs tensed. Cherry was on its own as I tapped, rubbed where it pleased him. Russel broke a sweat and rubbed our shafts together. Several grunts later, he stopped, looked down to watch five heated pulses of cum surge from my slit. Thin, pointed finger rubbed it around as he looked up at me with dreamy eyes. Held him against me, rocking the waning light. Brain filled with oxygen again, “You’re not going to tell, are you?” Tilting his head to the side, “Not if you take some more pictures of me. Can I see what you took?” Quick clean and we went to the computer. He was a picky boy, telling me he didn’t like a line or a shadow. I listened, sniffing his damp hair, “I’ll fix those, when will you come again?” His mind was elsewhere as he dressed. The sun was setting behind the trees, I walked him to the road, “When will you come again?” “Maybe after soccer practice on Thursday. I’ll see how it works out.” Out of curiosity, “Who’s been fingering you, your brother, your dad?” “A guy who rents a room from my grandparents. Name’s Toomey, you know him?” If you enjoyed this story make a donation to Nifty fty/donate.html
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