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Soccer Champ [m/m man boy]
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
Soccer Champ
He comes charging in the door after the game, little smears of sweat still
visible on his forehead."I guess you beat me home because the coach
stopped at A&W and bought us sodas did you see that kick I made it almost
took the goalie's head off what a game if we keep going like this we're
gonna be the champs!" He finally runs out of breath and looks up at me
with a big smile. His eyes are so bright, it can't possibly be reflection;
they must radiate a light all their own.
"Yes, I did see you score with that kick; you were great the whole game.
But of course, I'm just a leetle bit biased, since I think you're the
greatest kid who was ever born." Actually, I had noticed that beautifully
placed kick, perfect form. With the excitement of the game, the intensity
of his concentration, and the friction of his soccer shorts, his penis had
been about half hard, and clearly outlined against the damp material.
"And," I add gratuitously, "you forgot to wear underwear." I smile back at
him, and his face fills with an ear-to-ear grin. He doesn't bother to ask
just how I happened to notice that.
"I didn't forget. I stopped wearing them when I play; they get up in my
crack and annoy the heck out of me."
"Well, my dear cham-peen son, I guess we're going to go and buy you a
jockstrap. You're getting too big to run around with your pecker sticking
out. Why, you'll have all those pretty girls leaping out of the stands and
on to the field to get at you--and then their parents will sue me for
inciting a riot."
Now his grin is framed in a blush, and I can see the tip of him coming to
attention again inside his white shorts. He reads my mind and comes
rushing toward me, jumping perfectly into my embrace. He throws his arms
tightly around my neck, and I can feel his hardness pressed against my
abdomen. He begins to swivel right and left, rubbing his boner against me.
"You know, you're a very obscene little boy," I say, as I carry him to his
room, "and a very sweaty little boy at that."
"But you just said I was big," he protests, as I dump him on his bed. He
bounces once and lays back with his hands clasped behind his head. There
is a symmetrical tent in the front of his shorts, and it doesn't waver
when both our eyes are drawn toward it. Then he suddenly sits bolt
upright, and in one fluid motion, grabs the bottom of his T-shirt, whips
it off over his head, crumples it in a ball, and flings it at my face.
"That'll teach you to call me little!" He's into the game now. The right
sneaker comes off and hurtles toward me, followed in a flurry by the left
sneaker, backhand, and then the two socks.
"Hey," I shout, fending off the missiles with my arms and laughing. But by
the time I'm finished waving my arms around, he has returned to his former
position, and is eyeing me with mock- patronizing serenity. I utter my
best imitation of a lion's growl and, claws lifted, stalk toward the bed
until I am arched over him, snarling. He pretends not to notice, looks up
at the ceiling, and begins to hum a little tune.
I bring my hands slowly down and, after waggling them in front of his
face, touch the elbows extended at either side of his head, and lightly
run my fingertips along his triceps to the smooth armpits. "Aagh! That's
cheating," he screams, and his arms shoot straight out and join behind my
neck, pulling me down to sit beside him on the bed. Slowly, slowly, he
draws my head to his. His firm lips seek mine and I taste his perspiration
along with just a hint of soda sweetness above the upper lip. I feel the
tip of his tongue darting and dancing on my mouth, and meet it with my
own. It's like a small animal with a life of its own, like a tiny hamster
playing tag with me.
I place my hand gently on his belly and feel him shiver. His tongue is
against my teeth now, searching frantically as if for something important
it has lost. His eyes are wide with pleasure, staring directly and
unblinkingly into mine. My fingertips find his nipples: it's still easy
for me to tickle both simultaneously, one with my thumb and one with my
pinky. I feel the tiny points harden, as a soft groan echoes in my boy's
throat. His eyes are begging, and I kiss his chin, and under his chin, and
the left side of his neck. He cringes to the left as I know he will, and I
attack the exposed right, as he knows I will.
Meanwhile, my hand is playing ever so lightly over the projection under
his shorts. I let my palm rest gingerly on the tip, and move my hand in a
circular motion. Then I begin to fold my fingers over its length,
imprisoning the head between the fleshy parts of my hand. I run my tongue
down his salty breastbone, and nibble around his belly button. He quivers
and squirms. Then he hooks his left thumb into the waistband of his shorts
and gives a little tug. "Please," he says imploringly, "now." I
understand and, without lifting my head, hook my right thumb into the
other side of the white soccer shorts. He raises his butt and, with a
coordinated effort, we slide his one remaining article of clothing down
and away. There is a small "thwack" as his erection snaps back against his
unadorned pubis. I rest the side of my head on his chest and take the long
view down his flat, muscular abdomen, all the way to the gracefully
vertical stanchion just below. He runs his fingers through my hair, and
repeats, "please."
I move to the end of the bed and he makes a space for me straining the
skin's ability to contain it. As it slips into my mouth, I marvel at what
a comfortable size it is, just conforming to the curve of my tongue.
Really growing now, I think proudly, and refuse entry to the more
troublesome thought: how much longer? My lips are moving slowly up and
down, as my hands stroke his sides and chest and belly. Then I start on
his thighs and legs, running the tips of my fingers across the tiny
brand-new hairs, never losing the rhythm of my oral stimulation.
I glance upward, and he has his lower lip grasped between his teeth. He's
breathing harder now, little drops of perspiration standing out on and to
the sides of his nose. His expression is inexpressibly beatific: eyes half
closed, just a bit of a smile at the corners of his mouth, that exquisite
smooth chest heaving faster and faster. Now he begins to move his hips to
meet my strokes. He puts his hands flat on the mattress by his sides so he
can push up. Now he is literally jerking his pelvis, smashing his pubis
forcefully against my lips, against my nose. The smell of him is the
sweetness and pungency of boyhood concentrated to its essence, the feel of
his skin warm, strong, resilient--boy. Now he is pausing at the top of
each thrust, holding his penis as deep within my mouth as he can reach.
Three more trembling thrusts, and each punctuated with a dulcet note:
"oh," "Oh," "ohhh." He holds at the top of his last hip- lift for an
interminable second, and then his body spasms, jack- knifes to an almost
sitting position, seemingly suspended completely off the bed except for
the heels of his feet.
In my mouth, his penis is a red hot, throbbing silken stone rod. It
extends longer than could possibly be, to the very back of my throat. And
what is this? Yes! A salty, slippery taste; not just a drop, but a
wonderful tiny squirt. I put my hands under his butt and bury my face in
his crotch as he settles back on the bed. Every trace of tension ebbs from
his body and he is, for a moment, as perfectly relaxed as ever a boy can
be. I nuzzle his scrotum with my chin and inhale deeply the luscious scent
of him. After a time, I make a final quick stroke with my tongue, knowing
that it will tickle him beyond endurance. He obliges with a wrenching
shudder and pulls back, leaning against his pillow and bracing himself
with his arms. His legs form an open "V," and at its focus his penis nods
to one side, glistening and almost purple at its head. He tosses his head
back like a colt, clearing the strands of sweat-soaked hair from off his
forehead.
"You really got some that time," I praise him. I have to chuckle inwardly;
it is as if ejaculation, rather than a developmental phenomenon, were
itself some sort of championship, fought for and won against stiff
competition.
"Yeah. I do a lot of times now," he brags, and the ready smile again
expands to occupy that priceless face. He touches his finger to the tip of
his penis, where a pearlescent drop still clings, and rubs the lubricity
between his fingers. I see the pride swell within him, like a father
showing off his first baby.
"I love you, champ," I intone with intense feeling.
"I know," he answers matter-of-factly, and pauses, tilting his head just
enough that his eyes sparkle and dance at me. "And you know what?"
"What?" I really can't imagine.
"It's your turn!"
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The NAMBLA Bulletin is published eight times a year by by the
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