Greg And Katie In Love free porn video

Greg and Katie in Love a Justin Silk story (c) Copyright Justin Silk 2002. All Rights Reserved CHAPTER ONE When I was a kid growing up in a typical suburban house in a typical suburban street I was pretty much like most other boys my age. Sort of typical, you might say. I liked sports, especially those where I had to pit myself against me. Swimming. Tennis, Gymnastics. Can't say I was really stoked by team sports, but I was tall for my years and they put me in the basketball team. By the time I was nine or ten, they put me in the swimming team, too. But that was fine by me. I really liked swimming. I was good at it and it helped me keep in shape. My name's Ewen McLintock. Ewen Alistair Gregory McLintock. I'd chosen Gregory as my everyday name, but when I was growing up, Ewen was what I was called at home and that was fine by me. Needless to say, some called me Jock. Still do. And I can't say I mind. From all of which you wouldn't be surprised to know that I have Scottish antecedents. Incidentally, if you're one of those picky people who insist it should be spelled Ewan, please forgive me if I gently ask you to fuck off and mind your own business. My ain folk spell it with two e's, as do many other Scots. It's Gaelic, and comes from E? gann, which, my grandpa told me, was a form of John. Later, I discovered it more probably came from Eugene. And just to show that I'm not a completely pompous prick, here's a joke against myself I've only just remembered. One day at school, at the end of term, we had to write a couplet about the name of a classmate. We drew names from a hat. Peter Bannister, now a well-known writer in the States, drew my name. What he wrote got him in deep shit with the class teacher and the headmaster. "You've a very long name, young Jock McLintock, And when you grow up, 'twill match your thin cock." Something like that. Not exactly your perfect pentameter, perhaps, and definitely not prescient in one respect. For the record, it turned out to be thick. I saw Pete interviewed on "Parkinson" the other night and he mentioned the kid in his class he'd written this couplet about. I blanched and Katie nearly choked on her drink. "Can't remember his bloody name, except that it rhymed with cock. Had to write a couplet about him. Headmaster gave me the cane for what I wrote. Reckoned I must be some kind of pooftah [that's Australian for faggot]." "Which is American for poof, I suppose," said Parky with that rare Yorkshire charm and style. But I get ahead of myself. When I was fourteen, like many of the boys in my class, I got myself a paper round. I can't say I was really enthusiastic about getting up that early in the morning, but it brought in some pocket money. I remember the first morning I went out on my own. I was delivering in Morgan Road, just around the corner from my house in Bond Street. It was winter, and I was just lobbing the plastic-wrapped paper on to a lawn when a light came on in a bedroom. All I noticed was this thick and gorgeous long hair. I stopped and, making sure I couldn't be seen, watched in awe as the hair was shaken from side to side and then carefully brushed out. I was just coming up for my fifteenth birthday and I guessed that the object of my interest was of a similar age. Being a little short-sighted [specs and then contacts would follow], I nevertheless wasn't so blind that I wasn't captivated. My heart told me what I needed to know. I knew I wanted to run my fingers through that hair. Who was this beautiful creature? I needed to know. Right then. But how? I wasn't about to bang on the door and ask for an immediate introduction to the owner of the glorious mane. I'd reached that age when boys often think they have become men. When boys start to brag - or skite, as we said - about the 'chicks' they were 'going out with'. Having passed the worst of that dreadful time of life called, unappealingly, puberty, I didn't think too much more about the hair after I'd finished the round. [But I have to confess that the starching of many a late- night handkerchief had a direct connection to my rising early that winter morning.] From the newsagency I discovered that the owners of the house had only just moved in. But I still had no way of knowing who the girl with the flaxen hair might be. I asked one of the guys in the junior swimming team who lived in Morgan Road if he knew who the vision of loveliness was. "Nah, mate," replied Eddie, absently. And drawing his intellect up to its full six inches, he slouched away. Notwithstanding this lack of interest, a couple of weeks later, when my brief and distant encounter with The Hair had become a faint memory, my classmate Eddie grabbed the arm of my blazer and pointed to a new girl who'd just come into our class. She was Indian with the most beautiful long, satin-smooth blue-black locks. "That her? Nah, dickhead, the Indian sheila. Just moved into our street at the weekend. If she wouldn't be Indian, I'd bury my head in that hair," said Eddie, with his usual mix of juvenile racism, anti-sophistication and total lack of logic. "Is that who, Eddie?" "The chick you saw on your paper round." "Jeez, Eddie, you're hopeless. No, that's not her. And Eddie, if that girl over there weren't Indian, she wouldn't have beautiful hair like that," I breathed, exasperated. "Yeah. Right," commented Eddie, uncomprehending. Twelve days later, the school year ended and, after a lengthy summer holiday at my grandparents' house in Tropical North Queensland, moved up a class. The next two years were uneventful. There was the usual trauma of initiation, but you made friends - and enemies - and got on with life. Being athletic and well-built, I had few problems with bullying, I enjoyed learning and I was becoming, so I was told, quite good looking. I was happier with life than I had ever been. And I forgot about the girl from Morgan Road. For a while, the prettiest girl from the Girls' High, Angie, helped me forget about her. Correction. Almost forget. I'd only seen her once after that dark morning. One Saturday morning, listening to a disc in a shop, I looked up and saw her leaving the shop. Yet again, I saw her only from behind. So did a woman standing in the next booth. She called out to the disappearing hair. I discovered it was owned by somebody called Katie. I guessed the woman was her mum. The woman, realising that, with the headphones on, she must have been shouting, looked embarrassed. Charmingly, she put her hand to her mouth, dropped her eyes, made a shy little- girl look and mouthed 'Sorry' to me. I smiled back and I sensed the woman looking me up and down before I left. That same night, Angie and I went to the movies and, having a cup of coffee on the way home, I asked her whether she knew a girl called Katie at her school. "Katie? Look, I can't say I do, Greg. There's a girl called Catherine Everard. Lives in Regis Drive, down near Macca's. Why? " "No reason. When I was up in Cairns a couple of years ago, I met this guy. Heard from him that his cousin Katie was coming to your school." I couldn't believe how easily I lied to Angie. Half an hour later, I kissed Angie goodnight and headed home. As I walked, I wondered about Katie. If she wasn't going to the Girls' High, did that mean she was going to Ladies' College? I would have to start sleuthing around Morgan Road. Or maybe she was away at boarding school. On the Monday morning of the second week of term, I heard a couple of second-year boys talking. "Kenneth Thomas. That new kid with the ponytail. Lives in Morgan Road. Yeah, his mum calls him 'Katie'. 'Don't forget your bag, Katie.' Straight up, I heard his mum shout it when she dropped him off this morning. Jeez. how'd yah be with a nickname like that? Who's a pretty boy then, Katie?" New kid. Ponytail. Katie. Morgan Road. Could the object of my desire was a boy. I was gutted. And what did they mean 'new kid'? New kid at my school? Less than two minutes later there she was. Katie. My grand passion wasn't a chick at all. She was a male. And for the first time I saw her face. And she saw mine. I think I also saw a little smile . But the glance she gave me, brief though it was, was steady. I wondered what she might have been thinking of me. She? Why did I keep thinking and saying she? I wondered what he might have been thinking about me? I went to the art room for my next lesson. How did I feel about that? Was I shocked? Yes, a little. Was I confused? Definitely. Was I in denial? Now there's a big question when you're seventeen. I certainly didn't think I was queer. For most of the day I was distracted. I was a young Aussie bloke. I was 'on the team'. I belonged. I wasn't a pooftah. That night, I went to bed early and thought about it. Not about Katie. About my sexuality. Did I fancy ... who? How about Daryl Benger, the school's best diver. He had a beautiful body. Appealing eyes. A nice mouth. Did I fancy him? "NO!" I told myself. Did I fancy Eddie Besant, the execrable Eddie? "DEFINITELY NOT!" How about a pretty, boyish girl with long and flowing locks that jumped unbidden into my mind? I thought about that a long time. As I filled my hankie with a generous load of extra-hot cum, the answer also came. "DEFINITELY HOT!" Angie and I continued to go out together and it became clear that it wouldn't be long before we would have to do that. I was very fond of Angie, she was pretty and I liked being seen with her. I even liked kissing her. And going through all the romantic nonsense I thought was real love. When Angie and I were together, KT rarely came into my mind. Angie was fun. She was kind. She was intelligent. But there was one thing she wasn't. She wasn't KT. I did everything I could to avoid KT. For the next few weeks, I watched KT from afar. I noticed that where I was broadening in the shoulders and developing a shapely and muscular chest, KT was just growing. It's a dilemma when you're a so-called school sports star and all the local girls think you're a 'spunk'. Or it is if you know that some effeminate boy, younger than you, turns you on more than an entire classroom of girls. And especially so when you're on the block in your Speedos preparing to race and there he is, all smouldering eyes, staring at you. And clearly not caring whether or not the others are aware of his interest in you. By the time I turned 17 I realised that I was lusting over a boy. No, I accepted that I was lusting over a boy. He was athletic enough to be a footballer. But pretty enough to be a catwalk model. Every month that passed he was growing (dare I admit it?) more and more desirable. The thing that began to strike me most about KT - nobody called him Kenneth or Ken or Kenneth Thomas - was his self- possession. Most of the boys in his class - indeed in any class - instantly jump on a fashion bandwagon. But sometimes one doesn't fit the mould. KT was that one at our school. Here were the cloned and the pimply. Here were the pubescents, all burdened with or about to be burdened with, or having recently been burdened with shattered, unstable voices. Here was our dissonant choir. Tenor and counter- tenor mixed, discordant and unpretty, in a single voice. Mewing the plumage that is childish beauty and innocence, every male sings it, the painful dawn chorus of manhood, the eternal, atonal anthem of maleness. And the libretto? We know it by heart and by instinct. It consists principally of verbs and adjectives in the key of F. Sharp. Minor. But KT was quite different from that. Whenever I saw him around the school, he would seem to be gliding. Very upright. Moving like a swan, his upper body steady while his feet made tiny, rapid movements to propel him forward. Once I saw him sneeze. In what seemed like slow-motion he brought his hankie gracefully to his mouth. I swear I heard him very delicately whisper, "Scusi" to himself. As I observed him more carefully, I recorded that I rarely saw him laugh. I did notice him smile benignly. Once. Nor did I see him cry. There was always a steady look in his eye. He was completely in control of his demeanour. I sometimes wondered why so feminine a boy was not the butt of cruel jokes and japes. Other than the conversation I overheard, he seemed never to provoke them. Perhaps the reason was not unrelated to the most surprising event - quite staggering, really. One day, I saw KT near the cricket pavilion. He was walking up and down reading aloud from a book. It was obvious from the way he would look away from the book and continue speaking that he was learning something by heart. From behind the pavilion two of the school's bully boys were sneaking up on him. Swaggering up to KT, the two started taunting him and finally began to push him around. My instinct was to go to his assistance. But as soon as I began to run across the cricket pitch, quicker than a flash of lightning, the bigger of the bullies was on the floor. Getting up, and shouting abuse at KT, he and his pal slouched away. KT continued reading his book. "Are you OK?" I asked. The limpid eyes looked steadily into mine and for the first time the beautiful mouth opened and spoke to me. "Thank you for your concern. I'm fine." "Good," was all I managed to say. I immediately took myself to the toilet block where I relieved my aching erection. As I shuddered to ejaculative joy, I saw the lips that had just opened to me, moist and pleading inches from me. "Thank you," they were saying. Of course, this was yet another fantasy. But we had spoken. I had been close enough to see the silky smoothness of his skin. The length of his lashes. The power of his smile. But he had decked two bullies. Walking home that night, I found myself smiling and thinking about the extraordinary scene. "Well, well," I thought, "my love is like a black, black belt that's newly floored a jerk." And so, for most of that academic year, it continued. One morning, I passed him in a corridor. Rather, he floated past me. Very quietly, he was humming Noel Coward's "Mrs Wentworth-Brewster". I had learned most of Noel Coward's songs from my mum, who had, when she was in her teens, spent a little time in Ocho Rios in Jamaica, where Coward had lived. Coward was, apparently, quite taken by my mama. I knew "Mrs Wentworth-Brewster" by heart. KT was humming the bit that goes "nobody can afford to be so lah-dee-bloody-dah in a bar on the Picola Marina." The likelihood of meeting another teenager who knew a Noel Coward song was so unlikely . my heart missed several beats. So why, you might ask, did I not declare my interest? The simple answer is that I was still too scared. I was seventeen and I still couldn't come to terms with my sexuality. It didn't matter that I knew. I was still putting off coming to a conclusion. Without knowing it, Angie helped a lot. She was scared of losing her virginity and, being of a certain religious persuasion, would not consider contraception. The fact that I was glad should have told me something about my sexuality. Yet, in spite of everything I now knew about myself, I wanted to belong. I wanted to be blokey. I found it very hard indeed to accept that I might be in love with a boy. * * * I was very keen on movies and belonged to the school Film Society. The Art Teacher, Miss Carlisle, ran it and at a crucial moment for me, happened to arrange a showing of Visconti's "Death in Venice". Starring Dirk Bogarde and a fifteen-year-old Swede called Bjorn something or other the movie soon had me absorbed. Bogarde plays an old bloke called Aschenberg who has the hots for this pretty young prick-teaser called Tadzio. Watching the older man yearning for the beautiful teenager I had the preposterous thought that I was Aschenberg to KT's Tadzio. Was that what I was like? An old perve at just over seventeen years? So I knew. There was no doubt now. But I still didn't want to be the odd one out. And, somehow or other, perhaps by going out with Angie, I managed to avoid competing in the Teenage Schoolboy Bullshit League. People seemed to accept that I was quiet. When you're well- built, smaller people often do. Funny about that. Then it happened. A thunderbolt hit me one Saturday morning as I was walking absent-mindedly through town. Right out of the blue, a huge finger had come down from heaven and was pointing me out to everybody I had ever known. "This boy is GAY", the accompanying surround-sound voice- over had declared. It was followed by a very loud and vulgar choir of scantily-clad blond and hunky angels singing "Gloria! In EXCESSIVE GAYO!" Then, to underscore the point, the heavenly host, bending near the earth, made me look up. There, a few paces in front of me was The Hair. K.T. Katie. Immediately, my heart beat faster. I wanted to rush up behind him, take a handful of his magnificent hair, turn him towards me, sweep him into my arms and kiss him so passionately that he would faint. More importantly, I wanted him magically to turn into the exquisitely beautiful girl my mind told me I could see. As we kissed, she would whimper "Oh, Greg, oh yes, I want you so much. Take me please . take me, take me NOW." Almost as if he knew I was there, KT stopped and looked back. I felt as if my crotch was bulgeing a foot in front of me and my face was flashing a bright, traffic-light red. Yet I did not take my eyes from his. I wanted him to know what I was feeling. Our eyes locked. Probably for less than a second. I was dumb-struck. And KT said nothing. If he was surprised to see me, he showed no sign of it. But the look in his eyes, and the little smile, even for that nanosecond, told me more than all my hours of wondering in the months and years before. I knew that I would not be rejected should I make a move. But should I make a move? Could I make a move? I hesitated and I was lost. KT disappeared into a shop. In the window a single mannequin wore a very sexy chemise. * * * EWEN'S STORY: CHAPTER TWO When I got home, Mum gave me her usual warm smile. "Hi, hunk," she grinned. "Hi, what?" I asked, irritated. "Hunk."As in 'My Son, the Hunk'. I just thought how handsome you looked as you came through the door. Reminded me of your father. He was about your age - a year older - when we first, er, met." "The first time you made love, you mean," I said boldly. She just laughed. "Could be," she said quietly. "Could be, my darling." "Mum?" I asked. "How do you know when you're in love?" "Love? Or lust?" "Could it be both?" I questioned. "You BET. Who is she?" "It's not as simple as that, mama." "OK, who is HE?" "I didn't mean that, either. Look, I'm all confused. I haven't even met them yet ...Not properly." "There's more than one?" asked my mum, her eyes widening. "You're not even 18. And you're already considering bigamy?" "Mum!" "Sorry, darls. You want my advice? Speak to her. Tell her that you like her . what? You like her hair? You love her smile? Her laugh leaves you thrilled? You've noticed her cute little bum? Whatever. "But don't get too serious about it. She won't be your last. "Wanna Coke? Coffee? Tea?" She came over and put her arms around me. "Darling, we all go through this. It's part of growing up. As one of our prime ministers once said, 'Um, life, er, wasn't meant to be, y'know, easy,'" I laughed as we both said the words together. We often did. I adored my mum. It didn't exactly make things easier, but that night I lay awake thinking about KT. If only he were a girl. Maybe he IS. But then I remembered seeing him at the pool. He isn't a girl. After a while, my thoughts gave me a stiffy and I started to wonder what KT would be like in a dress. And what it would be like to slide my hand up and under it. And what I'd do if he/she smacked my face. And what I'd do if she was wearing panties and her cock was hard and it was leaking precum and some dripped on to my hand. I was so hard now, I KNEW what SHE'd be like and it'd be like and what I'd do. Pumping my cock to get some relief from the agony of the sexually overcharged indecision I was going through, I moaned, "Oh, KT, Katie, Katie, KATIE!, why aren't you here? Oh Katie, I want you so much, I want to fuck you so much." I came more than I'd ever done before. Unknown to me, my smiling mother, outside my bedroom door, now knew that I was hooked on someone called Katie! Also unknown to me, at that self-same moment, around the corner in Morgan Road, the object of my desire was uploading a large quantity of high-quality spunk on to her beautiful lace-edged pink silk nightgown as she sighed my name lovingly into her perfumed silk pillow with every pungent jet. I slept deeply that night. In the morning when I arrived at school, Miss Carlisle called me up to the Art Room. "Ah, come in Greg." In her usual direct fashion: "You've been studying Caravaggio and Michelangelo, so you'd know a bit about posing, wouldn't you?" she said. "Ye .esss," I replied hesitantly. "Why?" "Greg, I want a favour. Well, actually, there could be money in it, too. I want you to pose for a Life Class I do. Thursday evenings. You've got the build and the understanding of what life drawing is all about." I hesitated again. "Who's in the class?" "Mostly adults. Some parents who have kids here. Ken Thomas and his mum, among them. You know Ken don't you? He especially, is good, by the way, he's the best of them all. Very talented indeed, that young man. As good as you, if you can cope with that. I even thought about getting him to pose - might still - just for that hair. Jeez, wish I had hair like that. I'd kill for hair like that. A dab or two of slap and he'd pass." "Slap? Pass?" I asked. "Forget it. You don't need to know about that sort of stuff. Though there were plenty at it in da Vinci's time. Will you pose for us? We've been working from photos, but some of them, especially KT, have talent that demands the real thing. Living muscle. "You wouldn't deny us your muscle . would you Greg? No, NOT that muscle, you dirty young puppy! You'll wear footy shorts or Speedos. "Anyway, think about it. Let me know in the morning. Off you go." Another dilemma. I liked Jean, Miss Carlisle. In her late 20s she was very pretty. Lived on her own in a flat. Seemed to have a lot of friends. I always wondered if she, well, fancied me. I wondered if that was why she wanted me to pose. But there was a bigger problem. A potentially bigger problem at least. KT was in that class. What if I suddenly threw a stiffy? What if I inadvertently kept my gaze on him? What if I dumped a load in my shorts? I'd never done it, but I'd heard that spontaneous orgasm was not entirely unheard of. "I'll do it," I said. Espeically if there's cash in it. "Good on you, Mr McClintock, Thursday evening. I'll give you the address. Thanks, Greg. I owe you one." Jean patted my tusch. * * * * * Thursday afternoon arrived and I felt sick. After school, I went to the gym to work out a little. Went to the toilet and jacked off. Had a shower. As I walked into the Art Class, I noticed a sheet at the other end of the room. "That you, Greg?" called a voice from behind the sheet. "Down here, behind the Shroud." Jean stood up. And grinned. "Hi, Greg. Thanks for doing this." "Ah good, you brought a hanger. You can use the store room to change. You OK? You look a little doubtful. Wanna back out? You better hurry if you do, 'cos the first of your artists just arrived. You like Slava Gregorian?" "The guitarist? Yeah." "No, Gregory, the transvestite Nepalese accountant. Of course, the guitarist, idiot. I've just got his new CD. I'll play it for the class." The students arrived. I was introduced. I stripped off. Jean arranged my pose and I started several weeks of rather tedious posing. On the sixth Thursday, as the class was packing up and Jean was rushing out the door to meet a girlfriend, KT was still sketching. "Greg, would you hold that pose for just a couple of minutes more. I'm trying to get the drape of your shorts right. It's rather hard." The voice was so soft and melifluous and musical and seductive and confident and beautiful and . that I instantly began an erection. It was almost as if his mouth was smoothly tangoing up and down my shaft. If you can imagine having yourself raped to the strains of "Destiny" played by some top Buenos Aires orchestra on heat, that's how it was for me. Whether or not the effect would show through my shorts I didn't know. It did. "Parfait," whispered KT. Looking up, he broke into the slow, enchanting smile that, although I didn't know it then, was to beguile me for the rest of my life. Finishing his sketch, KT said slowly, without looking up. "Gracias. Perfecci- n. ? No es verdad, Meestairr McCleentock?" "Pardon?" Why did everything I said around this enchanter sound so banal? Perhaps because it was. "Sorry. Showing off, I think. I love languages. Not that I'm fluent in any of them. I was just thanking you, sir, in Spanish and saying that your pose was perfect. 'Ain't that the truth, Mr McClintock?What do you think?" KT held up the picture. It was good. It was me. It even had the giveaway bulge in my shorts. KT now swears I spoke to him first, but I can promise you, this is the truth. I told him that I'd seen some of his drawings before and that I liked them. "They're not stiff and formal like the others. You have real talent." "Thank you. Rather, I have a passion ." KT smiled. "Hard to believe, isn't it that a skinny, quiet boy like me could be a passionate anything." I knew I was falling in love. Everything about KT was hauling me in like a gamefish on a line. I'd been fighting it, but not only was I hooked, I was sunk. I suppose that's where the statement comes from. Hook, line and sinker. His voice, his delivery, his calm, his eyes (especially his eyes), his voluptuous mouth, his carriage, his slender fingers, his gentle humour. All of it was whipping me into line. This wasn't anything like the way it was with Angie. No way. This was as different as it gets. I asked KT where he lived. Even though I knew. Even though I suspected that he knew I knew. "Morgan Road." "I'm in Bond Street." "I know." "Shall we walk .?" "Home together?" "Yes." "Why not? That would be lovely. Go and get changed and I'll fix this drawing and store my kit." It just happened that I was pulling on my jocks when, without knocking, KT came into the store room to put away his drawing kit. "Ooops," he said without a smile. "Both storing our equipment. I'll wait for you by the water thing. I'm parched." On the way home we talked of inconsequential matters. The attitude of our prime minister to the United Nations. The crisis in Northern Ireland. The problems in Russia. Or perhaps my memory is playing up. Eventually, I asked about his name. "Why do they call you Katie," I asked, even though I knew about Kenneth Thomas. I wondered if there was more to the story. "They are the initials of my exotic and complex names. Kenneth and Thomas. Can you say them, Greg? Kenn - eth. Thom - as. KT is so much easier, doncha think?" "Katie. It's a girl's name, isn't it?" "Very good, Greg. Not many people know that." We both burst out laughing. He was adorable. He wasn't sending me up harshly. It was a dumb question. But he was equally making fun of his own names. Who could possibly resist? Other than the rest of the boys at school. I poked at him and he laughed as he set about tickling me. In the end we started chasing each other, laughing uncontrollably. It seemed like lovers' laughter to me. Or did I just fantacise it? I did not want to get hurt. I wanted to take his hand. I wanted to pull him into my arms. I wanted to pull on his ponytail and kiss his uncovered neck. I wanted him to be my girlfriend. And as that thought passed through my mind, the setting sun shone down on us and a voice from a passing car called "Hi, Greg. See you tomorrow." It was Angie. "Who was that?" asked Katie. It looked, from the statement on her face, that something had, at last, unsettled KT. "She's a friend. There's nothing serious about it. We go to the movies together sometimes, that's all. " WHY WAS I BEING SO DEFENSIVE? It was no bloody business of KT who I went out with. But I knew it was. We were getting close to my place and I figured I had better say something to register my interest. I was going to ask Katie in for a drink, but I was feeling so horny that, if mum was home, I was going to have to skip it. Mum was always pretty open about sex, but I wasn't sure how she'd feel if I brought home a guy and then took him to my room and fucked him. I expect I'm a noisy fucker. But mum's car wasn't in the drive. Of course, second Thursday, she was out until eleven or so. "Your hair's great. I like it. Must have taken a long while to grow." KT blushed. He did that a lot. And he changed the subject. Asked how I came to be the model. "Well I'm in one of Jean Carlisle's advanced art classes and she asked me to model for your class for a few weeks. I'd never modelled before, thought it sounded kinda cool, so I said yes". You're very good", Katie commented looking deep into my eyes. "Good? Thanks, but it's not too hard. All you've got to be able do is lie still and follow instructions". "And look gorgeous." They say that the last moments of your life happen in slow motion. I thought I was going to die. Right there on the footpath outside my own house. This was the ultimate clue for slow learners. Katie was spelling things out. Beyond what she had said, only "I want you to fuck me" could have made things clearer. "And look gorgeous." The look in his eyes as he said it made certain I knew exactly what he meant. I think I said something disarmingly witty. I said in a deep blushing purple "Thank you". The punchline? "Well, this is where I live". And, realising that I might have been misreading the situation totally, added, nervously, "Would you like to come in for a coke or a coffee or something?" "I'd love to", KT answered. I let us into the house, ushering KT through the door first. Closing the door behind me, I wanted to throw KT up against the wall and ravage her. "Come through to the kitchen. "Throw your bag in the corner and have a seat", I said, directing KT to a stool at the kitchen bench." KT climbed on to a stool as I got the glasses from a cupboard and the lemonade from the refrigerator. I poured a glass for each of us. Then I sat on the stool next to KT's. As I sat down I reached out and touched his hair. The Hair. The look in Katie's eyes changed again. Now there was lust. Her eyes sent a electric charge running through me. "It's just so beautiful", I whispered. "Do you ever cut it? It must be hard to keep clean." "I just have it trimmed occasionally to remove the split ends and, no, it's not hard to keep clean. I love looking after it". Katie pulled off the band holding her ponytail and shook her head. A flood of gleaming hair flowed over her shoulders. What was it with this hair? Without thinking, I dropped a hand and adjusted my crotch. And then, without any of the skill or finesse I guessed KT was capable of, the fantasy I'd indulged in bed so often morphed into a question and I heard myself blurt out. "Have you ever pretended to be a girl? You know, worn a dress? And makeup." "Oh, Greg, what a sweet question." KT got down from the stool, stepped towards me and, pushing open my legs, brought his slender body against mine. "Kiss me, Greg. Take my hair and kiss me. You'd like that, wouldn't you? I'd like it more than you could know. I've wanted it for years." As I took him in my arms, he brought his beautiful, sensual lips to mine and we sank into a long passionate embrace. I could feel his heartbeat. And he could feel my cock against his thigh. We broke. And breathing very unevenly, stared deep into each other's eyes. "Come with me," I said and, taking his hand, dragged him down the corridor to my mother's room. Sliding open the mirrored door of my mother's wardrobe, I began feverishly flicking through the robes and gowns and slips hanging there. Like Kate, as I decided on the spot to call her, my mum was tall and I knew she had a white silk slip that was pencil slim and clinging. "Put this on for me." I was very much in charge. "Go back to the kitchen," Kate suggested. I want to make an entrance." "Come here and kiss me first," I demanded. She did as she was bidden and once more relaxed into my arms, a thigh pushed hard against my throbbing cock. "Now go. I'll be ten minutes." It felt more like ten years. Not only was Kate wearing the gleaming silk and lace slip, which fitted her like a second skin, she was in a pair of mum's pumps. And she was made up. She could have passed Now I knew what Jean had meant. The little spaghetti strings of the slip looked so sexy on her shoulders. From the moment Kate walked in, the only thing in the kitchen was sex. She walked past me, almost ignoring me. At a distance she stopped with her back to me. Then, as though she were a Catalan dancer in a seedy club in Barcelona, raised her arms and executed a double pirouette. "Oh God! Oh God! Oh God, you're even more beautiful than I imagined." I spluttered this compliment, fighting to get the words out and desperate to have my way with her. "You're too beautiful. Come here - please". I held out one hand and she slowly walked to me, taking the offered hand. "See what you do to me", I declared, placing her hand directly on my trouser-covered brute of a penis. But KT herself recorded her own thoughts in her diary. She has said I can quote from it. Here's how she described what happened next. I can vouch for almost every word. "I could feel it throbbing through the material. It was my turn to swoon. Without announcement, but with both hands free, he drew me to him between his parted legs and kissed me. Well, in reality, it was impossible to tell who was kissing whom because I kissed him back with equal excitement. Suddenly my little lace thong gave up its struggle and my cock escaped, thrusting itself, through his mama's petticoat, into Greg's tummy. "Oh Katie, I want to fuck you", he gasped breaking off the kiss but rubbing his stubbled cheek against my own smooth face. "Have you ever been fucked? Are you a virgin? If you are I'll be gentle". My own breathing was so shallow and so rapid it required great concentration to form the words of a reply. "Yes please", was all I could manage. He moved me back far enough for him to stand, and in what seemed to be a single movement, unbuckle his belt and step out of his trousers and jocks. He slipped off his shoes and stood before me in just his white socks and white T-shirt below the hem of which thrust the most gorgeous cock imaginable. It was so magnificent. It throbbed, pumped up and down with his heart beat and the beautiful purple helmet, oozing pre cum, seemed to scream my name as I stared, hypnotised by its masculine beauty. Involuntarily, I fell to my knees and managed just one brief kiss to the bobbing purple tip before he leant down and lifted me to my feet again. "Darling girl, I want to fuck you. You can suck me later", he commanded. "He called me 'girl'. He called me 'girl'. He called me 'girl'. He called me 'girl'". Elation was an understatement. I had lost all capacity for independent thought and movement. He was going to fuck me. The gorgeous Greg McClintock was going to fuck me! He was going to thrust that gorgeous cock into my body! My body! And he called me 'darling girl'. Awash in my cloud of lust and love, he turned me round to face the kitchen bench and place his hands gently on my shoulders, forcing me to rest my head on the bench. His hand reached up under my slip and with one sudden tug, he tore off my thong and pushed my legs further apart. "I'm sorry darling but I'll buy you a dozen new pairs of panties". His strong musky odour surrounded me, entered me. I felt him lift the slip and press his cock tip in between the fleshy globes of my bum. Suddenly I felt his spare hand surround my own cock which, while engorged in a way I had never before experienced, I had almost forgotten about. "That feels like a cock any girl would be proud of ", he whispered in my ear as his stubble returned to chafe my neck. Just two pumps with his hand and I came, gushing all over the panelling of the kitchen bar. "Someone is a very excited girl", he whispered. "But the best is yet to come". I felt his urgent, excited cock searching up and down my crack for its quarry. And then it found it. Without letting his cock move from my anxious rosebud, he leant over me and clutched a tube of lubricant I'd not previously noticed. With practised moves he temporarily removed his cock from its starting position, suddenly inserted a heavily lubricated finger into me and then returned his cock to the ready. "Are you ready to be fucked pretty girl?". I had no chance to respond before I felt the tip of his cock breach my puckered sphincter. I let out an involuntary gasp and he stopped. "You are a virgin aren't you darling?". I could only move my head in a manner intended to signify, 'yes'. Very slowly, very gently he inserted more and more of his cock into me, stopping frequently to allow my body to adjust to the unaccustomed but welcome visitor, and assuring me that I was the most beautiful girl he'd ever fucked. He'd done it. He was fully inside me. He filled me. The temporary pain had passed, my body had welcomed the intruder and I could feel his hairy balls resting against me. "Fuck me please", I pleaded in my best little-girl voice. "Fuck me with your cock", I begged redundantly. He did. Starting slowly, it took only seconds before he was pumping me with the force and frequency of a battering ram. I had never felt anything so wonderful. I arched my back and began pushing myself backwards to match his individual thrusts. He brought his hands back to my shoulders forcing me onto the bench and leaving me helplessly prone. I could feel his purple helmet punching its way into and out of me, first leading, then following his cock shaft. Once, his thrusts were so frantic his cock popped out. I let out a little cry of anguish at having lost him but his re-entry was so glorious I almost hoped he might pop out again. My own cock had completely recovered from its premature excitement and I could feel my cum welling up once more. I tried to free one of my hands to comfort my own cock but Ewan was too strong and too determined to keep me exactly where he wanted me and I was gasping for every breath. As suddenly as he had begun, he pulled back and out of me. I stayed, splayed across the bench top expecting him to continue my fucking but he lifted my petticoat which had slipped down across his cock and with a strangled cry spewed his hot, thick cum across my glowing bottom and between my thighs. I was drenched with his hot sticky cum. It oozed gloriously down the insides and backs of my long, slim legs. I reached back and grasped his still pumping cock as he continued to hold my petticoat aloft and, with just a brush of my petticoat against my own cockhead, I came again, redecorating the kitchen bench. Both of us exhausted, me holding his cock and he holding up my petticoat, his mother threw open the kitchen door. "Hello darling. You look as though you've been having fun" I could have died * * * * * * * * * * EWEN'S STORY: CHAPTER THREE When I woke in the morning, I was soon conscious that I was not alone in my bed. My cock, as always, was hard as a rock. But it was not my fist that was holding it. My face was in a forest of hair. My nostrils were filled with the scent of Opium and boy. One arm was stretched in front of me under the pillow, the other limp around the torso of my houseguest. Little twitches were playing on my rigid cock. Little by little, I realised that Kate had spent the night with me. That we had made love until perhaps just before dawn. Now she responded to my almost imperceptible movements inside her pussy. Had I really been inside her all night? Had I been hard all night? How often did I come? "Kate?" There was a languid response. "Mmmmm? . You wish something, my lord and handsome hunk. And dream fucker. Don't move, my darling, I shall just slip off you ... so that... I can... ... suck on your beautiful mouth." As Kate turned over, his beautiful cock clashed with mine. "Ooooh!" We were in a state of total relaxation . For the first time we were able to study each other's face. Then kissing, each mouth brushed the other. A slow, oh so slow erotic dance. Our breathy music the only accompaniment. The sound of bedclothes and limbs, a sound I discovered is only ever heard the first night of as liaison. The sound of lovers bonding. Little, little kisses. Pecks. And tentative touches. We made ourselves comfortable as we had not done the driving, desperate night before. Our fucking had lasted through the night. We had been nymphosatyriasic. We had, by turns, been one being. Then two. Then one again. Enchanted creatures. Beings from another realm. We were serpents. Then lion cubs at play. Then fuckers. Blindly fucking. Falling quiet at sunup only when my vigour failed me. Kate had been a virgin half a day ago. A nymph become a nympho. Unable to get enough of me. When I had come, near-exhausted for the last time, and brought her to final and weary orgasm, she had stopped me withdrawing. My limp dick was trapped inside her. When I woke she had brought it to full magnificence once more. "Do you smoke?" "No, I gave up." "Do you do dope?" "No, makes me paranoid." "Suck my cock. But don't inhale." Laughter. Teasing. Pleasure. Delight. Discovery. God, how I loved this boy called Kate. He/she was so ultimately sexy. So completely feminine. And yet he was sufficiently male to be instinctively in touch with my desires and pleasures. Of course, it was more than knowledge. It was the insight of lovers, rarely found. Still in a daze of discovery and utter delight with each other we played and probed each other. Now and then we would doze. Once I woke with Kate's finger under my foreskin. It was so intimate. She withdrew it and brought it to her nose. "Smegma. Yours smells good enough to eat. So good for the skin. And much more erotic than Opium or Poison, darling." We continued our 'little morning piece'. Ears, mouths, eyebrows, noses, eyes, brows, chins and cheeks. My tongue would seek out her ear. Trace down her jaw. Find the pouty overhang of her lower lip. Then up and over and into the warmth of her waiting mouth. Kate would bite my nose. Toothy teasing that turned to the soft seduction of more sighs and kisses. Here we were, Adam and Yves. Ewen and Kate. Boyfriend and Girl. GirliBoy and LoverBoy. Two happy souls. In love. In bed. Inattentive to anything or anyone save ourselves. Nothing beyond the silk sheets on my big brass bed. Kate ran a finger down my nose. "Ew, that was the most wonderful night of my life. I love you. I've loved you from the moment I first saw you. I was nine years and three days old. And you were wearing blue Speedos at the pool. You didn't even know I existed." "Oh, but I did, missy. I saw you in your bedroom one morning. I thought you were a girl. Couldn't see properly before I got the specs. Saw you brushing your hair. Don't remember the meeting at the pool." Kate smiled that unbelievable smile. Then put that pungent digit to my lips. "Sssshh my love. Love me and rouse me; seduce me and fuck me. "And, Greg, my angel, never stop. Never. Not ever. Fuck me all day. Then turn me over and fuck me all night. "Fuck me today. "Fuck me tomorrow. "Fuck me, my darling, until you hear me dying. "Then, and only then are you to stop." And so it was to be. And the evening and the morning were the first day. * * * * * * * * * Would you like to know what happened from then on? ----------------------------------------------------