Date: Sun, 04 Apr 2021 21:18:52 +0000 From: Tex Colorado Subject: What I Love About Tristan Disclaimer: The following contains descriptions of a relationship between an adult and a minor. If this is a problem for you in any way, please move on. The following is a short, one-part story. I wrote it on a whim, ran it past my editor, and received the green light to share. I hope that you like it. Joking aside, thanks future prolific author Divergent6 for reading it over and giving pointers. He wrote this gem: https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/a-brief-encounter If you like this very short story, my other Nifty series are: https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/a-more-perfect-union/ https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/the-other-side-of-the-wall/ If you would like to talk about this story or any other matter, please email me at texcolorado@protonmail.com. If you feel like sharing the physiological reactions that you may have while reading my stories, I'd love to hear about it. Most importantly, please donate to the archive: donate.nifty.org Thanks for reading! What I Love About Tristan by Tex Colorado (m/b oral, anal) What I love about Tristan at thirteen is, despite the increasing difficulty of the two of us being together since he's no longer my student, when we are together he still clings to me as we make love. Along the same lines, I love how much he enjoys having me inside him, telling me that he craves it when we're not together, to the point of not being able to concentrate in class if he's horny enough. Today we were able to meet. I had a small house two blocks from school, and luckily our town had alleys, so a young teenager could use the cover of darkness to sneak in on a Friday night when he was "sleeping over at a friend's house". We came together like he had been away at war, making out passionately as soon as the door closed. Even though it has been four years that we had been, what do you call it, dating? An item? Whatever it was, we hadn't grown apart as the little boy became a young man. Sure, it probably won't be long before interest is lost, probably by both of us at the same time if he finds someone his own age and I start to crave someone younger. But my love for him has remained, he is still my little boy, and I savor every minute. As we kissed, I was reminded about one of the things that I loved about Tristan at 9; he loved to kiss. I had been fortunate enough to know from personal experience that this was unique for such a young child. But he would shower me with kisses, covering my face before seeking out my lips, then circling my tongue with his own. This started the very first time that we were together, the little scamp knew what he liked and was happy to take it. When he stayed for a minute after class while I explained a problem, he had pushed up onto his tiptoes and gave me a wildly inappropriate peck on the cheek as thanks. I was stunned but pleased, and the smart boy could tell, giving me the simultaneously cutest, shyest, and naughtiest lip-biting smile that I'd ever seen. Within a week he was staying after class every day, we had moved on to locking the door after the last student left, and he would sit on my lap facing me, his beautiful brown eyes gleaming as he leaned in, opening his sweet red lips to let me explore his mouth with my tongue, his diminutive appendage flicking against my own as I devoured his tiny mouth. The extra help after school was a ruse, because one of the other things that I immediately discovered that I loved about Tristan at 9 was that he was whip-smart. Easily the smartest student that I'd ever had, it translated to his sense of humor too, as he teased me maturely about my interest in him, knowing exactly how to manipulate my overexcited brain. The memories of him shaking his pert butt at me in the middle of class when he knew that he couldn't be seen are some of the most erotic of my life. Today we move quickly to my bedroom, Tristan throwing off his shirt as he runs up the stairs, then jumping on my bed and peeling off his loose shorts. I take a moment to soak in the gorgeous boy before me. As always, he is so hard that he looks like he could pound through steel with his newly enlarged cock. His body is stronger now, no longer the skinny boy, but an adolescent with a nice chest developing above a new set of rippled abs. Another thing that I am surprised to find that I love about Tristan at 13 is his pubic hair. For four years I've worshipped at the alter of his bare pubis. It's truly one of my favorite parts of a boy. To me it shows them as unspoiled, innocent, perfect, before the course hairs ruin my puffy little playground. But I feel differently about Tristan. I guess that it's only reasonable to call it love, but I continue to want him, continue to find him desirable, and have relished the sprouting of his first curly hairs with him, the two of us counting them as they came in. Now he has an adorable patch, too small to be groomed, that just seems to accentuate his penis, looking like the ground cover from which the tree of his cock grows. Another obvious development had arrived before the first hair sprung, he began to emit his little clear spurts. I guess that you'd have to say that this was something that I loved about Tristan at 12, his new, sweet nectar, the flavor exploding onto my tongue that first time, and it was his first he later confirmed. Swallowing his baby offering, consuming my boy's first little cumshot, was heaven, there's no other word for it. Now, it's no longer the rare treat of youthful ambrosia, now his ejaculate is more white than clear, still thin strong spurts that can reach his neck if he's really horny, but it's a man's cum now, not a boy's. I wouldn't have guessed, but I don't mind it at all. Could I be so in love that I'll want my boy even as he grows into adulthood? Which reminds me of what I loved about Tristan at 9, 10, 11, 12 and now 13; he loves my cum. You may find it gross, but from the first time that the fourth grader saw me produce my load, which happened to be all over his small, jerking fist, he was hooked. That day he inspected it up close, smelled it and wrinkled his nose, "Smells like bleach," he claimed. He let the viscous fluid run from hand to hand, no recoiling, no fear of the noxious substance that most kids would run from screaming. This fascination led to a string of firsts: first taste at 9, first cum onto his naked body later that year, first shot of cum in his mouth at 10, followed weeks later by the first swallowed semen. Then, finally, at 11, the first deposit inside his silky rectum, his guttural moans and grunts forcing me over the edge against my will when coupled to the other-worldly sensations of his tight sphincter and warm tunnel around my adult-sized cock. How could I feel anything but joy when his first spurts arrived, after he had shown such love for my own creamy explosions? No, those joyous firsts were met with genuine excitement, I was so proud of my boy, taking those first steps to becoming a man. I crawl up to the bed as I remove my own shirt, Tristan runs his hands up my chest with a peaceful look as I sink down to him and kiss the naked teen again. But this is a quick rest stop on the trip to my favorite, stiff piece of flesh. I hold his four inch cock, nearly double the width and length that it was the first time that I touched it years ago. Parting my lips and letting the leaking head enter my mouth, the feel of the spongy glans on my tongue brings me back to that first time. Even though we moved quickly to kissing, arriving with surprisingly little explanation or discussion, the act fulfilling a need that young Tristan couldn't even put into words, we didn't move quickly to other activities, at least that first month or so. When we did move on, Tristan was the sole focus of the play. My hands up his shirt onto his back and belly as our kisses grew stronger, grew needier. He'd groan into my mouth when I'd find his tiny nipples and rub my thumb back and forth across the little nubs. After two days of this, the shirt started to be removed as a preliminary. It wasn't long before the pants followed. In the end, the last barrier to modesty, a too-tight pair of old, little-boy briefs fell with little fanfare. Tristan was eager at this point for me to move foreword, and proudly displayed himself to me, his fire-hot little rod bouncing as it imagined my touch. "Don't hurt me," Tristan asked more than demanded as I approached his exposed groin for the first time. "Never in a million years, sweetie," I answered, then took his marble-smooth, hard little cock between my fingers as he lay across my desk, his feet dangling off to my sides as I slid my desk chair in and pulled the slim pecker down to inspect that smooth bare skin above the root of his pretty penis. I was drawn in and began to slowly place kisses across his bald, bulging pubic pad, a cute dimple forming right at the base of his cock as I held the shockingly hard organ down. Finally bringing my tongue along to wet the entire area, I delved into the top of the connection of cock to body, running around the full ring of the cock root, momentarily feeling his spongy balls before completing the circuit, lifting my head and bringing the tip to my pursed lips, letting him inside. Stroking him with my lips, I surrounded his shaft with my tongue, the whole thing fitting so easily, feeling so natural, and the boy was in heaven. Whimpers turned to moans, moans became grunts as we moved faster and faster. I so wanted to drag it out, worship his little scrotum that actually hung a bit as it pressed just under my lip, kiss his whole body and explore his backside. But not today. His need was palpable, he had stopped looking and his head was back, his eyes scrunched closed, but he was holding my head and actively meeting me with tiny hip thrusts. He had been sighing periodically, but now awarded me with a chorus of, "Uh, uh, oh, oh, ungh," and I felt him grow inside me. Then he was there, the first flex hitting the roof of my mouth as his cock head twitched and his whole body spasmed, the steely organ trying so hard to cum, but instead shooting blanks through his panting orgasm. As fast as it came, it was quickly too much, and he started to push me away. But the over-sensitive reaction to my touch wasn't accompanied by regret. Instead, it was greeted with amazed discussion and profuse thanks. An agreement of a repeat performance was drawn from me, and the start of a miraculous two weeks of daily blowjobs followed. The pattern unchanged, the result my reception of his hard, little, no-cum climax, the feel of that cock coming to life inside me almost always sending me close to a similar fate. Each day I was forced to jerk myself off, alone in my forth grade classroom after Tristan had kissed me goodbye. Today, he has pulled his legs back to present his sexy teen boypussy, my favorite nickname and his most hated, and I spread his cheeks to look at the wrinkled bud that's brought me so much pleasure over these four years. "I'm clean," he said plainly. This is something that I've loved about Tristan at 11, 12 and 13; he likes to be emptied out and washed up, and when he is, he is eager to present himself to me. There is history here. The first time that 11 year old Tristan fully gave himself to me was one of the most magical experiences of my life. Every moment was perfect, the location, here in my house where there was no need to be quiet, the willingness, the ease of the event when finally I slid into him. The sighs, groans and pleas for more. And the feeling, that tight ring circling me, the warmth of his tunnel caressing me until finally I emptied into him. All at his request, he wanted to be mine. But the second time wasn't perfect. It was uncomfortable, and in the end, messy. So Tristan realized that he preferred to be cleaned out, and kept track of his bowel habits like a scientist, scurrying to me when he knew that the painful discomfort of too much inside wouldn't occur. Today, in my bedroom, as I take his familiar cock between my lips, the obvious thing that I love about Tristan is his penis. Always perfect, but completely different each year. The tiny spike that I mentioned at 9, the added girth and length at 10, growing again at 11, then at 12 the first signs that manhood was near. Now at 13 it was an amazing, proud erection; smooth, hard, delicious. I could spend hours fellating him, every millimeter glorious. What I loved about Tristan at 13 was his continued love of receiving the act. He'd never gotten bored, always craved, and always loved to finish in my mouth, even if I'd finished inside him first. I was always happy to comply, and the end usually came quickly if I'd recently been deep in the boy. With his legs pushed back and his clean hole exposed, I tenderly kissed him at his center. This spot, this entrance, this magical opening, still amazed me. I was still so thankful for the pleasure that it brought me, two years after the first time. Although I'd been performing this particular act long before that day. What I loved about Tristan at 11 was that he asked for it. No, he begged me, "Put it inside, I'm ready." I've told you about that first time, that it had been so easy. A boy wanting it, wanting to be fucked, made everything a walk in the park. Many fingers and even small toys had been there first, so intrusion was no surprise. When I first felt him open around me, taking a few inches that first time, I had never felt anything better. His sighs when I sunk in, the amazing, yielding tighness, the look on his face, almost a cry. He was so happy, so excited to be joined with me, and it brought up something that I have loved about Tristan since that day: he is upset when we aren't coupled. When I slide out, the loss of that connection is a crisis to him, and he almost always expresses a sadness at my removal. Over the years I've learned to stay in him, to try to maintain that connection as long as possible before I lose my hardness enough that I'm not able to stay together with my boy. I move up on him, his hole bathed by me, opened with a finger, and prepared to take me. He is excited, and so ready. There is no one else, so our two weeks of not being together means that it's been two weeks since either of us has made love to another human. Stretched out on my bed, just over five feet of sexy young teen, I'm reminded of towering over him the first time that we were naked together. The tiny boy, nine years old, as he stroked me until he got what he called "my cream", taking ownership of my offering. Today he will take it willingly into his warm rectum. Placing myself at his entrance, the teen on his back, knees pulled up to his sides, rocked back to raise his hole to me, I push. He opens so easily. Despite the time apart, he is so practiced, we move so well together, that he can contain my wide cock at will. He groans then sighs at the familiar feeling of my body pressed to his firm butt. I always stay here, rocking back and forth, loosening him, letting him get comfortable before I start to really move. And moving with Tristan is unlike anything I have ever done in my life. We work together like an orchestra, anticipating each other's movements, compensating for our weaknesses, bolstering our talents. This symphony was an early development. That first time it wasn't there. As I said, I only allowed myself a few inches into my beautiful boy. But there were hints. We both remember it as perfect, moving together, my cum filling him, getting him so excited that he came himself seconds later. The orchestra started to play later that year, when not-yet-12 year-old Tristan took my cock to the root, groaned, screamed, cried out, moaned and sighed through thirty minutes of fucking. That day I had him on his side, with his upper leg pulled up to ease the deep penetration. But this was just the start, my boy being taken on his back, on all fours, standing and then, finally, Tristan on top, gravity causing my semen to seep out of his tight hole still filled with my wilting penis. Today, in my bedroom, with my boy, my young man, my love; I start to move in him. He's vocal, something that I've loved about Tristan at 9, 10, 11, 12 and 13, he always says what he wants, and he says it constantly, whether by words, sighs, grunts or otherwise. The room fills with the sounds of our lovemaking, the slap of our bodies together, the dirty talk, the young man begging to be fucked, the involuntary groans, the heavy, loud breathing, until we reach the peak. I'm reminded of those first days, all of our history, these glorious four years, but now I'm present. We are here, today, and this is the boy that I love. We have covered the room, our escapades taking the form of every position that I can imagine, until we are here, face to face, me pounding into his upturned anus, our lips working so hard against each other, tongues intertwining in these last moments of passion until he cries out, and I actually feel his young cum hit my belly. Now I'm done. The surge hits hard and fast, my body on fire at the sensation of his young hole squeezing me, milking my load out of me and into his body. Post-orgasmic Tristan cries out when he feels me flex in him, my cock swelling before the first blast. My rhythm is erratic as my semen arrives, the first shot as hard as anything that I've ever felt, followed by spurt after spurt of my man semen filling my boy. It lasts for seconds and is almost painful in its intensity until finally it is over, the last of me filling him, and we are both satisfied. My chest is heaving as I press him to me, Tristan always holding tight to me as we climax, and I look down on him, so beautiful, so kind, so smart, so willing to be mine. I smile to him and I say: "Happy anniversary, baby. I love you, Tristan."