
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/778523.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Original_Work, No_Fandom
  Relationship:
      Original_Male_Character/Original_Male_Character
  Character:
      Original_Characters
  Additional Tags:
      Slash, Sex, First_Time, Multiple_Partners, Psychology, One-Shot, Short
      Story
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-04-29 Words: 1652
****** Pretty Boys ******
by ThornWild
Summary
     I collect pretty boys. Whenever I see one—slight and effeminate, with
     long lashes and rosy lips—I want to own him. I want to make him want
     me. Adore me. Love me.
Notes
     I wrote this as a Christmas present for one of my best friends a
     couple of years ago. This is the first time I'm posting it.
I collect pretty boys. Whenever I see one—slight and effeminate, with long
lashes and rosy lips—I want to own him. I want to make him want me. Adore me.
Love me. 
I collect them in my mind, all the boys whose faces are like angels, whose
voices quiver as they say my name, I collect them all, and remember them, and
live off of those memories. I take the shy and timid ones, and the ones who are
insecure in their sexuality, uncomfortable in their skins. I take them and
mould them and blow life into them.
It goes back as far as I can remember.
===============================================================================
I am four years old, in the playground. I’m still small, even for my age, but
all the bigger boys want to play with me anyway. They are drawn, I think, to my
sense of self, my attitude and perhaps, though they don’t realise it, to my
physical appearance. I ignore them completely. Over by the fence, in a corner
of the sandbox, sits a tiny three-year-old. He has big, blue eyes and blonde
hair, and the cutest little button nose you ever saw. He won’t meet anyone’s
gaze, staring instead down at the sand in front of him, picking at it with a
small, yellow plastic spade. It is summer, the weather is warm and he is
wearing a blue overall over a green striped t-shirt. 
I approach him and sit down next to him. He looks up, startled at the
attention.
‘Hi,’ I say. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Marcus,’ he responds in barely more than a whisper.
‘Would you like to play with me, Marcus?’ I ask. And he looks at me with those
bright blue eyes and smiles, and that smile is filled with gratitude and
affection. And I’m hooked.
===============================================================================
I am ten years old, crouched behind the bike shed at school with a boy a couple
of years my junior. He is shy and timid, and has smooth, tanned skin. His name
is James. He is poking at an earth worm with a stick, fascinated with the way
it squirms. I’m staring at him, fascinated with his cheek bones, his long eye
lashes and his untidy, brown hair.
‘Wanna play a game?’ I ask. He looks up at me, his brow raised in question.
‘It’s a kissing game. You ask me questions, and if I can’t answer them I have
to kiss you,’ I continue.
He seems to consider this for a moment, then says, ‘Okay.’
He asks me easy questions. I fail to answer them on purpose
James has never played a kissing game before. James has never been kissed
before. And James is too innocent to think that there could be anything wrong
another boy placing his hands on his shoulders and repeatedly kissing him on
the lips. Between kisses he gazes at me in adoration, and I feel my tummy
tingle.
We skip the next class, and spend it kissing. Over and over.
===============================================================================
I am thirteen years old, sitting in my bedroom with a boy named Azis. He is
fourteen, but looks younger, for he is small, slim and so very pretty. He has
dark brown eyes and light brown skin and gleaming black hair. 
I am undressing him, taking my time removing every item of clothing and
exploring his body with eyes and hands. He has several older brothers, who
constantly mock him for his slight frame and feminine attributes. They hurt
him, too, which is why his body is covered in cuts and bruises, sullying his
perfect form; these imperfections make him no less beautiful. His brothers are
also the reason why he, at fourteen, has yet to bring himself to climax.
Because every time he tries, the images he sees in his mind’s eye are of other
boys, not girls, and he is ashamed.
He lets me take off his clothes, however, shuddering with every touch, his eyes
closed and his breathing heavy, his erection becoming more obvious every
second. 
Once all the clothes are gone, I lay him down on the bed gently. When he comes,
it is with a gasp of release, tears streaming down his cheeks as his body
convulses with the combined efforts of the orgasm and the desperate sobs
pouring forth from his beautiful lips.
He wants to return the favour. I won’t let him. I just wanted to collect this
moment, collect him.
===============================================================================
I am sixteen years old, sitting in the office of my school’s guidance
councillor. There have been rumours about me.
‘I’m not a homosexual,’ I tell him conversationally. He looks at me over the
top of his glasses, professional, poised. He is in his twenties, and new at his
job, but he puts on a good show of experience. ‘I’m not an anything-sexual,’ I
continue. ‘I just like pretty boys. I like it when they want me, and when they
like me. I like it when they’re meek and vulnerable, and I get to fix them. I
like watching their eyes when they come.’
I look right into his eyes as I say it, and his face flushes ever so slightly,
though he does not break eye contact. He is waiting for me to say something
more, but I say nothing. I just stare at him, studying his features. He is
quite pretty, too. He has small, evenly spaced freckles and ginger hair; a true
ginger, with green eyes, transparent eyelashes and pale skin underneath the
freckles. And he is so very obviously gay.
I lean forwards slightly, my eyes still focused on his, and whisper, ‘I’d like
to see your eyes when you come.’
He visibly jumps. Swallows. Clears his throat and breaks eye contact.
‘That is highly inappropriate,’ he says. 
I just smile.
===============================================================================
I am eighteen years old, and I am in the back of a car with a boy my age. It’s
raining, the drops thrumming a pattern on the roof of the banged up old station
wagon. It’s dark outside, but we have the dim light in the ceiling lit and I
can make out his features, his wide brown eyes and his dark blonde hair, and
his open mouth, uttering small moans as I fuck him.
He begged me to fuck him. I tried to find some other way that I could please
him, but this was the only thing he wanted, for me to fuck him, and so I
obliged. 
I start slowly, easing my way inside, then plunge deep. I stimulate and tease
until all I have to do to bring him over the edge is blow cool air on his
nipple. I take my time, making sure that I don’t come until I’ve milked him for
all he’s worth.
It’s the first time I come in the company of another person. It is a pleasant
enough experience, but the real pay-off comes afterwards when, reduced to a
shivering wreck, and clutching my hand in both of his, he mumbles words of
gratitude and love between sobs of absolute joy. 
===============================================================================
I am twenty years old and I’m at university. I live on campus. In the bedroom
across the hall from mine, there lives a boy called Jason. 
Jason is tall and slim, yet muscular and decidedly masculine. He has alabaster
skin, a mop of dark brown hair and steely grey eyes, and he wears a secretive
mona lisa smile that never falters. 
He is the most beautiful boy I have ever seen. I need to have him in my
collection. I need to make him want me and love me and adore me.
But Jason is not quiet, reserved and self-conscious. He is not shy and timid.
He is confident and outgoing and brimming with sex appeal and humour. He’s not
gay, he says. He dabbles in a bit of everything.
My usual techniques are lost on him. I cannot seduce him and make him follow me
around. I cannot make him fall in love with me, or in lust, or anything else. I
spend weeks trying to figure it out, neglecting my studies, trying to
understand what I can do to make him come to me.
There is nothing. I can’t sleep, because I’m constantly thinking about him. I
can’t let him be the one that got away. It feels like my life up until now has
all been for nothing if I can’t have him.
It is when I find myself thinking of him in the shower that I finally
understand. Without the slightest provocation, my cock begins to harden. I gaze
on in fascination as it turns into a full blown erection. This has never
happened before. I have had the natural, animal reaction from being touched,
but never before has the mere thought of someone set me off like this.
For the first time in years, I pleasure myself as I imagine Jason. I don’t
picture myself blowing him, or giving him a hand-job or fucking him, I imagine
him doing those things to me. As I come with a loud groan, I realise that
everything has changed. I don’t want Jason to want me. I just want Jason. I am
lusting for him. The very thought of him arouses me. I adore him in the way
that I thought I wanted him to adore me.
Jason is like me. A more powerful me, whom even I can’t fight.
After giving it some thought, I find that there is only one alternative left to
me. I get dressed and cross the hall to knock on Jason’s door.
He opens it, wearing only pyjama bottoms, his chest bare and his hair wet. He
must be straight out of the shower as well.
I try to say something, but I’m at a loss for words. He simply smiles at me,
that mona lisa smile, and says, ‘Oh, there you are. I knew you’d turn up
eventually.’
 
                                      END
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