no-hands-lucas-1

Subject: No Hands Lucas - Chapter 1 An accident leaves 12yo Lucas temporarily unable to care for himself. Can 29yo Jack rise to the challenge? Comments welcome: ail The bounds of imagination would shrink without NIFTY -- please consider a donation at fty -------------------- NO HANDS LUCAS by Leopold Boyce CHAPTER 1 When Sheila Chalmers asked me, I was like, no worries, the boy can stay here, plenty of room. Man, if I'd known the drama that would follow... Her boy Lucas was apparently a bit of a hot shot tennis player. I only knew him when he was a baby, but over the years his mum had reported what a shy, quiet, good kid he was, so I wasn't worried about him staying here for three weeks. He obviously wasn't some brat like my brother's kids. He was signed up for a fancy tennis coaching camp in my neck of the woods, and his mum Sheila wanted to save on accommodation costs -- enter yours truly, Jack Marsden. "I really appreciate this, Jack," Sheila had said over the phone. "I promise, he'll be no trouble -- it worries me sometimes how little trouble he is, ha! Still, he loves his tennis, so you won't even know he's there." "No probs, Sheila," I said. "Emily will be here, and she's always bangin' on about how she loves kids, so I probably won't have to do much -- not that I'd have much clue what to do with a ten-year-old, anyway." "He's twelve, Jack. Thirteen next month." "Is he! Well, shit, times flies, doesn't it -- I'm getting old, Sheila, no escaping the fact..." "Jack, you're twenty-nine -- don't start with that crap -- I'd kill to be twenty-nine again!" "Thirty next month, Sheila," I said somberly. "Think of it." "Might be time to start having your own kids." "Jesus -- you been talking to Emily?" Sheila laughed, although I noticed she didn't actually deny it. I guess I figured I'd be having kids with Emily before too long, but, to be honest, I was in no rush. All my spare time outside of work was taken up with the footy club -- I might have been almost thirty, but I was in the best form of my career. Emily was only twenty-six, so I kept telling her we should wait till I retired from footy. She never quite saw it as the no-brainer I thought it was. Anyway, things started going wrong from the moment I said yes to Sheila. Two days before Lucas was due to arrive, Emily cracked the shits and shifted out. We've been together almost eight years -- seems we were meant for each other and all that jazz -- and in that time I reckon we've split up at least six times. She's, ah, high maintenance, Emily. And I guess I'm not the easiest sonofabitch to live with. The cause of our fight this time? Lucas, as it happened. So much for him being no trouble, ha! The very idea of him arriving got Emily all fired up about our always-postponed plans to start having kids -- getting married was in there as well, I think. Of course we were gonna do all that, I always insisted, just, not yet, babe, c'mon... That led to her pronouncing me impossible, an immature dolt, and telling me to look after the damn kid myself! Cruel, she can be, Emily, no doubt about it. I rang her a few hours after she took off, but it was obvious she wasn't coming back till I'd been forced to play babysitter for a while. Seemed a strange tactic to me. Wasn't this more likely to put me off the idea of kids? And a twelve-year-old is hardly relevant to the whole having babies thing, surely? Reckon she was convinced I'd discover my inner Dad gene or something. Yeah, right. Still, one thing I have learned over the years is not to get into protracted arguments with Emily on the big things. She's a goddamned 3D chess master at that shit. So Lucas arrived as planned on Friday arvo and things seemed okay. He was a quiet kid, but get him talking about sport and he did okay. He liked footy, but had stopped playing to concentrate on tennis year round. "Isn't that a bit boring? Nothing but tennis?" "You have to," he said, "if you want to go professional." "And you reckon you can?" He shrugged. "Frank, my coach, reckons I started a bit late, but if I really put in, I might catch up." I grumbled a bit about professionalism taking all the fun out of sport -- same deal in footy -- but he didn't seem too interested in that argument. Determined little fella, had to give him that. And, whaddaya know, Emily drops in about three hours after the boy arrived. Ha! Couldn't keep her bib out of it. She gushed over Lucas, of course, thought him the sweetest most divine boy ever, making the kid blush a bit while seeming to enjoy the attention. I told him not to worry about Emily's palaver -- she was getting a bit clucky was all. "Clucky? What's that?" Lucas asked. "She wants to start having babies." The young fella looked shocked. "With me?" Ha! I tried not to laugh too much. "No, shit, buddy, I didn't mean she wants to start having babies with YOU -- I'm in the gun-sights for that privilege. Although, if you want to do me a favor...who knows, might help with your backhand..." The kid blushed and laughed and we left it at that. I guess at his age he is a bit betwixt and between. Emily wants to cuddle and mother him, but the boy, ha, is starting to get other ideas... She's one hot babe, Emily is, so kudos to the boy. Like with sport, you gotta aim high if you want to succeed. But Emily, she was resolute. Left me to it, took off for some getaway with a couple of girlfriends. I wasn't too bothered. Never hurt for us two to have the occasional breather. And Lucas was a piece of cake. He already knew the bus he needed to catch to get to his tennis camp each day. I told him I was more than happy to drive him when I was around, but he absolutely insisted he'd make his own way -- had it all worked out. Good kid. I did take quite a shine to him, I have to say. Although I did wonder once or twice if I'd ever have it in me to raise such a fine young lad... Then the axe fell. Then the world blew up. It was on his third day here. Just after lunch at work I got a call from the hospital. Frank, his tennis coach, was there, and the news wasn't great. Lucas had been up the top of a viewing stand at the main court and somehow -- no one was sure just how -- he managed to fall off the back of it. Quite a long fall. One he broke with two flailing outstretched arms. And broke both his wrists. He was being put in plaster and would soon need his guardian to pick him up. Jesus! I immediately called Sheila and filled her in. Fortunately she's a level-headed broad. I was actually freaking out a bit, but she kept her eye on the ball. Would I be able to take care of Lucas for at least the next week? I knew why -- some important work stuff going down -- and I also knew I could handball this problem in an instant. Give the word and Sheila would take him off my hands that day. But I didn't take that option. "No, it'll be fine. I've got so much leave owing I could take care of him till his twenty-first if need be -- a week's a breeze. 'Course, we'll have to see what Lucas says -- not sure exactly how comfortable he is here." Now Sheila did waver a bit. "Oh, the poor baby, he'll be devastated at missing this camp -- maybe I should come straight there." "And forgo the next year's rent?" Silence on her end. It really was that serious. "Jack, are you sure...?" "Absolutely. Done deal." "I owe you big time. Look, I'll ring Luke now and see how he is with everything. And I'll you back." "Cool. Sounds fine." She kept going on a bit, insisting I could ring her any time and she'd drop everything and fly straight here. And I kept telling her it was no worries. It was only after I got off the phone I started to wonder what the hell I'd let myself in for. Then I thought of Emily. Surely once I told her the situation she'd be here with all the TLC a boy could want. Yeah, that was the ticket -- between us we had this covered easy. But, geez, picking him up from the hospital, the boy sure was sad and sorry for himself. Understandable. Taking off from the car park, the boy in passenger seat nursing two plastered arms in their dual slings, I noticed he was shivering, despite it being about thirty degrees. "You cold?" I asked him. "No," he said. "So does it hurt much?" "No, doesn't hurt at all." "Probably got you doped up on painkillers." "I have some in my bag. Instructions for taking them." "Cool. So, feel sick or nauseous at all?" He shook his head. "Okay, well, let me know if you need to throw up." Don't really know why I said that, the kid assuring me curtly he wasn't going to barf. He shifted uneasily in his seat, still in his trackies and tennis shirt, looking down at his arms. I thought it best not to mention the tennis right now. Wasn't really sure what to say. I finally went with: "Anyway, you don't need to worry, buddy, nothing but total luxury for you from here on in. Lie around watching telly or whatever and five star service -- that's your lot for the time being. Think of yourself as a sort of king who has lackeys to do everything for him." "So I'll be staying with you all this week?" "That's the plan. But you know your mum'll come pick you up the moment you need her to." "Yeah, but the Carrendon Conference -- she has to do that." "You spoke to her on the phone? You work things out?" He nodded, but didn't say any more. I looked over and saw he was tearing up, but trying not to, trying to wipe his eyes on his shoulder. Shit, I was way out of my depth here. First thing when I got home, I was ringing Emily. * * * It only really dawned on me, the magnitude of Lucas's situation, when we walked into the house. As the kid took a seat on the couch, I said, "You want a drink of something?" And when he said, yeah, water (so careful of his physical fitness), I was filling a glass at the sink when I thought, Shit, how the hell will he drink it? Couldn't hold a glass, obviously. And it dawned on me the kid couldn't do ANYTHING for himself. Couldn't get dressed, couldn't eat, couldn't wash, couldn't even take a piss! Jesus. A little dazed, I walked over to him with the glass of water. "So, um, open your mouth and I'll pour it in." He gave a weak laugh, but wasn't really in the mood for lame-arse comedy -- a pity, because I ain't got much else. He said, "Do you have a straw?" "Yes, of course, good thinking!" I returned to the kitchen area. You'd reckon I'd have a straw somewhere in the goddamned house, but I couldn't find one. I went back -- still holding his untouched glass of water -- and sat beside him on the couch. "Bud, we've got some thinking to do. You can't do a damn thing like that." He mumbled his agreement. Both his arms were plastered from just below the elbow to the very tips of his fingers. The doc was explicit -- all movement of wrist and hand, on both sides, had to cease for at least two weeks. Apparently he'd smashed his wrists up pretty good -- it wasn't certain he'd get back full use of them, which, regarding his dream of tennis fame, didn't bear thinking about at this stage. "We could buy some straws at the supermarket," he finally suggested. "Yep. Good as done. Top of the list." I then hinted to him that a drink of water was just the tip of the iceberg -- that for the next two weeks everything from dressing to washing was also beyond his capabilities. I could tell from the way his face fell that the full ramifications were just hitting home for him as well. He looked down at his twin plaster casts like they were agents of doom. "Anyway, hopefully Emily will be coming back shortly -- women know how to handle this sort of stuff, you know, nursing an' shit -- she'll look after you." But the boy seemed to pale a bit. "No, no, I don't want -- I mean, she can't -- it's not -- she can't be my nurse." The boy's face had reddened and I instantly twigged to his thinking. No way a hot babe like Emily could be given the job of dressing and toileting him like a little baby. She'd love it, probably, but it would be an unbearable humiliation to a fit, healthy, red-blooded almost-thirteen-year-old boy like Lucas. "But, actually," I mused, "come to think of it -- she's away with friends for the next couple of weeks -- can't even contact her. We'll have to forget that." Easily settled and all good, but it didn't get us any closer to a solution. I thought at least I should clear our first little hurdle. I moved over closer to him, sitting forward and turning round to maneuver the glass of water. "Okay, say when," I said, moving it in toward his mouth. But he reflexively jerked his head away. "No, it's right." "Well, I guess I can fill a bowl -- you can lap it up like a dog." He was not a happy camper. "Just drink it this way for now -- I'll get the straws later -- we probably should draw up a list of things you're going to need." He nodded, almost apologetically -- being the "good kid" was an important part of his identity. I brought the glass carefully to his lips and he parted them slightly to take the water in as I carefully tilted it up. Silly, but I felt almost proud as I saw the boy's throat start working as he thirstily gulped the water down -- the whole lot in one clean fluid man-boy combined motion. "Alright!" I boomed, putting the empty glass down. "We knocked that one out of the park!" Kid shot me a look. "Yeah, I can drink water -- maybe one day I'll be able Erzurum Escort to dress myself." "Ha!" I gave his shoulder a shove -- gently -- "Not bad, buddy! A bloody comedian as well! Geez, I'll have to watch you around Emily -- she's a sucker for a funny guy." He ALMOST smiled. I switched to serious. "Look, Lucas, this is going to be a shitty damn time -- a little bit for me, but mainly for you -- a royal pain in the ass. But, we're stuck with it -- so we'll just do what we have to do, okay?" He took in a deep breath, swelling his brave young chest, then let it out in a big sigh. "Yeah, well, I don't have much choice. But you...I mean you shouldn't have to, you know, take care of me." "Why the hell not? You don't think I'm up to it?" "No, not that," he replied. "I just mean, well, we don't even know each other very good." "We don't now, but we did." "Huh?" "Back when you were first born. Your mum was my tutor when I was trying to get through Year 12. My family situation was shit, and she saved my life, really. So if you're worried about why I should help you -- I owe your mum far more than a couple of weeks of looking after you." He frowned. "I never knew any of that. Mum only mentioned that you lived in our street for a while." "Yeah, but only for about eighteen months. Weird that we've always stayed in touch since then, even though we've been on opposite sides of the country for the last ten years or so." He was quiet, thinking something over. So I said, "Oh, yeah, and you pissed on me once." "Ha! Did I? When I was a baby?" "Yep. You were about six weeks old. And it's an old tribal custom -- if a boy pisses on a man, the man has to take care of him growing up. Google it, it's common knowledge." It seemed to tickle him. "Did I really pee on you? If I was a baby I should've been wearing a nappy." "I was holding you while your mum was off getting it ready. And you had this demonic little smile -- I reckon it was deliberate." "Ha! That's pretty gross." "It's alright, I forgave you -- I mean, you were pretty badly behaved back then, dribbling and talking gibberish and pissing all over the place." "Ha! -- isn't that what all babies do!" "That's what your mum said. Still reckon it was deliberate." "Maybe you deserved it," he said. Kid getting into the banter was good to see. "Damn, you aren't related to Emily by any chance?" Grabbing his glass and about to head for the kitchen, I said, "Just to get serious for a minute -- there's one rule we need to get in place right from the start." "What?" "You need anything -- ANYTHING -- food, a drink of water, whatever -- a cigarette, a dirty magazine -- ANYTHING -- and you tell me, okay? Otherwise this won't work." He nodded. "Yeah, alright, thanks," he muttered. I wandered out to the kitchen, calling back, "Something to eat? I don't think you had breakfast did you?" It was already pushing well into the afternoon. "Yeah, at the club they put on brekky. Eggs, sausages, everything." "Shit, looks like I've got some competition. Do you eat mushrooms?" "Whatever's there -- I'm not fussy about what I eat." I made a mental note to compliment Sheila -- what a good-looking, good-natured boy she'd raised. Then he called a little hesitantly, "So, um, how will I, you know, when I need to go?" I came back round. "You need a piss?" He nodded. Appraising him, I scratched my head. "Tricky. You know, it might be easier if for the next week you don't wear any clothes." "What?! No way!" I think he knew I was joking, but he wasn't taking any chances. I walked over to the plastic bag of goodies the hospital had given us. "Painkillers?" I asked, holding up a pack. He moved his plaster casts up and around. "They don't hurt at all." "Okay, let me know if they do." I pulled out two plastic covers, designed to protect the plaster casts in the shower. "I reckon what we'll do is kill two birds here. You need a shower, change of clothes -- may as well do the whole shebang now." "Yeah, but...I still need to go..." "Yes, of course, you piss in the shower." His eyes widened. "Oh! Is that okay?" "Are you kidding me? You don't piss in the shower at home?" "No. I go in the toilet." "Ha! Lucas, buddy, I mean, c'mon -- it's all plumbing!" Sheila had mentioned something about him being a bit too nice and clean-cut and well-behaved -- maybe she was right. "Well, for the next week you can piss wherever you like -- except the aquarium -- I just put some new guppies in." * * * Unfortunately, from those modest beginnings, it was all downhill. We went upstairs where Lucas was staying, with his own bedroom and bathroom. But, in his bedroom, getting him undressed, things got all very awkward. I was really angry -- at myself, that is -- for letting it get all weird. It was obvious the boy was gonna get embarrassed, being stripped off and given a shower by a man he didn't know very well. So it was up to me to make it all light-hearted and no big deal. Problem was, well, there turned out to be a bit of an unexpected problem here. When I'd got him down to just his socks and undies, I think I was getting more embarrassed than he was. He was -- well, I sorta had this feeling -- not, I wouldn't call it -- well, let's be upfront here -- I was finding him a bit sexy, to be honest. A twelve-year-old boy, for crying out loud! Jesus! It never rains but it pours. I figured it must have been the strange situation we were in -- a weird carer's chemistry or some shit. Because I've never had a gay bone in my body. Seriously, at the footy club I'm naked with twenty or so men all the time -- and, believe me, finding them sexy has never been a problem. Emily had gushed on about what a divinely beautiful boy Lucas was -- and, sure, I could see the lad was very good looking, a fine little budding athlete's body and all -- but that sort of shit doesn't interest me in a sexual way. Or at least it never used to. It did trigger an old memory I hadn't thought of in ages. When I was about Lucas's age, there was a boy in my street I mucked around with sexually, you know, just wanking each other off a few times. But it didn't last very long or lead to anything. Don't think I ever thought about it again until now. Maybe it planted a seed? Can it work that way? Geez, right now, the kid standing before me almost naked, I even got a bit shaky taking his socks off. So I let him keep his undies on for the short walk to the bathroom, where I first fitted the plastic covers over his plaster casts. Then I turned the water on in the shower, adjusted the temperature, and told him to hop in. "Ah, so, I'll..." He looked a bit confused, but then started getting in the shower. "Oh, shit, wait," I said, putting a hand on his bare shoulder, then quickly removing it as though from a hotplate. "Better take your, um, things off." He was still in his navy blue briefs. "Yeah, okay," he said, reddening, moving his plaster casts to the band of his undies and trying to shove them down. This was turning into a fucking farce. "Probably better if I get 'em." As I pulled the little cotton briefs down, I said to him, "So I s'pose your mum bought these for you...they're a good fit...I think I've got some blue ones." Good God! It pains me to admit it, but that IS what I said to him. Lucas didn't answer, and good for him. Man, I'd lost the plot good and proper. Maybe I'd have to go back on my word and call Emily after all. So he gets in the shower -- I reach in to turn the water on -- first it's too hot, then too cold -- kid's apologetic, increasingly miserable. I'd planned to just jump in the shower with him -- make it like a shower in the change rooms at the footy club, and just help him with a basic wash. But now, completely thrown by his effect on me, no way was I stripping off and getting in a shower cubicle with him! There'd end up three of us in there for sure! Instead, I reached in with a big shower sponge and gave him a token wipe on the chest and shoulders and told him that'd do. He jumped out, then, as I was about to wrap him up in a towel -- get that goddamned naked little form covered up! -- he says in a tight little voice, "I didn't pee." And I said irritably, "What? Why not? That was the whole idea of all this!" I immediately apologized -- what the hell was I doing telling the poor little fella off like that! Anyway, he gets back in the shower and I say, "Want me to turn the water back on?" "No, it's alright," he said miserably. It seemed to take an aeon or two, but with his back to me, he finally got his stream going, holding his plaster casts out wide like he was the impresario of a weird somber magic act. Meanwhile I tried not to notice his every buttock clench and shoulder flex as he did his business. His whole-body jiggling about to shake himself off at the end wasn't good for the peace of mind, either. Jesus. It was bloody hopeless. I needed some time out to think this through. Like, six or seven years. But it was a non-stop freight train now, and drying him off with a towel only worsened things. He held his plaster cast hands up above his head, stretching his full nude form before me -- not a hair on him except for a tiny bit starting to grow round the base of his little cock. Well, his cock wasn't that little -- not little enough, if you ask me, but what would I know. The thing that really did my head in -- the SKIN on the body of this boy, Jesus, Smoother than a girl's, I swear -- and seems to have some sort of a glow about it. Where the hell does that come from? I tried to be quick and practical and just get him the hell dry, but when I got him to move his legs apart, I noticed he was boning up. Jesus. Poor kid was obviously dying of embarrassment and I wasn't much better. I made a final towel swipe which I think rasped quite painfully across the head of his cock sticking out. He made a sudden flinch back of his hips and an involuntary cry of "Ow!" -- so, yeah, good job by me. Really, the only way I could've improved on this performance was if I'd upended him and flushed his head down the toilet. "Sorry," I said. "Didn't mean to..." "No, sorry, I was -- it's alright," he muttered. The word "sorry" was doing a lot of heavy lifting here -- let's face it, this whole thing was a sorry damn mess. Anyway, even though it was just after five, I got him into his winter-style dark blue pajamas. Not overly suitable for the warm weather, but they sure got him fully covered up and would make his future bathroom stops easier to manage, or so I hoped. But don't worry, I even managed to make a total hash of getting him into his PJ's. First, I damn near tripped the kid up as he stepped one foot at a time into the pajama bottoms. Then his uncircumcised stiffy sticks out the fly of 'em. I mean, it should have been funny, but, believe me, it wasn't. Trying to unobtrusively get his dick back in his pajamas was like one of those comic scenes on a beach with a deck chair -- TWANG! and out it pops again. But no laugh track in this case. And a twelve-year-old boy's cock, a bit of a revelation to me -- not a childish pee-pee anymore and not a great hoary old battering ram like a man's -- no, it's sorta slender and sensitive and vital and if you touch it when you're trying to shove it back in a boy's pants, then the skin moves like some supernatural silken sheath which sometimes lets the little pink tip show... Jesus! It was a goddamned relief to get out of there and back downstairs, let me tell you. Not that things really improved much. Lucas remained resolutely monosyllabic, and my attempts to re-jollify things never got off the ground. Man, dinner was grim. I kept it simple, steak and veg. But good steak, nicely cooked. Cutting it up and feeding the boy like a two-year-old in a high chair wasn't much fun. Lucas found it humiliating and I was failing miserably to lighten the mood. He had tomato sauce on his steak and I missed slightly with one forkful and the sauce ran all down his chin, and I tried to slide it up with my fingers into his mouth and smeared it up over his lips as far as his nose! I had to get some tissues and wipe him clean. Even the simple job of getting him to take his painkillers turned into mini-disaster. I tried to place the pills on his tongue, but as I was getting the glass of water, one fell out, and when I picked it up and put it carefully back on his tongue, he said worriedly, "Was it on the floor?" "Oh, shit, sorry." I used a finger to scoop both pills out of his mouth, his tongue a strangely strong, flexing, twisting wet little thing. The next two pills I pushed in a little too deep, triggering the boy's gag reflex and as I tried to stop the pills being spat out I ended up with two fingers halfway down his throat, the boy coughing and saliva dribbling out and getting messy. I mean, fucken hell... I swear, it was one of the most difficult days of my life -- God knows how bad it was for Lucas. I made a formal statement about how we knew it was going to be a difficult time, but that we'd just do what needed to be done and everything would be fine. Neither of us found the words remotely useful or convincing. He politely refused the offer of dessert. The problem was, the really awkward stuff was never ending. After a dull movie, it was bed time, which meant another Erzurum Escort Bayan toilet trip -- and cleaning someone else's teeth is surprisingly tricky and involved. After the pill saga he was very wary about opening his mouth for me. I think we were both relieved when I helped the boy into his bed for the night. Than God, I thought, for at least eight hours I won't have to stress over the kid. I'd decided to sleep in the other upstairs bedroom, right next Lucas's. My own master bedroom downstairs was too far away. I told the boy to call out for absolutely anything and he mumbled thanks, he would. I could tell, though, that he wanted more of our difficult engagements about as much as I did. Still, I left my door open and slept uneasily, determined not to fail him if he did need help with anything. * * * It was a bit before 2am that I woke with a start. A noise somewhere. I got up, pulled on a pair of board shorts, wandered next door -- no Lucas -- the kid's bed was empty! My first thought was that the noise might have been Lucas falling down the stairs. Flipping the lights on, no sign of him there. Then another noise, a scuffling or scraping, coming from the bathroom. Entering the open doorway and turning on the light -- Jesus, I was presented with quite a sight. Took a few moments to process it. Lucas was on the floor, slumped with his back against the side of the bath, almost wedged in beside the toilet. His pajama pants were down around his ankles, although the top was long enough to cover his nakedness, his plaster cast arms awkwardly splayed either side of him. The moment the light came on he looked up at me with a wretched, angry face -- he'd clearing been crying -- and yelled at me to get out. "Lucas, what the hell's going on...?" I couldn't work it out -- till I started across to him. There was quite a mess on the floor -- the smell hit me as I realized what it was. Kid had shit himself. Jesus. "Get out!" he repeated, on the verge of tears again, now trying to stand. "Whoa, stay where you are a minute, buddy," I said, kneeling beside him, putting a restraining hand on his chest, wanting to find out exactly what state he was in before he moved. "Are you hurt? Did you fall? Talk to me, Lucas." "I couldn't...I needed to go..." "Yeah, yeah, you took a dump on the floor -- I can see that -- big deal -- but tell me, are you hurt? Hit your head on the bath or anything?" He shook his head no. "You're sure?" He nodded. "Thank Christ for that." I was already on one knee, so I decided to plonk right down beside him -- metaphorically we were both in the shit, so it seemed fitting. Lucas, though, didn't think so. He yelled hoarsely, "Jack -- don't!" He waved one his plaster casts at the mess. "It's.. I... It's shit..." his voice a pained whisper. Sitting down beside him, leaning against the side of the bath, I scooped a small bit of his shit up with one finger -- held it up to the light and squinted at it. "Is that what this is? I thought maybe you'd been trying to whip up a batch of chockie bikkies." He stared at me, aghast. Apparently it was too soon to joke about. Instead, he launched into a jerky attempt to explain his shame. "It's... I, um, tried to go to the toilet, but the... I couldn't get...I tripped on my pajamas." "What I want to know is -- how long had you been needing to take a dump before this?" He didn't say anything, just a few jerky breaths keeping the tears at bay. "All day, I bet," I said. "Yeah," he mumbled. "I just didn't want to..." I turned to look at him. "I owe you an apology for today, Lucas." "YOU owe ME? Why?" "Fun day today, was it?" "No, but," and he held up his clunky casts. "How could it be -- these are shit." "Shit everywhere, at the moment, isn't there." He turned his head away, muttering, "Fucking hell..." It'd be nice to think there'd been a brief hint of a smile from him, although maybe it was wishful thinking on my part. After a pause, I said, "I made things totally fucked and awkward today, because...well, I'm not used to boys like you, I guess. You got under my skin a bit." I was determined to be honest -- without being TOO honest! Lucas was having none of my apology. "You got all my food and clothes and stuff -- you did everything!" I indicated the smeared tiles around us. "And we still ended up in the shit." "Jack, Jesus..." The boy screwed his face up, but he was definitely fighting off a small smile. "God, it's just so gross." ??? "Funny, isn't it," I reflected philosophically, "if you'd shit just two meters to your right, we wouldn't give it a second thought. Now, here, it's the center of a huge, life-changing drama." He stared at me incredulously. "Yeah, cos I shit on the floor." "Ha! Yeah, that's probably it. Deep thinking was never my thing." After a pause he said, "It stinks." "Oh stop boasting." "Ha! It's not as bad as Jasper at school -- he's off -- he always tries to make everyone smell his farts. They STINK!" "I think I went to school with his dad." After another pause -- we seemed weirdly settled-in here -- I said, "You were going to try and go the full week without shitting, weren't you?" He gave a choked scoff. "Well, I dunno, probably -- didn't last long." "Can't fight nature, buddy -- or, at least, you gotta know when to call a truce with the bitch." Being careful not to slip, I stood back up. "I can clean the mess up, Jack," Lucas said seriously. "I can use my hands a bit -- you know, with a rag or a mop or something." "Buddy," I said, standing over him and gesturing at the bespattered tiles, "let this stand as a monument to a new beginning. From now on, your shit is my shit. Okay?" "You want it, you can have it -- no charge." "Ha! Done deal!" I bent to grip him under the arms to help him stand. He said, "Oh, um, my pajama bottoms..." I went to take them off, and found them in an extraordinarily tight tangle round his ankles. "How the hell did they get like this?" I said, struggling to get them off over his feet. "I slipped," he said disingenuously. I looked at him and he looked away. I was damn curious but thought I'd better leave it. As I finally wrestled them off, I glanced inside. "Wow! You shit in here as well!" "Jack! Jesus, don't -- it's gross!" I tossed the soiled pants over the boy's head into the bath. "Come on, bud, stop trying to beat it up into a big scandal -- fact is, it's just not a big deal." A little tentatively he said, "What if I also did some in the bed?" I laughed. "Did you? Fair dinkum, I'm thinking of calling the Guinness Book of Records. Little fella like you -- where did you get all this shit?" "It was gross -- it totally exploded!" "I bet it felt good," I said with a grin. "What? No way...disgusting." "Come on -- holding it in all day, then letting it rip like that. Almost as good as sex, I'd reckon..." "Gross! That's so off, Jack!" "I'll have to introduce you to a couple of girls I know." He changed his tune at that. "What do mean? What girls? Or are you just joking?" I got the boy by the armpits and helped him stand. "Come on, let's get cleaned up -- we'll continue this discussion later." The boy on his feet, I unbuttoned his pajama top, peeled the sleeves off over his plaster casts, dropped it in the bath. And there he was, naked again. He was self-conscious alright, not knowing how to hold his plaster casts, flirting with the idea of covering his sex with one, but finding that a ludicrous look, so just stood there, throwing a few quick glances at me...interesting glances -- a bit knowing? -- he was a sharp kid, did he twig to the way I was looking at him? The effect he had on me certainly wasn't lessening with each viewing. Jesus. I removed my board shorts, tossed 'em in the bath, looked down at myself, then at the boy, then let out a loud, "Phew!" "What?" "Well, it would have been embarrassing if my cock wasn't bigger than yours." He took that as an okay to brazenly look. "I mean, geez, yours is way bigger." "Thanks, buddy. You're welcome to stay here long as you like." "And hairier," he added with a laugh. I wandered over to get the plastic covers to put on his plaster casts. Coming back, the boy raising his arms to me, I said, "While we're both being blokes, here, I have to ask, are you worried?" "About what?" "No hands, Lucas." "Yeah, so..." "It must put a crimp in your wanking schedule." He gave an embarrassed laugh, saying almost inaudibly, "I don't do that." "Yeah, right," I said with heavy sarcasm -- but something in his look pulled me up. "Wait -- do you mean it? You don't wank?" He shook his head. "No, honest, I don't." "Why the hell not?" "Ha! Is it compulsory to?" "Well, actually, it is, sorta, yeah." "Maybe for you! Maybe you do it all the time!" "Hey, you HAVE been talking to Emily!" At least he was finding the talk as funny as it was embarrassing. But I had to pursue it -- it seemed a possibly important piece of the puzzle that was Lucas Chalmers. "But seriously, you're a pretty sexy, sexed up young fella -- pubes and everything..." "Jack..." he groaned, rolling his eyes and swinging a plaster cast in front of his sex while looking down at himself and up at me as I continued -- "No, let's be serious, you are. So I can't help wondering why you wouldn't wank? Jesus, at your age I wasn't doing much else. Do have some other tricks up your sleeve?" "No, I just don't, that's all. Why's it a big deal?" I raised my arms in surrender. "Fair enough, I'll back off...for now." Maybe he was just lying, although it sure didn't seem like it -- he was a pretty straight up sort of kid. I don't know why, but it got to me. Well, maybe I did know why. Plastic covers on, I told Lucas to hit the shower, and gave his bare butt a slap as he went. He spun with wide eyes to look at me. "Oops," I said, holding up my palm, now showing a nice smear of shit on it. He gave the loudest laugh I'd yet heard from him. It was with as much relief as excitement that I got in the shower with him. Even with the plastic covers on, it was best to keep his forearms out of the water flow. So I got him to reach his plaster casts up high and against the plexiglass side of the shower stall, letting his slim form stretch nicely to the center. The shower head was detachable, so I got it out of the holder and started carefully and thoroughly rinsing him off with a nice hot stream. I might have made a point of accepting the shitty mess he made on the floor, but I was sure as hell determined to get him squeaky clean again. After I'd removed all visible evidence of his accident, I put the shower head back, set the angle to hit his right hip, reached for the soap. Emily was big on buying these thumping great bottles of liquid body wash -- I never bothered with it, happy with a cake of Palmolive Gold. But I used it now -- lightly scented sensitive body wash with bamboo extract, or some shit. As I began pouring it on the boy's head, he twisted to try and look at the bottle. "What is it?" he asked. "Oi, stay still. And close your eyes. It's soap. Real fancy stuff by the look -- says it works as soap and shampoo and shaving gel and moisturizer. Emily buys it for me but I never use it." As a great lava flow of the sweetly scented soap started down over the boy's neck, shoulders, slender torso, I put the bottle back and went to town on him. "Keep your eyes closed," I repeated as I started with his light brown hair. As I got to soaping his shoulders and smooth armpits, I was glad to see the boy was soon fully boned up. It would have been awkward to have been the only one. I moved the shower head so the water wasn't hitting him at all, then dumped another huge sluice of soft soap on him. He was side-on to me, arms stretched up to lean on the wall, back a little arched as I ran my hands over his front and back -- Christ he was a smooth, slippery, slender, sexy little bastard! I took plenty of time before I ran a soapy hand slowly down over his taut little tummy and lightly took hold of his fully rigid boy-cock. Damn, it was fierce, steely little shiv of a thing. Barely a full four inches, but such a perfectly formed, sweetly carved little masterpiece -- as though this jutting boy-cock, in its slender pink-tipped perfection, was part heavenly angel and part hot fuck tool -- a microcosm of boyhood itself. He screwed his eyes tighter shut the moment I touched his cock, dipped his hips back, made a worried little noise in his throat. But after that initial response, he stood back in his original position and even, subtly, pushed his hard little cock at my hand once or twice. Very soon I realized three or four firm strokes would see the kid blow his load -- if he had a load to blow, that is. But part of my brain was maintaining a sense of responsibility -- if in a slightly eccentric sort of way. I decided I had to get the boy fully cleaned up before giving him any ground-breaking first orgasm. Keep It Simple Sexy: business before pleasure. I guess from the moment I sat down beside Lucas on the bathroom floor, I realized that if this arrangement was going to work, then we were going to have to approach it as a sexual relationship. Not a conventional one, I grant you. But the only Escort Erzurum one that would give us the required physical intimacy and trust. Whether it would work or not -- whether Lucas wanted it to or not -- remained to be seen. But trying to get by with a polite, puritan-derived set of middle-class manners simply wasn't going to cut it. If the sex-bonding thing didn't work, then it was back to mum with the boy. Well, at least it was a plan. Surprising how much will power on my part it took NOT to straight away stroke the boy hard and fast to orgasm. It was also a bit like defusing a bomb. Getting him properly cleaned was priority number one. The water had already cleared away most of the visible dirt from him, but a very thorough soaping was still essential. With finger and thumb I gently began retracting his foreskin, but found it reasonably tight, going back only half way before it required a bit more force. And even that much fingering of his swollen cock head was getting him a bit yippy, a bit close. "Does your foreskin go back all the way?" I asked him. "Huh? Ah, oh right, okay, thanks." Eh? Well, he was close to his first wad -- cut him some slack. So I applied a bit more pressure to his tight foreskin and it did retract, snapping in behind the corona, making a nice display of his swollen pink glans. Again he got a bit shivery and twitchy as I gently soaped him. If he blew his wad, so be it, but I was trying to hold him off. He opened his eyes just a little to squint anxiously down at himself, shifting his big plaster hands round a bit on the plexiglass. "Jack, I...it's..." "Just about done, buddy." "It's...sorta sore." "Sore?" I laughed. "You just need to cum is all." "Yeah...I think I did." "Eh?" Surely I wouldn't have missed it if he'd climaxed? Be bloody pissed off if I had. It was hard to tell with all the soap, but I ran a careful thumb across the the tip of his cock -- there may have been a bit of his own clear juice dribbling out. Which, for a boy Lucas's age -- maybe it was his load? But no, he'd still have had the noticeable spasms and contractions, wouldn't he? Trying to think back to my own boyhood didn't help much. Anyway, I grabbed the detachable shower head and rinsed the soap off his cock, then gently stroked his foreskin back down -- and that made it very obvious -- ha! -- no way had Lucas cum, the poor tortured lad still badly needed to get off. Anyway, I left his cock straining into thin air -- I still had some serious boy-cleaning to do. I got him to stand before me, resting a plastered arm either side on the shower walls as I wet him down good again. "Spread your legs a bit," I told him, squatting down in front with another big handful of liquid soap. "Good boy." I soaped his legs and worked them over thoroughly -- this was where the dirt had been. "Foot up," I ordered, and he complied, relying on my holding him not to lose balance. I kept telling him to stay still, although not with much seriousness or success, the boy jumping a little jig, finding it ticklish as I washed the soles of his feet and in between his toes. Although that was nothing compared to when I got to washing up his inner thighs, all the way up to nudging into his ball bag. That really got him hopping about. "Ooh, shit, Jack, careful," he said breathily. But I was a bit taken with his ball bag. I hadn't really noticed what an impressively fat little pouch it was. Smooth and tight-drawn and with only the lightest pinkish coloration. But with gently probing fingers I was able to feel and move his jewels. "Geez, Lucas, nice pair of balls." "Nice?" he said a little vaguely. "My balls are nice." "You'd prefer the word 'massive' or 'terrifying' I suppose." "Hmm." I looked up at him -- kid clearly liked having his balls fondled, seemed a bit dopey with it. Well, there was no rush. "Planning on having lots of babies, are you?" I asked, continuing to gently weigh the heft and heat of him. "Yeah," he said, cracking a sudden grin. "Probably with Emily -- heaps of 'em." Damn, he wasn't bad with the comebacks. "You really think it's wise saying something like that when I've got your balls in my hand?" "I've got these, remember," he said, brandishing his plaster casts with a breezy cheekiness that cheered the soul. "Geez, you know, you could do some damage with those things. So you're saying I should leave your balls alone?" "Well...just not to hurt 'em." He'd started swaying his hips, rhythmically forward and around, as I kept fondling him. Loosened him up a bit, that's for sure. He began almost to prattle: "Last year, during sport, Craig Smedley knackered himself jumping a hurdle. During the hundred meters hurdles. I was in it too. He was rolling all over the ground balling his eyes out. The teacher had to take him in the change rooms to see if his balls were broken or something. Then he had to go to hospital." "Who? The teacher?" "No! Craig Smedley! Why would the teacher have to go to hospital?" "I dunno, maybe Craig had balls as big as yours. Teacher might have had a heart attack." Looking down he said, "Are they really big, my balls? Like, bigger than normal?" "Well, I'm no expert, but for your age, I reckon they're pretty impressive. As big as some men's I'd reckon." Well, some small men, maybe, but still, I wasn't bullshitting him, his balls did seem big on him. The evidence this boy was well overdue for his first wank was heavy in my hand. "As big as yours?" he asked. "Hell no!" I said as I finally let 'em alone and stood up in front of him -- whereupon he pulls a classic double-take. It was his first proper look at my hard-on, apparently. "Holy crap -- look at yours!" He seemed to find it hilarious, moving back a couple of steps as he laughed it up, also bringing his plaster hands in to sort of wrap round his midriff. I mean, I do alright, a bit above the average cock size, but I'm no porn star. Lucas was obviously as familiar with man-cocks as I was with boy-cocks. "How big is it?" he said, seeming a little transfixed, staring unabashedly. Needless to say this was only getting me more aroused -- which was about the last thing I needed right now. Would we get this shower finished before sun up? Then with a lop-sided grin he steps forward to put his plastic-covered plaster cast alongside my cock, as some sort of measuring device. I lined it up properly with his cast, then pressed a thumbnail into the plaster to mark the length of it. "There, a permanent record, bud." "Cool," he said. "Now do mine." And he tried to twist his cast round to line up with his own fierce little erection. He looked like he was doing some experimental new yoga. "That won't work," I said, stepping in close, moving his cast aside. He watched with great fascination as I lined my cock up with his, side by side. I ran a thumbnail across my shaft to mark his length, leaving a temporary mark. Where's a tattooist when you need one? "Whoa -- yours is, like, twice as big, easy!" The way he said it -- it was almost like it was something he could take pride in. "I don't reckon I was any bigger than you at your age, though," I said. "Really? Seriously, or are you joking?" "Well it wouldn't be much of a joke, would it? No, I'm being serious. Shit, bud, you're only twelve, remember." He'd moved his plaster casts wide to the walls again and was pushing his hips right forward, looking down at himself, constantly shoving his hips up to keep our cocks touching, side-by-side. "I've got some pubes, too," he said, glancing at me, getting turned on by my checking him out. A bit of a vicious cycle starting up here. "I saw 'em. Means you're working with live ammo now, doesn't it?" "How do you mean?" "You should shoot sperm -- not that you'd know, Mr No Hands." After a pause he said, to my astonishment, "I could try it now." "I think that's a fucking brilliant idea -- BUT, first, we're gonna finish cleaning you up. We're getting distracted here." With his plaster casts raised up high, he did a twirl, looking at his slender soapy form. "I'm clean, Jack. Geez you've soaped me half to death." "I haven't done your ass yet, buddy." "Oh, right..." A little bit of a mood-killer for the boy apparently. " And let's face it -- your ass is the epicenter of this whole business." "Gross," he muttered. I got him back in his original position, arms up on the plexiglass. "Stick your butt out a bit," I told him. "Why?" he said tetchily. "Why do you think? You've got a hot ass -- sticking it out looks good." He took his hands down, turning to me with almost a challenging look. "Jack, no way, that's off." "What is?" "Having, you know, someone wiping your ass -- it's totally gross." He pointed a plaster cast at the detachable shower head. "Just spray water on there -- that'll do." "Who's running this show, Lucas?" "Yeah, I know, but..." "Back in position, pal. Let's get this done -- I don't know about you but it's way past my bed time." Muttering under his breath, he got back in position -- and he did push his ass out a little bit -- he was, after all, a good boy. I wet him down and dumped a big glob of soap between his slender shoulder blades. Then I ran the soap with both hands down the length of his back to his tight little butt. Christ this boy seemed to be one red hot revelation after another. Soaping and massaging his clenched little butt-cheeks put my fucking teeth on edge. It was when I began to slide one hand in between his soapy cheeks that he started getting real toey again, tensing his butt, pulling it in, trying to shut it down. But there really was a bit dirt on him, so he was just going to have put up with it. I grabbed one of his buttocks -- not easy to get a good grip on the soapy little fucker -- and pulled it wide, running a hand up and down the full length of his crack. And then, running my fingers across and around his tight little pucker, maybe even nudging into it a bit -- that set the young fella off like a goddamned fire-cracker. "Fuck! Jack! Shit! Don't!" he croaked, jumping forward, banging his left knee on the wall, swinging one plaster cast round to protect himself and collecting me a painful crack on the hip. I stayed the course; I patiently moved his plaster cast back, took hold of one of his hips to draw him back a bit, steady him. After his little explosion, he did settle, put his arms back up in position on the plexiglass, moved back a step or two. But the boy's reaction, his sensitivity, had startled me. To be honest, my inadvertent, split-second reaction was a brute animal urge to grab him by his slender hips and fuck the bejesus out of him. I wouldn't, of course, no way, but sheesh, had to claw my way through a quite a red mist there, the boy's fierce stiffy still rudely displaying his sexual excitement. I got the shower head and rinsed him off. "That's it?" he asked. "No, not quite. I'm an old army guy -- I want your ass clean enough to eat breakfast off." He muttered something inaudible as I got another big gloop of soap to start on his butt one more time, the boy regularly turning his head to look down at what I was doing. Alright, I admit it, this was getting a bit gratuitous, he was pretty damn clean by now. Well, I'll work on being a perfect gentleman in my next life. This time, as my soapy fingers found his tight little rosebud, he seemed determined to stay put, but with only limited success. There was no doubt about it, the kid's ass was a serious erogenous zone for him -- and the more he fought it, the wilder it seemed to drive him. As I kept soapily rubbing him, he made little grunts or swore as he dropped his head, kept clenching and re-clenching his butt-cheeks, shifted his feet around, but overall did an admirable job of staying in place. When I started using one finger to more directly prod and push at his tight little entrance, he started to struggle, bucking forward rather extravagantly a few times. I was astonished at the power of his sphincter, a clamped steel ring that was stopping any hint of ingress. I wasn't going to use force on him, absolutely not, but I did keep at him, nudging the tip of one finger into his slippery clenched tightness, curious as to whether he'd tire or have a change of heart and let me penetrate him. And suddenly he did. He widened his stance, dipping his shaky knees while making a strained noise in his throat -- a new note, something that put me on alert -- and his sphincter relaxed, just like that, letting me penetrate him, push a finger fully half to three-quarters of the way into his hot, softer, inner tightness. His simultaneous little whimper, and his all-over tensing, and a little shudder that ran up his flank -- I realized just in time that he was surging into his orgasm. I moved my free hand from his hip to quickly get his cock in my fist -- that seemed important, maybe for the boy's dignity as much as anything. I managed to give his hard-on three or four quick rough strokes, rasping his foreskin back and forth, before he started to cum. Poor kid, it was a bit much for him, first time, like trying to learn to surf on a 20ft Hawaiian monster. As I jammed my finger fully up him, maybe giving his little button a nudge, the spasms of his sphincter, his cock, seemed to rip at his core, made him cry out softly a couple of times, his plaster casts bumping clumsily on the plexiglass. But the highlight for me was the little dribble of boy-spunk that wet my fingers. Not a lot, but milky. My boy was, without a doubt, firing with live ammo. And he was now officially in the game. END OF CHAPTER 1 Comments welcome: ail