“C’mon,” I say, moving to him. “Let’s have your shirt too.” I take it at its hem in both hands, as I do with Gracie’s, pull it up as briskly and efficiently as a nurse would. I stand staring at his narrow white shoulders, the little freckles dotting it. He’s so skinny. I drop the shirt, try to control my breathing.
“You’re still shivering,” I say quietly, touching his shoulders. “You should take a hot shower. Or do you take baths?”
“I don’t take baths,” he says, his voice small, strange. “I’m not a little kid.”
I push my lips to his wet hair. He’s shorter than I am; I have to lean down. “I know. I know you’re not, Connor.”
My hands, practically outside my conscious control, move to his shorts and slide them down. The shorts are at his feet now. I notice that they’re not completely clean. For some reason this charms me, fills my heart. I stroke his shoulders, his back, his bottom, all of them covered in goose bumps.
“You are cold,” I say.
He has virtually no hair on his body anywhere. What little he does have is sparse and so white against his white skin as to be nearly invisible. He has no pubic hair at all yet his erection is surprisingly big, like a man’s. I reach around him slowly and touch it, stroke it gently.
“What are you doing?” he says, his voice shaking.
“Nothing,” I whisper.
It takes only a few moments and he suddenly cries out as if in pain. His hips sway, his body shakes. He ejaculates wildly, spraying the floor and spattering the side of the bathtub. His knees buckle, he starts to collapse, I hold him closely, tightly. His legs quiver. His balance seems uncertain. I support him. We stand there together a long time as he regains his strength, his equilibrium.
Then, to my amazement, he begins to cry. His face contorts and big tears run down his cheeks and snot trickles from his nose. I turn him around then, press his face to me, kiss him, stroke his hair, say, “It’s all right, Connor, shh, it’s all right, sweetheart.” It takes several minutes of gentle words and touching and reassurance for him to begin to calm. Finally I pull his head away from me and look at him, into his eyes. He glances back, looks away, sniffs, laughs a little.
“You okay?” I ask.
He nods, wiping his nose with the back of his hand.
“How do you feel?”
His voice shakes. “I never did that before.”
“With a girl, you mean?”
“No. Like, ever.”
I study him. “You’ve never masturbated, Connor?”
He shakes his head, looks away. “Some guys talk about it,” he says. “They call it jacking off.”
I laugh a little, gently. “Well, did you like it?”
He laughs too. “Yes.”
“You should take a shower now, sweetheart,” I say, smiling. “You’re kinda messy.”
“Okay.” He glances shyly at me.
I let him go and he turns, stares at what’s on the floor. I can see that he’s astounded at what’s come out of his body. He leans down and touches it with his fingers, studies it. Then he looks back up at me, grinning, blushing.
“Go on,” I say, patting his bare bottom. “Get in. Don’t worry, I’ll clean up the mess. Do you know how the shower works?”
“Yeah,” he says, stepping over the tub’s edge.
I smile at this little naked boy and pull the shower curtain closed. After a moment he starts the water. I use toilet paper to clean things. Steam rises in the room. I step out for a moment to throw his things into the dryer, switch it on. When I come back I hear him turning the water off.
I pull a fresh fluffy towel from the drawer and open the shower curtain. “C’mere,” I say. “Be careful.” He steps out and into the waiting towel. I rub him. He giggles. “Am I tickling you?” I ask.
“A little.”
“Well, let’s see if I can tickle you a little more!” I goose him in his sides, run my fingers over his belly and thighs while he shrieks and tries to escape.
Finally we stop, breathless.
“Come in here,” I say. Leaving the towel behind I take his hand and lead him into the guest bedroom. Smiling, I pull back the sheets on the double bed. “Sit.”
He sits carefully at the edge of the bed. I drop down next to him. I lean him back, our heads touch the pillows. He blushes, giggles nervously. I kiss him, at first gently. After a while my tongue touches his and he draws back, eyes wide, a shocked expression on his face.
“It feels funny,” he whispers.
“C’mere.” I pull him to me. He doesn’t move away again. I open my blouse with my free hand, lead his fingers to my breasts, my nipples. He stops kissing me to look down, to gaze at my body. His erection has already returned and he’s tugging at it, making odd whimpering sounds. I take his hand, stop him, whisper into his ear, “Let me do it, Connor,” and I do. This time when he comes he does it with more of a groan than a shriek. I carefully aim him away from me and he shoots it mostly onto the spare blanket at the foot of the bed.
He kneads at my breasts then, sucks my nipples, whimpers again, until finally his movements slow and stop. I realize that, cheek against my breast, lips on my nipple, he’s fallen asleep.
I cuddle him for a time. My hands move between my legs, press, stroke for a while, not very long, and I come gently, gently but overwhelmingly, a huge wave cresting over me. I hold him, gasp, my hips quiver. But I don’t wake him. He sleeps through it, like a baby. After a time I sleep too, sweetly, peacefully, my perfect darling boy in my arms.
Later I jostle him, push his shoulder gently. “Hey Connor, wake up,” I whisper, kissing his temple.
It takes him a long time to come to consciousness. He’s bleary-eyed, vague.
“C’mon, sweetheart,” I say. “Up and at ’em.”
He looks at me, then at himself. It’s probably the first time he’s ever awakened naked in his life. He nestles again my breasts. “I don’t want to get up,” he mumbles.
“You have to, baby. You have to put your clothes on. You need to go soon.”
“I don’t want to go.”
I laugh a little. “I don’t want you to go either. But you have to.”
“Why?” His fingers toy with my nipple.
“Well, I have to pick up Gracie, for one thing.”
He hugs me suddenly. His grip is strong, tight. I stroke his back, his bottom. Then, reluctantly, I start to pull gently away from him.
“C’mon, Connor,” I say. “Time to start moving.”
“I want to stay here forever.”
“I’ll bet you do. But you can’t.”
“Can we do it again?” Sure enough, his erection is starting to grow. He pulls my hand down to it.
“No.” I pull back, take both his hands in my own, look seriously at him.
“Just once more?” he whines.
“Connor, come on. We need to get you dressed.” He looks at me and his face grows petulant, but he moves away finally with a sleepy smile and reclines on the sheets. He stretches and then kicks his feet up into the air playfully. For a moment he looks exactly like a baby. It’s all I can do to not leap atop him, kiss him deeply, let him do anything he wants to do with me. Instead I stand, all business now. “Your clothes should be done.” I reach over, slap him on the hip. “I’ll get them for you.”
I walk out of the room and into another world, as any world is another world now when Connor isn’t in it. The moment I’m away from him reality comes smashing into me. My mouth goes pasty. I’m clumsy as I head to the dryer, bark my shin hard against the coffee table. If I can get him out of here, I think. If I can get him out of here and no one has seen us then it’s all right. If I can wash the bed things and clean the bathroom then there will be no evidence. I’ll have done nothing wrong because there’ll be no evidence I’ve done anything at all. He could talk, of course. Connor could go to school and tell his friends all about me, about us. But Connor has no friends, I realize. He doesn’t even talk to Douglas Peterson anymore. And his father? Would he tell Mr. Blue? Preposterous. I pull his clothes from the dryer, shake them out. He wouldn’t tell his gruff, possibly abusive father a thing about this. Mr. Blue is the last one on earth he’d tell. And even if he did, the man would probably be proud. Connor’s a boy, after all. It’s not like it would be with a girl. Somebody would call me sexist for thinking that but it’s true, it’s not like it would be if it were some grown man with a little girl. No, it’s all right. Everything is all right. There’s nothing wrong.