Billy

"Naw" he said, "But I can feel it if you touch it 'igher up where there ain't no scars." And then for first time I felt that exciting tingle in my balls and dick which announces that blood is beginning to run freely into them. I soon had a hard-on. It was the same for him too, because I saw the soft curve of the pubic bulge begin to change shape and the outlines of his stiffening dick appear beneath the fabric of his underwear. "That's it" he said, "Touch me there - and there - an' a bit higher."

It didn't take long for me to deftly extract his dick. It was a wonderful sight : not over-long (about six inches) but thick and veiny - a bit like the trunk of a woodland tree to look at. Though it was fully stiff, the skin was wrinkled so that it had a soft feel to it. It was obviously much "played with" (to use his own way of speaking) and there was a lot of loose foreskin. The whole shaft had a feeling of looseness and when I peeled back the foreskin the knob was large, shiny and smooth.

"What do you call this gorgeous thing ?" I asked and he said "It's me willy." Nomenclature when you meet someone for the first time can be a delicate business, but not here, apparently. "Does it take you long to come off ?" I asked and he said "Not when I'm excited, like now. 'old it 'ere" (and he showed me how he liked it to be held) "an' just rub away. Start slowly and when I say, speed up a bit. I'll just tek' me clothes orf."

After he had done that, he lay back on the bed, closed his eyes and I started to stroke him. His "willy" really was a splendid instrument and I held it with relish, my own dick straining at the leash inside my trousers. It wasn't long before he said "A bit quicker, please" and I could sense rather than see the rising excitement in him. "Quicker still" he gasped - and now I could see his balls starting to move up towards his groin and he was beginning to pant. He gave me no further warning. Suddenly the whole thing erupted in my hand and a jet of spunk flew from the tip and landed with a splash on his belly. It was followed by four or five further spurts (I couldn't count them I was so exited watching it happen) and then a dribble. Then it all went limp.

He opened his eyes. "By 'eck that were a good'un" he said. "Best I've 'ad in years" and he smiled at me. "I'll just clean up an' then it's your turn." He reached under the pillow and extracted what looked like a discarded face-flannel and proceeded to mop himself down with it. Then he hopped off the bed and invited me by gesture rather than by words to lie on it. So I took off my clothes and lay down while he scrutinised what I had to offer. "You're like me" he said. "What's that word - uncircumcised ?" I nodded and he proceeded to feel me and to draw back my foreskin. "Not as thick as me" he said, "But a touch longer. Does it cum quick, like me ?"

I wanted to say "Try it and see" but he was already stroking me and I was amazed how well he did it. A lifetime of wanking lay behind those sensitive fingers. I could feel the sensation building up in me, building, building, building - and then, with that final, wonderful tightening in my groin, I knew I was going to explode. I did - shooting my cum all over my belly and his fingers.

"That were good' an all" he said, visibly pleased with himself and my performance, "When did you last 'ave it off, then ?"

I didn't have to think too long about that because it had been the night before, fantasising about what I might do the following morning. I told him this and he laughed and said that he had done it too. "We're quits then" he said. He got up off the bed and limped over to a wash stand (there was no running water in the room) and fetched me another discarded flannel. "That's me spare" he said, and laughed.

Back in the living-room below we made arrangements to meet again the next Friday. And the next Friday we made arrangements to meet in ten days' time on the Monday. I wanted to use different days of the week to avoid creating suspicion back at work, so we planned a rolling programme which missed out Tuesdays (his day for going to the village) and which went Monday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday. He turned down my offer to help him with his shopping, saying people would notice if he changed anything, but he made a note of my mobile phone number and, because I had no way of contacting him, he promised to phone me if for any reason we couldn't stick to the programme. When I left his cottage that morning we were both, I think, very pleased with ourselves and each other.

The next two months were very enjoyable. Because he had been so long without a sexual relationship he became fond of me while I liked him in return. I thought it ironic that it was the reverse of the case with Darren and me, where I had been the one who was fond. I never forgot Darren but I found Billy straightforward, I admired his honest way of life and I liked being with him. Our meetings developed into a pattern whereby I would arrive at the cottage, Billy would meet me at the front door and we would tour his garden together. Then we would go inside and have a cup of tea and then, when we felt "comfortable" with each other, we would go upstairs to the bedroom. He always "came" first before turning his attention to me. It seemed to work well like that.

I think it would have gone for a long time if Dorothy had not become ill. I arrived one day to find the Social Services minibus unloading her and Billy on the doorstep, anxiously waving me away. He had not had time to phone me to forewarn me. The following Tuesday there was a recorded message on my mobile answering service telling me not to come later that week because Dorothy was at home and not to come again until he phoned. I kept expecting his phone call, but it never came. The time came for my annual holiday and I went abroad to Switzerland. When we got back there was a lot of business to attend to and it was some time before I got the opportunity to drive out into the countryside to check up for myself what was happening.

You can imagine my distress when I found that the cottage looked deserted. The flower garden at the front was full of weeds and the vegetable garden at the back was untended. I went to the village Post Office to enquire, saying I was a friend of Billy's, and was told he had moved there after the death of his sister. They had a forwarding address - somewhere in Northumberland - and if I cared to write to him at his old address, they would forward my letter on to him.

In due course I wrote but didn't really expect a reply. At Christmas however I received a card from him and as I opened the envelope a small piece of lined paper fell out. On it, in pencil and in the school-boy hand of someone not used to writing, was a message, remarkable for its omission of the personal pronoun and not being signed. It said "Got your letter. Lost your phone number after Dorothy died. Sorry. Still playing well and missing you. Hope to get back home when Auntie feels better."

I was glad he was still "playing" but thought he would have to wait for another death in his family for him to return to Cragside. He must have felt very lonely after his sister's death and frustrated that he could not contact me. Then I looked at the card he had sent. He had made it himself and on the front was a colour photo of his home in the hills, with the flower-beds on each side of the steps leading up to the front door. At the top of the steps was Billy himself, looking self-conscious as he peered at the camera. Inside was the briefest of greetings :

Happy Christmas

With love from

Billy

And underneath the signature in his childish hand he had put a big 'X'.

We had never kissed, but I knew what he meant.

I was very moved.