Young, effeminate teenager takes my seed like the good and submissive teacher’s pet that he is.

I have, however, spent the last few years living (and working) in the US of A. In the latter part of my 20s, I went back to the university in Sweden, and spent a semester abroad, across the Atlantic; in America. When I graduated I applied for several jobs, seemingly without success until I got in touch with a friend, or perhaps better described as an acquaintance, through whom I became gainfully employed within the field of engineering. It’s nothing thrilling, but it provides a steady paycheck which is adequate enough for me, and the job-security is decent. Leaving specific details out, I will at least point out that I will be turning 34.

I had just started my current vacation of three weeks in total, when I traveled to Sweden to visit my parents for a few days, staying in the guest bedroom of their small but comfy house, located in the outskirts of the harbor town Gothenburg. The world cup (in soccer) had just started, with my dad intent on watching most of the matches. Having been reassured, both through their own words and from my own observations, that everything was indeed more than fine with my now elderly, retired parents, I rented a car in order to drive southward for a couple of hours to get me to our family’s (or should I say my parent’s) summer cabin. I was looking forward for some alone time. A chance to recharge my batteries, so to speak.

I arrived at the cabin late on Sunday night (the week before I am starting to write this down). The two bedroom, with a small kitchen and adjoining living room, cottage is nothing fancy, but neither is it in bad shape. The furniture, as well as appliances and cabinets in the kitchen, are somewhat outdated, but everything still turned out to be working just fine. It had been years since I last spent time there. As they had told me when I visited them, my mother and father had been there almost the entire month of May. Judging by how tidy everything was, with barely any dust anywhere, it was evident that it had been cleaned thoroughly before they left.

What it perhaps could be deemed to be lacking in decor, the cottage makes up for (and then some) in terms of location. On the other side of a short ridge, there is a sandy beach. A speck of other summer houses constitutes the neighbors, but there is also a popular camping site nearby.

I made myself a late snack of a couple of sandwiches and some soda that I had purchased at a gas station along the way, and lay down in the sofa to watch the match between Brazil and Switzerland on the fairly small flat screen television that my father has bought for the cabin. At least I figure that a 32-inch screen is considered small nowadays. Although I prefer American football, especially after having lived in the US for some time, I used to play European football (i.e. soccer) in my youth and it being the world cup, held once every fourth year, helped spark my interest once again. The match was nothing in particular though, ending 1-1, with Brazil failing (in all honesty) to get the W. Rather tired I went to bed in the master bedroom, if it could be called that, consisting of a large king-sized bed, matching bedside tables in oak on either side of the bed and a closet.

I woke up later than expected, having set no alarm, and what ought to have been breakfast became lunch, or rather: brunch. Having no plans made up, whatsoever, which in itself was part of the overall plan for my stay there, I went to the beach. There were a lot of vacationing families there, with the beach and its long wooden jetty as well as diving platform further out in the water, being the go-to destination when the sun was out. Today, however, the sun was only partially out, with thick white clouds hiding it most of the time. Situated on a towel a bit further up a sandy dune, so as to not be in the thick of all the families with their kids running around and fathers as well as mothers trying to keep up, and keep an eye out, I soon found myself being somewhat chilled. It wasn’t as warm out as could be expected. Checking my phone, the weather station said that the local temperature would be about 70 degrees Fahrenheit. With it being rather windy, and the sun only shining for a few moments at a time, I put my t-shirt back on.

Maybe I wasn’t as warm-blooded as everyone else. Though seeing young girls run around in bikinis did inevitably cause a flow of blood to a certain part of my body. I admired them and their lithe young bodies from behind my sunshades. Moving about most probably helped keep them warm. Teenage girls had become my favorites. Although, as my fantasies had become more controversial as time went on, I now found myself being aroused by, and from fantasies of, even younger lasses. Yes, preteen girls. At this point I ought to point out that I was, and had been for some time, rather sexually frustrated – I was acutely aware of it myself, and unable to deny it.

It had been quite some time, more than two years in all honesty, since I had been with anyone. I had not had intercourse since my last girlfriend – a relationship which lasted only a couple of months. She had become to find me uninteresting, and dull I suspect. She had started dating me shortly after I first came over to work in the states, and at that time I had been in better shape. Having become complacent and having an ever-eroding discipline towards fast food (which was just so much more accessible than I had been used to coming over from Sweden), I had let myself go – and I knew it. Having been around 180 pounds for most of my adult life, I had quickly surpassed the 200s and it wasn’t until I reached around 250 pounds that I became sick of myself. It may not sound like a lot but bear in mind that it wasn’t muscle that I had packed on. I never exercised, truth be told. Being about 5 feet 10 inches long, I had become a lesser version of my earlier self, appearance-wise.

As time went by, and my sexual frustration heightened, a will, or rather a need, for change was sparked. I have been going to the gym for more than a year and keeping a stricter control over what I fuel my body with, and although I would never presume to call myself fit, I am at least no longer overweight. I am currently about 200 pounds, give or take a few, with a little bit of muscle mass, though far (far) away from a hunk with a six-pack (my abdomen still has its share of excess fat).

What has remained is, however, a lack of self-confidence and being an introvert certainly hasn’t helped with engaging the opposite sex. It having been such a long time since I was intimate with a woman, I now found myself nervous about the prospect – thinking that I might have trouble with sexual stamina, or even be desperate about `getting it up´, and thus failing to do so. My more and more elaborate thoughts about fit, young girls during times of self-pleasure may be troublesome in that regard as well – have I been turning myself of from age-appropriate females? I had certainly been considering it as time and fantasies progressed, but nowadays I couldn’t help it anymore; younger was better in my mind.

There I was, sitting with a hard-on, watching younglings playing and relaxing in the sand. I knew that in Sweden, the legal age (assuming it was consensual) for sex was fifteen. I my mind, I played with the idea of getting a girl in that age with me back to the cabin. It soon became too much, and I turned from my spot, keeping my sandy towel in front of my groin during the short walk back from the beach, for a quick session of self-relief.

My excursion had been brief, and hence the match between Sweden and South Korea, with kick-off at 2 pm local time, was right about to start when I had finished myself off. The former played better than I think most had expected – at least judging by the so-called experts and commentators – and secured a win. I decided that it was a good time to leave the cabin and stock up on food and nourishment for the coming week, and maybe gauge if the winning had lifted the spirits of folk out and about.

Returning from the nearest city, which is one among the more noteworthy on the west coast – those familiar with Swedish geography know that there aren’t that many to choose from – I made myself a large, yet sort of wholesome, meal. With perhaps unrealistic fantasies of turning myself into someone girls of all ages would gladly follow home, I did numerous sets of push-ups, toe-raises, squats and crunches. There were no free weights at the cabin, thus limiting the number of options, though I figured I might purchase some cheap ones during the coming days and merely leave them there when I were to depart. If I truly wanted to make a change, then I shouldn’t let a week go by without making an effort to properly exercise. Having said that, I knew that I probably shouldn’t postpone what I always seemed to do: to go for a run. I promised myself that I WOULD do proper cardio the next day, before settling down, after a quick shower, to watch England versus Tunisia. It was a match which the brits fairly won, 2 to the score of 1.

Tuesday arrived, thus marking the second day on my intended week-long stay at that cozy corner of the world. With less overhanging clouds during the afternoon, although still somewhat chilly for a summer day, I indeed went running. At first on the sandy beach, but that quickly became too exhausting, even though there is no shame in being spent quicker with a higher level of effort, I wanted the run to last a little bit. Hence, I soon went running through the camping site to reach smaller roads which I could remember from years being spent at the cabin as a kid and young adult in the company of friends and family.

It was at my return to the summer cottage that I happened upon something unexpected, and which ultimately lead to a life-altering experience which I will find myself unable to not crave more of. There at the driveway next to the small house, stood an unfamiliar car parked. A Maserati. More than a little upset, thinking that it was some rich neighbor or out-of-towner who presumably thought it was OK to park anywhere, I instantly became flustered as the front door opened while I was in the process of unlocking it. My consternation only barely subsided as I was greeted by my younger sister, whom I had not seen in person since Christmas two years before. My god, she was just as attractive as she had always been.

Having recovered from my initial befuddlement, it turned out that Sandra, my sister, had persuaded her partner, Eric, to spend some time at one of her childhood favorite places – our parent’s cottage. I had heard some of this companion from my parents, who weren’t exactly thrilled with the idea of a man in his mid-50s dating my merely 27-year-old sister. I soon came to share these misgivings. The discrepancy in age was equally, if not more so, reflected in their relative appearances. Where Sandra truly was a Swedish beauty, with long blonde hair, fair features and a striking body, Eric embodied no external characteristics which I would deem attractive. He had even more excess pounds than I had had before taking steps to ensure that my weight started declining. Much of it was, as is inevitable for most of us, around his gut, though being a little taller than me probably helped disperse the mass more. His head was shaved, with the top now being slightly sunburnt, which I later noticed with him sitting down. I suppose I wouldn’t outright call his facial features unattractive, but neither were they something whatsoever that made up his otherwise heavyset, middle aged appearance.

The Maserati parked outside, as well as other more or less obvious hints which the more and more vexing fellow didn’t seem able to keep to himself, made me realize that the only possible explanation for this relationship was that my sister was a gold digger. Maybe she had gone from being a model and personal trainer, to a full-time girlfriend for monetary benefits. I dared not ask whether she still occupied her former professions.

Perhaps it was his way of establishing that he was the foremost individual under that roof, or it was just his mannerism, but it seemed important that I, for example, knew that it was not Eric’s choice to spend time at my parent’s summer cottage. He would rather have preferred some exotic resorts, but when the jewel of his eye (i.e. my sister) made it abundantly clear that she much preferred this location, with her fond childhood memories of it, then what was he supposed to do? The asshole had the indecency to suggest to me, mano-a-mano I suppose he figured, that she’d better find ways of making it up to him – if I knew what he meant – wink wink. For me that was more than crossing the line of how one ought to behave having just met each other, but more than that he touched a nerve. I had always, ever since being a young adult and seeing my sister blossom into a striking teenage beauty, had a thing for her, and thus seeing her with this charmer was more than a little upsetting.

I quickly learned that Eric, as he considered himself a man of much import, was a prominent (in his own words more or less) plastic surgeon. I couldn’t help but notice and speculate on whether or not this man had augmented Sandra’s body as well. I wouldn’t, of course, presume to ask her or inquire about it, but it seemed to me that my sister’s bosom, which I had always deemed not large per se but rather in good proportion to the rest of her toned body, now seemed to be out of proportion. Had I earlier imagined she was a firm B-cup, she would now most probably be a D in bra size. As time went by, I became certain of it; my sister had enlarged her bosom – even though she had been more than appealing across the chest before.

Almost forgotten during this whole initial meet and greet, and the time that followed after I had showered and gotten to know, or should I say loathe, this outspoken individual (Eric), there was also his son Jonas. Considering how Sandra and Eric were engaged, but not yet married, I suppose the boy wasn’t technically my sister’s stepson, though he would be if they tied the knot. Sort of the opposite of his bothersome dad, he was a shy kid of few words. His hair was some shade between blonde and brown, and it reached down to his eyebrows. His skin was pale and spotless. His wrists like brittle branches. Judging by his small stature, and noticeably skinny body, I would have guessed he was around twelve, but apparently he would be turning fifteen in December. At first, I thought they were kidding me around. How could he be about to turn fifteen later in the year? But the others gave no indication of it being a hoax. Really? They continued with what they were doing and didn’t appear to have noticed my confusion. It dawned on me that they weren’t joking. I had no real experience with children, but I surmised that it was a good thing I hadn’t explicitly asked if he was twelve, since I could image it being a sore subject had I gotten it so significantly wrong.

While Sandra was scurrying here and there getting things in order after their arrival, us others watched soccer. Me and Jonas on the couch, while Eric resided in the barcalounger. He probably thought he had the best seat, whereas I actually didn’t prefer the too soft armchair. Judging by his incessant commenting, Eric knew exactly how everyone was supposed to play the game – and Russia handily outplaying Egypt didn’t impress him much.

As for their unexpected arrival, though my sister had been told I would be there after checking in with our parents and letting them know of her plans, she apologetically wondered whether it would be OK with me if I surrendered the master bedroom and instead settled for the other, smaller bedroom with the sofa bed. With a faint smile she hinted that as far as she could recall, it was after all a quite comfortable bed once made. As I conceded that it was a fair inquiry, and thereafter agreed to the request, she further wondered if it wouldn’t be too much of an inconvenience to let Jonas spend the nights there as well. She pointed out that otherwise, maybe she’d take the couch while father and son occupied the master bedroom. At this point Eric’s interest had been peeked. Before I could answer, he apparently felt the need to elucidate the obvious: Jonas didn’t take up much, if any, space at all, and it being a sofa bed of almost queen-size itself, it ought not be a problem for the two of us, right? I could understand his desire – his need – to be next to my hot sister, of half his age, at night time, though what I did not understand was his blunt, almost coincidental, browbeating of his son. Not even being the most social person myself, indeed far from it, I could tell that his father’s comment bothered the boy as he sat there next to me on the couch.

It being the first time, in a long time, that I spent time with my sister, I wasn’t about to be unreasonable, and I could tell that she wanted us all to get along. Ergo, I granted that it was no more than a fair a reasonable suggestion, and assured my sister when she, to her credit, genuinely seemed to want to be reassured a second time that it was actually fine by me.

The first night spent in that arrangement was, however, not fine by me. The sofa bed was indeed relaxingly soft, without being too soft, and while it wasn’t quite as long as a normal bed, it at least had the width of a queen-sized one. While the larger bed in the adjacent master bedroom was perpendicular to the window in that room, the sofa in our, mine and little Jonas’, bedroom stood beneath the window. It was an oblong room; around 2 yards wide and about twice that in length. The wall containing the only window and the opposite one sporting a few wardrobes from IKEA, were shorter than the sides. Thus, the sofa could only be turned into a bed when arranged in that way, with the heads beneath the windowsill. Even so, the makeshift, yet comfortable and sturdy bed, filled most of the room, though thankfully some space remained between the foot end and the wardrobes, as well as the door next to these.

Hence, it wasn’t the quality of, for example, the mattress that bothered me, nor was it the small, silent boy lying on the other side of the bed. Instead, what vexed me was the noises coming from the other room. My sister was undeniably getting fucked. What sounds that didn’t carry through the wall, did so through our partially opened window, and I could only surmise that Sandra and Eric had also chosen to let the chilly summer nights air ventilate their room.

I couldn’t help but toss and turn. While a part of me was inevitably upset about what I was hearing, considering my jealousy, the other part was turned on. On the one hand I didn’t want to hear what I was hearing, and on the other, I wanted to hear it more, even louder and clearer. It bugged me that what was to be my period of calm and serenity, spent alone I my own version of a fortress of solitude, far away from my everyday life, would now most likely entail unwanted everyday conversations with a man that pushed my buttons, and uneasy hours after dark.

I didn’t think the young boy was managing to sleep either. Had he not fallen asleep before they started, he would most definitely have a hard time doing so now. Furthermore, he was lying closest to the wall through which the muffled sounds of pleasure were travelling. Intermittently I could filter out my sister’s feminine voice hushing through giggles, urging her partner to go about his business more silently, though it seemed to have no effect, and it wasn’t as if her moans were non-existent either.

I couldn’t be absolutely certain, but by now the little fellow, whom I was observing more intently, must have been awake judging by his increased number of subtle movements. By his age, he should surely have a pretty good grasp of what was going on between the adults in the other bed. When I was his age, I had already (as so many of us) begun exploring my own sexuality – not knowing much, but being ever so interested.

I wondered if his little pecker would be stiff at this point. If one were to be a horny little kid, I figured it wouldn’t be such a bad thing to be around my sister – or yet again, perhaps it might. With implants, she had gone from being a gorgeous next-door neighbor type of girl, to being a good looking pornstar kinda gal; fit body and asymmetrically top-heavy. I would assume that at home, there shouldn’t have been too many times, if any, were they boy would have been privy to their love making – unless it was a thing of theirs; that it turned them on to know others would hear them. One could never know for sure. Though, wanting your own wimpy son hearing you seemed a bit excessive. On the other hand, this Eric fellow seemed like a true jerk. I wouldn’t, however, expect Sandra to be of such an inclination. From what I had witnesses so far, she doted on the boy, acting every bit as motherly as anyone could hope for. Speaking of mothers, I had heard from my parents back in Gothenburg that Jonas’ real mother was now a single mum, in her early forties, working as a nurse, in whose care Jonas was most of the time.

The penetration, at least that’s what I was assuming, of sister continued. It was a struggle not to start masturbating. I was envisioning how it was me who had unhindered, even encouraged, access to her naked, slightly suntanned body. Those large breasts, unnaturally firm and perfectly symmetrical, bouncing while I thrusted away between her spread legs. I felt like I really needed the release of an orgasm, though what could I do but lay there with a raging erection within my underwear.

I wondered if the diminutive boy next to me had the same urges. I recalled how, a long time ago, me a close friend of mine during the latter years of elementary school, had been eager to experiment with each other. We had been dry humping each other and getting stiffies. Also, we had made up grand plans of how we would get naked during a sleep over the coming day, and for the lack of a better word, try out different things. Those plans had fallen apart as his father had walked in on us humping each other, while clothed, in doggystyle on his parent’s bed, and though his parent’s to the best of my knowledge kept it to themselves, me and that friend never really hung out together any more due to our mutual embarrassment.

Letting my aroused mind wander, I wondered of this runt of the litter, lying there so silently, yet regularly moving as if to find the optimal sleeping position (as if that was the problem keeping him from finding true shuteye), had any similar experiences of his own? I suppose he, in a way, reminded me of myself at that age, though I had been lanky whereas he was girlishly slender and probably underweight. I couldn’t imagine any of his friends or classmates being smaller than him; I envisioned him taking on the role of a girl whereas whatever friend he would be with inherently had the role of the guy. Though lacking in any muscle development that I assumed active young boys would have (from my impressions thus far he was not that type of kid), I supposed he had a rather cute little behind. Drawing on memories of having seen him standing some hours earlier, I knew that his slender backside didn’t automatically pass over to his skinny legs. No, there had definitely been a wee, yet noticeable, rump there on the back of his trousers.

An image crept into my head, of how it was me dry humping him while he stood on all fours, and a moment later we were both naked in doing so. My cock was suddenly harder than ever – in recent memory at least. I grasped it tight beneath my comforter and couldn’t complete stifle a grunt. A flicker of issues regarding morality, and the absolute decadency of what I had been imagining set in, but these concerns were of equal swiftness brushed aside. I couldn’t help but to want to – need to – envision myself naked with diminutive Jonas. Bear in mind that it was the first time in over two years that I wasn’t alone in bed.

Though I had not consciously checked out his petite ass before, I had a strong urge to do so now. Although I wouldn’t, of course, do anything as brazen as pulling down his comforter and thereby allow me to feast my eyes, and maybe even hands, on what must be a splendid butt, I sure didn’t mind imagining it. Even though my earlier predatory fantasies had focused on young teenage girls, they had in all honesty been drifting recently towards girls not dissimilar in stature to the undersized boy, who was strikingly feminine now that I allowed myself to fully think about it without (normal) mental roadblocks.

The young damsels of my mental utopia sometimes had only the smallest of breasts, and possessed small, verging on tiny, yet hauntingly firm assess. In other words, except for the reversal of genitalia, there wasn’t much of a difference between them and this toyboy. At his point it dawned on me that Jonas’ father must have ultimately climaxed one way or another, because the ruckus had finally stopped. Hence, I found myself trying to settle down, which happened slowly but gradually. Rationalizing, or rather attempting to do so, this turn of events in my head, I took comfort in the fact that older men throughout history had found themselves sexually attracted to young boys. If the conquering Romans of old could actually have boys on retainer, as sexdolls to do with as they pleased, then I shouldn’t feel the need to be overly appalled by my mere thoughts. And also, once turned on it is easy to find unnormal relations enticing – something I knew far too well from these last years. Furthermore, I could swear, and still can, that somewhere I have heard the saying “a hot girl, with an ass like a little white boy”. I am absolutely certain that I’ve heard something like that being said. Sure, I’d had the thoughts, but it wasn’t as if I had acted on them like some pervert who couldn’t control himself…

Sleep came eventually for my part, though it was irregular, and I had trouble finding peaceful thoughts every time I woke up.

As the morning arrived, and Sandra gently tapped on the door to ask whether we would want scrambled eggs and bacon, I was undeniably still tired, yet also thankful that a mentally arduous night had come to an end. Having both announced that we would indeed like a serving each, I lingered in bed with a throbbing morning glory as Jonas got dressed and left the room. Last night’s fantasies had evidently not been a singular aberration; as the tiny fellow left the bed, my gaze took in as much of him as possible in the dim morning lights seeping in through the still closed blinds.

He did indeed have a perky little butt, framed by a pair of tight black boxers. I had a hard time envisioning him gaining any favor with the ladies in his current physique, frail as he looked. At least he wasn’t ugly, so he had that going for him. But, ladies of his own age would probably go for athletic boys that were outgoing and did sports, instead of a shy and quiet one who looked weaker than gals even younger than him.

As soon as I was alone, I began pleasuring myself. With a closed door, I had taken one of yesterday’s socks, and made sure I could easily, and quickly insert my dingdong into it as the orgasm neared, which it promptly did. I suppose I could have been forgiven for imagining having intercourse with my sister, especially considering the sounds of last night, but it was neither her nor thoughts of teenage girls I was stroking my dick ever faster to. Instead, fixed on my mind was me and sweet Jonas engaged in full-on, hardcore nude action.

The ensuing day, I found myself having to consciously try to act normal. Despite having already jacked off, the wicked ideas had not left my mind. I found myself sneaking in glimpses of adorable Jonas here and there as I could without attracting attention. That was how I considered him now; absolutely marvelous. He was a boy, but he was also much like a girl. Having stood up next to him, I now knew that he measured in height to slightly above my navel. As for his weight I could only speculate that it would be low, lower than it should have been, but I wasn’t about to outright ask.

As it was a rather overcast, albeit warm day, any hopes of getting to see the slender fellow in tight swim trunks dissipated fast. Eric spent most of the time, much to my liking, snoozing in the barcalounger and watching soccer, whereas his nimble son sat outside, in the backyard, in a hammock reading on his iPad. As Sandra prepared a meal for us all, I snuck in a bit of conversation with the boy by taking a garden chair and placing it next to the hammock, reading a novel myself. Even though there was plenty of extra room next to him, I didn’t want to impose too much. I asked what he was reading, and found out that it was a comic book, stored on his tablet in digital form, of the comic book hero, or as he said an `anti-hero´, called the Punisher.