Putting the acid

Putting the Acid on a Sweet Boy
by Sam Johnson


Last Sunday, early afternoon, I dropped in at the construction site to pick up some papers. Only about two weeks to go and the warehouse project would be finished. Things had gone smoothly; I hoped to collect a healthy bonus for finishing ahead of schedule.

As I unlocked the door to my portable office, I noticed a couple of kids riding bikes along the northern perimeter of the block. Technically they were trespassing, but it was a popular track the local kids used, so I wasn’t too fussed about it. Until we landscaped and fenced off the area there didn’t seem any point trying to warn them off.

In the office, I got sidestracked, and didn’t leave for a good forty minutes. When I came out, the two kids were now at the back of Loading Bay 3, off their bikes, and looked to be fiddling around with something.

Jesus Christ, I thought, just what I needed on my day off. As I started over, I saw they were at the generator. Damn it to hell! The generator should have been locked away – Eddie Cooper was going to cop a blast tomorrow.

As I got closer I saw they weren’t the little kiddies I’d first assumed them to be. About 14 years old I guessed, and I was a pretty good judge. One in particular, in very short shorts and a sleeveless tee, looked a bit of a tough little fella – or at least as tough as a sweet smooth-cheeked boy can look.

“Oi! Get the fuck outta there!” I yelled when I was no more than ten paces away. Scared the absolute crap out of them. They leapt up from the generator, dropping some containers they had. Seemed they were just trying to siphon the petrol out of it. No big deal, really.

The first one ran like a scalded cat, was gone in seconds. The second, my little toughie in the cut-off tee, made a quick grab to rescue one the containers already full of petrol. He got it, but fumbled it, and managed to spill half the contents down his front.

“Ah shit!” he cried, dropping the container and turning to take off after his friend.

In that split second it all flashed before me. I yelled: “Hey son – if you don’t want to lose half your skin, you better get back here.”

For a moment I didn’t think he’d heard me, but then he faltered in his stride, looked over his shoulder and as he plucked at his wet tee shirt, yelled, “It’s just petrol…”

“It’s not just petrol, buddy. It’s got a special acidic additive we use for steel cutting work. Highly corrosive – your skin’ll start peeling off in about five or ten minutes.

The boy had completely stopped; he turned to face me, pulling up his tee shirt a bit to look at the smooth skin of his tummy. “It stings a bit,” he said in a voice rich with the tell-tale timbre of early adolescence.

“Better get in here and wash it off,” I said, jerking a thumb behind me to my office.

He looked suspiciously at me. “Are you gunna call the cops?” he asked, trying to sound tough but not really coming close.

“If you don’t get your ass over here now, son, I’ll be calling the ambulance.”

“It does sting a bit,” he mumbled again, plucking worriedly at his shorts now as he started over.

Even by the lofty standards of his age, he was quite a beautiful lad, in the first sweet bloom of his sexual development. A subtle muscular form just starting to light on his shoulders and biceps, which he obviously enjoyed showing off. And those short little shorts – they showed a scandalous amount of smooth boy-leg – good sporty legs that seemed equally suited to leaping a fence or slipping into a bubble bath. The little pair of  white and red-trimmed shorts he wore looked like old favourites that he’d pretty much outgrown but wasn’t yet willing to part with. His boy package was a little squashed and obvious in them, and the spreading petrol stain threatened to make them see through. But it was his grey sleeveless workout tee that gave the lad a quite provocative sexiness – making such a cocky display of his budding young shoulders.

“Shoes off,” I said at the door.


“Don’t want that acid eating through the floor.”

The kid kicked his old sneakers off from his bare feet – then quickly bent to pick up a shoe, to see if he could see any evidence of the dread acid.

“Come on,” I said, leading the way into the office. At the back there was a small toilet with a wash room in front of it. I showed him in and as he was closing the door I blocked it with my shoulder.

“No way, buddy.”

He looked up, surprised, then defensive. “I’m alright – I can do it.” He tried again to close it, fairly intent on locking me out.

I was having none of it. “Listen, son. The way the law is – if anything happens to you, I could be sued for millions for leaving that generator in the open. So I’m going to make sure you wash that acid off properly.”

“But…” He didn’t like this at all. If he persisted, my little adventure would be over before it started. With darling boys like this, you luck out as often as you luck in.

“Your choice,” I said. “Either do it my way or we get the cops out here now – it’s the only way I can cover myself.”

The boy scowled a bit, looked as though he wanted to argue, but finally shrugged and muttered, “Yeah, whatever,” let the door go and started to take off his tee shirt. As he got it over his head I noticed he wasn’t yet growing any hair under his arms; his slim torso was a sweetly developing work in progress, young chest and shoulders showing a delicate, soon-to-be-manly form. I took the tee shirt from him and gently ran the back of my hand down across his tummy – it was perfectly dry and smooth, the petrol having already evaporated. He shivered involuntarily at my touch but otherwise remained where he was. A boy’s skin during puberty, I’ve noticed, gains a heightened sensitivity and smoothness that’s as breath-taking as it is short-lived.

I threw the tee shirt onto a bench then turned back to the boy and said, “Come on, it’s starting to dry, which means the acid will be getting deeper into your skin – get those off,” I said, indicating his shorts.

A little reluctantly, he tugged his shorts down, bending over to get them all the way down so he could step out of them.

I took them from him and tossed them on top of his tee shirt.

Well! The gorgeous boy was wearing the most gorgeous pair of undies! A couple of sizes too small, and a bit threadbare, and struggling to contain him – they were bright aqua blue with orange band, and on the front of them was a monkey’s head – not a printed picture but a sewn-on plastic transfer, which his boy package was deforming a little, being a little big for what was obviously meant for a much smaller boy.

“Nice undies.” I couldn’t help laughing.

“Oh – uh – yeah, um…” the kid totally turning red, covering himself a bit, adjusting the crotch a little to keep himself decent. “They’re um – I didn’t – cos on the weekend Mum washes all my good ones, so…”

“But I wasn’t being sarcastic – they’re so awful they’re brilliant.”

The boy looked down at himself with a nervous laugh. “Ha, well, they were my favourites for ages when I was a little kid.”

But being stripped down to his undies was too embarrassing and the kid quickly lunged for the basin, preparing to give himself a quick wash so he could get dressed again.

I put a restraining hand on his arm – turned the tap off that he’d already started. “As nice as they are, kiddo – you have to take ’em off.”


“Take your underpants off.”

“Ah, actually, I don’t think they got wet,” he said, and pressed his fingers onto the monkey face to confirm. “And it doesn’t sting there, so it should be alright.”

“Look – what’s you’re name, by the way?”

“Brodie,” the boy said, the colour rising noticeably in his cheeks now.

“Brodie,” I said, “do you really think it’s worth risking your manhood just because you’re a bit shy about taking your undies off?”

That stung him a bit. “It’s not that,” he said hotly. “I just thought if they weren’t wet… but I don’t care,” his voice straining a bit. Then he put his hands to his slender hips and pushed his undies down.

His boy sex was certainly worth the fuss and bother, his uncircumcised penis showing a nice bit of teen length and the foreskin forming the sweetest little bud at the end. His tight fat ball sack was even more impressive, a good size, still completely smooth and pinkish, but being so fat and tight-drawn it caused his penis to jut a little lewdly out from him despite being flaccid. And to top it off – the little feather in his cap – a beginner’s fringe of pubic hair just starting to grow round the base of his penis – which only served to highlight the extraordinary white smoothness of his entire pubic area, the inner thighs, hips and lower abdomen, the sweetest virginal boy-skin where a thousand kisses would barely begin to leave a mark.

But Brodie only pushed his undies down a small way, before he again made for the basin to get this washing thing over and done with.

As if.

“Get them off, Brodie,” I said to him, a little forcefully this time, as I took command of the basin, putting the plug in and starting the water running.

He grumbled something, but did as I told him, and pushed his little undies all the way down and stepped out of them. After I finished filling the basin, he was still holding them in front of him, like a little cotton fig leaf, and he looked very much like at any moment he’d leap back into them. I took them from him, without argument, and tossed them with his other clothes.

And this blushing fourteen year old darling now stood in his full nude perfection before me. I was impressed by the lad’s determination not to cover his genitals with his hands – the jibe about his shyness obviously still rankling. The combination of slender boyish frame with the first virile surge of his sexual development was exquisite – a tormentingly brief peak of sublime physical beauty.

I scooped a big double-handful of warm water up and directly onto his tummy, taking him a bit by surprise. He jumped back a bit with a a cry of “Ah!” – as though expecting the water to be freezing.

“Come on,” I laughed. “It can’t be too cold.”

He stepped back in. “I thought it was gunna be.” He looked down at himself, at the water running in rivulets down his legs, dripping like colourless pee off the end of his penis, and I thought I could see in his look just a shy hint of bravado, a nervous thrill at displaying his pubescent sexuality.

“You know,” I said casually, “you’re in pretty good shape for a boy your age.” And I hurled another scoopful of water at him before embarrassment could do him any harm. He again flinched away, but not near as much. “Geez,” he said, shivering and looking around, “you’re getting water everywhere.”

“Don’t worry about that,” I said, and slapped a yellow cake of soap flat on his tummy.

That really startled him. “Ooh!” he cried, jumping back, almost tripping over. The soap slipped from my grip and went skittering across the floor.

“Steady soldier,” I said.

“I didn’t know you were going to do that,” he said, eyes wide and a little lit up.

“What were you expecting? A foot massage?”

As I went to get the soap off the floor where it had finished up, the boy suddenly decided he was going to retrieve it. And in one lithe swoop – a quick symphony of boy movement worthy of Mozart – he had the cake of soap in his right hand.

I held out my hand.

“Why can’t I do it?” he said, meeting my gaze challengingly.

It was difficult to read him. Was he flirting? No, not quite. He really was too innocent for that. Was he upset and wanting me to leave him alone? I certainly wasn’t getting that vibe. But I was hardly impartial. So I had to be careful.

“I told you why,” I said with an easy smile. “I’m responsible for what happens here. The law says so.”

“But I know how to wash myself,” he said.

“But you don’t know about how the acid in that petrol works. I do, and I’m responsible.”

He frowned over that. So I took my chance. I closed the distance between us and grabbed at the soap in his hand. But he was quick. With a laughing yelp, he skipped to the side, whipping the soap away from my grasp, but in that little wash-room he had nowhere to go and was straight away backed up against the wall. And I trapped him there, pressed right up against him and held him there as he tried to wriggle out and away. Damn, he was harder to hold than an eel, and grabbing his hand that held the soap was impossible, my own hands being too soapy to grip him properly.

So I changed tactic. Instead of reaching for the soap, I put my hands flat on the boy’s torso, moved them quickly to his bare ribcage just below his armpits, and dug my fingers in ruthlessly.

He absolutely exploded. “Nooooo!” he shrieked while thrashing violently down and out of my grip, straight to the floor – the quickest way out. It was a startlingly extreme reaction and he immediately surrendered unconditionally.

“I’ll give it back!” he cried. “Here! Here!” And he did – he put the soap directly back in my hands.

I must say, he made it difficult to leave off the tickling thing, but I did. Tickling, as enjoyable as it is, only drains and squanders a boy’s mutable sex energy. I thought it best to stick to business.

“Over here,” I said, going back to the basin with the soap.

“I hate being tickled more than anything,” Brodie said, still breathing heavy, perhaps a little abashed, coming over to the side of the basin.

“I did sort of get that impression,” I said, and he gave a nervous laugh.

Despite the horror of the tickling, I was pleased to see he was showing some signs of arousal, the colour in his cheeks and his eyes lit up, his penis showing a bit thicker and protruding out from him a little more, although with a fourteen year old boy that indicates no more than that he’s alive.

With another big scooping rush of water, I began soaping his tummy again. Despite much dipping and flinching, he stayed put and let me, although constantly worrying about the possibility of being tickled. I glided my hands gently across his slim torso, feeling the impossible smooth beauty of him, the subtle boy-musculature, the hairless armpits (“don’t tickle!”), the pin-prick nipples, the little tummy-button (“that tickles!”). And as the soap suds ran freely down his body, his boy-cock got big on him real quick, bucked up rudely amongst the sudsy froth, made big coltish leaps, curving out from him with the foreskin pulling tight on his swelling knob.

Seeing his boy-lust triggered, I slid my hand down quickly down to fondle him and was just in time to feel him thud to full erection.

He gave the quietest little “ooh” as I began to handle his hard boy-cock, and then started dipping his hips right back and bending forward, as if trying to withdraw his mortifying arousal back into himself.

“What are you doing, Brodie?” I asked, and gave him a light smack on the butt. “Stand up.”

“Yeah, but I’m getting…you’re making me…”

“Come on,” I couldn’t help laughing. “Stand up straight before you do yourself an injury, boy!”

He did, but, flushed with embarrassment, kept one hand hovering over his stiff cock, trying to shield it a bit, lessen how unbearably rude it was to have it sticking out like that.

I said matter of factly: “You’ve got a fine cock, Brodie.”

“Geez,” he muttered, giving a small shudder and glancing down at himself. For a still moment we both stood and watched his hard cock. He certainly had some good teen heft on him – it was a tool that would fuck – although there was still a lingering hint of boy-slenderness, giving his cock a zippy playful quality. His foreskin had pulled back just enough to show the tip of his glans, and it glistened like the revealed source of all his red-cheeked embarrassment.

Again I doused him with a big scoop of water from the basin, got the soap and started rubbing it across his lower abdomen and thighs, where the skin, in the outlined shape of his undies and shorts, was purest white. Soap suds ran down, swamping the few curls of his pubic hair, flowing around the hard base of his cock, to gather and drip from his ball sack, and run sliding down his smooth legs. The boy had sucked his tummy right in and rose up on tip-toes a couple of times, as though trying to rise above the rude feel of it all. I ran the cake of soap down between his legs, causing him – ooh! – to squeeze his knees tight together. But with him being so wet and soapy, I easily pushed my hand between his inner thighs, nuzzling the corner of the soap into his ball sack, jostling his swollen boy balls around, causing his hard cock to twang about a bit. “Geez…” he breathed, moving a hand near, worrying, shifting on his feet.

I removed my hand, put the soap down and, taking him in my fist, began to masturbate him. I kept my hold loose enough to slide soapily up and down his hard length, but tight enough to get his foreskin to slide back and forth over his swollen knob, flashing pink amongst the white frothy suds. The boy’s sexual excitement rose sharply, heading straight for a hot fast climax. His entire slender frame shivered and tensed and he squeezed his knees tight together and dipped down like a little boy busting to go the toilet. It was cute but  I thought his burgeoning sexuality deserved better than that.

I let go of him a few strokes short of orgasm. He looked a little dazed, glanced down at himself, gulped once or twice.

“Okay,” I said, taking him gently by the shoulders and manoeuvring him in beside the basin. “We’re almost done, Brodie. Just lift your leg up – put your foot on here,” indicating the side of the basin.

“Huh?” the boy asked, looking dumbly at the basin, unconsciously putting a hand to his painfully throbbing penis, pinching the foreskin, getting it back over his knob.

“Leave that,” I said, moving his hand from himself. “Your hands might still have acid on them.”

“Oh,” the boy mumbled, glancing at the tips of his fingers. It was fascinating the way the lovely flush of colour in his cheeks could change from embarrassment to arousal and back to embarrassment in the blink of an eye.

“Now, put your foot up here,” I repeated, tapping the side of the basin.

The boy screwed his face up. “Why?”

“What do you think we’re doing here, Brodie?”

He shrugged, really in a bit of sex-addled stupor at the moment.

“Making sure there’s no acid eating into your skin, remember? Now come on – won’t take a moment.”


There was a hand rail on the wall beside him, and he grabbed hold of it as he lifted his leg up and got his foot on the edge of the basin – not really too difficult for a fit flexible young lad like Brodie – it was more a matter of overcoming the shy unwillingness to assume such a position, his erection now pointing north-north-west.

“Good boy,” I said, soaping up and then moving to massage his exposed inner thigh. I ran my hand along the clean, slippery skin to his ball sack, the tight pouch fully exposed now. I fingered his drawn up balls, although they weren’t very free to move, and it caused him a few flinches and suckings of breath. But he stayed manfully in position as I played with him, balancing with one foot on the ground, one on the basin, one hand tightly gripping the rail. I toyed briefly with the thick base of his cock, plucked at the delicate growth of his new pubic hair, and – looking at the his closed eyes, the straining press forward of his slender hips – felt his strident unspoken demand for me to masturbate him, to finish what needed to be finished. But I left his cock straining painfully into mid air and ran my hand back behind his balls, along his seam and into his spread boy crack and ran one soapy finger across his little anus.

His reaction was rather extreme. He pushed off from the basin, leaping to the side with a startled cry of “Fuck!”

“Brodie!” I said with a bemused frown. “Come on. We were almost finished.”

“But you…that’s…” He couldn’t quite formulate the charge.

“I’ve never known anyone so ticklish,” I said. “Now get back here and let’s finish up.”

He now used both hands to cover his erection. He stayed put and said, “You touched my ass.”

“You never wash your ass?” I asked.

He screwed up his face, shook his head, angrily tried to stop a silly grin breaking out. “But geez…”

“Come on,” I said.

And he did. He came back to the basin. “Are you gunna do that again?” he asked.

“So quick you won’t even notice,” I said.

“Oh geez…”

But he did what was expected of him, lifted his foot back up to the side of the basin, hung on grimly to the hand rail.

I re-soaped my hands and, putting one hand on his slender hip to reassure him, moved the other between his legs – but this time wetting and soaping the tight little mounds of his buttocks. He stayed reasonably still, but made his butt cheeks a delight to fondle as he continually clenched and re-clenched them. I think he was trying to manoeuvre himself so he could squeeze his buttocks tight together, but it impossible in his current position; eventually I repeated my former move, slid a finger from just behind his balls and along his crack – he tensed massively for it – but like a skilled  aviator, I pulled out of the gape-inducing dive at the last second and passed over his little rosebud with touching it.

As I returned to fondling his soapy buttocks, I used my other hand to take hold of his fierce erection and began masturbating him with a full firm stroke. It got the randy boy almost instantly into a grunting state – a rising series of little uh-uh noises deep in his throat – and he flinched forward at the midriff as his fuck-pleasure stabbed sharply toward a climax.

A few savage beats short of release, I found his little anus again and pushed the soapy tip of my finger into him and – oh fuck! – he bucked forward and clenched his sphincter tight shut, stopping my finger, so I just fingered at his soft crinkly entrance – him trying to buck away from it – (his sensitivity to ass-play was extraordinary, as is often the case with pubescent boys) – me still wanking him hard, close to blowing his hot boy load, his tight tummy sucked right in, his slender frame straining and his rosy cheeks angry – then his foot slipped down into the basin, spreading his legs further apart – he let out a sharp cry – momentarily stopped clenching, and I pushed my finger into his tight hole, felt him open, felt a nice slide up into him – and he grunted “fuck, fuck” at not being able to stop anything and he was suddenly swamped by a really filthy orgasm – and he whimpered as if he were split open by the first thin spurt of his boy milk – a watery fizz that sprayed high in the air, before he brought up gouts of deeper white liquid that spilled across my hand still pumping him hard. And as he squeezed and bucked his cum out, I fingered the furious spasms of his anus, opening sickening pits of ecstasy in his orgasm, something he had no experience of, something he didn’t know how to ride, and so he made his little pleading, whimpering noises as he flinched and twisted in my grip, until finally, with the last dregs of his boy essence dribbling into my hand, it came to an end.




2 thoughts on “Putting the acid

  1. What ‘David Robb’ said, except the age part. I’m young enough that I could imagine it being me who was being manipulated, but old enough that I could imagine the excitement of feeling so much power as I did it to a young boy. I would have enjoyed something being said to show that the boy was going to be unable to stay away, wanting more or something like that.

    Enjoyed a lot, thanks.

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