The boy whimpered under me in my bed in the darkened bedroom. He was on his back, his knees hooked on my hips and his hands clutching the tips of my shoulders. His back and head were arched back, his mouth open in a yawn or maybe a silent scream. I didn’t care which at the moment. I was lost in the fuck, on my knees between his spread thighs, palming the small of his back, tilting his pelvis up to give me a straight shot and deep access. I was lost in the whimper too—the youth and innocence of the boy—my control of him, his yielding to me.

My other hand was on his throat, holding him in place. I was too much into the fuck to stop or to let him go now.

Thrust, thrust, thrust. We were both panting. He was moaning and I was groaning. I was stroking hard, fast, deep, building up to a climax. He was lying under me, docile now, totally mine for whatever I wanted.

Kevin had been the one to start the flirting, to take the initiative, but once we’d gotten into it, once I committed to the fuck and could not stop myself, he reverted to the fourteen-year-old boy he was. It’s not that he suddenly wanted to deny me, it’s that he became all innocence and “Oh, shit, we’re doing it,” and became putty in my hands and my toy. He sobbed for the loss of innocence, even though I highly doubted he was all that innocent.

He’d been teasing me for weeks, ever since I’d hired him to mow the lawn of the large, tree-shaded lot of my craftsmen bungalow. I had moved to the exclusive section of Ashville, North Carolina’s, Montford Hills section between Riverside Cemetery and the campus of the University of North Carolina-Ashville, where I worked as an associate professor of English composition.

Kevin was only fourteen, which was both my curse and, I only now was discovering, my fetish. At thirty-two, I usually went with young men from the college when my need was great, but I was just finding I really preferred them much younger—fourteen-year-old boys beginning to develop into men, but still innocent, pliable, and interested in learning from an older man.

Only months later, when it no longer mattered, I realized there was nothing innocent about Keven Stringer, even though he was only fourteen. He had seen the need in me—the need for a younger boy like him. And he’d played me like a violin. Once I’d engaged him to mow my lawn regularly, he’d made sure I would be there. And he came just in athletic shorts and boots. He did a good job on the lawn, but he’d come up to the porch afterward, taking advantage of my offering him something to drink when he’d finished mowing that first time. And he would flirt, and he would look all so beautiful and small and lithe of body.

He’d flirted with me and teased me and egged me on. He’d offered himself to me.

“Do you own those woods behind the house too?” he’d asked.

“Yes, I have two acres here,” I’d answered.

“I bet you could get lost back in there and no one would see you doing whatever you were doing.”

“There’s a picnic area back there. A table. I sometimes go there for the privacy when I’m working.”

“I could be a woodland boy back there,” he said, a twinkle in his eye. “I could be your woodland boy.”

That’s when I knew I could have him. And now I was having him—not in the woods behind the house but more safely private, in the house, in my bedroom, on my bed. I gripped him tight. Thrusting, thrusting. Pounding. Lost in the fuck. He moved languidly under me.

“Oh, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy. Yes, Daddy. Please be good to me, Daddy.”

I pounded his ass. I took him hard. He was stroking his cock and shot up my belly. And then it was my turn. Blasting him deep, pulling the cock out to the surface. Creaming him there too. Kevin crying out, “Oh, Fuck, oh, shit! You’re killing me!” as I slammed it home again and again and again. Taking him totally. Barebacking him.

I quickly came back to my senses then, pulling out of him. Letting go of him. Pulling away from him.

I couldn’t believe I’d done this. The boy was only fourteen. But he’d initiated it. He’d made me do it.

I came off the bed and stood at the foot of the bed, looking down at him. He remained completely open, one hand stroking his cock, the fingers of the other going to his hole, where my cum was dribbling onto his thigh. He kept his legs spread, bent, his feet flat on the mattress. He was panting hard, looking bewildered at first. But he recovered—suspiciously quickly. Still, he’d give me the thrill I’d ached for.

He gave me a saucy look. “That was so good, Daddy. You’re a stud. You got a great body. Fuck me again.”

That wasn’t going to happen. Not now. I’d been in some sort of spell. He entrapped me—discerned my weakness and played it. I couldn’t do this again. He was only fourteen.

“I’m going to take a shower now,” I said. “Your money is there on the dresser. $30 for the mowing and another $100—for ... you know what.” I couldn’t bring myself to say what the other $100 was for—what the deal had been.

This would have to be it—the end. I’d have to mow my own lawn or get someone else in. Someone older. A mowing service or some sort of arrangement.

“Next Tuesday. Next Tuesday again?” he asked. “Mowing again then. And then this too?”

“I don’t know, Kevin. I’m going away this week. I’ll have to call you when I get back.”

I had no plans to go away for a week, but now I’d have to. I was weak. If I stayed in town, I’d have him back next Tuesday. And he was a witch boy. If I let him come again to mow the lawn, I’d have him again here in the bedroom—if that’s what he wanted. Or in the woods behind the house, on the picnic table. It wasn’t the money. I paid more than that for a college kid. He was just fourteen. The college semester was over. I could go away for a week. Now I would. When I came back it would all be gone. It will be like it never happened.

But it did happen. I turned and fled to the bathroom, closing and locking the door behind me. He’d be gone when I came out. It would be like it never happened.

I rented a cabin for a week on the slopes of Mount Mitchell off the Blue Ridge Parkway northwest of Asheville. I needed to get away and think. I knew what I wanted in sexual fulfillment now—youth; fourteen-year-old youth—but I was scared. This was dangerous ground—highly dangerous ground. I had to get away and think. No, I had to hide away and build up a defense against this. I had to convince myself to take my pleasures short of my newly discovered desires and to train myself to be content with that from henceforth.

I threw myself into my work and into physical activity. There was a mountain resort area around Mount Mitchell that I was on the fringe of, so I could find supplies and civilization easily, if and when I wanted to, but I could be as isolated as I wanted or needed to be. I really needed to be isolated during this time of introspection—and, conversely—a time to avoid all thoughts of what I wanted as opposed to what I should be content with. I had articles to work on, and I had to publish to keep my standing at the university. I’d put the research off to the summer break and we were there now. So, I had plenty to do in that department.

I spent my first two days dutifully in the cabin on the winding and dipping Mountain Field Lane near both the Blue Ridge Parkway and where the Appalachian Trail went through researching the writing technique of William Faulkner.

One had to take breaks to be productive, though, and I needed them as much as the next man did. I tried literary breaks—reading contemporary authors of Faulkner’s, looking for shared influences. But I was young—relatively—and athletically active. I found that, while I researched or read, I also was drinking. That wasn’t what I was here for. I wasn’t here to trade one vice for another. So, I started taking walks around the cabin, over to the Appalachian Trial to take in short chunks of that. Trail snaked in and around the Blue Ridge Parkway, and I never could be sure when I’d break out of the dense foliage of the trail onto the asphalt of the parkway and be accosted by the occasional passing of a vehicle.

On the third day I remembered that I had put my gulf clubs in the car, having learned that the Mount Mitchell resort not far away had a golf course and the rental cabin included a membership there.

The boy’s name was Adam Calder. He was the son of the manager of the resort, so he was able to work as a caddie at the gulf club even though he was only sixteen. He wasn’t fourteen, but, at sixteen, he was as much of a risk for me as a younger boy would be. My reasoning was that, if I worked my way up in years to what was legal and still could get maximum satisfaction, I should give it a try.

Besides, all of this aloneness was not curing my randiness and Adam was a flirt. He obviously was a player and he was attracted to me. Just as important, I was attracted to him. He was a handsome, athletic boy. He was working as a caddie for the summer because it permitted him to use the golf course. He was a varsity football player at his high school down in Asheville as well, and he played tennis. He was tall, a bit taller than I was, darkly handsome, and all smiles. Some of them as we went around the course became knowing smiles and then saucy smiles.

Yes, he knew where I could get a bite to eat after the golf round. He could show me. And, yes, he was off duty now and would be happy to have lunch with me.

We ate at J & J’s Grill right next to the golf course. Yes, I knew it was there. I’d eaten there before. It was pretty much the only restaurant in the resort area, and it was a long drive to get off the mountain and to other culinary choices.

“You’re a beautiful young man,” I said when we’d finished our burgers. We’d been talking around what was increasingly becoming of interest to us both.

“You are a beautiful not-so-old man,” he said. We laughed, a comfortable laugh. This was progressing smoothly. All systems go. “And cultured. You told me you were writing something about William Faulkner.”

“I teach English at the university down in Asheville,” I answered. “You know about William Faulkner?”

“Yes. ‘The Sound and the Fury’ and ‘Light in August’. Right?”

“Right. A young man with culture.”

“And handsome too,” Adam said, with a saucy smile.

“Yes, most definitely that too,” I said, returning the smile. He put a hand on my knee under the table, and I looked down at it. I didn’t move away.