Soon after my thirteenth birthday, I discovered my cock. All seven throbbing inches of it. About four times a day.
It was pretty much about then that I discovered something else too. Something sticky, salty and creamy. Something my body seemed able to produce in copious amounts every time I jerked off. Something which would change my life forever.
That something, of course, was – cum.
For a while, my own satisfaction had to suffice. Naturally. After all, I was a virgin and living in the wilds of New Brunswick was unlikely to change that unfortunate fact. So like most young teens, I had to be content with my own manipulation. And, for that matter, with my own spunk. Which, as I soon discovered, was a peculiar delicacy. Especially when I was feeling hot and dirty. When nothing but tight-fisted masturbation would appease my horny fantasies.
It was just as well, then, that I appeared to have two remarkable physical capabilities. Both of which assisted in the feverish consumption of my own wads.
The first was my ability to arch my back forwards at the point of climax, so that the end of my cock was no more than an inch or so from my open mouth. Not exactly self-suck, granted. But an impressive advantage in respect of my particular craving.
The second was the very gift of youth. The sheer virile craft of geyser-like eruptions. Pulsing from the groin with violent energy, so that each bolt of ecstasy spurts with volcanic force from the straining, wanton eye.
No measly dribbles. No tired, middle-aged drools. Just bolt after rapturous bolt of thick, effortless boy-honey. Arching proudly skywards, before landing with generous splats upon whatever naked flesh is exposed. Which in my case was always my tongue. Just a hair-breath’s distance from the source of the outburst. Thirsty for cum. Just aching to feel the heavy roll of jizz as it pours towards my tonsils and into the darkness beyond. Before trickling down my gullet and into my hungry stomach.
