Love had nothing to do with it.
He had done it out of pleasure, out of lust, out of pure wanting. But not out of love.
His hands remembered the feeling; they held memories of the boy's skin, of the boy's smooth softness, his flower-petal skin, so pale, unmarred, unscarred. His lips remembered the boy's innocence, stolen away without any regard, how he cried so softly through the night - not in pain, but in pleasure.
He had been a beautiful boy.
Even now, he was beautiful.
The boy had grown into a man, tall and slender, his form had hardened, along with his eyes.
The man watched, and smiled. The boy that had become a man was trying to play the role of a bitter adult, but the man could only see the young, idealistic, naïve boy that he had taken all those years ago, on that night that had nothing to do with love, and everything to do with passion.
It had been a warm, early spring night; the trees were budding with green. He had been walking out with the boy, and they had been talking for some time. The boy had suggested something innocent, ice-cream, and the man had complied.
They returned to the man's apartment; the lights were low, and things went well.
He remembered the boy's cock, slender and red, how sweet it tasted, how the boy had called out for him, his name, over and over, until he complied.
He remembered the boy's ass, tight and hot, how virginal it was, how the boy cried tears as he was taken by the older man, how he loved it, how he loved it hard and fast and deep, several times that night despite his youth and the pain it caused.
He remembered the boy.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was supposed to be love.
It was supposed to be love, not pain and loneliness.
It was supposed to be love, not death.
He had died that night, despite how elated he felt. Others thought that he had died later, when he had been almost killed by the man.
The boy remembered the night differently, but similarly. He remembered the scene - it played itself in his head often enough.
It was a lovely evening, and the boy had let the man take him out for ice-cream. He was excited; it was a date, but an innocent one - the boy was only sixteen, he didn't know any better.
They went to the man's apartment afterwards, and the man had kissed him - a deep, gut-wrenching kiss, the boy's first kiss. The man, during the kiss, had trailed his hand down until he could lift the boy by the ass and lay him on the bed, kissing him still, straddling the boy's slim body, dominating all the boy's senses.
The boy was naïve to think that it was love.
The man had used him, completely, killed him, that night.
The boy was now a man, bitter, angry, hardened. Things had changed, things had to change.
The boy was now a man.
But he, too, remembered the boy.
He had done it out of pleasure, out of lust, out of pure wanting. But not out of love.
His hands remembered the feeling; they held memories of the boy's skin, of the boy's smooth softness, his flower-petal skin, so pale, unmarred, unscarred. His lips remembered the boy's innocence, stolen away without any regard, how he cried so softly through the night - not in pain, but in pleasure.
He had been a beautiful boy.
Even now, he was beautiful.
The boy had grown into a man, tall and slender, his form had hardened, along with his eyes.
The man watched, and smiled. The boy that had become a man was trying to play the role of a bitter adult, but the man could only see the young, idealistic, naïve boy that he had taken all those years ago, on that night that had nothing to do with love, and everything to do with passion.
It had been a warm, early spring night; the trees were budding with green. He had been walking out with the boy, and they had been talking for some time. The boy had suggested something innocent, ice-cream, and the man had complied.
They returned to the man's apartment; the lights were low, and things went well.
He remembered the boy's cock, slender and red, how sweet it tasted, how the boy had called out for him, his name, over and over, until he complied.
He remembered the boy's ass, tight and hot, how virginal it was, how the boy cried tears as he was taken by the older man, how he loved it, how he loved it hard and fast and deep, several times that night despite his youth and the pain it caused.
He remembered the boy.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was supposed to be love.
It was supposed to be love, not pain and loneliness.
It was supposed to be love, not death.
He had died that night, despite how elated he felt. Others thought that he had died later, when he had been almost killed by the man.
The boy remembered the night differently, but similarly. He remembered the scene - it played itself in his head often enough.
It was a lovely evening, and the boy had let the man take him out for ice-cream. He was excited; it was a date, but an innocent one - the boy was only sixteen, he didn't know any better.
They went to the man's apartment afterwards, and the man had kissed him - a deep, gut-wrenching kiss, the boy's first kiss. The man, during the kiss, had trailed his hand down until he could lift the boy by the ass and lay him on the bed, kissing him still, straddling the boy's slim body, dominating all the boy's senses.
The boy was naïve to think that it was love.
The man had used him, completely, killed him, that night.
The boy was now a man, bitter, angry, hardened. Things had changed, things had to change.
The boy was now a man.
But he, too, remembered the boy.