WARNING: This chapter is working up to a graphic depiction of the Bart/Bob bit, and thus expresses sentiments that not everyone will find appealing. If you don't like it, don't read it.

xxxxx

I did not allow myself to dawdle at the Simpsons' house. I knew that if I tried to catch a glimpse of my darling boy through the window, I would be unable to tear myself away, and I would be certain to be discovered. So, I left my note in the treehouse, and turned immediately back towards the tiny, one room apartment to which I am reduced. It was almost dark as I rattled my key in the lock and entered, and it had just started to rain. It was perhaps indicative of my current state of mind that on my first night of liberty I would not be found enjoying the freedom of unregulated movement and an unbounded sky – instead I was in the cramped, unlovely confines of my room, preparing for a meeting with the boy who was everything.

The meeting came earlier than I had anticipated. Today was Friday, and I had thought the soonest I could possibly hope to see Bart was tomorrow. But, at around 10 o'clock, barely audible over the merciless drumming of the rain, there was a knock on my door.

I leapt up, knowing it could only be him. I opened the door to reveal Bart Simpson, soaked to the skin and shivering. He was wearing just his customary shorts and t-shirt, which clung to his skinny frame, and he was carrying a rucksack slung over one shoulder. His wet hair was plastered down over his forehead, and he looked up at me with large, intense, hopeful eyes that almost made me faint.

My protective instincts kicked in and I cooed and fussed over him, with gentle admonishments for walking alone, at night, in the rain, through the dreadful neighbourhood where I lived. But I couldn't be too harsh on him – he was here, so I was happy.

Bart dismissed my fussing with a shrug and said "It's just a bit of rain Bob, Jeez."

So I stopped fussing and instead pulled him in for a hug, his wet hair against my cheek, his small slim body against mine. I felt a slight stirring in myself, but ignored it – I was in protective mode at the moment, and such base instincts as sexual desire took a back seat at times like these.

Bar freed himself and said "Dude, I'm freezing."

I suggested he got in the shower to warm up. "My landlord seems to have had the enlightened idea of putting the bathroom for this apartment in a cupboard." I opened the door to reveal the smallest bathroom in all Christendom. "It is, unfortunately, more than a little cramped, but the water's hot and the towels are clean."

I stepped back into the only other room in the apartment, which contained both my bed and my kitchen, and smiled to hear Bart singing tunelessly to himself as he showered. I was soon picturing the boy naked under the running water, imagining the way the droplets would look on his clear, pale skin, how with unknowing innocence he was probably this moment soaping himself, running his hands over the taut young flesh of his body...

My reverie was interrupted when Bart pushed the door slightly ajar in order to talk to me as he showered. I moved as close to the doorway as I dared. From this position I could see no more of 

Bart than one ankle and half a foot, on which I fixated. I went no closer as I was mindful not to let Bart see my desire for him physically. I couldn't bear the thought of him being damaged, being soiled, least of all by me. My urge to protect him could easily beat down any lurking desire I harboured to force myself upon him.

"So Bob", he asked, "how come you live in such a crumby apartment?"

"I am not a wealthy man, Bart, I live where I can afford to live."

"But this place doesn't even have a TV!"

"I can make my own entertainment." My entertainment, at this very moment, was watching Bart's little toe flex and tense as he shifted his balance. It was a detail I would not normally have noticed, but as it was all of Bart I could currently see, it became temporarily enthralling.

"May I ask how you came to be at my apartment so late and alone?"

"Your letter said you wanted to meet, so I came."

Some shampoo foam ran over Bart's toes to the drain.

"Yes, and I'm unspeakably glad that you did, but you did you get here tonight? Do your parents know where you are?"

"I'd already planned to sleep over at Milhouse's tonight when I got your letter, so I went to his house, then started an argument about nothing to give me an excuse to leave. So I came here."

"In the rain."

"Dude, I wanted to see you. I wasn't going to let some stupid rain stop me."

"I'm glad you didn't. I wanted to see you too." I want to see you now. I want to see more than just your foot.

"So your parents think you're still at Milhouse's? How long are they expecting you to stay there?"

"Dunno. All weekend I guess."

I grinned to myself. I had potentially a whole weekend with this angelic creature. Just as long as I didn't fuck it up by letting him see that I wanted him.

Through the bathroom door, I saw a slender arm, shiny wet, reach from the shower for a towel. I noticed that my erection was clearly visible in my pants, so I moved to sit on the bed and willed it to subside.

Bart stepped into the room with a towel loosely knotted around his waist. I stifled a gasp at the casual beauty of this boy. He grinned at me and dropped his wet clothes in a pile on the floor.

"So is it alright if I crash here tonight?"



"Absolutely Bart," I replied with a tremor in my voice, "I only have one bed, but it's big enough for two."

"That's cool," Bart said shyly, "I don't mind sharing."

I smiled weakly, and Bart went to pick up his ruck-sack. From it, he pulled a pair of pyjamas. I smirked when I saw the picture on them – Krusty the Klown. As Bart pulled the top over his head, I said a silent goodbye to the lovely skin of his stomach, only to be given an even greater treat. He turned away from me and dropped his towel, and in the brief second before he pulled on his pyjama bottoms I had a wonderful glimpse of those buttocks about which I have dreamt so many times. They were exactly as I had imagined, smooth, rounded, fleshy and delectable.

Bart then pulled a toothbrush from his bag and began to brush his teeth. I decided to do the same. Every time the boy bent over the sink to spit, I took the opportunity to appraise the view, doing my best to conceal my erection. On one of these occasions, as my eyes passed from his bottom, snugly wrapped in blue pyjamas, then up the narrow span of his back, I happened to glance up and caught his eye in the mirror. Whether he could see what I was doing, I could not tell. I told myself to be more careful and went to change into my pyjamas. No Krusty brand jim-jams for me – I had an elegant blue and white striped pair to wear. I changed facing away from the bed, and as I turned back, I discovered that Bart was watching me – without any shame, just openly watching me.

We both hopped into bed, sitting up with me on the left and Bart on the right. Straight away he moved over close to me, and rested his head on my chest. With an artful nonchalance, I put my arm around him, allowing my fingers to rest on his ribs under his arm.

Immediately the physical contact with his warm body, snuggling in against mine, made my blood rise. I prayed he would not brush against it and expose me.

Bart looked up at me and said, "I'm glad you got out of the hospital, Bob. It's good to see you again."

My heart raced to hear this from the boy I loved. I gently squeezed him round the waist. "I love you, Bart," I murmured.

He moved his head slightly and told me, "Your heart's beating really fast. Is mine?"

I tried to put my ear to his chest, but found that I couldn't while we were sitting up. He lay down on his back, and I rested my head on his upper torso, with my hand on his belly. I breathed in deeply to take in his warm, clean scent, and said "It's going like the clappers."

Bart giggled, and his chest rocked beneath me. I lifted my head and lay next to the child. Neither one of us said anything for a minute or two, and then Bart took hold of my arm and turned away, pulling us both into a spooning position. Bart lay curled, foetal, within an embrace from my entire body. My left arm lay across his chest and my fingers hooked over his shoulder. The whole length of his back was in contact with my torso, and his hair tickled my nose. With an astonishing power of will I made my excitement subside, to allow me to curl up my knees into the crook formed by his. This brought his warm, soft buttocks into contact with my penis, which I kept flaccid only by a constant and sustained concentration. My enforced limpness was made all the more difficult by 

the fact that Bart did not lie still. Constant small movements titillated every portion of my body, and I found it necessary to bit hard on my lower lip to distract me from this casually wrought ecstasy.

Eventually Bart settled, but now I was to be the maker of my own temptation. I slowly moved my left hand from Bart's chest, down his torso, and onto his stomach. I tried to keep the movement as casual as possible, and brought my hand to rest with my index finger in the dimple of his navel and my little finger in the narrow strip of bare flesh exposed between the top and pants of his pyjamas. With gentle movements, I allowed my little finger to brush against the elasticated waistband of his pants, my head full of images of what lay beyond. As I did this I suddenly became aware that his pants were pushed up into a little tent. My heart raced. I bit my lip. I raised my little finger a fraction, and it made contact. I breathed in and held the breath. My finger was in contact, through the fabric of pyjamas, with the tip of Bart Simpson's erect penis.