Oscar

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Oscar

Hair type: Brown

Ethinicity: Western European

Cock Type: Uncut

Set Type: Pictures

Other content: Oscar 2

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Pictures: 47 | Added: 04-02-2001

Some guys like to keep a “little black book” - a record of their conquests over the years.

Well, my own personal version is my big red book.

But its purpose is slightly different to the black version. It doesn’t record the guys I’ve already had, but the guys I’m going to have.

My tastes, you see, are a bit more specialised. I like guys of 18.

Not 18-25.

Not even 18-20.

Just 18.

And not only do I like them at that precise age, but I like to be the first guy they’ve ever been with.

A friend told me once that it was sort of a psychological kink. Just because I lost my own cherry on the day of my 18th birthday, it’s apparently got a huge significance for me.

I don’t go along with that. It’s just the age I think guys look their very best. No longer a child but not quite yet a fully-grown man - and with all the best features of both.

And it’s also a bit of fun. A personal challenge, if you like.

So that big red book of mine is basically a list of the ones I want to have in the future.

In my line of work I travel a lot. It’s a job that lots of guys soon get fed up with. The appeal of living out of a suitcase in a series of hotel rooms doesn’t last long for most people.

But for me it’s ideal.

It allows me to travel the world and, as I do so, I note down the most promising boys. Getting their personal details to make sure I pay a return visit when they’re 18 can sometimes be a problem, but I regard that as just another part of the challenge.

It was two years ago when I’d last visited Paris. I never stay in the big hotels. They’re too impersonal and don’t make it very easy for me to talk to the staff - by which I mean the younger male staff, of course.

So on that visit I’d stayed at a small place near the cruising grounds of the Bois de Boulogne. Quite a handy location, you might think, to indulge my “hobby”, but you’d be wrong. Although there are plenty of young guys selling their asses up there, even the 18 year olds have been doing it for so long that they could slip the Eiffel Tower up their backsides without noticing.

But on that particular visit I did make one discovery.

Oscar.

He was the son of the hotel concierge and, when she saw that I seemed to be taking a shine to her son, she was only too happy to tell me all about him. Oscar was as cute as a button, really bright at school and, clearly, the apple of her eye. The boy himself was quite friendly, in a nervous sort of way, and was delighted - if a little embarrassed - when I got mama to take a photograph of me with him as I left the hotel.

In those two intervening years Oscar had grown up considerably and, if I hadn’t filed away the photo and looked at it on a regular basis, I probably wouldn’t even have recognised him.

I was quite surprised - and gratified - to find that he remembered me. Not only that but, seeing how much we enjoyed talking together, he soon became a regular visitor to my room.

At first he’d sit there awkwardly, but within a few days had begun to relax.

As I said before, it was small hotel. With no air conditioning and in the middle of the hot Paris summer my room often became unbearably hot. So it seemed quite natural for me to take off my own shirt and to suggest that Oscar do the same.

This first glimpse I’d had of the boy’s upper body confirmed all my hopes. Oscar was just my “type” and I was determined to fulfil my two-year quest before I left Paris in a few weeks time.

But I knew that the next stage was going to be the tricky one.

A certain degree of nudity can pass without remark between guys. But there’s a definite line that, once you reach it, introduces a sexual element into the equation. It suddenly hits some boys - they panic - and then they’re quickly gone. With others, they race over that line and they’re yours in just minutes.

With Oscar it was seconds.

One evening as I came out of the shower I was surprised to find him in my room. Generally he rang from reception before coming up. And he’d certainly always knocked at the door before coming in. But this time, to my surprise, he’d done neither and had used the passkey to get in.

And to my even greater surprise, he’d stripped right down to just a pair of tight grey briefs. A thin seam ran down the front of them, almost drawing attention - as if it needed to! - to the promising looking bulge underneath.

I noticed that, resting on the bed alongside him, Oscar had put my big red book. I guessed that he must have come across it one day while cleaning the room and the polaroid snaps that I’d pasted onto some of the pages had obviously clued him in as to how I spent my spare time.

Without waiting for any reaction from me, Oscar slipped a thumb under the waistband of his briefs and began slipping them down over his milky white thighs. My mouth began to water immediately at the first sight of a light brown bush of pubic hair, with a sweet, boyish aroma that I could smell right across the room. His large and swelling balls - engorged, I hoped, with excited anticipation - slipped into view through the leg of his underwear.

Swiftly discarding the briefs altogether, Oscar faced me, still sitting down but now with his legs wide apart.

Everything was on display, including a rapidly swelling cock and an intriguing line of soft downy hair running from under his balls back through the crack of his soft, rounded ass.

Maybe I would have stayed just looking at him for ever - but at that point Oscar got slowly up from his chair, moved across the room, planted one foot up on my bed and invited me to join him.

As I did so I pushed aside the big red book which was still resting on the bedcover.

I didn’t think I’d be needing it again for the next few weeks.