word-of-the-day-3

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Subject: Word of the Day, Chapter 3 CHAPTER THREE Benoît sat at Cameron’s dining table examining his video footage closely on the laptop screen. His shirt still lay forgotten on the bed behind him. Cameron, meanwhile, stood once again fully clothed with one hand on the empty chair beside the boy’s workstation, watching but not wanting to intervene. The standing spectator wondered whether he should go to the bathroom and clean up the mess in his underwear. It felt sticky and persistent. He decided to leave it for now, realising the idea of not cleaning it up actually turned him on a little. Besides, it was sort of like a gift from Benoît. It would be rude not to keep it. He wondered if there was a tiny matching wet patch in Benoît’s underwear too. On the laptop screen, a skateboarding boy sailed smoothly along the banks of the Seine. Then around the perspective-bending base of the instantly recognisable Eiffel Tower, then along a more industrial-looking street that Cameron didn’t quite recognise. Each time the scene changed, the skate-boy kept his momentum and position, so it looked like he never stopped skating and the world just changed behind him like a prepared backdrop falling abruptly into place from the rafters of a stage. Then the footage rolled on into an unedited section where the skater boy suddenly tripped and fell, laughing, and suddenly the angle was askew as the cameraman ran to help his friend. “T’es blessé? ” came Benoît’s boyish French accent from the recording, half amused and half concerned. The other boy just laughed and reached out his hand for Benoît to help him up, and the video faded to black, still with the sound of muffled laughter, as the phone camera was stuffed into a pocket for safekeeping, still rolling. “Who is he?” asked Cameron. “That is my friend Frédé. He is very good at skateboard! Well. Normally. That is what editing is for,” Benoît joked, scrubbing back through the video to snip out the offending scene. Cameron thought it was sort of a shame to delete the candid, real moment of boyish laughter, but he didn’t say anything. This was Benoît’s film, after all. Frédé looked about the same age as Benoît, though perhaps a little shorter in stature. His skin colour was darker too, and his mop of hair bounced in ringlet-curls that must have some Afro-Caribbean in them as well as a hint of something blond. “Are you two close?” asked Cameron, feeling suddenly jealous. “I mean… do you…” He changed his mind about the question too late, and his eyes glancing over to the bed behind him gave his meaning away. “No,” said Benoît. Cameron was silent for a while. Then he walked over to the bathroom, grabbing a clean pair of underwear from the drawer on the way. He was in a different mood when he returned, his thoughts back on the earlier events of the day. Benoît was looking at his footage critically on the laptop screen. “The quality is not good,” the young French film maker said sadly. “I do not have a real camera. Just my phone.” “You can have mine,” offered Cameron immediately. Was it affection or jealous possessiveness that made him want to spoil the boy? “Really? You have a camera? And I can have it? You mean it?” Benoît was almost bouncing in his chair as he turned to look at Cameron wide-eyed, so little could he contain his excitement. “Yeah!” said Cameron, pleased. “I mean, to borrow, at least. Definitely! I don’t know how good it is. I think it’s good. My parents got me it,” he explained. “I think they wanted me to take lots of pictures when I came here. But I’ve never really used it.” Cameron walked over to a shelf and picked up the padded bag that held the rarely-used camera. Benoît had jumped up from the chair, his work on the laptop temporarily forgotten. The French boy eagerly accepted the camera bag from Cameron’s outstretched arms and hurriedly opened its contents onto the bed with a mixture of excitement and reverence. Something about the way the twelve-year-old French boy picked up the camera told Cameron that he was a born photographer. With the camera in his hand he suddenly looked older, more serious and more professional. It fitted his fingers like an instrument fits the hand of a musician. “It does video if you change the little dial there,” Cameron began, but Benoît was at least three steps ahead of him. “Found it!” said the French boy, clicking the digital camera into video mode and seeming to flick some other settings too that Cameron had no idea about. “Can we go out and try it? We will make a movie together. The first one with the new camera. La caméra de Cameron,” laughed Benoît in a sing-song voice. Cameron wasn’t sure he really wanted to leave the house again. Benoît sensed his hesitation. “Don’t worry,” he grinned reassuringly, “we will not go near any sandwich shops.” “Okay,” said Cameron with more determination than he felt. “And nothing bad can happen to you when you have a real Parisian bodyguard,” Benoît continued, puffing out his still-naked chest a little. Cameron looked at Benoît. He really could believe that nothing bad could happen when the boy was around, he realised. “Where are we going?” he conceded with a smile. Benoît thought about it for a moment. “The canal.” The hot sun still beat down outside, but the little French football-player quietly slipped his shirt back on and transformed into a film director as they emerged once more onto the street. The camera hung on its strap round his neck, slightly too big for him and yet somehow exactly the right size. It took them only a few minutes to emerge onto the great La Villette basin at the head of the Canal Saint-Martin. Cameron felt the world open out above him as he saw the wide flat water reflecting little sparkles of sunlight back into the vast blue sky. “You want to go in?” joked Benoît, seeing Cameron’s eyes dance across the mesmerising water. “You can swim in it?” asked Cameron in surprise. “Bien sûr !” The Parisian boy gestured a little way down the opposite bank, where piers marked out a set of swimming pools like a little pleasure island clinging escort to the edge of the wide canal basin. The isolated squares of water were tossed and tumbled into tiny pieces by the swarms of city swimmers enjoying the warm summer day, and had a different ripple-pattern from the rest of the great mirrored expanse. “Maybe another time,” said Cameron, looking nervously at all the people. And he didn’t even have anything to swim in. Was Benoît expecting him to jump in in his underwear? “I agree,” laughed Benoît. “Besides, I have my camera! We are here to watch, not to swim.” The twelve-year-old cameraman cast his eyes around the space, looking for his vantage point. “Here is good,” he decided, pointing towards a nearby bench that faced out over the water. Cameron followed him. “What are you going to film?” “Life,” said Benoît matter-of-factly. The camera was already raised in front of him, surveying the scene. He held it mostly away from him, framing his shot using the little screen, but once or twice he lifted it to his eye to experiment with the viewfinder. Cameron marvelled at how quickly the twelve-year-old found his way around the camera. Already it was almost as if the lens was an extension of the boy himself. “Have you used one of those before?” he asked. “Not really.” “It suits you.” “I look like a movie director?” The French boy attempted an American accent, exaggerating the last two words slightly. “You do,” Cameron smiled truthfully. “There are too many people,” complained Benoît impatiently as another waterside passer-by crossed the line of his shot. “Come on. We will find a better place.” He hopped up from the bench and strode off again with purpose. They walked along beside the water, Benoît scanning the scene for a good camera angle and Cameron enjoying the younger boy’s company. “Bonjour messieurs !” Benoît let out suddenly. Cameron followed the young boy’s gaze. A group of elderly gentlemen were looking up from the leisurely game of pétanque that they played on a narrow strip of grass between the street and the canal. “Benoît !” The white-haired man’s eyes lit up, sending a smile shooting through the deep wrinkles on his face like a stream rushing into cracks in dry ground. “Tiens, Lucien, c’est le petit Benoît !” A taller man with a pipe hanging from the corner of his mouth stepped over to see what all the fuss was about. Two other men stood in the background, eying the young visitors. Benoît said a few more things in animated French that Cameron didn’t understand, before remembering his manners. “This is my English friend Cameron.” “Enchanté, English friend of monsieur Benoît,” said the shorter elderly man with mock gravitas. The other man nodded his agreement. “Enchanté,” replied Cameron politely. He looked around and was embarrassed to see that Benoît was filming them. “Super caméra !” complimented the old Parisian. “Merci !” beamed Benoît. “We are on a mission,” he continued conspiratorially in English. “Ah,” nodded the old man knowingly. “Then you must not let me stop you. Allez !” He waved the pair onward with a twinkle in his eye. “Ah, la jeunesse,” Cameron heard him sigh happily to himself as they walked on along the canal. “How do you know them?” Cameron asked. “They are here a lot. Sometimes other places too.” “Oh.” “Non, Cameron. I did not have sex with them.” “What?” Cameron was startled by the ease with which the unexpected word came from the twelve-year-old’s mouth. “I didn’t…!” “What do you think of me?” continued Benoît teasingly. “You think I meet everyone on the street and take them home to teach them kissing?” “Maybe.” Cameron felt bad for saying it, but carried on anyway. His tongue solidified into a bitter shape. “Isn’t that what you did to me?” “You are special, Cameron the piano player,” said Benoît. Cameron was quiet. “Imagine it,” said Benoît with an exaggerated shiver. “They are too old.” “But I’m not?” asked Cameron, immediately regretting how personal the conversation was getting. “Of course not!” said Benoît, looking up at him earnestly. “You are just right.” Another silence. “You are imagining it, aren’t you,” accused Benoît wryly. “No!” Cameron lied. Then he laughed. “I think one or two of them wanted to.” “With me? Or with you?” “Maybe both,” Cameron dared to say. He found the conversation growing easier again. Benoît didn’t reply, but just looked up at him again with a glint in his eye. “Now you’re imagining it too, aren’t you,” said Cameron. “Non,” Benoît said with innocent eyes. “Here,” he said a moment later, lifting the strap from around his neck and holding out the camera. Cameron looked at him, puzzled. “I have to go home!” explained Benoît. “Oh! Take the camera with you! You can keep filming on your way home.” “You are sure?” “Yes.” “OK!” Benoît looked equal parts gleeful and honoured to be trusted with such a responsibility. “I left the charger at home, though. With the case. Do you want to go back and get it?” “I don’t have enough time now,” said Benoît sadly. “But I will come back soon. I don’t know when.” “I hope you use up all the battery and have to come back first thing tomorrow.” “Then I will film everything!” said Benoît gleefully. The mischievous gears were turning in his head again. Then his expression became a touch more sincere. “Thank you for letting me use the camera, Cameron. À bientôt !” Cameron watched the figure retreating and felt a sort of unfamiliar hollowness in his chest. Suddenly Benoît turned back. “Cameron!” “Yes?” “I forgot. You must have my number. In case you need to feel better by talking to a friend again. Give me your phone?” Cameron obeyed unquestioningly, unlocking his phone as he handed it over. “It is all in English!” Benoît laughed. “Just like your computer.” “Of course it’s in English!” Cameron defended himself. “You should try making it French. You will learn a lot of words!” “Maybe…” “I changed your camera into French. But I will not change your phone.” “Oh, thanks,” laughed Cameron a little sarcastically. “Done!” exclaimed Benoît, handing gebze escort back the phone. “Au revoir, Cameron !” And then he was gone, becoming part of the Parisian patchwork of trees, people and pieces of afternoon shadow that decorated the bank of the canal. Cameron lifted his phone again. The screen showed his contacts app, where the French boy had added his number. “Benoît ❤️,” the boy had entered his name, with a little heart after it. Without him knowing why, a tear formed in Cameron’s eye and tried to roll onto his face. He wiped it away onto his hand and turned in the direction he hoped was home. The courtyard of his building was cool and shady: a welcome relief after the incessant summer sun. Cameron unlocked his own front door and breathed in the even cooler indoor darkness. On the bed sat the empty camera case. Cameron smiled as he picked it up and placed it back in its spot on the shelf to await Benoît’s return visit. Automatically he sat at the piano. Practice wasn’t a chore; just part of his day, and one which had been delayed longer than usual by the afternoon’s adventures. He leafed through the well-worn Rachmaninoff concerto, quickly finding the passages he had marked out for extra attention. The familiar phrases were comforting under his fingers as he rehearsed them over and over, perfecting the position of every note. But they sounded different too, in a way he couldn’t quite figure out. He felt his hand glance off a soaring upward melody in a way he had never heard it before. With satisfaction he picked up his pencil and marked an accent on the page, recording the moment. Had the composer left it there for him to find, or was it his own? More like a conversation between him and the concerto, he thought. After the piano-playing was done Cameron let the evening continue to pass slowly, cooking himself a meal and thinking about nothing in particular. When he finally felt he had absorbed enough quiet, he sat down at the piano again and let some of it flow back out through his hands. The tunes that came to his mind this time were lullabies his mother had sung to him as a child. He decorated them with chords in the shape of his own thoughts, and couldn’t tell if they sounded happy or sad. Enough. He left the piano bench and sat down on the bed. Taking out his phone, perhaps to check the news headlines, his thoughts instantly went back to Benoît. Could he send him a message? What would he say? He should check that the number was right, at least. And then Benoît would have his number too. “Hello,” he wrote straightforwardly, deleting it and retyping it at least twice before tapping the button to send it. “Hello Cameron,” came the reply, almost straight away. The message popped up at the top of the screen complete with the little heart that Benoît had left next to his name. “How did you know it was me?” “It’s a message in English from an unknown number. This does not happen very often.” Again the little heart next to the message. Benoît’s messages were as articulate and careful as his spoken English, Cameron thought with a smile. “I had a nice time today,” Cameron wrote, wondering if it sounded stupid but sending it anyway. Benoît ❤️: “Me too.” “I’m sorry -” Cameron started writing, then stopped and thought about how to phrase it. He was glad he could take his time and think about what to say before sending each message. “I think I was a bit rude once or twice because I felt jealous,” he finally settled on. “I’m sorry about that.” “It’s OK!” wrote back Benoît. “It was quite funny. I like that you are jealous.” Cameron felt a slight release of tension with the apology given and accepted. “How’s the camera?” he sent. “Have you filmed any more stuff?” “The camera says it misses you,” joked Benoît after a moment. “But it is sleeping now. I have to save the battery so I can film more tomorrow.” Almost a minute’s pause before Benoît sent another message. “I did make one more film with my phone though. Can I send it to you?” “Of course!” Another pause, then a notification: “Benoît ❤️ sent a video.” Cameron swallowed as he saw the thumbnail preview slide down from the top of his screen. A closeup of Benoît’s midsection, looking down from a high angle. The video preview was small, but it was obvious the boy was naked except for a pair of grey briefs. His smooth tan skin was visible above and below, glowing softly in the warm indoor light of a bedroom. The nervous 22-year-old could feel his heart beating faster as he tapped the notification to expand the video to fill the screen that was suddenly his whole world. It started playing. With the picture zoomed in he could pick out more detail. The flat elastic waistband of Benoît’s briefs tried to hug his stomach closely, but it was lifted slightly by a little hill rising unmistakably from the smooth grey fabric landscape. Cameron’s eyes followed the ridge downwards, tracing the unmistakable outline of hard boy dick that pushed against the inside of the material, tantalisingly out of view. The twelve-year-old erection reached right to the elastic waistband but then stopped just tormentingly short of lifting it away from the innocent skin beneath. With a distinct and unambiguous twitch, Benoît’s concealed little dick moved of its own accord, pulling insistently at the grey elasticated fabric. His waistband relented, lifting away from his stomach by the tiniest amount, opening an agonising window that was far too narrow to see through. Cameron felt his own cock contract slightly in reply. His eyes were fixed so closely to the screen that the rest of the universe had ceased to exist. What happened next he was not prepared for. A jump cut, and the briefs were gone, along with all the breath in Cameron’s lungs. Benoît’s boy boner was standing suddenly, proudly upright. It cast an urgent little shadow that landed in a perfect outline on the undisturbed skin next to it. The video’s 22-year-old recipient drank in the view in disbelief. The little leaning tower was a monument to perfection. Cameron couldn’t judge gölcük escort the length of the straight, smooth shaft, and wished he had looked closer when he had had the chance in person before. He found himself wanting to change the camera angle and see the beautiful boy cock from every direction. It stood motionless: tense and stiff. The upright shape swelled slightly and abruptly as it rose to its topmost half-inch, trying to escape upwards and outwards from the foreskin that hid it from view. At the very tip the smooth skin gathered and parted in a tiny textured ring. Cameron thought he could just make out the tiny dot of subtle pink jealousy that waited hidden inside, as if it was just waiting to burst out like a flower from a tightly coiled spring bud. Suddenly another jump cut, and an earthquake rocked the scene. Benoît’s dick leaned slightly towards to his stomach and then twitched high in the air again, sending its shadow sweeping teasingly close to the boy’s delicate inner thigh. It tried to relax again but shot back immediately to its tense, upright position like a taut elastic band. A needle-jet of clear, glossy liquid shot no more than an inch or two in the air in a thin and solitary stream, then fell back down to make a tiny puddle next to the base of the miniature tower. Cameron felt his own cock expanding to release a single wet droplet of precum. He heard a voiceless escape of breath from behind the camera, then the screen was suddenly black, the video over. “Did you like it?” came the text from Benoît, who had waited exactly long enough for Cameron to watch his film before coming back to hear the review. Cameron thought about how to express just how much he liked it. “Hold on,” he wrote after a moment. “I need to watch it again. To make sure I picked up on all the artistic nuances. It might take some time.” “I really think it is my best work,” joked the twelve-year-old film director. “A masterpiece,” agreed Cameron. “Ten out of ten.” “Only ten?” “A million out of ten.” A pause before Cameron sent his next message. “It looked really cool how you came without touching yourself. That was amazing.” “It is because I was thinking about kissing you,” replied Benoît. “But I used my hand a lot before that,” he admitted. “It is the magic of editing! Although the editing is not so magical on my phone. You can still see my hand in it just before.” “Maybe you can do another version on the computer. The director’s cut.” “I am going to sleep soon. Don’t stay awake too late watching my film.” “I can’t promise anything.” “I am glad you like it.” “I love it. Best film ever. But I’ll try to make sure I get some sleep too. If you insist. Goodnight!” Benoit ❤️: “Bonne nuit !” Cameron swiped deftly back to the video and played it again, turning up the volume to hear the boyish heavy breathing. Even now he was impressed by the boy’s natural talent for camera work, he realised, looking at the clean lines and soft inviting lighting. The disappearing grey briefs revealed no trace of a tan-line at Benoît’s waist, Cameron realised. Either the boy spent his days sunbathing nude, or else the beautiful soft-tan colour was his natural skin tone, like caramelised white chocolate all the way to his sunlit centre. Instinctively the 22-year old popped the button on his jeans and pulled out his cock. He was surprised by the size of the cool wet patch of precum that had formed in his underwear. His young adult dick stood at six inches and curved ever so slightly upwards towards him as he sat stretched out on his bed. He held his phone close to his waist so that he could see his own dick next to Benoît’s on the screen. Their two cocks pointed upward together in parallel. Unlike Benoît, Cameron was cut, and the exposed mound of his dick-top was interrupted by the glassy reflective trickle of precum that the boy’s video had provoked. The video reached its climax just as Cameron’s hand wrapped purposefully around his impatient cock. He let his fingers pick up the sensitive drip-trail at the summit, wetting themselves in the stream of molten crystal precum that had formed there and drawing the liquid downward to lubricate his palm. As he heard the twelve-year-old’s breathless orgasmic moan his boner swelled perceptibly beneath his hand. With the sound on the video turned up, the boy’s treble voice was just audible in the restrained exhalation. Hastily Cameron moved a finger back to the screen to play the video again. He found the repeat button, setting the tight little ejaculation to fire on a loop. His aching dick shouted at him silently to wrap his hand back around it, ejecting fresh slick precum for his fingers to harvest, and he readily obeyed, letting his slightly lubricated hand rub throbbingly over its polished prisoner. Orgasm strained at its confinement, boiling beneath the earth’s surface like magma ready to burst out. When Benoît’s tiny power-jet squirted out of the screen again Cameron was ready, and he let the feverish cum volcano erupt gratefully onto his chest. Bolts of flying semen pelted his front in white-hot bursts. The fiery stream of molten rock was forced from the base of his cock and channelled urgently and instantly along its length by a rushing primal force. After the explosion of lava was done it throbbed and dribbled fitfully like an upturned bottle releasing the last of its contents. Cameron breathed heavily. The video still played on a loop in his hand, which lay contentedly on the bed by his side. His cooling cum soaked slowly into his shirt on the settling tectonic plates of his rising and falling chest. Eventually he lifted his phone, paused the video and swiped it away. The screen switched back to the text conversation. At the bottom of the screen was the last goodnight message. Benoit ❤️: “Bonne nuit !” *** I hope you’re enjoying the story! I would love it if you got in touch to tell me what you think. Drop me an email at ail. If you can, please remember to donate to Nifty. *** Next time: Benoît loves his new camera. What will he think of to do with it next? And can Cameron keep pace with the twelve-year-old’s infectious enthusiasm? *** If you visit the Young Friends section, don’t forget to look up my fty//gay/young-friends/backseat-passenger *** Your friend, Neo.

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