Date: Sun, 15 Apr 2012 17:27:20 -0400 From: John Marshall Subject: The Working Boys Chapter 21 In trying to avoid the most common plot scenarios featured on Nifty, this story takes the form of a series of interviews with some beautiful young Boy prostitutes and their parents. It's unorthodox but quite seductive, as are the boys. Like my other story, Ecstasy Isle, this one is also written in third person and proceeds in something close to real time with extensive dialogue to carry the story along and intense character development. Once more, it is extremely orgasmic with all ejaculating dialogue written in UPPER CASE. If you do not wish to be exposed to such material as described, leave now. If you are too young for this sort of thing, leave now. If reading this causes you to break the law where you live, leave now. Otherwise, take the time now to get naked and get your cock hard, start strokin' it. Jack yourself off and see if you can time your own blasts of naked sexual pleasure with those of the people in the book. This one averages about four to six orgasms per chapter. For that reason, I don't recommend reading more than one chapter at a time. Any more than that might be hazardous to your sexual health...especially your hard, throbbing cock. THE WORKING BOYS CHAPTER 21 It was well past midnight when a totally drained, sex sated Derek Chandler managed to extricate himself from the entangling naked arms, legs, lips, and spurting hard cocks to dress and trudge off in dazed sexual euphoria, across the quarter mile of moonlit beach to Horizon Road. He left behind one naked man and three naked young boys still teasing, sucking and fucking one another's drug-powered cocks. Back on the street, Derek called a cab to take him to his car. It seemed like an eternity since he'd locked the door Friday afternoon and zipped off to meet the sweet naked little boy who had literally changed his life. Once back at his apartment, Derek stripped, showered, then fell naked into his unmade bed. Deep inside he ached from one--no, SEVERAL--too many orgasms. He wondered if he'd ever cum again. He dreamed of Ronon Parker and came again. "BUZZZ BUZZZ BUZZZ BUZZZ BUZZZ BUZZZ BUZZZ BUZZZ," Derek didn't remember setting his alarm but fortunately,the alarm remembered being set. Derek whomped it a good one for it's obnoxious remarks, but nonetheless managed to struggle into a more or less upright position, urged on by an urge to urinate at least as persistent as his alarm clock. Despite his exotic, erotic, weekend whirl in the world of maritime luxury, hot sex, high finance, and decadent pedo-indulgence, Derek reminded himself that it was now eight a.m. Monday morning, that he was a working man, and that he had a deadline to meet. He had a column to write and an editor riding his ass for a Pulitzer Prize winning story. But it wasn't his editor riding his ass. His cell phone started chirping just as he was heading out the door. It was a number he didn't recognize. "Derek!" Oh, god, it was Doreen. "You fuckin' back in town yet?" Derek was tempted to lie but knew she'd hound him the rest of the day if he didn't placate the woman. "Yeah, just on my way to work." "How's Ronon, he okay?" "Hog heaven..." Derek sighed, smiling, recalling his final image of the boy nestled in the loving arms of two groping men in the back of Zac's limo. "What?" "Hog heaven, lap of luxury, eatin' it up...hell, eatin' EVERYTHING up...they're wondering if they can afford to feed the little glutton," Derek tried to keep it light. "When do I get my money," Doreen cut to the chase, no longer concerned at all with her son. "How you like the new car?" Derek tried to change the subject. "I like it fine, but I may have to SELL it to buy gas for it," Doreen joked, "the fucker never met a gas pump it didn't like." "Listen, Doreen, I can't talk now," Derek tried to put her off, "I gotta stop at Micky's and get a sandwich then get to work, I'll call you later." "When do I get my check, man, I'm flat our fuckin' BROKE!" Doreen insisted, "the Beamer is running on fumes, I'll probably run out of gas just makin' it to the next pump...you know how embarrassing it would be for a hot young chick like me to be seen pushing a BMW down the street?" Doreen probably wasn't joking but Derek couldn't help laughing at the image she proposed. "Okay, tell you what, meet me for lunch at Pablo's, we'll talk, 11:30, okay?" At least if they were in public, she couldn't....okay, probably WOULDN'T...make a scene when she saw a couple zeros missing on her check from Barclay's. "Great, great, just be sure to bring the armoured car!" Doreen cracked as Derek turned her off without even a fond farewell. This wasn't going to be a fun day. At his cubicle, the stack of phone messages was literally tumbling onto the floor. His e-mail would have done likewise had they not been bits and bytes on a screen. Mostly, they could wait. His column for tomorrow wouldn't. He pulled up the Blade's word processor and began to type: "When people think about prostitution, they typically picture scantily clad, sleazy women loitering in the dim light of the night on a mostly deserted street corner. Almost never do they picture, lively, wholesome looking young boys, just home the seventh grade, sprawling naked across the lap of some wealthy playboy paying up to seven-hundred dollars an hour for their sexual services." Whew! That oughta snag a reader or two. "Such boys DO exist and the meat market for their slender, naked, little boy-bodies is hotter and more prevalent than anyone OUTSIDE their world could ever imagine. They don't hang out on street corners in front of neon-lit bars. In fact, they seldom leave their own homes. Boys as young as ten or eleven, usually home schooled, spend days on end, completely naked, juxtaposing homework with home WORK. There's a word for them. They're called "the working boys." Derek was starting to sweat just seeing the words on the screen. "Like all self-respecting prostitutes, they have pimps. No, they're not flashy dudes in gaudy yellow suits and wide brimmed hats driving Cadillac convertibles. Mostly they're middle-aged men (and a few women) holding nine-to-five jobs, driving Fords, Chevys, an occassional Audi, and mostly they're clad in chinos and sneakers. To look at them, cell phone to ear, you'd think they were off to their son's soccer game. Except their lovely young sons don't play soccer. When would they find the time? "Time is money, even for pre-teen boys--especially pre-teen boys. Dorian (not his real name) is eleven. He brings home to his divorced dad, who handles his busy schedule, TEN GRAND a week. School work is considered a nuisance, and a definite money loser, at least in the short term, though the kid is smart as a whip and sharp as a tack." Derek stopped and deleted the last ten words--too cliche. "...the kid is (street) smart as a Rhodes scholar and sharp as a pain in the ass...which he sometimes literally IS." Derek smiled...cute phrase. "It pays to be young. Prime time is twelve years old. It pays to be cute, androgenous, sweet-faced, pretty, some would say girlish. Charisma is a big plus. So is sexual experience. Sexual experience? In a twelve-year-old? Yes, often, sex begins at six. 'Home schooled' takes on a whole new meaning as parents pamper, polish, and prime their beautiful, pre-pubescent jewels to be sexually mollested for money. The first paycheck may come when the boy is as young as nine. By eleven, credit cards are accepted. By age twelve their daily schedule rivals that of the president. By age thirteen, they're doing weekend orgies with a dozen other boys their age. If they're really good, really cute, really 'hot', by age fourteen they have a long term contract (usually a year) as a 'houseboy' or 'adopted son' or even 'grandson.' However, by age fifteen, only the strong have survived. The rest are victims of PCP, VD, HIV, or some other flavor of lethal alphabet soup. By sixteen, they're dead...or might as well be insofar as their chosen profession is concerned. If not addicted to drugs, then certainly to sex. By age seventeen or eighteen they become users themselves, petty criminals, scrounging for loose change, their 'going rate' now down to a 'Jackson' or a 'Hamilton.' Even the more successful ones are reduced to spending whatever they've managed to keep from their spendthrift parents on yet another cadre of sweet, not-so-innocent young boys, lovely mirror images of what they themselves USED to be." "Though child prostitution is a national, even INTERNATIONAL business, one particular town (which shall go namesless) right here in the good old red and blue United States of America is a notable hotbed for this particular brand of juvenile sexual pleasure. It's a pretty little gated enclave, wealthy, pleasantly warm, secure, its population well over 50% gay, the average age of its attractive, heavily male inhabitants in their mid to upper 30s. Homes range from modest to 'omigod' lavish. There are no factories, a few offices, but otherwise, little in the way of visible means of support. It's a 'bedroom' community in more ways than one." "It's hard, maybe impossible, to measure the size of this 'invisible' industry, either here or elsewhere. Census figures reveal nothing, polls would be...inappropriate, not to mention suspect. But 'industry' IS an appropriate word. Industries manufacture things. The working boys manufacture naked sexual pleasure, clocking in at eight a.m. often working through dinner till the late hours of the evening. There are no storefronts, no red light district, no obvious 'trade.' Yet families actually take up residence with their attractive young sons to mine this rich source of wealth. "As in all industries, there are by-products. The working boys themselves are a byproduct. They are street smart, often intellectually smart as well, but seldom 'book smart.' Some do attend public schools--mostly the amateurs--boys working on their own under the radar (gaydar) of even their parents. The pros consider them dangerous interlopers as well as cheap competitors. Surprisingly, despite their clientelle, many, perhaps even MOST, working boys are NOT gay. They know boy-sex is not an exclusively male enterprise. Women crave boys' naked young bodies too. Whether by choice or necessity, working boys know bisexual is the way to go." "Are there working GIRLS? Yes, of course, just not many in this particular community, and in any case, their side of the business is much more circumspect and limited by circumstances. Moreover, pre-teen girls seem not well suited for such work, either physically or emoionally. Likewise, in many respects, boys the same age aren't either. Anal sex is banned completely by those who managed their young. Other forms of physical abuse can get the perpetrator physically abused themselves. Such abuse is carefully defined as anything that mars the 'merchandise' or reduces the boy's cash potential. Sexual abuse, on the other hand, is not so well defined, if at all. Sexual abuse is the boys' stock-in-trade. And lest you think otherwise, virtually every working boy I've met in researching this piece enjoy, even LOVE, their work. Of course, there are some aspects of 'the job' of which they aren't particularly fond. Eddie (again, not his real name) refuses men over fifty. Timmy turns down all fat people of either sex. Davy hates people who 'stink.' He also dislikes servicing women, but seldom refuses their patronage. In nearly every case, incest is present on a daily basis. Some boys love it, some hate it. In any case, they're young boys, they love to have fun. Universally, routine sex bores them. They tolerate it, strive to relieve or avoid it, sometimes even reject boring clients, but, as they say, it goes with the territory." Derek scrolled back, surveying his work. Nine paragraphs. It was good...HOT, even. It was also 11:30! Doreen would be shittin' her panties (if she was wearing any), thinking she'd been stood up. He'd have to finish later. His cell phone chirped as he was rushing out. Yep, this time he recognized the number and turned it off. He made a mental note to stop on the way and pick up a roll of toilet paper. Pablo's was a cute little Mexican place a block from the Blade office. Pablo was a cute little Mexican guy pushing thirty but looking twenty, with whom Derek had once had a brief sexual fling--very brief...one night. Doreen was tapping out a toneless tune on a Formica topped table in the back. Not a good sign. Derek steeled himself for a lunch he wasn't sure he could eat, much less keep down afterwards. "There he is, thought maybe you'd stood me up!" Doreen rose, her voice loud and grating as ever. She greeted him profusely with a kiss...and not on the cheek, either. "Doreen, please, people will talk, you'll ruin my gay image," Derek joked holding her at arms-length. "I hope you're picking up the tab," Doreen told him as they sat down across from one another at the tiny table. "I've got exactly $1.23 on me right now. Might as well get it over with. He handed her the check from Barclays. "Now you've got a lot more, YOU can pay for lunch." Doreen looked at the check, her eyes narrowing in disbelief. Derek waited for the explosion. To his surprise, a smile crossed the woman's lips. "This is some kind of joke, right?" "No, joke, Doreen," Derek broke the news, "you'll be getting a check like that every month for the next year." "WHAT?!" Doreen boomed. Every head in the eatery turned their direction. "Doreen, forgodsakes, lower your voice," Derek murmurred casting glances nervously around the place. "Let me finish. The rest will go into a trust account for Ronon." "What the fuck's a trust account?" Doreen asked, maybe one decibel more softly. "Money for Ronon's education, money for a head start in life, money that won't be spent on little boy whores, new clothes, jewelry, and...and lavish places like this," Derek tried to joke. "YOU FUCKIN' BASTARD!" Titters of laughter could be heard in the background. "Shall we order?" Derek eyed the teenaged waiter, probably one of Pablo's sexual conquests, waiting nervously with pad in hand. "This is YOUR fuckin' idea, isn't it?" Doreen accused, ignoring the sweet-faced boy trying to suppress a nervous grin. "I'll have the burrito special, mild sauce, side of refried beans," Derek plunged ahead, knowing the sooner they ate the sooner it would all be over. "You've SCREWED me!" "Yes, as a matter of fact, I have," Derek freely admitted, "more than once, in fact. Now, what'll you have? This young man would like to take your order." "Fuck him!" Doreen mounted quite an entertaining spectacle for the unwary lunch crowd. "I want my money, ALL of it, and I want it right NOW!" "She'll have the same as I'm having, Diet Pepsi to drink," Derek ordered for her, "one check." "Yes, sir," the cute waiter replied, "will there be anything else?" "You have any duct tape?" "Uhhh...no...I...I don't think so," the boy smiled, eyeing Doreen. "But I'll check." "A thousand a month!" Doreen calmed a bit. "A thousand a MONTH?" she repeated for emphasis. "That's quite a lot, really, enough to help with your expenses, buy gas an insurance for the Beamer..." Derek worked at molifying his lunch guest, "not enough for you to retire, but..." "But...Derek, I've got...like your said, expenses...certain expenses, certain needs, I can't live on no thousand a month?" Doreen reasoned, her voice almost back to normal amplitude. "No one expects you to," Derek tried reasoning with her. "You have a job, probably pays twice that, look at it as a 50% increase in your monthly income." "This wasn't Ronon's idea, was it?" Doreen eyed him shrewdly. "Of course not, god, he's a twelve-year-old boy," Derek whispered as Doreen mentioned her son for the first time. "But he understands." "UNDER...stands..." Doreen consciously lowered her voice to something approaching a whisper. "Okay, look, if I have to spell it out for you," Derek was losing patience, "Ronon understands...understands YOU... far better than you realize. He's one smart little boy, especially when it comes to...the...business." Derek parsed his words carefully, his skill as a writer serving him well. "I could have you arrested right here and now for..." "Don't threaten me, Doreen," Derek's voice hardned instantly, "you're in no position to pull a stunt like that...not morally, not legally, and not financially. You might have to explain how you suddenly came into such...great wealth," Derek sneered, eyeing the check Doreen still clutched in here angry hot fist. "But...but...I need more...I need more money," Doreen bleeted. "Sell the fuckin' car," Derek told her as their teenaged waiter approached with a tray. Silence prevailed as the boy set before them their mostly appetizing sustenance. Derek smiled as the kid slipped him a nearly empty roll of celophane tape. "Sorry, it's the best I could do." "Thanks, but we won't be needing this after all," Derek told the working boy, "will we, Doreen?" Embarrassed, pretending to study her food, Doreen nervously shook her head. She tucked the check into her purse. "Ronon sends his love," Derek told her as he too began to eat, reminding her why they were there in the first place. Wordlessly, Doreen nodded, seeming to regret the spectacle she'd made of herself. She took her first bite. "He going to be alright? Doreen asked several long, silent moments later. "I think so," Derek confided. "I wouldn't have left him there otherwise. Not for a MILLION dollars." "Speaking of which, how much did YOU pocket out of all this?" Doreen asked coldly. "Not one red cent...a first-class ticket back from Nassau..." he corrected a second later. "And lots of sex, I'm sure," Doreen eyed him suspiciously. "Some," Derek admitted, omitting details, "probably less than you imagine though." "And who's in charge of this...this...account?" Doreen questioned. "Actually, Ronon is," Derek insisted, "I just co-sign everything. It's HIS money, remember." "How do I get in touch with him?" Doreen asked, her simple mind now working overtime. "Don't bother," Derek advised. "Send him all the hearts and flowers you like but let me assure you, anything more than that will end up littering the azure waters of the Caribbean." "What?" Doreen once more entered the realm of outrage, only in a more modest tone of voice. "Look, Ms. Doreen Parker, they OWN your son now," Derek quietly laid out the facts of life for her. "You SOLD him, cock, jock, and barrel. They've made a sizable investment in him. They're not going to let anyone, even the kid's greedy old lady, jeopardize that investment. Believe me, your sweet little boy is going to EARN every last cent they've put out. The car and what you've got there is a token of their gratitude for birthing and raising such a beautiful, sweet, little boy...nothing more, nothing less. It's what you deserve...probably more than you deserve but..." "But Derek, please, you can help me here," Doreen took to pleading, "I need more...two thousand...two thousand a month, that's less than a FOURTH of what they paid, I need..." "Why, so you can lay it all on...on...Devon?" Derek went to the mat, naming names and dates, "go from once a week molestation to TWICE a week, or THREE TIMES a week?" That shut her up. She finished eating. "Look, could you...could you let me have...something till I get the check cashed, a few bucks..." Doreen pleaded. "There's a bank right around the corner, they're open till four, they'll recognize the name on the check...open an account. Don't spend it all in one place; pinch a few pennies; you'll be surprised how quickly your newfound wealth will accumulate," Derek refused her pathetic request. "I can even have future checks deposited electronically, if you'd like." Doreen stood, silently wiping her lips with one of pablo's tastefully off-white paper napkins. She glared at him one last time, "FUCK YOU, DEREK CHANDLER...FUCK YOU!" Then stormed out. Derek stood to leave himself, placing a twenty on the table to cover the check and tip. Looking about he found everyone in the restaurant staring at him. Most of them he knew by name. He smiled wistfully, "that's why I'm gay."