WARNING: This story -- a fictional one - contains sexually explicit parts involving sex between a minor and an adult. Do not read the contents if it will offend you. If accessing this story causes you to break local laws (village, town, city, county, province, state, or country, etc.), please leave now.


Any characters portrayed in this story are fictional and not representative of anyone living or dead.


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My French Boy - Antoine.


Part one.


It was 7.30 on Friday evening when the phone rang. I picked it up and answered it. "Jim Davis speaking."


It was my mate, Wayne, and he sounded in the dumps when he said, "Hey up Jim. I can't go tomorrow."


I was stunned. "Why?"


"I'm going back to Beccy."


"So? We're supposed to be catching the plane at six in the morning. You can't cancel now!"


"Sorry Jim. She says if I go with you, I can fuck off."


I was angry. Wayne and his wife had split up two months previous, and we'd arranged to go to a campsite in The Algarve in Portugal for a week. We'd booked a chalet for two. Now he was telling me that in less than twelve hours before we were due to fly out, he wasn't going. It just wasn't on! I asked him, "When did you arrange to get back together?"


Wayne sounded depressed, and I'm not sure if it was because he was letting me down or because she was making him look a right tool by giving him this ultimatum. "It was earlier today. We've spent the day talking about it, and I'm moving back home tomorrow."


I could imagine her. She'd have a smirk on her face because she and I hadn't seen eye to eye for about twelve months. It had been like that ever since we three had been out together one night and I turned down her advances. Because I didn't want to ruin their marriage, I didn't tell Wayne about it. They'd got two little kids. Anyway, I wasn't interested in women. I was twenty-seven then, and I hadn't been with a woman in my life. Well, the truth is that I hadn't had real sex with anybody, and if I had, it would have been with a young lad rather than a woman. So because Wayne had decided not to go, I had to make a decision. Well, I didn't have a decision to make - I'd just been presented with shit on a plate, so I said, "Right then. I'll see you around."


Wayne's voice was all apologetic. "I'm sorry mate. You know how it is. You won't lose anything. I don't want my money back. The chalet and the hire car are paid for, and I'll have to forfeit my plane fare. Will you still be going?"


Now I could get my revenge. "Dead right I am! A week in the sun, plenty of booze and good food, and plenty of fanny are too good to miss. I'll see you around."


I put the phone down before he could say anything else, and although I was pissed off, because I'd be spending a week in the sun while he was having to put up with that whore, I felt justice had been served. I knew it wouldn't last between them. That was the third time they'd broken up. I was right. A month after I got back from Portugal, she kicked him out again.



The EasyJet flight took off on time. That's the best thing about those early morning flights; they don't have time to be delayed. I was in a window seat, and we'd crossed the water and were flying over the Pyrenees. Another hour and we'd be landing at Faro Airport. Being on the plane gave me time to think. Once I'd got over the disappointment of Wayne ringing me, I began to see the good points about me travelling alone. If Wayne had been with me, I'd have had to watch my steps to make sure he didn't see me eyeing the boys up, and with him not being with me, I wouldn't have to pretend I was looking for a bit of talent to shag if the opportunity arose. I'd never had a proper affair with a boy, but that didn't stop me looking at them. There were a couple on the plane, but they were both too young for me. The oldest was about ten. He was a lovely looking lad, and in another two or three years when he knew what sex was about, he'd have reached the age I like them, and I would have fancied him then.



Boys. When I was a nipper, I liked older boys, but as I grew older, I liked younger ones, and when I was old enough to know what I was, I began to realise my age of attraction is when a boy is just reaching puberty, or has just got there. By the time I was twenty, I realized I was a paedophile. (For the rest of the story, because I hate the word `paedophile', I'll call myself a pederast if you don't mind! In my eyes, a paedophile is somebody who manipulates kids to have sex with them, and I never do that.) I don't knock myself over the head about what I am; I just get on with it. Well, I don't get on with it really. I don't chase after them like going in the local bogs looking for them. The only time I've ever done anything to a boy was when I went to the cinema once. I was about twenty-two at the time. I'd got nothing to do one Saturday afternoon, and it was raining, and I was still living with my ma and pa at the time. They were falling out as usual, so I put on my coat and went to the pictures. It was a Multiplex place, and I queued up to go and see The Chronicles of Narnia. Just as I was getting to the front, they said it was full, so I had to go and see another film. I chose Bewitched, and I took a seat on the right hand side, right at the end by the wall. Just in front of me were three young lads and two girls, who spent most of the time messing about. One of the young lads -- the one who didn't seem to have a girlfriend - got up to go to the toilets (probably), and while he was away, the others were making so much noise they were chucked out. When the lad who'd been for a piss came back, he stood at the end of my row looking puzzled. Eventually, he made his way along my row and asked me where his mates were. I told him they'd been chucked out. I expected him to go, but instead, he sat down right by me. He spent the next five minutes looking over his shoulder and looking around him. What for, I didn't know. I considered he was just making sure he wouldn't be kicked out. Perhaps he was thinking that if he sat by me, he'd be disassociated from his pals and could watch the rest of the film. Anyway, it gave me time to study this strange little lad. He was cute, and about eleven or twelve... just reaching my age of attraction. He was wearing a dark coat, which was open, and fashion blue jeans with holes in them, and one knee -- his left one - was popping out through a big, raggedy hole. By now, I was beginning to get those thoughts. My cock was hard and my nerves were tingling. But I also needed a piss, so I got up, smiled at him, and asked him to excuse me so I could go to the toilet.


He looked at me sort of worried, and asked, "Are you coming back?"


I told him I was and he got up and let me past, and I went to the toilet, which was out at the back of the auditorium. The young girl who was supervising was sitting on the end seat at the back, texting away on her phone and completely ignored me. I went for a piss, and because sitting by the boy had given me a hard on, when I looked at my dick, I saw the precum I'd produced from being sexually aroused. When I'd finished peeing, I considered what to do next. The sensible thing would have been to leave the cinema, but the boy sitting next to me had stirred the lust within me. Maybe sex was in the offing? Just the thought that it may be was sufficient for me to weigh up the options. The cinema was three parts empty, it was a wet Saturday afternoon, and I was in no hurry to go back home to a house where my parents were falling out. Initially, I hadn't come here to pick up boys, but there was a nice one sitting in the seat next to mine. Even if he wasn't interested in sex, just sitting next to him was providing me with wanking material when I went to bed. So I decided to go back and see if he was still there.


He was, but when I got to `our' row, I saw that he'd moved over and was sitting by the wall, in the seat I'd been sitting in. I was really self-conscious when I made my way along the row and sat down by him. He grinned at me, but didn't say anything. I settled down and saw that he'd sort of slumped down in his seat, and his feet were propped on the lower ledge on the back of the seat in front of him, and his legs were up in the air and splayed wide. When I sat down, unless I was to turn away from him, I had no option other than to let my right leg make contact with the underside of the thigh of the leg with the raggedy hole in the knee, and as soon as I'd made myself comfortable, the cheeky little sod relaxed even more, and his leg flopped onto mine. As you can imagine, by now I was beginning to wake up to the fact that this kid was flirting with me. Some of you readers will be experienced, and know all about this stuff, but I'd spent all my life trying to avoid this situation. Of course I wanted it! But wanting and doing are two entirely different things. Messing with a kid can get you in jail and a long spell on the Sex Offender's Register. Oh, and it can just ruin your entire life. I'm a pretty normal paedo... err, pederast: I look but don't touch.


But how does a normal pederast react when a boy is putting it on a fucking plate for him? Well, I'll tell you what he does.


For a start, when the kid starts to fiddle with his cock inside his jeans and makes no attempt to hide what he's doing, the first thing that happens is that your heart begins to race. And then you get a massive hard-on. And then you begin to lose any sense you have. And then you allow your hand to sort of drop onto that knee popping out of the raggedy hole, and your fingers don't belong to you when they're stroking him. And then when he fiddles about even more and pulls his little cock out of his jeans and fondles his foreskin, you can't stop your hand slipping down his leg and grabbing it. And when he undoes his jeans and wriggles them and his underpants down onto his thighs, your hand has a mind of its own and dives into the sexual warmth of his Crown Jewels. When your hand discovers that he has beautiful slim thighs and a gorgeous lower tummy and two super balls tucked away in a walnut sized ballsac, you can't help but fondle them either. And then when he gets your hand and puts it back on his hard little cock again, and moves your hand so that you're wanking him off, you fucking wank him off. And when he begins to hump at your hand and then climaxes in a series of grunts and short breaths, and you feel a bit of boy juice come out of the end of that hard little cock, you can't help but rub it between your fingers to feel the texture of it.


But the shit part is when he pulls up his underpants and jeans, fastens himself up, gets up and walks out of the cinema without saying a word. All you're left with is some boy juice on the end of your fingers, and all you can do then is lean forward, pull your own cock out, rub the boy juice on the end of it, wank yourself off and shoot your stuff all over carpet in front of you. Then you fasten yourself up and get the fuck out of there! And if any of you pederast readers tell me they would have done any different, I'll call you a fucking liar!


So, apart from the normal stuff boys of the same age do together, that was my total boy experience up to then.


Now where was I?  Oh yes... Billy-no-Mates on his way to Faro in Portugal. I'll cut the crap and get to the meat and bones of this tale, but had I better describe myself before we go any further? Maybe I should.


I'm a welder by trade, and a bloody good one. For a Northern Lad in England, I earn good brass: 40,000 a year. Yes, I know... some of you southern, nancy-boy readers `down there' in Southern England wouldn't get out of bed for that, but up north where we all keep pigeons and ferrets and whippets and wear flat caps, it's a decent screw to take home every year. Being single and sort of frugal because I'm a Billy-no-Mates, and because I didn't leave home until I was twenty five and me ma only took a bit of money off me for snappin' (food), I was able to save up and buy my own apartment in a posh block of flats for 90,000 CASH! Now then... how many of you southern, nancy-boy readers can do that eh?


Right, back to me. I'm five-ten, and quite stocky. Some would say I'm well built. They're probably right. Even though I say so myself, I'm well muscled. It comes with the work I do; heaving heavy castings about. I once asked a friend if he thought I was good looking. He giggled and said I was a manly looking bloke, but when he looked at my hands, he said no bugger could make them look right. They are a bit gnarled and battered. I've got dark hair and brown eyes. I'm clean shaven, but I've got plenty of hair on my chest, which meets up with the hairs that come from my medium sized cock. Is seventeen centimetres medium sized? I dunno. But I'm sure you'll tell me. That's about seven inches, by the way. Anyway, that's me. Oh, one other thing. Despite me being a hairy arsed welder, I'm not a drinker, and I'm into the arts and stuff. That's why I'm Billy-no-Mates. Where I live, most of my peers spend their time in the pub and going to football, which I can't stand. Watching twenty two blokes kicking a ball around for almost two hours and never seeing a goal would drive me to insanity. Give me a good book or a trip to an art gallery, and that will do me. Is that enough for the description of me?


It will have to do. Right, where was I? Oh yes, in The Algarve in Portugal. The camp site was right up the west part, at a place called Almadena, right next to the Estrada N125 that runs up to Sagres. I'd been to The Algarve a couple of times before, but I'd stayed in Albufeira. Me and Wayne had booked this place online because it looked OK, and because we'd got a hire car, we could have gone anywhere we wanted from there. It wasn't pricey, but it wasn't cheap either. All-in, including the flights and the car hire, for one week, it cost us about 400 each. That was in mid-June, which pretty much guaranteed us good weather. But we were lucky... we only got the chalet because they'd had a cancellation.


I pulled onto the site and went to the office. There were a couple of nice young ladies serving, and they spoke good English. I explained that my mate couldn't make it, and they gave me the keys and a map of where the chalet was. I liked the place when I drove slowly through it. It sloped upwards from the main road to a settlement of chalets right at the back of the site, at the highest point. I passed an outdoor swimming pool that was full, and I didn't miss the fact that there were quite a few boys I could ogle if I went there. I found my chalet. Brilliant! It was on the front row, overlooking the site, next to the last one on the left - number seven of a block of eight that were facing the site. In front of the chalets was a playing field with some swings and stuff at one end, and an area where kids could play games. The chalets were prefab things with a veranda at the front with a rustic wooden table and chairs to match, and there was a parking area at the side of them. They weren't packed tightly together. When I parked the car at the right-hand-side of the chalet, there was about two metres between the car and next door, but to the left of my chalet was another chalet that, because their parking area was the other side, was only about two metres away. Inside my chalet, it was nice and tidy. Nothing over the top, but two bedrooms with two, three-quarter sized beds. It was a four berth chalet. The kitchen was nice, although the bathroom with a shower was a bit small. But it was good enough for me. The lounge area wasn't too big, but it had patio doors that opened out onto the veranda at the front, and after I'd unloaded the car, that was the first thing I did; open the doors and look around. I liked it.


By the time I'd unpacked, had a shower, changed into my holiday gear of shorts and a t-shirt and trainers, I was hungry. I'd noticed when I moved in that there was a `welcome pack'. It was nice. Some bread rolls; cheeses; olives; small packs of sardine paste; butter; jam; coffee; milk; sugar; oranges and lemons; a bottle of lemonade and a bottle of Portuguese red wine. Lubbly jubbly!


I was giggling to myself while I sat on the veranda eating my bread rolls and cheese, and drinking red wine. I was thinking about Wayne. It was raining when I left England, but it was 26 degrees centigrade in the shade here. Wayne would be at home with that fucking whore and his kids driving him nuts, but I was sitting in the shade watching kids having fun in the swimming pool, which was away to my left. There were a few boys around the age I liked, and watching their attractive bodies jumping in and out of the water, and hearing their lovely, laughing voices was just heaven to me. But I was knackered. I'd been up since three in the morning, and it was now three in the afternoon by the time I'd eaten my meal and drunk half the bottle of red. The chair I was sitting on was the sun-lounger reclining type with a thick, full-length cushion, so I dropped it down, arranged a pillow behind my head, and dropped off to sleep. Fucking heaven, I can tell you.


Anyway, it was about seven when I woke up. I felt more knackered than when I went to sleep. It was the wine that did it. I always find that drinking at lunchtime is bad. Thank God the sun was at the backside of the chalet, or I'd have looked like a lobster. It was still hot even though it was past teatime. I rubbed my eyes and tried to focus. Kids were playing on the brown grass field in front of me, and I could hear some people in the chalet to my right -- the end one. I glanced at them. They were sitting on the veranda eating a meal, chatting away. But they weren't chatting in English. They were French, I thought. I took another quick look. There were six of them. A mother and a father, and four kids; three girls aged about fifteen, ten and seven, and a young lad. I could see the faces of most of them, but because he had his back to me, I couldn't see the face of the lad. Unlike the chair I was sitting on, the chair he was in was a slatted resin type with a large space between the back and the seat, and in that space I could see the beginnings of the crack of his butt above the green shorts he was wearing, which set my boy-alert off big time, especially when I realised he was about dead centre in my age of attraction. His back was perfect; curves in all the right places; slim but not bony; a lovely long neck that led to a blond, long, wavy-haired head. That woke me up I can tell you! Anyway, I got up from the chair, steadied myself, stretched my arms up in the air, and yawned a long, "Ohhhh Dear!"


Somebody must have said something, because the boy turned to look at me.


Have you ever been smitten? I don't mean love. I mean have you ever looked at somebody and your cock has immediately drained half the blood from your body? As soon as I looked into his face, I had to get the pillow from the chair and hold it in front of me so they couldn't see I'd got a hard-on. I was embarrassed, so I started clearing things up. I'd brought the stuff out on a tray, so I loaded it up and took it into the kitchen and tried to work out what was happening to me. I know, it's pretty obvious, isn't it? But you try being level-headed after you'd just been looking into the face of a boy that belonged on a girl? Effeminate?! You can bet your ass he was! Beautiful?! You can bet your ass he was! In fact most girls would have been jealous of his looks. Talk about gay! This boy was gay, and there was absolutely no way he could be anything else. Absolutely no way! But he couldn't be more than fourteen at the most! And guess what? He gave me a gorgeous smile! Yes, me! A bloke who had dreamed about fucking something like him! What did I do when he smiled at me? I just smiled back at him, waved a weak hand to all the rest of them, and retreated into the chalet as quick as my little legs would carry me, and then tried to get my breath back.


I was almost afraid to go out again. I certainly couldn't go out in the state I was in. What to do? There was only one thing I could do; have a wank in the bogs. And I can tell you that it took me less than a minute to shoot a full load into the toilet pan while I was imagining fucking him.


Released from my immediate tensions, I reckoned I could make an appearance again. Well, I had to. I couldn't stay locked up because I fancied the kid next door, could I? So, putting on my best Robert de Niro swagger, with the half bottle of red in one hand and a glass in the other, I moseyed out onto the veranda and took a seat again.


Some things are just wrong. I reckon mother had been shagging the milkman, because the boy and his father were two polar opposites. He looked like Big Foot compared to his beautiful son. Talk about hairy! He had jet black hair on his head, a black, trimmed beard and full moustache, black hair all over his shoulders, and his chest looked like he would make a good hearth rug. And I was pretty certain that if I could see his back, it would be a double sided hearthrug. He wasn't ugly; he was just fucking hairy! I've seen some hairy men in my life, but this guy was, undoubtedly, the World Champion Hairy Man.


Why am I describing him? Because he was the only one sitting at their table now. I didn't know where his wife was, but the four kids were playing on the brown grass in front of the chalets, throwing a frisbee between them. That was good. Very good! It gave me the chance to study my little gay boy, and because I'd just had a wank, I could do it in relative safety with just a semi hard-on.


What a delightful creature he was! I'd reckoned he was about fourteen, but now I could see him properly and hear his half-broken voice, although he was quite tall, I thought he was a bit younger. Maybe thirteen. Like the rest of his family, he had a great tan, and I reckoned part of it was due to the fact that the family were more Mediterranean than North-Western European. And they were French. I could hear them clearly as they shouted to one another, and I picked up that the boy's name was Antoine. What a lovely name! Anyway, back to describing this boy God. Or maybe that should be boy Goddess, because he was effeminate in his actions as well as his looks. When he ran, he did it with his hands and fingers held straight.


I was just studying my Antoine (note that I'm already using the first person, possessive adjective: MY to describe Antoine!) when Big Foot said something to me. I turned to him, smiled, and said, "Pardon?"


He grinned. "Ahhh. You English?"


I don't know how he knew from me just speaking one word, but maybe we English just look English. Anyway, I nodded. "Yes. You French?"


Another grin. "Parlez vous Francais?"


The question almost made me giggle. I was good at English and maths at school, and bloody awful at foreign languages, especially French. But I did know the pigeon-speak. Well, sort of, and I understood what he said. I shook my head and tried to answer him with a nasal, "Non. Sorry." (That wasn't bad, was it?)


Another grin! "S'ok. I speak English. My family speak English. You drive here from England?"


I shook my head and made a sign with my hand like a plane flying through the air. "No. Plane. Faro." I pointed to the car. "Hire car."


"Ahhhh. Of course. Are you alone?"


This was getting intimate. Should I explain everything about that bastard Wayne letting me down, or should I give him the brief version? I decided on the latter. "Yes. A friend was coming with me, but he was taken ill and couldn't come." There, that lie should dispel any more questions. Anyway, I didn't need all this small talk when all I wanted to do was look at my Antoine who I could see out of the corner of my eye, and who at that exact moment was bending down to pick up the frisbee, displaying his cute butt in his very brief green shorts to me.


But Big Foot wasn't letting me off that easily, and when his wife (now changed into a warmer dress because the night air was taking on a bit of a chill) came out of their chalet holding an opened bottle of red, he waved his hand towards her, and said, "This is my wife, Michelle. I'm Lucien. Would you like to join us?"


How could I refuse? For a start, I could sit in the same seat that my Antoine's butt had been sitting on. Just think about that! The skin of my naked butt and my Antoine's naked butt would be just a fraction of a millimetre apart -- the width of the fabric of my shorts and his shorts. Did I tell you I could have kinky thoughts? Anyway, back to the invitation. I wanted to sit in that seat, so I gave BF a smile, nodded, picked up my half full/empty bottle of red and my glass, wandered around to their verandah, and made a beeline for the seat. I was waylaid by having to shake hands and introduce myself to BF and Michelle. The moment I settled in the seat my cock started to twitch, but because I was now leaning forward with my arms on the table, at least nobody could see it tenting in my shorts.



Right, I'll just give you a quick run down on the table chat and then get on with the story. The Dupont family lived in Le Mans, that place where they have a 24 hour race. This was the third year they'd been to this place, and this was the end of the first of two weeks they were staying here. (Good timing, Jim!) BF was a journalist, and Michelle had a small lingerie shop. All the kids were at school, and my beautiful Antoine was thirteen! Perfect! I didn't give them any bullshit. I told them I was a welder and all the other stuff about me. Not that I was a pederast and wanted to fuck their son, of course! That would have been daft, but if they were eagle-eyed, they couldn't have missed the many glances I threw at their son rather than their girls. And I didn't miss my Antoine looking at me occasionally. Curious? Probably, but I was hoping he would fancy a bit of rough. The kids stopped playing and began to make their way back to the chalet. Time to get on with the story.



His eyes were the most magnificent green. How do I know? When we were introduced, he slipped his gorgeous hand in mine and pressed it gently, and at the same time, he locked those magnificent eyes on mine. His hand touched my skin, and his eyes touched my soul. I think that's when I fell in love with him. Head over pederast heels. And he knew it, because he looked sympathetically at me, as if to say, `It comes with the territory of wanting to fuck me'. He knew! Oh yes... he knew immediately, and when he took the seat next to me and leaned his leg on mine under the table, I knew we'd clicked. It was that simple. Jim loves Antoine, and I very much suspected that Antoine quite fancied the bit of rough sitting next to him.


Touching. Oh yes! Under the table our naked legs pushed against one another, and on the table our elbows were often in contact when he was knocking me head over pederast heels, flirting with those magnetic emerald eyes. But all good things come to an end, and I helped the family clear up a few supper things and take them into their chalet before thanking them for a lovely evening and saying I'd see them the following day. The icing on the cake was that when I was leaving, Antoine was the one who saw me off, and as I was walking past him as he leaned on the veranda banister, he held out a hidden hand for me to touch. I gripped his fingers firmly, and was rewarded with a look and an urgent nod that told me he would be thinking about me in bed, and he knew he most certainly would be in mine.


And he was, but while I was halfway through sucking him off, I fell asleep. Doh!  


To be continued...   


You can find my other stories on Nifty here. If you wish to comment on this or any of my other stories, just drop me a line to john.thestoryteller@gmail.com Genuine comments will be appreciated. All flames will be extinguished in the trash bin.