Bought And Sold
This short story involves sexual activity between an adult male and a minor, so if that's not your thing you should read no further. If fantasies of such a nature appeal then read if you wish and please remember to make a donation to Nifty.
Bought And Sold, a fantasy by Ivor Sukwell.
He wasn't cold even though he was naked. The place they kept him in was warm, even though he could see through the big window that it was wet and windy and cold looking outside.
He'd been naked almost from the moment he was taken from the lorry when it drove off the ship. He'd thought they were safe until the lorry had been stopped and men in uniforms had opened the doors and made all the people inside get out. There'd been a lot of people crammed inside the lorry, though only his family had come from the Ukraine, escaping the civil war that raged there. The others had all been different, Arabs, his father had told him, escaping from their own civil war.
He'd been taken from his family then and put in a different lorry and driven to this place. That was when he'd been made to take his clothes off. They were dirty, filthy clothes, clothes he'd been wearing for ages, and he was dirty and smelly as well. He'd had to shower for ages to get clean and then a doctor, or someone like a doctor, had peered at him, poked and prodded him and listened to his heart and chest. Then he'd been taken to the room he was in now, a big room with twenty three other boys around his age already there, and they were all naked as well.
They all seemed to be what he now knew to be Arabs of some sort or another and nobody spoke his language. He cried a lot for a day and a night, but, knowing there was nothing he could do about anything, he stopped crying. He was only nine and had been taken from his family, but even at nine, almost ten, a boy knows there's not a lot of point in crying about something like that, not when he's seen what happens to people in a civil war.
He was warm, he was well fed and he had somewhere comfortable to sleep. True that the mattresses the boys slept on were on the floor, not proper beds, but they were comfortable and the duvets they'd been given kept them cosy and warm. It was a lot, lot better than walking in the cold, always hungry, trying to escape from the murder and mayhem in the land he had left with his family.
He didn't even mind being naked now, not after several days and nights without clothes. The other boys didn't seem to like being naked, mostly trying to hide immature bits behind their hands, but he couldn't see the point of that. Even the ones that tried the hardest to do that couldn't keep themselves hidden away all the time, so why did they even try?
He had no idea what was going to happen to him, no idea that his future was, at that very moment, being discussed.
"Plenty available at the moment," a slightly bored Border Guard told the grey-haired gentleman who'd made the enquiry, "Almost all from the Middle East, of course. Just the one from the Ukraine, but feel free to check them over if you want. Won't be going up for auction for another three weeks and we're bound to have plenty more before that if there's nothing here that takes your fancy."
"Might as well have a look," the grey-haired man smiled, "Never know, do you."
Some of the Arab boys were really quite pretty, he thought as he peered through the viewing window. To the boys in the room it wasn't a window, just one of the blank walls of the room that housed them, but from where the man and the Border Guard were standing, it was a glass wall.
Big-eyed and wide-mouthed, some of the Arab boys were indeed pretty, but Arab boys did not stay smooth-skinned once adolescence arrived and the grey-haired man hoped to get a good five or six years from anything he bought now. He could, of course, buy something young, something around seven or eight, and get his five years out of him that way, but seven or eight was really far too young for him. Ten he'd be happy with; in fact, ten would be ideal. He'd get a couple of years of enjoyment from the small hands and mouth and then a good three years of adolescent delight to follow.
"How old's the Ukrainian one?" he asked the guard.
"Nine, getting on for ten," the guard said after consulting a sheaf of papers, "Birthday's in a couple of months, according to this."
He was, the grey-haired man thought, worth considering. Obviously there was no spare flesh on him, there wouldn't be, not with him being a refugee, but even allowing for that he had the look of being naturally slender. He was complete as well, a very important consideration.
"Course," the Border Guard said, "Nothing to do with me, but if you wait till auction, you'll be able to pick something up for less than half of what it'll cost you now."
"I know," the grey-haired man agreed, "But all the decent stuff'll be gone by then."
The guard shrugged in agreement; that was the way of things. If you wanted something a little bit better than the average then you had to pay for it.
"Only had it for less than a week," the guard said, "So listed at two grand plus VAT, if you're interested. Not bad if that's the age you fancy."
"Two and a half," the man mused, "Quite pricy really."
"Call it three with the paperwork," the guard corrected him, "But for that it's legally your property, of course."
Three thousand for a boy not yet ten; that worked out at just five hundred a year if he only kept him until his sixteenth birthday, not much more than a tenner a week, and looked at in that way, it was pretty good value. Officially he'd be fostering the boy, in reality he was buying an item.
"Go on, then," he said, decision made, "I'll take it."
He did wonder what was happening when the guard entered the room they were kept in and took hold of his arm, leading him outside. Just him; the door shut behind him, the other boys left behind.
A light chain with a flat disc attached was put round his neck, a chain of gleaming stainless steel, light enough to be decorative but far too strong for him to be able to break. The disc had something engraved on it, something he could not read, though it was just like an identity tag that might be put on a dog's collar. "Fostered by Henry Anderson" it read, and on the reverse was an address.
The guard and another man wrapped him in thick brown paper and taped it closed, trapping his arms inside it, but leaving his legs able to move so he could just about walk, and, like that, he was taken outside and put into a car.
He thought he must look just like a parcel, and then he realised that was exactly what he was – a parcel, wrapped up like something that might have been bought in a shop. Was that what had happened? He'd been sold? Sold and bought? If that was what had happened, then why had someone wanted to buy him? Who would want to buy an almost ten year old boy? What use to anyone was a still nine year old boy?
Henry Anderson, the grey-haired man who'd bought the boy, had some fairly detailed ideas about the uses a still nine year old boy could have. Although his purchase was a good four years younger than the boys Henry found most attractive and satisfying, the idea of nine year old fingers and lips doing their thing with his middle-aged cock was something he was looking forward to.
He'd never sampled the delights of anything as young as nine; indeed nothing younger than thirteen had been anywhere near his cock, and even those were very few in number. He'd decided to buy something from the Border Protection Service on impulse really. Boys under the age of fifteen were always available, boys who had entered the country illegally, refugees from somewhere or other. Instead of going to the expense of looking after them, the Government had decided to sell them off – `make them available for fostering' was the official term, and very profitable it had proved. Girls were sold off in the same way, but they were of no interest to Henry, and what happened to the over-fifteen and adults concerned him not the slightest.
As far as Henry was concerned the Government's policy had everything going for it – sales were estimated to produce at least forty million a year for the Treasury, and not having to support all the refugees saved more than ten times that. Income Tax had been reduced with the savings and people like Henry could buy a boy for their pleasure. That was worth a vote in anyone's language.
If he'd been more wealthy, Henry would have `fostered' something of thirteen or fourteen, but he'd only have got a year or two of use out of it before it was past its prime and he'd have been faced with the cost of replacing it. Going for something young meant that he could find out just what little hands and mouth felt like and, by the time his purchase reached adolescence, it would be thoroughly trained in all the things a boy needed to do in order to please and satisfy a man.
And now he'd got the boy home, it was time to start finding out what little boys are made of.
Not surprisingly, the boy was a bit confused at having been wrapped up like a parcel and, as he couldn't speak a word of English, Henry had no way of giving him any detailed information. The essentials, however, needed no detailed explanation and Henry unwrapped his parcel as soon as he'd taken it into his house.
Like a child with a Christmas present, Henry didn't bother to clear away the wrapping before starting to enjoy the contents. The revealed naked boy was small; of course he was small, he was only nine years old, but he was very nicely constructed, and even if he wasn't the prettiest boy in the world his body did more than just hint at the delights to be found in it.
Dark hair and deep blue eyes were attractive, and a wide, red mouth was clearly designed to suck cock. And kiss, Henry thought; he'd never before even wondered about how it would be to kiss, properly kiss, a boy this young, but now he was filled with the urge to find out. One wouldn't expect much in the way of cock in a boy of nine, even a boy of nine who was getting on for ten, but what the lad had seemed to be about the same size as Henry's little finger, and, very importantly in Henry's way of thinking, it was all there. Even more importantly, the boy was making no attempt to conceal it even though Henry was looking at it with obvious interest.
Perhaps, Henry thought as he appraised his purchase, the boy had some idea about why he had been bought; not that it mattered one way or the other because he'd find out soon enough. He found himself considering how it would be to have the little body cuddled up close at night in bed, stroking the firm, really young flesh, teasing a tiny cock to hardness, taking that little offering into his mouth and, he realised with a rapidly dismissed slightly guilty feeling, eating the tiny tightness of nine year old hole. And all that combined with the wicked delight that little hands and mouth would bring to his own cock.
He could, Henry appreciated with ever-increasing desire, indulge in the pleasure of having a not-yet-ten year old boy eat and swallow his late middle-aged cum as often as he could produce it, and he had the urge to produce the first load as soon as possible!
Unusually, Henry was confused as to what to do next. Normally a boy needed to be seduced before games could begin. True, some needed a lot less seducing than others, but one had to go through the motions at the very least; now there was no need to seduce, he could simply go for what he wanted whenever he wanted, and what he wanted was young boy on his cock.
Deciding on a `go for it' approach, Henry shed his clothes, his desires obvious in the six and a bit inches that throbbed outwards from his groin.
He stared, his eyes widened and his mouth hung open just a bit and he stared.
He was surprised that he didn't feel frightened; even after being wrapped up in that brown paper and taken in the grey-haired man's car to wherever he was now and having the brown paper taken off him so he stood naked for the man to look at, he didn't feel frightened. He didn't try to cover himself either; he'd easily become used to being naked with lots of other naked boys around, he saw no point in trying to hide something that could not be kept always hidden, and saw no reason why he should even try.
What he saw now, though, amazed him. He knew nothing of sex, even the word itself was unknown, but he was a boy of almost ten and his body was beginning to understand things his mind knew nothing of. His own little thing hardened sometimes, became almost like a bone, though he had no idea why it did that, but what he was staring at now was huge!
Something stirred in his body, somewhere low down in his stomach, and an unknown instinct told him that, whatever he had been taken for, wrapped up in brown paper and then unwrapped again, it had something to do with the enormous thing he was staring at.
If he'd been a little bit older, or knew at least something about things he knew nothing at all about, he might have been shocked and horrified; as it was he simple felt strangely excited. Not huge excitement, perhaps more curiosity than anything else, but his heart pumped just a fraction faster as the understanding dawned that he would, somehow or another, be expected to do something or other to the huge thing he couldn't drag his eyes away from.
He found himself wondering what it would be like to actually touch it, hold it and squeeze it like he sometimes did with his own tiny thing when it went hard like that. It was only innocent curiosity, of course, but he felt himself actually wanting to find out what it would feel like in his hand.
The grey-haired man said something, something he didn't understand because it was in a language not his own, but when he looked up at the man, looked away from the huge, hard thing he'd been staring at, he saw the man was smiling. A nice smile, and he felt relief that the man wasn't angry because he'd been staring so intently at that enormous hard thing that he now really wanted to touch and feel, just to find out what it felt like.
He was not left wanting and wondering for long. The grey-haired man reached out a hand, placed it on his shoulder and led him to a couch. He sat, the man beside him, close beside him, his hand huge on his not-yet-ten year old shoulder.
The hand was warm on his bare skin, warm and comforting, no threat coming from it. The man said words, meaningless to him, and smiled nicely, and then he reached out with his other hand, took the boy's arm by the wrist and placed his little hand directly on the enormous thing he had stared so intently at.
He didn't flinch at the contact, never tried to pull his little hand away. With his mind wondering why this should be happening, instinct made him close his tiny fingers around the hugeness. He couldn't get his little fingers all the way round the thickness of it but he held it and marvelled at what he held.
It was hot in his little hand, hot and hard, but the hardness was masked a little by the softness of the skin; it was soft on the outside and hard beneath. The skin wasn't fixed, when he moved his hand a little the skin moved with it and he wondered at that. When his own little thing went like a bone and he felt it, something he'd only just started to do and not do very often, he hadn't noticed how the skin moved, but now, on this monster one, it moved easily.
The strange feeling he'd had in the pit of his stomach was stronger now, fluttering like a butterfly inside him, and, though he hardly noticed it, he had started to grow a hardness as well.
The man said something once more, and though he had no idea what the words meant he could tell from the tone that the man was saying something kind, and the hand holding his wrist began to move so his little hand went up and down on the hot, soft hardness he was holding.
He understood what the man wanted him to do and he moved his hand carefully up and down, holding fast onto the enormous thing and the man smiled and sighed, lying back as his hand went slowly up and down.
Henry sighed and lay back in the sofa, letting go of the little boy's wrist, knowing that the tiny fingers would stay where they were, holding his cock and oh, so slowly rubbing it for him. Henry had experienced boys' hands on his cock before, many times and many boys, but never anything so exquisitely erotic as this. Those little, completely innocent fingers on his cock felt wonderful, looked wonderful. So small they made his cock look huge, though it was no more than average, smaller indeed, than the cocks of some of the boys Henry had previously enjoyed, but in that tiny hand his prick seemed massive, a thing of power and glory.
Henry pulled the little boy in closer so that his young head rested on Henry's shoulder, a position of safety and comfort, but also a position that enabled the boy to see and watch what he was doing. Though Henry could not see the boy's eyes he knew they were glued on his prick, that every movement of hand and the skin it gripped was being carefully studied as awareness of the wonder of man-cock seeped slowly into the boy's mind.
Part of Henry longed for the boy's hand to be more experienced, to rub him harder, to wander over the fullness of the six, hard inches, to explore his foreskin, to cup and fondle his carefully shaven balls; another part of him simply revelled in the innocent inexperience of the nine year old boy, that innocence and inexperience adding to the sheer eroticism of having such a young hand on his cock.
Henry rested his cheek on the boy's head, on hair that needed washing, but that need didn't bother Henry now, not with the boy's little hand still firmly on his cock. Hair washing could come later; there were far more important things now.
Things like feeling the smooth silk of the boy's skin; his hand engulfed the little shoulder, slipped slowly down and across. He could count every bone in the boy's young body, no flesh between skin and bone, his ribs clearly visible, his hip a solid lump beneath the softness of his skin. His legs had some flesh on them – the boy was not starving, the place where he had been kept, waiting to be sold for fostering, had made sure of that, but he was certainly not over-fed.
His legs were perfect, Henry thought, not perfect in their slenderness, but in their smoothness; no little boy fuzz, nothing to detract from the perfect smoothness of his skin. Henry hoped that smoothness would last, remain as the boy grew older; sometimes boys with blue eyes and black hair stayed smooth even when they became teens and Henry hoped the one he'd fostered would be one of those.
Henry's hand strayed, strayed from thigh to groin, to the little cock, almost too small to have the right to be called a cock, and his fingers found, to his sheer delight, that the tiny thing was hard. Harder than anything Henry had felt before, so hard that even the covering of skin gave no hint of softness.
The boy moved his head when Henry felt him there, looking up and, to Henry's further delight, smiling.
In a boy a little older it would have been a smile of complicity, a smile that said, `I know this is wrong and naughty but it feels nice,' but this was just a smile of acceptance, a smile that seemed to say to Henry, `I don't mind if that's what you want to do.'
It was what Henry wanted to do, though it didn't matter a jot if the boy was agreeable or not, Henry comforted himself by thinking that the boy was happy with events.
Actually, Henry was surprised by how much enjoyment he was getting from playing with the boy's little nail. `Prick' Henry thought, was a perfect word to describe the ultra hard little thing, so hard that he had to prise it away from the boy's stomach to get his fingers round it. The almost translucent foreskin peeled hardly at all, just enough to reveal the tiny slit, but that didn't bother Henry in the slightest – he liked cocks that had plenty of foreskin, the more and tighter the better he thought. Boys lasted longer if their glans stayed covered when he sucked them, and little pokes of his tongue inside, teasing the super-sensitive head, always produced remarkable results.
This one, of course, would last forever, and that suited Henry perfectly. No problem with any post-orgasmic reluctance to continue; too many boys suffered pangs of guilt once their sperm had been eaten, and even if they didn't, there was always the recovery time to take into consideration. None of that nonsense with this little boy, and by the time he was old enough to have orgasms to recover from, he'd be so well trained that Henry would be able to just carry on and give him another one.
The little boy felt amazing to Henry's questing hands – he'd allowed the other one to join in, stroking tiny, narrow chest and flat stomach, down lower to engulf the boy's other thigh, so soft, so smooth and silky. Henry knew all about the pleasures to be found in a boy's body, but not a body as young as this. It was wrong, wicked and perverted, or would have been if Henry hadn't fostered the boy, bought him and owned him, obtained him to use for his pleasure.
And what exquisite pleasure!
It was the boy's age that was the source of the pleasure, Henry recognised that. The boy had no idea why he was slowly rubbing Henry's hard cock, why Henry's hands were feeling every inch of his young flesh. There would be more pleasure later, of course, when the boy was older and knew what he was doing and why, but that was for the future. Now he was innocent young flesh to enjoy and corrupt. Yes, corrupt. Henry had no illusions there; he was going to turn this innocent young creature into a boy who lived only for cock and he was going to enjoy every second of doing that.
He was too young to fuck, Henry reminded himself of that as his hand went under the boy, cupped and squeezed the cheeks of the boy's skinny arse; it would be a long time before the boy was ready to take cock in there. Too young to fuck, but not, Henry thought on sudden impulse, too young to kiss. The boy needed to learn how to kiss and he might as well start learning now.
It was odd that holding the man's hardness didn't feel wrong. He knew that if he was still with his mother and father it would have felt wrong, been wrong. But he wasn't with his mother and father now; they were gone, and he'd known from the moment he was taken from them that he would never see them again. His father had told him that could happen, that they'd be parted somehow or other, and if that did happen then he should look after himself, do anything that was necessary to stay alive.
Even at his young age he'd understood that; when you get caught up in a civil war and become a refugee you learn some things very quickly. He'd seen dead people, people killed in the fighting, people who'd just died as they made their way to the west; he knew that everything was different now, that he would do things now he would never have done before, never even known about.
He knew all that, but even so he thought it strange that he didn't think it was wrong to hold the man's hardness. It was strange as well, that he was finding it somehow exciting, that he didn't want to stop holding it.
It was nice having the man cuddle him, rest his head on the man's shoulder, let the man's hands stroke his body, and it was very nice when the man felt his own little hardness, just like he was doing to the man's. If these were things the man wanted him to do then he didn't mind at all. He didn't really have many choices about what the man wanted to do, he understood that, but he'd try to do all he was told to do. His father had told him to do anything he had to do, so he would.
.Feeling a little brave, he gripped the man's hardness a shade tighter, moved the skin up and down a bit more and the man sighed when he did that. He looked up at the man's face and he was smiling, a really nice smile, so he knew he was doing something good and kept doing it, moving the skin up and down as far as he could.
He found he could get his little fist right down to the hairs that grew at the base of the man's hardness, and when he did that, the skin slid back from the tip a bit and he could see the dark, purple coloured inside. His own skin didn't do that, didn't slip off the tip and he was scared that he'd done something wrong, but the man was still sighing and smiling, so he thought it was alright and he hadn't hurt the man.
Encouraged, he moved his hand up and down even faster, and, strangely, it felt rather nice to him when he did that and he could tell the man was really enjoying what he was doing. Perhaps that's what he was supposed to do to a hard thing and he thought that must be what it was because the man's fingers were moving up and down on his little hardness as well and it felt strangely nice.
He grinned at the man as they rubbed each other, doing this was a strange sort of game, but it was fun in a way and he was quite happy to play.
Henry was happy. The boy was almost wanking him properly and being wanked by a boy who wasn't yet ten was a thrill beyond any thrill that Henry had ever imagined. Better still, the boy seemed quite happy to be doing it, he even looked up and grinned when he began rubbing almost properly. Fostering something this young was definitely NOT a mistake! True, he wouldn't be able to fuck him for years yet, but there was more to enjoying a boy than just stuffing cock in his arse.
If his hand felt this good, what would his mouth be like?
Only one way to find out, but before Henry did that he had an urge to find out what the boy's mouth tasted like. What would it be like to kiss a boy of nine? Kiss him properly, tongue-in-the-mouth kiss him?
It took a bit of doing to get the boy to kiss anything like properly. It might be instinctive for a boy of nine to grip his little fingers round a cock, and even start to tentatively wank it, but, at that age, he has no instincts that tell him to open his mouth when being kissed on the lips.
Henry had to demonstrate, showing him how to purse his lips, open his mouth to allow tongue inside, and even when he'd achieved that, the boy didn't respond. He allowed Henry to poke his tongue in, swirl it around, grind lips together, but he had no idea at all why he was doing it, his body and mind untuned to the eroticism.
Even so, Henry enjoyed it! As kisses go it was only better than a wet cabbage because it was a boy, but that was enough for Henry. For now. The boy would learn and then wet cabbage would no longer be on the menu.
It was enough, combined with the still moving little hand on his cock, to arouse another need in Henry; a need that also involved boy mouth.
He moved his face from the boy's, and, hand behind young head, eased boy face down to man cock.
The boy turned his head, looked at Henry, question in his eyes, and Henry nodded, opening his mouth and pointing to his cock. The boy's eyes widened, understanding dawning, and slowly, reluctantly, but obediently, he lowered his head, open mouth brushing the head of Henry's cock.
"In properly," Henry hissed, "Open wide and get as much in as you can."
The boy didn't understand the words, but he did understand the pressure on the back of his head, and tentatively, he took man cock into little boy mouth.
Henry gasped; he'd been sucked by boys countless times, properly sucked, but this was something else! He stared at the little head fastened on his cock, young mouth stretched wide and even then taking no more than just the fatness of his head, and his balls churned.
Unbidden, the boy's hand kept moving and Henry didn't even try to prolong the event. He kept the boy's head firmly in place and he spunked.
A lean forward to pinch the boy's nose as his spunk flowed and the boy had no alternative but to swallow, and Henry experienced the unbelievable wonder of having his cum eaten by a nine year old boy.
He gave silent thanks to the enlightened Government that had made this possible, vowing that they had his vote for life.
"Good boy," he whispered, "I'm going to really enjoy fostering you."