WARNING: This story 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, and everything is fantasy, which is always so much better than the real thing, especially when the cops come knocking on the door when you try and turn fantasies into reality.
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Boy on a Plate.
By John T. S. Teller.
Boylovers are like pebbles on a beach: they come in all shapes and sizes. But they have one thing in common -- they roll around anonymously in the Sea of society looking at and fancying boys. Only the few will remain chaste and virtuous when presented with a boy-on-a-plate. Most will succumb to invited pleasures. But that's the key: invited pleasures. Let me make one thing clear; the decision for an affair of any kind must rest with the boy. We all live life by different rule books, but in my rule book, anything other than that is molestation. It all sounds so easy, but it's not. Many boys are perfectly able (and do) go out to get their man, because some are blatantly sexy little sods, and at an early age they can display many of the perversions of an adult. Some of the sexy little buggers are budding exhibitionists before they've spurted their first drop of jungle juice from their little cocks. Not many, but some are. And they can exhibit other forms of perversions before that precious boy nectar leaves their tender bodies. Also, although he may not understand it at a really early age, a boy who is born gay will know he's different... and when he experiments, he'll want to do it the way his body is telling him he likes the most. Usually, it's with other boys, but there are boys who fancy older men, just as there are young girls who fancy whoever is Dr Who at the time; just as they fancy their teacher. This is one such tale, and it would never have happened had the boy not wanted it. But it does happen, and sometimes, in the most unlikely circumstances, you can come across a `Boy on a Plate'.
Amuse-bouche or hors d'oevre?
Cute. That's how I would describe the boy who lies about twenty yards ahead of me on the grass at the side of the narrow valley as I walk along it on a warm English July day. To my thoughts, he'll be not much more than eleven years old. He has blond hair on the head that's resting on his hands; he's wearing a white shirt, open at the neck, but with a red tie straggling from the collar; grey shorts, grey socks down to his ankles, and dark shoes, and by his side is what seems to be a red blazer. But he seems to be alone, and I find that disturbing considering I'm walking in one of my favourite places, chosen not only for its beauty, but also for its solitude when I need time-out to reflect.
I'm not a mixer. Well not these last few years I've not been. And that's ever since I accepted the fact that I was different. My friends are all normal, but I'm into boys. I tried to be normal and hide what I am, but I was always aware that my eyes wandering to boys and not girls would soon out me for what I am: a lover of boys, and my age of attraction can range from about eight up to a young looking fourteen. If I see a nice boy, I have difficulty pretending I'm not looking at him, and even then he'll fill my peripheral vision until he's out of sight. But I can live with what I am now. After University, I took a job away from home just to be able to ogle boys without my peers noticing. That was a good move. My uncle - who is a property developer - had a bungalow to rent in the suburbs of the city, and I rented it from him. I also got a job as an IT technician for a good firm that allows me to work three days in the office and two days at home. It worked, because I've had relationships with two boys since I left home. The first one was a chance encounter with a twelve year old who I met in the cinema when I was eighteen and at Uni, and which lasted for eighteen months, and the second one was a spasmodic affair with a thirteen year old boy prostitute who I met in the park one day. He used the routine of first asking for a cigarette, and after I'd given him one, he asked if I liked boys. I do smoke, and I do like boys, and the rest was fait accompli. So I reckon I'm doing OK for a twenty three year old paedophile.
The sun is warm in my face and the grass soft on my back as I watch the man walking up the valley towards me. I shield my eyes to look at him. He looks nice! How old is he? I'm not very good at telling men's ages, but I reckon he's about twenty five at the most. He's dressed in jeans, which is daft for this hot weather. He should be wearing shorts. I'd be able to see his legs then. But what I can see, I like. He's got brown hair and isn't fat. He's nice looking as well. He hasn't seen me yet. I adjust my hard cock so it's sticking upwards and hidden in my school shorts, lift my knees and spread my legs wide, and adjust the legs of my shorts so when he looks he can see right up them. That will give him a good view when he reaches me. If he's into boys, he won't be able to resist looking up my legs. And then I lie back with my head on my hands and wait for him, and I'm hoping he's got some money on him.
Yes, he is cute! In fact he's a damned sexy cute boy, especially because his small legs are spread apart and I can see right up the insides of his shorts to almost the top of his thighs. But he makes no attempt to hide anything from me. As I draw level with him, he shouts to me in a lovely, tinkling, pre-pubescent boy voice. "Hello mate. Are you going for a walk?"
I grin at him. "Yes. Why?"
He jumps up, picks up his red blazer and a small school bag that I hadn't seen before, and walks down the side of the valley to me. He's a little beauty. Blond hair with a straggly forelock that falls partly over his blue eyes; a cute little nose; full rosy lips; a super slim body that's about five foot tall; slim legs to match, and a smile that will melt any paedophile's heart. And it certainly melts this paedophile's heart. But even so, I was never a child abuser (No! means no), and this beauty is in a lonely place where a paedophile of a certain nature could really harm him. And that worries me.
He cocks his head to one side and asks, "Can I walk with you?"
I ask, "Are you alone?"
He grins, picks up a stick and swipes it at a foxglove, knocking off the top half. "Yes."
His action makes me angry. "You shouldn't destroy wild flowers! If everyone did that, there would be none."
My anger doesn't seem to bother him. He throws the stick away and begins to walk alongside me. "Have you got a drink? I'm dead thirsty."
I look down at his questioning face. "Yes. But it's not a good idea to be alone here. I could be a murderer for all you know."
Again that open grin. "You're not a murderer. Have you got a drink?"
I shake my head, and grin back at him. "What's the word?" He looks puzzled, and I ask, "Don't you ever say please?"
He giggles. "Please."
I stop, take off my rucksack and get out a large bottle of coke. "Don't drink it all!"
He takes a deep swig, gives it back to me, and wipes his mouth. "Thank you!"
I laugh at the emphasis on his `thank you'. He picks up another stick and swipes at the tall bracken that grows alongside the narrow path we're walking on, and then stops and looks at me to see what reaction he will get from me for that. I grin at him. "Bracken is OK to swipe. It needs trimming to keep the path clear."
No sooner do I say that than he goes wild, swinging at every frond that dares venture towards the path, and we continue walking slowly along the valley while he does his scything act. Then he stops and stares at me. "Do you want to see my den?"
"Yes. I made it myself."
I'm becoming curious. "What's your name?"
"Darren. What's yours?"
"Craig. Where do you live?"
He points back along the path we'd walked along, and gives me an ambiguous, "Over there. How old are you?"
I'm beginning to enjoy this question and answer preamble. "Twenty three. How old are you?"
"Twelve. Well, almost. I'll be twelve in January."
I pull a face. "Why aren't you at school?"
He shrugs his shoulders. "I decided to have half a day off."
"Do you often have time off?"
"Sometimes. Do you want to see my den?"
His den. This little boy seems to be an intelligent little chap, and here we are in the middle of nowhere and he's asking me, a complete stranger, if I want to see his den. My throat is dry and I've got lots of sexy butterflies swarming in my tummy because I'm now beginning to get sexy thoughts about being in a den with this cute little boy, so I reckon I can't refuse. "Sure. Where is it?"
He points his stick at a point somewhere along the right hand side of the valley where the bracken is thick and tall. "Up there. Nobody knows it's there except me. It took me ages to build it. I made a floor of grass, and when you're in it, you can hardly see the sky. It's cool in there. We can cool off, and if you've got some sandwiches, we can eat them in it."
I laugh at him. "So, you want my Coke and sandwiches, and I get to stay cool. Not a bad swap."
He grins. "Have you got any cake?"
Now we're exchanging eye contact, and I detect he's playing games with me, so I decide to play games with him. "Maybe. But you're not having my cake."
He gives me a scowl. "Why not? I'll pinch it if you've got any."
I pull a funny face at him. "And I'll smack your bottom if you do!"
He laughs. "That's a fair swap. You can smack my bum while I'm eating all your cake."
So far, so good. He's taken the bait. Who's a lucky boy then? I reckon I am, because I really fancy this bloke. `Craig'. That's a nice name. I've done brilliantly. But that's because he's easy going. He fancies me. I can tell. I didn't miss him staring up my shorts when he got to me. Let's see what I can do when I get him in the den I built yesterday. My cock is hurting because it's so hard! It's a good job I stuck it up my belly, or he'd see it sticking out.
We walk the following fifty yards giggling at each other in between my thoughts that this may be a very lucky day for me if, somehow, I can manage to get inside this cute boy's trousers. And how often does that happen to somebody like me? Very rarely, and even if it does, more than likely it will be a quick fiddle and then he'll run off like a scalded cat when he realises I'd like to do more than that. I decide to tease him more. "I've got chocolate cake. What's that worth?"
His eyes widen in mock amusement. "Wow! I love chocolate cake! I'll do anything for chocolate cake!"
I laugh. "You might regret saying that."
He laughs. "You might regret bringing chocolate cake."
Because I'm detecting innuendo in our talk, I get a semi-erection. Suddenly, he turns towards the side of the valley and beckons me to follow him. Here, the bracken is at least six feet tall, and so thick that he has to push the fronds aside to get through it. Without him knowing, as I pass through them, I try to arrange them so they look as if they've not been disturbed. The last thing I want if I'm in a den with this boy is anyone discovering us. Deep in the bracken, he stops and points to the den he's built. I'm impressed. He's gathered fronds and weaved them into a shelter, and then camouflaged it by pulling the surrounding fronds over the den to make it almost invisible. I peer through the narrow entrance and see that it's quite wide and long inside. Certainly big enough to hold two adults at a squeeze. He leaves his coat and schoolbag outside, gets on his knees, and I watch his delightful bum crack and cute legs disappear into the den, so I get down and follow them into it.
He shows off by lying on his back with his head in his hands. "Do you like it?"
I lie alongside him. "Yes. Well done! And it's cool, as you said."
He rolls over onto his front. "Time to eat."
I lie on my side beside him, and together we get the stuff out of my rucksack, which I pushed ahead of me when I was getting in the den. He's leaning on his elbows as he eats the sandwiches, and it gives me the opportunity to look at his cute bum, which, now he's lying on his front and his shorts are tight, is well pronounced and most certainly kissable. I also take the opportunity to touch his bare legs a few times as I pretend to make myself more comfortable. I take a swig from the bottle of Coke, and when I've finished, I prop it up between his legs with it resting on his bum crack. He looks back at what I've done, and gives out one of his lovely, cheeky giggles, but he doesn't ask me to remove it.
Time to progress if things are what I think they are. The effect on my cock is immediate when I rest my hand on him and idly stroke the inside of his thigh with my fingers as we chat. He can have no doubt about what I'm doing, and if it isn't what he wants, this is the perfect moment for him to tell me so. But he says nothing. In fact, as he reaches back to get the bottle, which is still propped up between his legs, he spreads his legs even wider, and I waste no time in stroking the parts I couldn't get to before, and when he's had a drink, he props the Coke bottle by the rucksack and not back between his legs, which allows me access to all of him `down there', and I lengthen the strokes of my fingers until they're disappearing under the legs of his shorts on each upstroke. And still I wait for the words `Don't do that!' But they don't come, and because they don't, and because I'm now getting really worked up, I can't resist being more adventurous, and I push my fingers up his inner thigh until the tightness of his schoolboy shorts stops me from going further.
This is going better than I expected. He's already feeling me up and I haven't had to say anything to get him to do it. But those fucking shorts are stopping him going further! I'll need to get them off somehow. Let's wait and see what happens. I might have to tell him to take them off. That will shock him. LOL.
We finish the sandwiches, and he looks at me with a grin on his face. "Chocolate cake?"
I grin back at him. "Maybe." It takes me a only a few seconds to take out the cake and remove it from the foil wrapping, and because I now have much more to interest me than chocolate cake, I place it in front of him. "There you go."
He looks at me. "Don't you want any?"
I grin at him. "No. You have it."
He shrugs his shoulders, grins, and begins to eat.
His thigh is soft and supple as I run my hand and fingers along it, but I don't stop at the bottom of his shorts this time. Using more force and being deliberate, I slip my hand under the leg of his shorts, thinking I'll come to his underpants, but I discover he's not wearing any when my fingers travel up naked flesh to the soft, naked buttock, and I fondle it gently. My hand is a tight fit inside his shorts, but I manage to get it across both his soft buns, and then I stroke the crevice between them. But I can't get deep because of the way he's lying, and neither can I get down to his balls because his shorts are pulled up tight.
Fuck the shorts! He's doing great. He's trying to get in my arse crack and down to my balls and cock, but can't. I'll finish this cake and then tell him to take my shorts off.
I'm still trying to get deeper into his bum crack when he finishes eating the last of the cake. He takes a drink of Coke to wash his mouth out, and then lays his head down on his hands, facing towards the side where I am. After some more fumbling from me, he looks back at me and says, matter-of-factly, "You can take them off if you want. It's hot in here, and I'm not comfortable like that."
My heart is pounding and my throat is dry as I put my fingers into the elasticated waistband and pull his shorts down to his ankles to reveal the whole of his lower body. He wriggles one foot out of them, opens his legs wide to give me access to the inside of his gorgeous legs, puts a hand underneath him, and shoves his cock down so it's sticking down between his balls.
His balls. I suspected, because his voice is unbroken, that he'd have small ones, but I can see they're large and well developed in the tight ballsac with a pronounced ridge running up the centre of it, and his boy cock, which is showing below his balls is rock hard, and his foreskin is beginning to peel back from the purple knob. I need to say something. I look up at him and grin. "I wish mine had been as big as yours at your age."
He grins at me. "Do you like it?"
I give out a small whistle. "It's like a stick of dynamite."
He chuckles at my remark. "Do you like my bum?"
I take my hand away from his cock and stroke his bum. "It's delicious."
We're there now. Fucking job done! He likes my body. He likes my cock. He's drooling over it. I don't blame him. Mr Ambridge says it's one of the biggest he's seen on a lad my age. I was proud of that. Craig likes all my body. Men like Craig and Ambridge love boy bodies, and I know I've got a nice one. Mr Ambridge says I've got the sexiest body he's ever seen. He takes pictures of me, and I know for a fact that he's put some online. He said he blanked out my face. He didn't need to blank out my face when he took a video of him wanking all over my cock and balls and shooting his spunk all over me and then sucking me off afterwards. If he's got a cell phone, Craig can take pictures of me and then wank about me later. I'll show him my arsehole. He'll wank over that. I'll ask him.
Darren picks up a piece of grass, puts it between his lips and begins to chew it. And then he asks, "Have you got a phone that takes pictures?"
His words shock me. Not only is this little boy precocious with his body, he's also an exhibitionist if his question is what I think it is, but I have to ask, "Yes. Why?"
Again he shrugs his shoulders. "You can take pictures of me if you want."
After I've got over the shock, I give his bum a gentle smack. "I've got better than that; I've got a camera with me. It's in the rucksack. In the side pocket."
He lifts himself up, unzips the side pocket, takes out my camera, studies it for a while, and then hands it to me before resuming his farmer type resting pose; an open invitation to take pictures of him. I begin to snap away. He's like a model, moving his legs and bum to give me different angles. I slide out of the den to get a better picture of all of him, and when I do, he reaches back and pulls his bum cheeks wide to reveal his lovely, tight, pink-in-the-centre, brown tinged, puckered rosebud. I take lots of pictures of that! He pulls really hard while I'm doing it, and the rosebud opens slightly to reveal a glimpse of his inviting red tunnel. I'm about to go to it and put my tongue in him when he rolls over and takes hold of his cock. "You can suck it when you've finished taking pictures." He gives me a quizzical look. "That's if you want to."
Do I want to? That's the daftest question anybody has ever asked me. Most of my fantasies are sucking a boy's cock, so the camera is soon discarded, and I lie down between his legs and take hold of the slim, creamy rod at the base, pull the skin hard and watch the foreskin roll back to partly reveal his swollen, pink knob. I look up at him. He's got his hands behind his head, watching me intently as he chews on a fresh grass stalk, and he nods at me to get on and do the business. I pull his cock slightly downwards so I can get my mouth to it, and I lick it, including the swollen knob that comes slowly and completely out of its protective skin like a meercat popping its head out of a hole to make sure it's safe. I make sure it is by wrapping my lips around it and suck it hard. It gives out an involuntary pulse to thank me, so I reward it by giving it a few more good sucks. But Darren wants more than his pink knob in my mouth. He takes one hand from behind his head and pushes me onto him until I can feel the end of it tickling the back of my mouth, but I know that if I'm to bring him to a climax, I'll need to concentrate on the glans of his knob, so I do a long slurp off him, and begin to lick his knob again. Then I suck his balls and lick his inner thighs before returning to the business end, and I begin to suck it in earnest while I fondle his balls. He's getting the message, and he begins to hump at me. Then he does something really sexy. He undoes the buttons on his white shirt and spreads it wide to reveal his gorgeous boy body, and he plucks his nipples and runs his hands over himself as I'm sucking him. I take my own hand away from fondling his balls and place it on his tummy, and as I do that, he grabs it and uses my hand rather this his to caress himself, and when he leads the hand to his now erect nipples, I tweak and fondle them, and he gives out a low moan.
Oh God! This is fucking sexy stuff! Craig is brilliant at it! Far better than Mr Ambridge. He's playing with my nipples. How did he know doing that makes me helpless? I wish he was sucking and nibbling them. But he can't do that and suck my cock at the same time. Oh, fucking hell, Craig! Yes! Yes! Yes! Keep doing that!"
I'm watching his face now. The grass stalk is discarded and his eyes are wild as he mumbles a series of "Yes! Yes! Yes!" in increasing volume at me, and he also increases the speed he's humping at me. Sucking a boy's cock is very much like riding a bike. Once you've learned how to do it, you don't forget. I've had the pleasure of sucking boys' cocks before this one, and I know what they like. Holding this slim, slightly upward curved, almost five inch rod at the base with my fingers, I concentrate on the sensitive nerves around the part where the foreskin joins on the underside of the helmet -- the fraenum. It's fascinating watching the muscles of his small tummy as he manipulates his hairless boy cock in and out of my mouth. His movements become more urgent; the depth of his cock in my mouth becomes deeper, and with a series of nnnnn's and ahhhh's, he plunges deep into me, frantically bashing his pubic bone against my nose. Time to insert the finger. I take my hand off his tit, shove it under him, push my finger into his bum crack to find his hole, and then fiercely push it one knuckle into him as he spasms to his climax.
Oh! Oh! Oh! Yeeeeessss! That finger! Ohhhh... you gorgeous fucking man! This is the best fucking ever! Oh! Oh! Oh! Yeeeeessss!
I get from between Darren's legs and prop myself beside him, and as I do, I watch his cock shrink to its flaccid state. What will he do now? Most boys having reached their climax, especially one so powerful as the one Darren has just experienced, will up and away. I'll be disappointed if he does, but I won't be angry with him. It's why I like boys: because of their unpredictability. That trait got us together. It could just as easily part us and I'll never see him again. Boys eh!
Despite being a surprise, this Boy-on-a-Plate experience was not an amuse-bouche, because it cost me half my sandwiches, half a bottle of Coke, all my chocolate cake, and twenty quid. So we'll call it hors d'oeuvre instead. Maybe it will be singular and no meal to follow. Maybe we'll have a five-course, or even a seven-course to follow. I'm in the middle of writing a much larger story, but like all of us, I need time out to play sometimes, and I can't think of a better way to relax than sharing a Boy-on-a-Plate with you, and I reckon this course was better than glazed fig topped with mascarpone and wrapped with prosciutto. Don't you? But what will come next? Boy-on-the Run, or Craig's Seed from the Vine? Let me know what you want, you perverts. LOL.
To be continued...
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