Date: Tue, 20 Apr 1999 09:32:01 -0700 (PDT)
From: bpell@anon.nymserver.com
Subject: Chronicles of St.Barnabas part6

6. Winter Sports

If it is true that winter is by far the most dismal season of the year, it
is also true that at St. F3amabas there were always compensations.

One of these was the pool. We have a large indoor pool, gift of a rich
alumnus, and-you guessed it-no suits are wom. Why should they be? After
all, just a bunch of naked little boys, and who would want to look at them?
Who indeed? When winter came Mr. Murchison showed a sudden interest in
sports, particularly aquatics. I was at the pool nearly every day, in fact.

To walk unprepared into our pool area when it is in use is not recommended
for pederasts with weak hearts. The sudden, blinding sight of sixty naked
boys might prove fatal. But once accustomed to the brilliance, it is a
mouthwatering sight indeed, and one I never tired of. For one thing, there
was always something new to learn. That fifthgrader, Bobby Phelps, who had
looked so scrawny last year, was filling out nicely. And Jim Dodge was
sprouting hair. Lucky Jim! But poor Bruce Branson was still showing the
purple marks of the cane after all this time. And that birthmark inside
Tommy Wilson's right thigh-how come I'd never noticed it before?-and
Charlie Wright. What a wang he was growing! Then there were two little
Squogs who bore close watching, Timmy Tucker and Eric Ladd.

The pool was a great place for keeping tabs on the growth and development
of one's charges. And of course there were certain ones I always enjoyed
watching. Ericson was one. He was thirteen, but still absolutely
hairless. Long-limbed and narrow-waisted, he was lithe without being
muscular. There was a softness, almost a femininity about him, especially
his almost too-pretty face with his blond hair tumbling down into his big
blue eyes-also his hips, which were not so much feminine in themselves, but
girlish in the way he used them. He had a lovely bottom, very soft and
smooth. For all his softness and femininity, however, there was great
strength and coordination in his body. Though not outstanding in team
sports, Ericson was possibly the most gracefully coordinated boy I have
ever seen. Every movement he made was pure grace, as if choreographed by
Ballanchine. Other boys might be able to bounce higher on the diving board,
or do more complex dives, but to watch Ericson dive was to watch a
ballet. He would run gracefully out on the board like a dancer, give one
high bounce, his long blond hair sailing behind him, leave the board as if
by levitation, jackknife his slim nude body until it folded like the wings
of a butterfly, then straighten out, arching his long back as he plunged
downward to slice noiselessly and without a splash into the water. When he
came up he was like a seal, his smooth head breaking the surface and his
big blue eyes looking around to see who had been watching.

Sometimes I would get in the water myself, and like Tiberius with his
"minnows", swim around among the younger boys, grazing against their
slippery flanks. Sometimes I would suggest games. "See if you can swim
between his legs!" That was great fun, especially when some little "minnow"
swam between my legs, or even better, when they begged me to swim between
theirs. I would pretend to get caught between them, and would fight my way,
gasping and choking to the surface, grasping at any convenient little
handles along the way. Boys are so deliciously slippery under water.

Aside from the pool and the basketball court (I have mixed feelings about
basketball-the uniforms reveal legs nicely, but those satiny pants don't
turn me on at all), there were the mats. There was no organized gymnastics
program, but Ron Randall, who came in to help out with the sports,
encouraged those who were interested. Ericson out-stripped everyone in this
field. Not only could he do all kinds of smts on the bars and rings, he was
a regular contortionist as well: he could bend over backwards and touch the
floor, making a beautiful arch of his body, and he could even wrap his legs
around his head. Yes, he could do many delightful tricks.

One day I was watching two giggling fifth-graders trying to wrap their legs
around their heads without the slightest degree of success (they kept on
tumbling over backwards) when Ericson strolled by from the pool, with only
a towel draped around his slim waist.

"Ericson," I said, "show these tadpoles how it's done. Here. I'll hold your
towel for you." Without hesitation or self-consciousness, the lovely boy
whisked off his towel and-naked as a jay, but much prettier-strolled
nonchalantly over to the mat and sat down. The two little boys, who were
wearing gym shorts, sat back on their haunches before him, almost
worshipfully.

"It's easy," said Ericson. "Here's all you do," And he put first one foot,
then the other, around his head.

"Gosh!" gasped the little boys kneeling in front of him. They echoed my
sentiments exactly, for positioned as I was, squatting on the mat with the
two little boys in front of me, their cute round behinds almost in my face,
I was gazing right into Ericson's pink hole, which, I couldn't help
noticing, appeared less puckered, smoother and more open, than most boys'
rectums. Ericson held his pose for several minutes, while the little boys
crawled around and examined his body from every angle. When they were
satisfied that no trickery was involved, Ericson relaxed his pose. Then he
treated the adoring youngsters to his entire bag of gymnastic tricks,
bending his lithe and supple young body into every conceivable position. It
was quite a show. I could have done I a pretty good pole vault by the time
he was through.

After Ericson had gone, the little boys, inspired by his performance, tried
valiantly to imitate his tricks, but, having no success whatever, finally
gave up and began wrestling around on the mat. I loved watching them
wrestle. They put so much into it, took it so seriously, while to me, the
amused on-looker, it was nothing but a thinly disguised sex game as, clad
only in their tiny shorts, their bodies slippery with sweat, golden legs
and arms entwined, they grunted and groaned and grabbed-assed away their
innocence.

The pool showers were also amusing to watch. Less closely supervised than
the dorm showers, more fun and games took place. For instance, there was
the favorite little game called "Drop the Soap." Any boy who dropped his
soap was, of course, extremely vulnerable to attack from the rear; his
behind was considered fair game and, unless he turned his back to the wall
very quickly, he was sure to have someone else's cake of soap jammed into
his crack. And sometimes, when a boy was alone, he would get carried away
in soaping his penis and find himself jerking off. On several occasions I
witnessed mutual masturbation, and once an attempt at buggery, but neither
boy was adcpt in the sport, and the recipient complained that the soap
stung his hole, so the game was abandoned.

How do I know these things? I am a spy, that's how. Tbere's a crawl space
above the showers, for access to pipes and wires. And there's a vent. Need
I say more? The angle is not ideal, and one must be very quiet, but a
dedicated spy must be willing to take risks.

Of course a lot of hanky-panky went on in the dorm right under my nose, but
it was harder to observe there, as there was no place for me to hide. It
was also more difficult for the boys, there being no privacy except that
provided by the dark. Sometimes I would sense that something was happening
in the dorm, and coming out, would know that I was Just a second too
late. At night I would sometimes strike like the Green Hornet by sneaking
out and switching on the lights. Flash! The lights would go on,.and half a
dozen boys would scurry like cockroaches for the safety of their own beds.

I never made a big thing about this sort of activity. I knew it went on,
and wasn't about to discourage it, for obvious reasons. That was why, when
I caught three boys in the boiler room, I chose to make light of the
matter.

I was making my rounds one evening when I heard a treble voice from inside
the boiler room which one passed on route to the recreation room. It was
before lights out, during free time, when boys are scattered all over the
school, engaged in various activities of their own choosing. I listened at
the door and heard a "Shhh!", then silence. I went in. At first I saw
nothing. Then I noticed a foot sticking out from behind the boiler. It was
terribly hot in there. I walked around behind the boiler and there were
Tommy Wilson, Charlie Wright and Jim Dodge, all eighth-graders. They
werejust sitting there. They were fully clothed, but shirttails were out,
and their clothing looked to me as if it had been quickly re-arranged.

"Hello, boys," I said flatly. "Oh, hello, sir," said Charlie, .,we just
came down here for a bull session."

"I see! What a wonderful place for a bull session, too!" My heavy sarcasm
was greeted with silence.

"Tell me," I continued, "who was winning?"

"Winning, sir!"

"The circle jerk, of course. Who won? Or did I interrupt? If so, forgive
me. Just break them out and carry on. I'll even be the timekeeper."

"Sir?"

"Oh, quit acting so damn innocent. I know why you're down here, and you
know that I know." Guilty looks all round. "Don't worry," I said. "It won't
get any further than me. I couldn't care less what you do among yourselves,
just as long as you don't bring any fourth-graders down here to be raped."
With great sighs of relief and giggles of conspiratorial understanding they
thanked me profusely. After they had gone I looked around in the corners
for evidence of other gang-bangs. I turned up ajar of Vaseline, its
contents deeply gauged by small fingers, and a pair of dirty, stiffly caked
underpants. Looking inside the elastic waistband I read: "Fruit of the
Loom, Size 28." Below this was the required name tape: "BRUCE BRANSON."
Evidently the boiler room had been quite a popular trysting spot before I
ruined everything for them. I wasn't surprised the underpants bore Bruce
Branson's name. He was the boy, you may recall, with the big rubbery
behind, the behind Father Sayers had seen fit to cane earlier in the
year. I had the feeling that Bruce's bottom came in for a good deal of
attention among the eighth-graders, though of course not as much as
Ericson's. The difference was that while Branson was the type of boy other
boys like to victimize, Ericson didn't have to be asked twice.

I left the boiler room, reflecting that it was really tough on these horny
boys, having to go to a place like the boiler room in order to have a bit
of fun. Even then, they weren't safe from people like me.

Ronnie came into my room wearing his soccer shorts. He was flushed from
playing in the gym. He sat down on the floor, legs crossed, and began
fiddling with one of the puzzles I always keep around. I noticed he was
wearing no underpants.

"Oh, this one's easy, sir. Any baby could do it!"

"Yes? Well, I'm looking at one baby who can't."

"Oh, sir, I'll bet you I can do it in three minutes."

"Okay. It's a bet. If you lose you get spanked."

"I always get spanked anyway, so what's the difference?" It was true I
always managed to fetch certain favorite boys a few swats on their nice
round bottoms. As it happened, they liked it. Most little boys like to be
given friendly spankings, I've found. It must give them a small sex thrill.

Naturally, Ronnie lost the bet, so I wrestled him onto my lap for a
spanking session. I felt his bouncy bum under his thin shorts as I spanked
him through the thin blue cloth. He protested mightily, but of course I
didn't really hurt him, just made him tingle nicely. Soon he flopped over
on his back, still on my lap, and my hand came to rest on his bare thigh. I
squeezed his flesh.

"You're developing fine legs," I said, running my hands up and down
them. The response was immediate. His shorts in front became a little blue
tent that rose higher and higher till it was stretched tight. I kept on
stroking his thighs, working my hand under his shorts, right up to his
groin, but not touching his tentpole. Then I reached underneath and felt
the soft warm flesh of his buttocks.

"Sir," asked Ronnie dreamily, "how come you like to spank boys?"

"I only like to spank certain boys," I said, feeling his bare balls in
their tight sac.

"How about Toms? He has by far the biggest butt in the dorm, but you never
spank him."

"Size isn't important," I said, turning him sideways and slipping his
shorts down over his smooth hips.

"What counts, then?"

"Shape. Proportion. Spankability," I said, fondling his spank-spot.

"Spankability! What's that?"

"It's what you've got," I said accentuating my remark with a good
spank. "And now you tell me, Ronnie. How come some boys like to be
spanked?"

"You mean me, sit? I don't like to be spanked. It hurts!"

"Then how come you let me do it?"

"What choice have I got? I'm only a boy!"

"A poor, defenseless little boy, taken by force by a brute of a man."

"You make it sound like rape, sir."

"Exactly! It would be rape, if you didn't give in so easily."

"If it's rape, there's sex connected with it."

"Are you asking me, or telling me?"

"I don't know."

"Of course there's sex in it," I said, stroking his sexy behind. "If there
weren't, you wouldn't enjoy it so much."

"Who says I enjoy it?"

"I do," I said, tickling his balls. "If you didn't, you would struggle
harder."

"What's the use? You'd get me in the end."

"In the end! How I'd love to get you in the end." I patted his bottom. "And
one of these days I shall!"

"Sir?"

"Skip it. I'll demonstrate what I mean when I get the chance. Meanwhile,
you'd better pull up your pants and kiss me good-night. I hear boys coming
up the stairs." He gave me a sweet little kiss on the mouth.

"You know, sir," he said, adjusting his shorts, "sex is very confusing to a
boy."

"It can be very confusing to a man, too."

"Really, sir?"

"Yes," I said, running my hands up his legs and kissing him again. "And now
you'd better go. Good-night, and don't play with yourself too long."

Ronnie got up from my lap and both of us noticed his erect cock under his
thin shorts.

"You see, sir. You get me all excited."


"Alright. Meet me in the boiler room after lights."

"Sir? The boiler room?" His blush informed me that he knew about the boiler
room.

"Just kidding. But seriously, come back after lights if you want."

"Okay, sir."

I put the dorm to bed, reading the usual chapter from the prayer book. I
always got a kick out of the part that said, "O Lord, protect us from the
perils and dangers of this night." About the only peril I could think of
confronting a boy was that he might drift off to sleep before he had
finished wanking off. I went back to my quarters and sat there smoking and
drinking, waiting for Ronnie's soft knock.

It never came.

I didn't ask Ronnie why he hadn't come back. That, after at wu his
business. It wasn't a good idea to push matters. Mk pretext for having boys
in my apartment after lights was &at I was helping them with their
schoolwork, and often @ was indeed the case. It was true that the boys who
came to me for help were also boys who craved affection and attention, but
this was just as valid a need, I felt, as the need to get good grades to
please their parents. I never discouraged a boy from coming to see me after
lights, even if I was sure he didn't need help with his homework. Nor did I
discriminate against the fatties and the uglies. They needed affection most
of all, and I took my job too seriously to exclude a boy just because he
wasn't physically appealing. On the other hand, try as I might to be fair,
I couldn't always hide the fact that there were certain boys I liked much
more than others. It's a cruel world, and favors are seldom handed out
fairly. It often happens, it seems to me, that the boys who are smart and
amusing and athletic are also very appealing physically. But I didn't make
the world, and those unfortunate boys who had neither talent, nor brains,
nor good looks just had to make do in the world as best they could. I could
offer them sympathy, and sometimes tea, but I could not force myself to
like them as much as I did the others, the pretty ones.

A couple of nights later, Ronnie's soft knock did indeed come. I let him in
and locked the door. He was looking very cute and vulnerable in a pair of
outgrown cotton pajamas.

I was feeling very horny, so there was no pretense about homework. I got
right down to business. As he sat down next to me on the sofa and began
pouring out some of the things that were on his mind-mainly having to do
with his mother's new boyfriend, whom he didn't like-I caressed and fondled
him,

I unbuttoned his pajama shirt and took it off, running my hands over his
bare chest and stomach. He kept on talking without missing a beat as I
inserted my other hand in his fly, which was missing its buttons. My hand
felt his stiff rod and his tight little balls. After he had talked himself
out, and I had offered what consolation I could, I gave him a long, deep,
kiss, continuing my fondling. Now he was pretty wild with excitement,
clutching me hard. I lay him down on the sofa and peeled his pants down
over his silky hips, then lay down beside him and kissed him, stroking his
naked body. I kissed his neck, his nipples, his soft stomach, his
cock. Then I got between his legs and took his hard cock in my mouth,
feeling it throb inside me as I caressed his balls with one hand and his
nipples with the other. He was moaning now, and writhing around beneath
me. Sensing his approaching climax, I removed his cock from my mouth,
raised his legs and began tonguing my way down towards his bottom hole.

I had never used my tongue there on Ronnie, and didn't know what his
reaction would be. Still, most young boys enjoyed being rimmed, and Ronnie
was no exception. He squirmed as I rotated my tongue around his hole, and
when I began darting it in and out of the hole itself he pulled his legs up
higher so I could penetrate deeper. I tucked him with my tongue for several
minutes as he panted and gasped with pleasure; then I took his ready cock
in my mouth again. After only a few pumps, his body stiffened and I felt
the quick spurts of hot come shooting into my mouth. Afterwards we lay on
the sofa together and talked some more. I told him I wished I were his
mother's boyfriend so I could make love to him all the time. I stroked his
back and buttocks, pushing my finger towards his hole as I described how I
would make love to him every afternoon after school before his mother got
home from work. His hole was still moist from my tongue, and I poked my
finger in, but he tightened up, so I didn't try to get it in any further,
but just left it there while I caressed him and talked to him. I longed to
try to get into that little bottom, but knew the time was not yet ripe. It
wasn't far away, but it just didn't pay to rush things. There was lots of
time.

Lots of time-except that I was very busy these days. There was the play,
for instance, to be put on by the seventh and eighth grades. I chose As You
Like It. and for the part of Rosalind-who else but Ericson? He was a
natural to play the part of the girl who plays the part of the boy who
pretends to be a girl!

In case you've forgotten the play, the girl Rosalind, beloved of Orlando,
disguises herself as a boy named Ganymede, in order to cure Orlando's
lovesickness for Rosalind by pretending to be Rosalind. She (or he) tells
Orlando how he (I mean she) had once cured another lovesick youth: "He was
to imagine me his love, his mistress, and I set him every day to woo me. At
which time would 1, being but a moonish youth, grieve, be effeminate,
changeable, longing and liking; proud, fantastical, apish, shallow,
inconstant, full of tears, full of smiles, for every passion something, and
for no passion truly anything, as boys and women are, for the most part,
cattle of this color..."

Remember also that in Shakespeare's time all female roles were played by
boys, so that I was being historically correct in restoring this added
dimension, missing since Shakespeare's time. Now imagine, ifyou will,
pretty young Ericson, indeed looking and acting, despite his boy's
clothing, like a g irl masquerading as a boy. And when not pretending to be
a girl with Orlando, he was fighting off the advances of Phoebe, who had
fallen in love with the boy Ganymede, not realizing that "he" was really
Rosalind. In short, whether he was playing a boy or a girl, someone was hot
for his pants, and he adored it.

In his role as a boy he wore tight knee breeches and a green vest, garments
which showed off his boy's charms nicely, prompting Tommy Wilson, the
school wag, to remark, "You know, Ericson, you really make a very
convincing boy!"

No one had to remark that he made a convincing girl when dressed in skirts
as Rosalind. The effect was almost embarrassingly perfect, and during
rehearsals the boy came in for a good bit of playful goosing and
titty-pinching.

The play was a smashing success, and Ericson's beauty brought blushes to
the face of more than one male parent in the audience. When he came out on
the stage to read the epilogue containing the lines "If I were a woman I
would kiss as many of you as had beards that pleased me..." it brought down
the house. Ericson acquired the nickname "Roz", which he didn't seem to
mind a bit. He hated his real first name, which was Bjorn. No one ever used
it.

After the play, the big event was Christmas, and what with extra rehearsals
for the Christmas services, the boys were busier than the faculty. The
Sunday before Christmas the choir sang Britten's "Ceremony of Carols," with
Ericson, Jerry Jeffries and Bobby Phelps as solo boys. Ericson was an old
hand at singing solo, and had a big, round, lovely voice. Jeffries had a
strong and pleasing alto. It was little Bobby Phelps' maiden voyage, and he
was clearly petrified when he opened his mouth to sing in front of all
those people. The sound that came out was breathy and small, but rather
charming; and after he overcame his stage fright his little voice began
ringing like some lovely little silver bell. It sent shivers up and down my
spine. After the service I saw Mr. Withers, the fat choirmaster, give the
boy a hug and a kiss.

After the Christmas service the boys went home. Frankly, I was not sorry to
see them go. Boys can really exhaust one, and it was always with a sense of
relief that I greeted vacations. They meant a respite from the drudgery of
correcting papers, of supervising study halls, of acting as nursemaid and
policeman to sixty active little boys. It meant a chance to rest, to read,
to go into Boston and see some movies, or to get completely away, to some
warm climate. I had been planning to fly to Puerto Rico, because I had the
address of a sympatico hotel there. But I came down with a cold, and by the
time I had recovered it was too late to go there. So I stayed at the
school. Before long I began longing for the boys to return. I would wander
into the dormitory, where the indescribable,- sweet odor of boys of twelve
or so still lingered, and sit down on the bed of one of my pets and make
believe I was stroking him. Obviously, I was in bad shape. I had to do
something. Quite suddenly I decided to go to New York.

Throwing a pair of pajamas and a tube of KY into a bag, I grabbed a cab to
the airport and hopped on the shuttle. A couple of hours later I checked
into a Times Square hotel.

It was too late for cruising-my chickens would be in bed by now-so I had a
couple of drinks, watched a late movie on TV, and fell into a deep,
dreamless sleep.

Next day I was on the street about eleven. It was a raw day, so the
hustlers wouldn't be hanging around on street corners. I checked the
arcades. As I wandered through them, pretending never to have seen anything
so fascinating as a pinball machine before, covertly glancing this way and
that, trying to guess what sort of body lay underneath that peacoat, or
what that glance meant, all the dismalness of this fifigame" swept over
me. I was an old Times Square hand, and thinking now of all the hours I had
spent looking, hoping, waiting, and of the few-really very few-satisfactory
numbers I had enjoyed, and remembering all the nastiness, the grubbiness,
and the fear, I suddenly lost all desires. I'd get the next train back to
Boston. But first, I might check the other arcade, for old times' sake.

And there he was. A loner, a kid maybe thirteen, wearing a peacoat and
watch cap, dark hair tumbling down over his big brown eyes. He looked like
a cabin boy, and I knew I had to have him. I have a thing about cabin
boys. I've had many a good hand-job imagining myself master of some ship,
breaking in the new cabin boy. Falling into that role now, I gave the boy a
wink, and a nod, as if to say, "You're hired, kid, and you know what to
expect." I left the arcade and the boy followed me around the
corner. Glancing around nervously for cops, talking out of the side of my
mouth and not actually looking at the boy, I told the boy where I was
staying and asked him if he wanted to make a score.

"How much?"

"Ten."

'Okay.

"Don't follow too close," I said, making off for my hotel by a roundabout
route.

I had no trouble getting him in the hotel; it's that sort of hotel. No
words were exchanged between me and the boy, nor did I even look at him,
until we were safely inside my little room.

"Take off your hat and coat and stay a while," I said. "What's your name?"

"Danny."

I'd known lots of Dannys from the Square. I liked this one very much. He
had a nice face, full red lips, and good skin. I sat down on the edge of
the bed and drew him between my thighs. I put my hand around his waist and
felt his ass. It was good. I started peeling off his clothes, first his
blue sweater, then his blue shirt, then his dirty undershirt. Then I
unzipped his pants and slowly slipped them down. I fondled him a bit more
before drawing down his greyish underpants. Big cock, but no hair. Long
appendix scar. Deep belly button. I turned him around. Nice smooth
skin. Great behind. Plump and full. I pulled him into bed and hugged him
close to warm him up. I squeezed him tight against me and stroked his
body. His youthful warmth spread to me. He was a bit smelly perhaps-but
what the hell, it was only boy-smell. I kissed his cheek and smelled his
hair and stroked his ass and pumped his cock until it got good and hard. He
just lay there in my arms and let me do these things. Then I told him to
turn on his other side, and I pulled his ass back against my cock and
worked his cock for a while. Then I reached for the KY, got the cap off
and, spreading his ass cheeks, smeared some in between them, slipping my
cock in as I withdrew my finger.

"Hey! Not up the ass! I don't take it up the ass!"

Shit! If there's one thing I can't stand it's a hustler who, after you get
him into bed informs you that he doesn't do certain things. What does he
think he's being paid for?

"Come on, for Christ's sake. What did you think I had in mind?"

"I don't care. I don't do it, that's all."

"Oh, come on, now, it's no big deal. You've done it before, you'll do it
again. What's the trouble? Been fucked already today?"

"I don't do it. I ain't never been fucked up the ass, and I ain't never
gonna be."

"I don't believe you. Anyway, maybe you'll like it. How do you know if
you've never tried. Besides, I'm not big. Most Johns are a lot bigger. And
I'll take it real slow."

"Nothing doing. I don't do it, that's all."

Now there are some guys who, when faced with this problem, simply take the
bull by the homs-or the boy by the hips-and fuck him. They just flop him
over, climb on, and plunge right in. Well, I've never been able to do
this. For one thing, I'm afraid of the consequences. For another, it kind
of turns me off when a boy acts this way. It really makes me mad,
especially if I know the boy has been fucked before. But it doesn't make me
mad enough to commit rape. So I gave in.

"Okay," I said. "I'll just give you a legjob. Turn over on your stomach and
put your legs together real tight." The boy did so, and I climbed aboard
after flooding his nice round butt with KY, and rammed in hard between his
broad cheeks. It felt pretty good, and I imagined that I had penetrated at
least his pucker, and in thinking this-that I was after all taking the boy
by force-I became very excited, and when I drove down deep as hard as I
could I suddenly came, unloading my hot load into his crack. I lay on the
boy for some time, enjoying the feel of his warm flesh.

Finally he said, "Didn't you come yet?" so I rolled off him. I got a towel
and cleaned him off between his thighs and buttocks. There was some come on
the bed, too, which I wiped up. We lay around naked for a while, talking
and watching TV. T tried to find out why he was so reluctant to be fucked,
but he just said it was one thing he would never let anyone do. I was up
against a stone wall-which was a pity, as I had taken a great fancy to the
boy's plump behind.

After a while we both got hungry, so I took him out and bought him some ham
and eggs. Then I paid him, left him on the street, and went to see a nudist
movie. There was one very nice boy in it, about thirteen, but of course the
camera was focused on tits most of the time, so all it did was make me feel
horny again.

I returned to the street, but everything I saw was either too old, too
grubby, or with a gang. I found one very pretty little thing playing one of
the shooting games, and was starting to move in on him when a man,
evidently his father, came over. I beat a hasty retreat.

I went over to the Port Authority building. There were two cute numbers
running around, up and down the escalators, playing some sort of
hide-and-seek. They were hustlers, all right, but definitely not
interested. I guessed they had made their scores and were just killing time
waiting for their bus to take them home to their Mommies and Daddies, their
pockets full of green and their bottoms full of come.

I made another tour around the arcades, but most of the hustlers had
drifted off. It was getting late. Then, just as I was about to give up, I
saw a blond head bob down the subway. I made a dash for the same entrance,
catching up with him just as he was about to go through the turnstiles.

"Going home?" I asked.

"Yeah. Why?"

"Want to score?"

"I already made two."

"Three's a lucky number."

"I ain't got much time."

"My place is nearby. It won't take long. I'll make it worth your while,
Follow me." I went upstairs and around the comer, not daring to look back.

When I was in a safe spot I turned around and there he was. He was very
small, and not much to took at, but not too bad either. Remembering my
earlier disappointment I was L about to make clear what I expected when he
said, 'I don't do nothing except-" To my amazement and delight he pointed
to his bottom! I quickly indicated that that would be agreeable, and off we
went to my hotel, my heart palpitating and my knees wobbling. It was too
good to be true. I had never found a boy on Times Square who insisted on
being tucked in the ass; usually it was the opposite. This was a real
stroke of luck, and I couldn't wait to see what kind of body he had under
his heavy coat. I feared it was on the skinny side.

Once inside my room, he told me his name was Buddy and that he was eleven,
going on twelve, and lived in Brooklyn. As he talked he was peeling off his
clothes. There were many layers of them, each dirtier than the last, but
finally he got down to his ragged underwear, and then these came off too. I
inspected my catch. He was very skinny, almost puny; also rather dirty, and
he had a red birthmark on his right thigh. In short he wasn't much to look
at. But he was young, and he could take it up the ass; that's all that
mattered.

As soon as he was naked he flopped down on the bed, belly down, his legs
spread wide apart, his hands under him, on his cock, his skinny bottom
cocked up, ready for fucking.

I spread his cheeks and looked at his asshole. It was red and
swollen-looking. It was obvious he had been telling the truth when he said
he'd already made two scores. Well, if he could take two fuckings in that
tiny posterior he could jolly well take a third. I greased him up with KY,
letting my finger slip into his hole. He didn't bat an eye or move a
muscle. I folded the pillow double and stuck it under him so that his 1
skinny ass stuck up like a mountain peak. As I got between his legs and
pressed my cock against his hole he folded his arms under his chin and gave
a sigh of boredom. I spread his cheeks and pushed down with my cock. There
was no resistance. I slipped right in, all the way. He gave his bottom a
little twitch, as if to adjust to the optimum angle for being fucked.

Evidently his previous scores had possessed cocks of far larger dimensions
than mine, for they had certainly opened the gates and paved the way. It
was almost too easy. It seemed hard to believe that this tiny bottom could
accommodate a man-sized prick, although I have a friend who swears it is
easier to fuck an eight-year-old virgin than a fourteen-year-old
virgin. Something to do with their having weaker sphincter muscles and
free-floating pelvic bones.

I drove down hard into the resilient bottom, hoping to elicit some
acknowledgement of the presence of my cock in his rectum, but he didn't
budge. I reached under him and found his little cock, which was half-way
hard. Then I began fucking him good and proper. I slid my tool in and out
of his hot little ass, imagining it was Ronnie under me. I stepped up the
tempo, slamming down into him as hard as I could, but he just continued to
lie there, arms folded-as if I were giving him a relaxing back scrub or
something. I seized his balls and fucked harder, feeling my juices mount. I
slowed down, to enjoy my orgasm to the fullest extent.

"You come yet?" came a small voice. "Not yet."

"I gotta get back soon. What time is it?"

"I'm about to come," I said, ignoring his request and resuming my
efforts. This time I didn't let up, but drove right on until my juices rose
and overflowed, spurting out into the already sperm-filled rectum of the
thrice-fucked boy. I pumped out every last drop, and he helped by milking
me with his pucker muscles as I withdrew.

Buddy got up, wiped himself off, and started putting on the various layers
of clothing he had peeled off only a few minutes before. The whole affair
had been so swift, so business-like and efficient, that it had been almost
like screwing a machine. Still, it had been a long time since my cock was
up the behind of a boy, and it was a far sight better than all the
frustrating little games I played at school. Maybe it wasn't love, but at
least it was good, dirty, boy-sex.

I said good-bye to Buddy, after giving him fifteen, checked out of my
hotel, and flew back to Boston. I reached school just as the boys were
returning, whooping and hollering and full of boisterous good spirits,
rejuvenated from having had two weeks of more or less normal family
life. For me the transition from Times Square, from Danny and Buddy and the
whole scene, to the little enclave called St. Bamabas, was so abrupt that I
couldn't tell which world was the real one, Times Square or this. Possibly
neither were. Once back, however, I found it hard to believe in the
existence of Buddy and Danny. Once again I was swept up in my work, and the
life of the school as we plunged into the long haul, the so-called "dog
days" between Christmas and Easter. I knew the time was approaching when I
would have to get into Ronnie.