Date: Sat, 24 Apr 1999 11:04:08 -0700 (PDT)
From: bpell@anon.nymserver.com
Subject: Chronicles of St.Barnabas chapter 9

       9. The Conquest of Mr. Riley

      I am not especially proud of how I managed the ultimate
   conquest of Ronnie Riley's posterior.  True, our Western
   mores make it deucedly difficult for any pederast to take
   pride in his work; still, I behaved rather caddishly, and I
   offer no excuse.
      I wouldn't have felt badly about it if Ronnie had been a
   Times Square hustler, over from Jersey to make himself a
   little spending money.  Ronnie was different.  I loved him,
   and he loved me too.  More than that, he needed me.  Like so
   many of our kids at St. Bamabas, he had no father.  His
   parents had been divorced soon after the boy was born, and
   his mother, very much a woman "on the make", placed him
   in a succession of institutions, and, later, schools, in order to
   be free to pursue her own interests, which had to do with two
   things-sex and money.  I don'e knock either sex or money,
   but it seems to me she had a responsibility towards the kid to
   give him something resembling a home.  Ronnie never knew
   what living in a family was like.  Nevertheless, he loved his
   mother very much, as all little boyg, do, no matter how
   shabbily they are treated;on the other hand, having no
   father, he found something of the sort in me.
      And so, you say, I am worse than his mother, leading him
   along and then betraying him, pretending interest in him
   while just waiting for the chance to get into his pants.  Is there
   a lower type of individual than one who would take advan-
   tage of a poor defenseless child who is only looking for
   fatherly love and guidance?  Yes, there is, my friends.  There
   is the type who doesn't give a damn about such a kid one way
   or the other.  I don't want to write a tract in my own defense
   but I sincerely believe that if it weren't for us chicken-lovers
   there would be thousands more unhappy kids than there are.
   The trouble is that, although we do our level best to pene-
   trate schools, orphanages, YMCA'S, Scout Troops and Lit-
   tle League teams, there just aren't enough of us.  Even Big
   Brothers has trouble recruiting volunteers, and if that orga-
   nization isn't tailor-made for us, what is?  It really is a shame
   that our forces aren't stronger, for I honestly believe we do
   far more good than harm.  No one has ever proved sleeping
   with a man has ruined a boy, though many a boy has been
   harmed by being dragged into court to help salt away his
   lover for half a lifetime.  But enough pamphleteering.  The
   true pederast's code of ethics is, never take a boy by force, or
   against his will, or by trickery.  And, no doubt about it, I was
   guilty of using trickery.  I took unfair advantage of him.
   How?  I got him drunk, that's how.
      I brought Ronnie up from the infirmary the following
   night after Mrs. Fox had turned in, about nine.  He was
   wearing some old dungarees and a crew shirt that was too
   small for him.  His hair was mussed, and he looked younger
   than his age.  He would be thirteen in a month or so.
      I hadn't really meant to get him drunk.  I'd just wanted to
   relax him a bit, loosen him up, if you catch my drift, to make
   the act of taking his posterior maidenhead more enjoyable
   for him.  That's the kind of guy I am-always thinking of
   others.  So I gave him a screw-driver, thinking it was an
   appropriately named beverage, considering the act I had in
   mind.
      Not even noticing the vodka, he tossed off the drink like a
   kid in a TV commercial, smacking his lips and saying, "Boy,
   that was good!" What he didn't know, of course, was that
   there were two ounces of Smimoff's swishing around in his
   tum-tum.
      The effects were almost instantaneous.
      "Hey, sir, what did you put in that orange juice?  I mean, I
   feel real funny, like." And so I told him, saying it was a sort
   of celebration, which indeed it was.                  i
      "Oh.  Well, cheers, then, sir!" he said, lifting up his empty
   glass.  "Hey!  I need a refill!  Set'em up, Joe!  I mean, Sir.
   Gosh!  This stuff is great!"
      By the second drink he had the giggles.
      "Well, you see, Sir, it's this way.  There was something
   very, very, very important I wanted to tell you but I forgot
   what it was and so I started to think about that but then I
   forgot what it was I was supposed to be thinking of." And he
   dissolved into helpless laughter, rolling around on the floor,
   doubled up and holding his ribs.
      I put on some music, and he began to dance wildly,
   looking very cute in his faded dungarees and little shirt with
   blue piping.  At my suggestion he kicked off his shoes and
   danced in stockinged feet.  I put on a slower, sexier record.
      "How about a strip-tease?" I suggested.
      "Sir, that's naughty!" he said coquettishly, wagging a
   finger at me and swaying unsteadily.  Nevertheless he slowly
   began raising his little shirt, exposing first his tummy, which
   was writhing to the music, and then his chest, with his little
   nipples standing out hard.  He danced naked to the waist for
   a while; then, without missing a beat he began undoing his
   pants.  They slithered over his smooth hips as he continued
   his sensuous writhing, but when he tried to step out of them
   gracefully he tripped and fell flat on his face, where he lay
   laughing.
      In a trice I had pounced on him and pulled off his pants,
   then grabbed for his underpants as he tried to elude me.  I
   heard the elastic rip as he pulled away, but I held on, and
   soon had them down over his lovely squirming hips, while he
   continued to struggle and protest.  I pulled them down as far
   as his knees, and he got up and began dancing again, forget-
   ting his erstwhile modesty.  With his knees together, he
   turned his back to me and blatantly tempted me to rape him
   by displaying his charming bottom in the most deliberately
   provocative manner, sticking it out and twisting his hips to
   reveal his charms to their utmost.
      His underpants slid to his ankles; he stepped out of them
   and continued dancing, completely naked.  I was very arou-
   sed, as you can imagine, by the sight of this lovely pink-
   skinned boy dancing naked before me, and was almost
   relieved when, at the end of the record, he plopped down
   exhausted on the couch beside me.  I pulled him over on top
   of me, cradling his head and cupping my hands under his
   behind.  I leaned down and kissed his full red lips, feeling his
   hot breath on my face.  I stroked his smooth body with one
   hand, his hair with the other.  Soon his breathing became a
   little slower.
      "Sir, I feel a little dizzy," he said suddenly.  Oh God, I
   thought, he's not going to get sick on me!  "Better sit up," I
   said, propping him on my lap and putting my arms around
   him, breathing in the smell of his hair and playing with his
   cock and balls.  I gave him a sip of water and after a while he
   said he didn't feel so dizzy any more, just sleepy.  He leaned
   back against me and closed his eyes.  I continued playing
   with his genitals.  He was getting hard, and I felt my own
   cock pushing against his buttocks as he moved around on
   my lap.  I scooped him up and carried him into the bedroom,
   closing the door behind me.  I laid him down on the cool
   sheets.
      "Thirssy," the boy mumbled.  I propped him up in bed
   and gave him some more water.  "One for the road," he
   murmured, his head falling against one shoulder, his hair
   tumbling over his face.  So naked and vulnerable he looked.
      I went back in the other room, made myself a quick snort
   for courage, and checked in the corridor for noises.  The
   place was as quiet as a morgue.  I locked my door and
   returned to the bedroom.  Conditions were ideal, yet I was
   nervous.
      After all, consider my position: a master in a boys'board-
   ing school, about to commit sodomy on a twelve-year-old
   choirboy.  I could see the headlines: PERVERT RAPES
   CHOIRBOY.  Or would the Head manage to hush it up "for
   the sake of the boy," i.e., for the sake of the school's reputa-
   tion?  There had been scandals before, as there always were
   and would be in schools of this sort.  There was a sports
   instructor, before my time, who one day was simply no
   longer there.  No explanation was ever made, but it was
   rumored that he liked to give rather thorough rub-downs to
   some of his favourite athletes.  And then there was the assist-
   ant choirmaster who always kept the practise-room door
   locked when giving music lessons.  Evesdroppers reported
   long stretches of silence from the room, and one day he was
   gone too; a couple of days later a very pretty fifth-grader was
   withdrawn from the school.  I thought of these worthy prede-
   cessors as I sipped my Scotch, gazing down at the nude boy
   whom I was about to deflower.
     But this was no time for turning back.  The quarry was at
   bay.  I cried "Yiocks!" to the baying hounds within my loins,
   snapped off the light, whipped out of my clothes, and pop-
   ped into bed beside the sleeping boy.
     I pulled him close to me, delighting in how pliable his
   body was.  He snuggled close, putting his free arm around
   me. His soft warm body was against my own bare skin.
   Rolling onto my back, I pulled the boy over on top of me,
   letting his legs fall between mine, feeling the weight of his
   nude body pressed against mine.  I reached into the night-
   stand for the Vaseline.
     I know some of you KY fans are going to object, and I
   admit that KY is more slippery, gives a more direct skin-on-
   skin feel, and is infinitely easier to clean off.  However, for
   the purposes of defloration, which may require several
   attempts at entry, KY is too fast-drying, so that if you're
   having difficulties you have to keep applying more of the
   stuff as the previous applications dry and cake.  Besides,
   there's something friendly and familiar, for me at least,
   about good old Vaseline.  I guess it takes me back to certain
   experiences of my own childhood.
     As I drove my Vaselined finger deep between the child's
   soft round buttocks, he squirmed against me and muttered
     something I couldn't make out.  I massaged his little gate-
     way, then poked my finger at the bud.  It was not as tight as
     the night before, but it was still pretty snug.  After a few
     minutes of deft fingerwork, the purpose of which, of course,
     was to expand the little orifice so it could accommodate my
     rod, I let my finger slip out of his hole, slid the boy off me,
     made a mound of both pillows, and rolled him over an top of
     it so that his round virginal bottom was arched up in the
     most vulnerable and advantageous position for attack.  I
     spread his tender thighs wide apart and worked some more
     Vaseline well into his rectum, thrusting my finger in deeply
     and working it around.  He squirmed a little under this
     attack, and muttered some words I could not understand.  I
     could not tell how far into sleep the boy was, but I suspect he
     was more awake than he let on, and that perhaps for reasons
     of pride he chose to pretend to be totally unconscious.
       By now he was pretty well lubricated, and his body was
     nice and relaxed.  He was ready for the attack.  Kneeling
     between his milky thighs, I spread apart the cheeks of his
     buttocks with both hands and guided my shaft right down
     onto the target.  Pressing down, I felt the lips give a little, but
     then met with resistance at the sphincter muscle.  I pushed
     down again.  This time the boy gave a little whimper and
     muttered something which sounded like, "Too big." Actu-
     ally I'm not terribly big, being perhaps thinner than average,
     though I daresay I make up for that in length.
       "Not too big if you relax," I said.  I lowered my shaft once
     more, but once more his anus closed up like a sea anemone.
     Then I started a sort of gentle rhythmical battering, pressing
     relentlessly against the unyielding muscle.  The boy protes-
     ted a bit, but I kept hammering away, and bit by bit, I felt the
     resistance lessening, I pressed my cock down hard, keeping
     it there, and to my immense delight I felt the tissues sur-
     rounding my organ begin to open and engulf it.  It was
     almost as if my cock were being sucked into the boy's
     bottom.  The sea anemone was now drawing me in, engulfing
  me in its warm body.  The head of my shaft was held as if in a
  vise, and still the tissues surrounding it were giving way,
  swallowing it.  But I was still not past the pucker.  Withdraw-
  ing just enough to relieve the pressure, and just long enough
  to allow the muscles to relax and be off-guard, I thrust down
  again, pushing firmly despite the boy's squirming.  This time
  the barrier gave way Completely.  I was past the muscle and
  inside the hot passageway.
    It is always a thrilling moment when the gates open up,
  and it never ceases to astound me how hot it is inside a boy's
  tight asshole.  Of course this sensation was even more intense
  now, for I had never been in a tighter bottom.  I rested just
  long enough to allow the boy to recover from the shock of
  having his virgin asshole penetrated for the first time.  I
  wondered what the boy was feeling.  Did he feel that his
  childish body was being raped?  Did he feel shame and
  humiliation?  Terror?  Or was there only that aching pain that
  is inevitable when a boy feels a man's cock inside him for the
  first time?
    "O, Ronnie," I whispered in his ear, not knowing whether
  he heard me or not, "my own, lovely, delicious boy.  You
  don't know how wonderful it is to feel my cock inside you
  like this.  You're so warm, so tight and yet so soft.  Oh, my
  own boy, I wish I could describe to you the way it feels."
  And as I whispered these absurdities into his perhaps deaf
  ear, I kept gaining ground.  He squirmed now and then,
  when I pushed in too fast, but there was no danger of
  slipping out, for I was safely lodged in his ass.  Continuing
  my verbal caresses I inched my penis further and further up
  the child's elastic ass.  Once he gave a cry of protest, but I
  don't think I would have stopped now if he had cried out for
  his mother.  Grasping him by the waist, I simply raised him
  up higher so that his bottom stuck out even more promi-
  nently.  This improved the angle, and holding him tight, with
  one lunge I drove my cock all the way up his ass until my
  balls came up flush against his body.  Then I eased him
   down, without losing any ground, onto the moundof pil-
   lows.  I began to fuck.
      A hotter, tighter ass I had never entered, and I slavered all
   over his back as I slowly, slowly drove my cock in and out
   the entire length of the child's rectum.  His occasional
   moans-were they of pain or of pleasure?-mingled with my
   panting, his writhing with my thrusting.  With each squirm
   of his hips my love-juice rose higher, as I measured the depth
   of his rectum with my shaft.  My fingers dug into the sweet
   boy's shoulders, my tongue licked his warm skin.  In and out
   of his hot little behind I plunged, my climax rapidly
   approaching.  I kissed the boy's ear, his neck, his hair, my
   fingers mauling his soft body in my passion as I pumped my
   cock in and out of his soft round behind.
      I could hold back no longer.  Withdrawing nearly all the
   way, I drove in deep and slow, until my loins were pressed
   firmly against his squishy bottom.  The dam burst.  Fucking
   fast now, in very short strokes, I convulsively pumped load
   after load of my hot come into the boy, bathing his rectal
   walls with my juices and uttering the usual lover's moans of
   ecstasy.
      At last my well was dry; I had pumped everything I had
   into the boy's behind.  I lay exhausted and sweating on top of
   him, feeling my cock begin to grow soft as I dozed off.
      Waking up some twenty minutes later, I rolled over onto
   my side, pulling the boy with me so that my cock remained
   embedded in his ass.  I stroked his hair.
      "Awake?" I asked tenderly.
      "Yes, sir." It was the first time I had been called "sir" by a
   boy while I had my cock in his bottom.
      "How do you feel?"
      "Okay."
      "Did I hurt you?"
      "Some, at first."
      "You did a lot of moaning."
      "I don't remember.  I guess I was asleep.  I remember
  thinking you were going to split me open."
     "I wouldn't do a thing like that." I was playing with the
  boy's cock now, making it hard.
     "Anyway," I said, "you were terrific."
     "I was?  I didn't do much."
     "You wiggled your behind.  That felt good."
     "Like this?"
     "Mmmm.  Just like that." I held him tight against me,
  playing with him all over.  As I was fondling his cock he gave
  his sphincter muscles a twitch.
     "Oooh," I said, "do that again."
     "What?"
     "With your bottom.  Inside it.  You know, tightening it."
     "Like this?"
     "Yes.  Yes, that."
     "You can feel it?"
     "You bet I can.  Can you feel me?"
     "Yes, when I squeeze I can.  I forgot you were in me, but
  when I squeezed I felt you there.  How long are you going to
  leave it in me?"
     "For ever.  After all the trouble I went to getting in, I'm
  never going to take it out."
     He twitched the muscle.
     "Send a message in Morse Code," I said.
     Twitch twitch tw-it-ch.
     I sent him a message by squeezing his cock.  He answered
  me with his ass.  I was getting randy again.  So sent him a
  message with my cock.
     "Hey, I can really feel you now.  You're getting hard
  again, aren't you, sir?"
     "Yes." I worked his cock with my hand, at the same time
  working my own cock deeper into the boy's ass.
     "Oooh," he said.
     "Hurt?"
     "Not really, but I sure know it's there."
     "You're supposed to.  That's the whole idea.Now push
   your bottom back against me as hard as you can." The boy
   did, and my cock was thrust in to the hilt, encased once again
   by the hot walls of his rectum.
      "Sir, are we going to do it again?"
      "We are," I said, clasping him firmly around his slim
   waist.  I began to move inside the youngster's behind.  Very,
   very slowly, I began the second fucking.
      The boy moaned a bit when my cock pressed against the
   walls of his rectum, stretching them.  He was still very tight,
   and I had to proceed gently, but his rectum was well-
   lubricated by my first orgasm, and I was able to slide in and
   out of his juicy bottom with relative ease.  I fucked him very
   slowly, taking long leisurely strokes.  I smeared some Vase-
   line on his hard cock and coordinated my inward thrusts
   with each downstroke of my hand on his prick, so that in
   fucking my hand, as it were, he would have some dim
   realization of the pleasure I was getting from fucking his
   bottom.  I fucked him in a regular rhythm, spurred on by his
   occasional squirmings.  He kept saying, "Oh, sir," as I
   stroked my shaft up his rectum, but whether from pain or
   pleasure I did not know.  My passion was rising, my hot
   breath moistening his smooth bare back.  Then suddenly,
   with a louder cry of "Oh, sir!" he contracted his anal mus-
   cles, gripping my cock in a vise; at the same time his pelvis
   began to jerk as he shot his load into my hand, his back-door
   muscles contracting with each spasm of boyish joy.
      The effect of this spasmodic contraction was too much for
   me.  With one final thrust into the boy's pliant ass I came,
   laving his red canal with my sperm for the second time that
   night as I pumped wave after wave into his delicious rectum.
   I pumped every drop I had into the bottom of this well-
   fucked boy.  Then, as I withdrew, I instructed him to tighten
   his anal muscles again, so that he milked me dry as my cock
   slid out of him, making a pop like the sound of a champagne
   cork.  I turned the boy around, gathered him in my arms and
   kissed him.  We fell asleep in a close embrace.