David, a Boy of Pleasure
By David Desiree

Author's Ramblings

The disclaimer and other words of caution displayed in the prelude to this Man/boy (11yo) erotic story remain applicable. This particular chapter is pure fantasy and you may find it outrageously rude, hopefully.

Thank you very much to everyone who kindly e-mailed me with support and encouragement. There were so many at times, that I had difficulty in keeping up with them all. How could I not proceed with little David's story now? I'm sorry, but all my replies to AOL addresses bounced back to me — fame at last, it appears. AOL must consider me to be highly undesirable for some reason. What a shame. I do hope this doesn't bugger-up my US visa application… I was so looking forward to touring those obvious hotbeds of depravity: the shopping malls… expectantly loitering near men's rooms and Speedo stores, along with thousands of other excited Nifty readers.

Special thanks to those who generously offered me their services as proof-readers. I have now found a very adept gentleman who is going to read through each chapter prior to posting, to help with editing and to gauge the overall success (or otherwise), by how stiff his cock is at the end. A soggy tissue counts as a knock-out.

Strangely, even the odd 'flame' and naughty virus attacks (potential writers beware) have only strengthened my resolve to carry-on writing this story. It's rather amusing how bigots and bullies always seem to think that their threats and insults will actually intimidate their chosen victims. However, once the flamers have finished drooling over the stories and cleaned themselves up a bit, their then petulant behaviour — no doubt arising from intense remorse at the sexual excitement they've just experienced — is entirely counter-productive, at least with me. I'm sure we've all come across those who cannot come to terms with what they really are, after they've shot their wad. Is that not why prostitutes sometimes get beaten up after men have discarded their used condom? The crackpot flame e-mailers wouldn't actually be here for any other reason than to read rude stories in the first place, would they? Apart from themselves, who do they seriously think they're kidding?

You may speculate, am I a boy-lover? Just for the record, (and does it really matter?), no actually, I'm not, but I wouldn't feel in the slightest bit ashamed if I were, so long as I never harmed a boy. I'm gay, passive, and a man-lover, just as I was when I was a boy-lover's toy boy. I enjoy sex with men, not boys, and I have done throughout my life, but my fondest memories have always been of the consensual sex I had with men when I was a boy. As a boy, I used men for my pleasure, as well as giving pleasure to them, so it could be said we used each other in a mutually beneficial way... not actually much different than any other type of consensual relationship. By far, the boy-lovers whom I met and spent time with in my youth were the nicest and gentlest of all the men I've encountered over the years… except when I wanted them to be rough, of course.

Despite what many people have been brainwashed to believe, genuine boy-lovers are not monsters and would never knowingly do anything harmful to a child. I suggest the vast majority of boy-lovers are not active beyond fantasy in any case, so those gentlemen do not normally look for child pornography, will not groom boys, and will not physically touch boys in a sexual way. They find a certain amount of release merely by reading stories.

These Adult/youth Nifty stories are not illegal where I live; nor are they in most civilised countries. Legislators are not normally stupid, (though there are exceptions, of course), and I expect such stories remain legal for a very good reason; boy-lovers exist in abundance whether people like it or not, and they have a right to their private fantasies, so long as they do not act out those fantasies with kids. Over-the-top heterosexual erotic stories do not drive hoards of rampant men rushing off looking for women to rape, so what makes anybody think Man/boy stories have a different effect on readers here? It's absurd.

I will therefore be quite pleased if my story goes some way towards enhancing the harmless fantasies of those gentlemen who happen to be private boy-lovers. Such men deserve a break in this hostile world with the relief and recreation which reading their chosen stories can give them. Words do not abuse children; only people do. Genuine boy-lovers do not harm boys. Men who harm boys are simply not genuine boy-lovers.

Those wonderful men I went with of my own free will when I was a boy, did not harm me; instead they made my life more enjoyable and fulfilling, so that my memories of those days are happy ones, and I will not be bullied into saying otherwise. However, I'll be the first to admit that I was different from the majority of boys — though I met other special boys who loved it too — and that is why I do not advocate men actively seeking out boys for sex. Even grooming can be traumatic for a boy who doesn't want that kind of attention — and most don't — and genuine boy-lovers will always avoid upsetting boys. Instead, they often read stories where their harmless private fantasies are catered for to some extent, and that's where I, and other story writers, come in.

There is a fundamental difference between erotic stories, where just about anything goes, and reality, where we all naturally behave in a more restrained and civilised manner, which the tiny closed minds of inadequate flamers will never appreciate, but at least I've tried. I'm sorry to have 'preached' to the majority in my efforts to talk some sense into a few pathetically insignificant bigots who will probably never listen or understand, no matter what anybody says. No doubt these people, with their full freight of hatred, will be called to account by their maker, but my conscience is clear, so that I have no need to fear my day of reckoning, (notwithstanding my tax evasion).

I'll try to limit my pre-story meandering in future, and I'm sorry if I have bored the men who came here merely to read bawdy tales.

So, on with this bawdy tale in particular… um... I'm sorry… I thought it might actually be the beginning of the story when I started this chapter, but the usual preliminaries sort of overtook events… I do apologise most sincerely, really I do…


Chapter 1 - Back to the Drawing Board

Gosh, these toasted muffins are delicious… first time I've had any since I was a young boy. Such pleasant memories they bring back, and now they seem to compliment my bedtime cocoa so well. I must e-mail all my friends and recommend toasted muffins to them… I just know they'll be so excited to try them. They'll probably all send me 'Thank You' e-cards again, just as they did when I told them I'd be off-line for a while… tight shits… It's not as though I can put an e-card on my mantelpiece, now is it?

Oh bother! …I promised myself I'd make a start with writing young David's story today, and here we are at bedtime, and I haven't even given the matter any thought yet. Where do my days go, I wonder? Well, that's not too hard to guess, I suppose… once I get stuck into a horny story or two on Nifty the days normally fly past, and I'm invariably close to mental and physical collapse by the time I don my jim-jams, and climb the wooden hill to Bedfordshire.

How on earth did we ever manage before tissues were invented? …No wonder my mother was so bad tempered on wash days. Hmm, come to think of it, I can't remember many days when my mother wasn't pissed-off about something or other. I can still feel the stinging slap of her loving hand across my tender little boy-arse, even to this day… not good. I much preferred strange men putting me across their knee after catching me getting into mischief, pulling down my tiny shorts and white undies, and beating a little tattoo on my bare bum while I bounced around helplessly on their tents — more like marquees, some of them — until I was yelling and crying, generally getting into the happy spirit of the occasion, and my burning bottom blushed with a healthy glow. It was so much nicer than being chastised at home, and it did teach me some of life's harsh realities... like the need to be a good little boy, or to wear clean undies, or else to run a lot faster... until I grew slightly older, when wearing clean undies and running quite slowly became my preferred option, I suppose.

Well, I had better get on with young David's story now… at least make a start before I go to bed… and I haven't the faintest idea where to begin. Story telling has never been my forte really… I'm more of a reader and a doer, I think… at least I used to be a 'doer' when I was younger… or should that be a 'goer'? …I did used to go at it like a little bunny-rabbit on heat when I was a young boy I suppose, once I got into my stride with Gerry and after a few false starts with other men… though even the false starts were fun too, in a milder sort of way.

But now, writing about anything much beyond toasted muffins might be a bit too exhausting for me, I fear. Perhaps I was a smidgen overzealous to believe that I could write a story about little David's boyhood adventures for all those horny gentlemen on Nifty? …Nice chaps really, once you get to know them… even the Americans.
  Editor's note: especially the americans, you stuffed shirt limey! lol

Let me see… um… I need a really good beginning to this story… Ah, I know…

Ahem… "Once-upon-a-time…"

Gosh, what am I saying? Whatever has come over me? Oh, bollocks to it, I can't get the story started and that's that. I'm seriously considering scrapping the whole silly idea. The readers have plenty of other stories to keep them amused without young David's… They'll just have to carry-on reading 'Doctor Bechtel' and wait for the little boy to be adopted before he gets some serious jollies… busy-body social workers, always screwing things up for happy little boys. I need some sleep… I didn't sleep very well at all last night… and here was I thinking I was too old to have wet dreams. There's life in the old pecker yet! It did rather take it out of me though… I've been tired all day and I can feel my eyelids getting heavier and heavier, even as I speak…………

…………Ah, there's nothing quite like fresh clean sheets and a hot-water bottle which doesn't leak when you hump it. It may be a pain in the arse, washing bed-linen — and buying a new hot-water bottle — but it's worth it in the end. I just hope I don't have another wet dream tonight… I don't want to find myself washing cummy sheets everyday. Hmm, I must remember to clean out the goldfish bowl tomorrow… Gertrude is looking rather peaky at the moment. Surely it can't be normal for goldfish to float upside down, doing the backstroke? Yes, I'll do it first thing in the morning… 'Tomorrow is always another day'… Well of course it is… what a bloody stupid saying.

Tomorrow… tomorrow… tomorrow… zzzzzzzzz





…Is anybody here?

…Mr Narrator?

Mr Narrator sir, are you there??

Ughh... who's that? …Oh, Hello young David... Yes dear boy, of course I'm here... there was no need to shout. I was just taking a little nap… resting my eyes and dreaming about goldfish for some reason. What can I do for you? You look a bit upset, dear.

…I am upset, Mr Narrator! You'd be upset with a sore asshole like mine is too, I expect. But the main reason I'm upset is that I didn't get to tell these nice men my story last night. I fell awake, and as I was waking I thought it might be better to leave my story to that cranky old guy on the other side, 'cos he's got a spellchecker and things, and he seems to know more about me than I do. It's kind of weird, sir: he even knows about things I've never told anybody, and what's gonna happen to me in the future, and it ain't as though he's God or anything, 'cos he's got a filthy mind… I mean… really.

I'm sorry to hear your ravaged bumhole is feeling a bit raw now, David. I'm afraid it's a worthwhile price which most boys have to pay for their enjoyment the first few times, but it does get much easier the more you do it, and there's nothing-at-all to worry about back there. Believe me, quite soon you'll be raring to go again, straining at the leash, as many freshly arse-fucked little boys are. Hmm... Well, having the elderly gentleman on the other side telling your story isn't necessarily a bad thing, I suppose, if you don't feel like telling it yourself… At least if he tells your story, it will leave you more time to play naughty games with nice men every night. How did the cranky old man on the other side get on with your boy-tale then… did he tell it well?

…That's just it. He didn't get on with my story at all. He just sat on his ass all day eating toasted muffins and reading dirty stories on his computer, on some site called 'Shifty' or 'Shitty' — something like that — and I even saw him playing with his willy while he was looking at pictures of guys doing stuff together… the same things as I like to have done to me. I was watching him from the ceiling, only he couldn't see me, 'cos on the other side I just exist in naughty black and white photographs now, all over the Internet thingy they have there. The only work I saw the old man do all day was washing his sheets and grumbling about a wet dream. He must have been dreaming about the rain, huh?

er… I daresay Gerry or somebody will tell you all about wet dreams one day, David. It might be a while yet before you begin having wet dreams yourself, but you're as inquisitive as a puppy and without the slightest hint of modesty, so you're bound to ask your gentlemen suitors — probably with a loud voice in a public place — all about your wet dreams when the time comes... and I expect, anything else which will embarrass your men-friends and cause old ladies passing-by to suddenly feel faint. Wet dreams have nothing to do with the rain, either… we get quite enough rain without dreaming about the bloody stuff.

…Tell me about wet dreams now then please, Mr Narrator. What are they? How soon will I have one?

Ohhhh… I can't say too much right now, but I daresay your wet dreams will arrive at about the same time as you stop having multiple dry orgasms while you're being bum-fucked, David, if ever you don't then get your little arse screwed often enough, which is highly unlikely… Oh drat, I've probably told you more than I should.

…Why sir? Why can't you tell me more about wet dreams now?

It's in the contract, David. As the narrator, I'm not — strictly speaking — supposed to interfere with you, more's the pity, or to influence your life in any way, though I expect I'll hand you a few helpful tips here-and-there when nobody's watching. I never was one for following the rules, much. I'm supposed to be here just to provide a bit of background for the readers, and to explain to them what on earth is going on in that prettyboy head of yours sometimes, or what Gerry and all the other nice studs who will fuck-you-silly as the story goes along are thinking when they put their huge dicks to your boy-arse and mouth-pussy… as if the readers haven't already got a good idea of what men must be saying to themselves while they're merrily sodomising an 11 year old, prepubescent boy… Still, it's a job, and I get to eat all the toasted muffins I can manage… and anyway, it will certainly be quite fascinating to gaze upon your newly deflowered boyfanny while it's being plundered again, David… over and over.

…But I ain't telling my story now, am I sir? So you won't get to see me being bummed anymore. The cranky old man on the other side says he's going to tell the story for me… if he ever gets his ass in gear to begin and doesn't scrap the whole thing. Or are you going to narrate for him as well… if he ever gets started?

Well, I'm supposed to narrate for either of you, David my dear, since you both share the same name, as indeed I do. However, between you and me, I'd much sooner narrate for just you alone, and not only because you're much prettier than the cranky old fart on the other side. The fact is, I really do believe you should tell your story yourself, whenever the poor old boy drops off to sleep. If we leave it to him, he'll probably never get started. It's not his fault, I suppose… it's really more that he had such a wonderful time with men early-on in his life — from when he was about your age — that he's rather shagged-out now… contented with his memories and happy to read rude stories, and search for dirty pictures all over the web; that sort of thing, but personally, I think he's too far gone to write a story. As I told you before, David, why don't you just get on and tell all these nice gentlemen your story yourself?

…But the old man on the other side knows all about me. He'd be good at telling my story, Mr Narrator sir. He'd know more what to say than I do, 'cos he understands lots of big words that I've never even heard of yet, and he's got the spellchecker thingy — remember?

But I've got a spellchecker too, David, and I know rather a lot about you myself… more than you realise at the moment. What's more, I know just as many big words as the old boy on the other side, so I can help you there. I just think these nice gentlemen readers would prefer to hear your story from you, rather than from that grumpy old man… You're so much more charming. I'll help you all I can, you know… even if I have to break the rule about influencing you. We could just muddle-along
through it together, so that your story gets told one way or another, by hook or by crook. What do you say?

…um… Well… OK sir… If you really think that would be best…
though I don't even know how to begin, yet .

Well, why don't we just get a few basic preliminaries out of the way first, David… things that the all the gentlemen readers would like to know, even if they're only looking for the juicy bits.

…um… What things?

You know… what you look like and so on. The men need a description of you, at least.

They all watched me getting my cherry obliterated last night, and they don't know what I look like??

No David… Even if they could have seen you with their eyes, you were underneath Gerry, remember — pinned face-down to the bed — so they couldn't have gotten a good look at you anyway… apart from your little legs waving about, sending semaphore SOS messages. But they can't actually see you with their eyes in any case, at least not on this site… They can only see things through their imaginations, so you have to give them some sort of idea of how you look… something for them to work on. I think they must have a pretty good idea of what you sound like by now, after all your noisy yelling and squeaky complaints while your cherry was being popped into oblivion, but they haven't got a clear enough picture in their minds of what you look like yet. You need to tell them. Perhaps you should give them your stats right now?

…er… 'Stats'?

Statistics… or rather, what's called your 'vital statistics'. Let me help you… Begin by telling them when and where were you born, and how old are you are, just for starters.

…Oh, I get it… Ahem… Hi Sirs… I'm just over 11 years old, and I was born in London, the hub of the empire… and that's where I still live… um… only we don't have an empire anymore… my dad says we should have at least kept Australia to save us having to build so many prisons here in England, and my dad's usually right about those sort of things. I was born on the 10th of July... if you want to buy me presents next year please... um… I'm sorry sirs, but I never asked anyone the year I was born… sorry...

There's no need to look down at your dainty feet, biting your lip, David… it's not a problem. It wont be until you grow older that things like your full date-of-birth will become important to you. It's quite common for little boys not to know the year they were born… not until they start having to fill-in bloody-stupid forms wherever they go. We can work it out right here… you're 11 years and 3 weeks old now, so it must be August, 1959 on this side... while on the other side it's nearly 2006... good gracious... that poor old man... no wonder he's so cranky. So… that would make it July 1948 when you were born I think… Ah yes, just three years or so after the Second-World-War, when food rationing was still in vogue as the nation's favourite slimming aid. No wonder you're such a waif-like boy and small for your age… not nearly five feet tall yet... perhaps somewhat delicate in your appearance, but highly resilient nonetheless, like most little boys are, especially in their rectums. You don't look as though you're undernourished, even though it wouldn't be difficult to count those ribs above your waspish waist when you're posing with your hands behind your head, your chest out and your feet apart, with your bum pushed-back and properly presented, as all boys should pose. You're just naturally slim and light-boned, I suppose — but perfectly proportioned, with such delightful tiny bronze nipples adorning your narrow chest, while your firm, flat tummy is blessed with the cutest little innie belly-button, which men would die for... and those slightly protuberant hip bones of yours will be very handy for studs to hold on to, so that they can pull you back firmly onto their thrusting cock-shafts. You get enough to eat now, I take it?

...I get school dinners to eat… they're awful… and we get a pretty pink cod liver oil capsule with a small bottle of milk every day in the mornings at break time… I was a milk monitor once, but I got the sack for dropping the milk-crate… and a spanking. Oh, I get bread and jam at teatime as well, when I get home, and toasted muffins for supper sometimes. I love toasted muffins.

So do I, which isn't surprising… Hmm, that's a start anyway…Try telling the men about your hair now David.

…Oh... I'm sorry, sirs... does it need cutting? My schoolteachers keep saying it does. They don't like the way it comes to a little pointed tail at the base of my neck, or how it falls over my forehead, and the way it looks a bit untidy sometimes. But my mum let's me wear my hair slightly longer than other boys for some reason, ever since she caught me trying-on my sister's knickers last year… it's a good job she couldn't see the carrot up my ass too. Besides, she reckons it saves her a fortune in haircuts, and I like my hair to come over my ears a little bit.

That's not quite what I was getting at, though frankly, I rather like the way your hair comes to a point at the nape of your long slender neck. Ohhh… I'll do it then, just until you get the hang of things… Ahem… David's dark-brown tousled hair, so soft, silky and a tiny bit wavy, gives off the warmest reddish hue whenever the sun catches it, like a sumptuous dark mahogany in the gentle glow of romantic candlelight… and his satin-smooth skin, hairless and unblemished, just a shade or two darker than pale, so that it quickly tans in the warm summer sunshine beneath the clear blue skies of…


Shhh… don't interrupt when I'm in full-flow, dear... Ahem ………with his large, dark-brown oval eyes, sparkling with a hint of mischief, yet so deep and sultry with their long feminine eyelashes, fluttering beneath thin boyish eyebrows which look almost plucked……… and his slightly high cheekbones, each situated just perfectly above charming blushes, which grace those flawless peachy cheeks… Hmm, people could be forgiven for thinking you might have some foreign blood in your ancestry, David?

…um… Well, I don't know of any for sure sir, but if I do have any foreign blood, I bet it was from a mean and nasty Roman soldier a couple of thousand years ago… all raping anything that moved, and pillaging everything else, whenever they weren't building roads and villas to make themselves at home, with little blond Anglo Saxon boys taking care of their every need in the bath and at bedtime. I've had my suspicions about Roman blood in my veins ever since I saw rude pictures of Roman statues in my schoolbook… like all these hunky Roman men with no clothes on… and they all have tiny willies like they're little boys, which must have disappointed the Anglo Saxon boys, I should think. Maybe that's why my willy is so small too, Mr Narrator? I wish my ancestor could have been raped by a Viking instead.

It could indeed be why your cocklet is so small, David… These things are often hereditary and you do appear to have come from a long-line of such little dicks that it's a wonder your bloodline has survived at all… and that might account for why your mother is so grumpy most of the time too. Yes, your prick is rather diminutive, even if it is very pretty, especially when it's pointing up at 70 degrees from your hairless pubis when you're erect, like a proud springy spike… only 3 inches or so, and a quarter-inch of that is your foreskin, while your balls aren't much bigger than acorns in their tight silky pouch. I'm afraid I have some slightly bad news for you there, in the prick department, David.

…Oh… um… what?

I have to tell you that your little dickey won't even get to be five inches as you grow older, even when it's erect, which will be most of the time for the next few years, I assure you. It's not all bad, though… you're what's known as a 'late developer,' which means your little body will stay as smooth as a baby's bum and your girlish lilting voice will remain soprano for a few more years to come. Just be thankful it won't become castrati. You look much younger than your age now, and you'll stay that way right through your teens.

…Oh… but last night when you were narrating, while I was getting my cherry mashed to pulp, you said I was going to have a real good sex life. Don't you remember? How can I have a good sex life if my willy ain't gonna be big enough?

You will have a good sex life, David. Many boy-lovers simply adore tiny boy-cocks, and will relish taking yours into their warm wet mouths, balls-and-all, to swirl their probing tongues around your stiff little nail so that you'll feel all tingly and giggly, and will make happy squeaky noises. And don't be too upset if, in your excitement, you lose control and pee a few dribbles of boy-nectar: that's just what most men will be hoping you'll do. Rest assured, your amorous boyhood will be second to none in a very special way, which few young boys ever get to experience. You'll soon become the toast of boy-lovers all over London, once you've made your debut beyond Gerry's bed and become exposed to lots more men at... um... private social gatherings. That you will always have a tiny cocklet is neither here-nor-there… it's more your inviting mouth and tight arse-pussy that will win you admirers all over the place, and the expert way you utilise them, of course. You're destined to be one of the all-time greatest boy-sluts London has ever seen, and you'll have the time of your life… along with all the studs who put their cocks to you as the little cum-dump you were born to be. And lets face it, you do have a wealth of attributes required to attract boy-shaggers, just as flies are attracted to... er… jam.

…How? What att… attri… um… thingies?

Attributes. I suppose your obvious main quality is that you look so young and adorably innocent, but it goes much further than that. Just stand in front of the mirror for a moment David, and take a fresh look at your lips like you've never looked at them before. So many men in London have already observed those luscious red lips, to swoon euphorically and spring an immediate cock-stand in their pants merely at the sight of them. Your lips are so moist and full, and your mouth is just a shade wider than most. Boy-lovers who see you feel an overwhelming desire to caress you, to kiss and taste your lips with a burning passion; pushing their
salacious tongues between them to explore into your sweet wet mouth, like Gerry did last night. But also, you have what's known as 'classic cocksucker lips,' David. I take it you realise what that means?

…You're saying I suck… I mean… cocks… sort of?

Yes, exactly… You're already a natural when it comes to sucking and licking men's big dicks and heavy balls David, as Gerry found to his delight… It's like you instinctively know how to please a stud's penis whenever you come eye-to-eye with one... quite literally... even though you haven't had much practice yet. You don't just suck a man-cock meekly, constantly needing to be reminded about your teeth, as one would expect of a little boy your age… When a man glides his turgid gullet-probe along your flattened tongue and into the warm wetness of your acquiescent mouth-pussy, you spontaneously begin to worship it, humming like you're pleading for more, and demonstrating just how covetously you need man-meat inside of you, in every sacred orifice. Later on, quite soon in fact, your cocksucking face-cunt will actually be fucked like your arse-pussy was last night, and in much the same way: hard and deep. You'll soon get the hang of those heavy balls banging against your face while huge dicks are thrust down into your throat without you gagging all the time, though there'll certainly be moments when you'll wish you could breathe through your ears. And you already love the taste of thick, creamy man-spooge, don't you?

…Oh yes I do, sir. I really do. And I like to taste men's delicious salty clear-stuff too… um… 'pre-cum,' I think Gerry called it when he wiped his cockhead all over my lips with the slippery stuff dripping from his piss-slit. Even when he pulled away for a moment, there was still a thin thread of pre-cum a few inches long, connecting his cock to my lips. I loved licking it from my lips, into my mouth.

You have excellent taste, David. And after the pre-cum, just imagine how many gallons of hot man-milk are destined to spurt into your sweet, suckling mouth-pussy and down your throat over the next few years. That should supplement your school dinners nicely. Of course, eating men's cum isn't merely enjoyable in itself… when you digest men's sperm in your tummy, their seed becomes part of you… a part of who you are. It's almost symbolic in a way, I suppose. Men spurting their scolding jism into your stomach is perhaps the nearest they can get to becoming a cross between your father and your husband, as they would like to be, because then they'll become a tiny part of you forever — always with you, inside your body. It's all got something do with primal love, I expect, and intuitive love between a man and a boy will frequently find a way, just as it always has done since the beginning of time, when the only law that mattered was nature's blessing of the sacrosanct union. When you happily swallowed Gerry's semen last night, he became a part of you, just as a great many other men will become part of you in the upcoming years.

…Gosh! …My mouth is really a sexual organ then, like a real pussy? And men will really need to use it like that?

Put it this way, David… There are very few men who wouldn't relish your stretched lips encircling the base of their throbbing cock-shafts, while they present your bobbing head with their mouth-watering gifts. Your lips aren't there merely to prevent your oral-pussy from becoming all frayed at the edges, you know… they're far more useful than that. While I do accept that boy's versatile mouths have evolved over the aeons to perform a myriad of worthwhile duties all over handsome stud bodies, I firmly believe boy-lips were primarily created in order to attract men to their expectant little mouth-holes — just as pretty flower petals entice honey-bees — and then they function as an elastic seal all around those men's engorged penises, so that the boy-mouth sucking-action works far more efficiently, retaining most of the inevitable reward when it cums, and allowing it to be gulped down without too much spillage. You should know by now just where your lips really belong, dear boy, all the way down to the enchanting pubic forests.

…I've never gotten my lips all the way down to the base a man's big dick yet. I try hard though… and the nice men always try to help me by pulling on my head. I hope I get there soon, Mr Narrator.

You will David, you will… Oh… and some words of advice… Firstly and most importantly, always keep smiling to show your perfect white teeth when you're with men; that genuine bright smile of yours, which will let men know just how pleased you are to be with them. And whenever you can, always keep your legs spread open — whether you're undressed or not — even when you're merely sitting down and reading one of your Superman comics. Idly fondling your cocklet every so often isn't a bad idea either, which shouldn't be a problem when you're looking at Superman.

...Oh I like playing with my willy, and I always feel better with my legs wide apart, Mr Narrator... and every man is Superman to me, sir.

That's the spirit, David! ...Um... Secondly, if you are in a position to do so, remember to try and look up into men's eyes when your sucking mouth is full and your little nose is buried in their pubic hair… for some reason, men like to look down and see a young boy's big misty eyes gazing up at them, almost in a trance, while they mash into the little darling's face-pussy... And thirdly, don't get upset when men lightly beat you about your angelic face with their throbbing, slimey dicks, getting you all wet with their copious leaking pre-cum mixed with your dripping spit. While they cock-slap your face, you might perhaps get the chance to lick their balls, but anyway, just keep your face still and your mouth wide open, with your little red tongue beckoning, and they'll soon give you back what you need, all the way down your throat.

...It sounds lovely, sir.

And lastly, pay no attention when men call you any random disgusting names which spring to their sex-crazed minds as you hungrily suck on their thick, meaty lollipops… especially from athletic American 'jocks', who will almost certainly call you a 'little faggot' several times a minute while they pretend that ploughing your mouth-pussy is merely an irksome duty, which they're only performing as a special favour, in order to teach you a lesson… Oh, and it seems they'll be likely to wear smelly unwashed jockstraps to rub your face into, while their dicks will often resemble their skyscrapers, it would appear. It's little wonder that so many young boys wish they could emigrate to America. All those outrageous names lusting men will call you are merely terms of endearment, David, believe it or not.

…Wow… I can't wait. Is my mouth-fanny why I get so many men staring at me, sir?

Well, yes and no… I rather suspect most men who gaze at you wherever you go are having lewd thoughts about reaming your little bumhole too, and shooting torrents of sperm inside you at both ends. Your boy-arse is easily your most valuable and sought-after asset… though your mouth-cunt certainly comes a close second.

…Why? My asshole is just a bum, isn't it Mr Narrator? … even if it does have a dual purpose now.

It's a bum which tells men it needs a good fucking, David!

…But how can it sir? I mean, my older brother says I talk out of my ass all the time, but that's just him being nasty to me, isn't it? Sometimes though, when I accidentally make a naughty rude noise back there... like, in elevators and on buses... while I'm cringing and blushing all kind of apologetically to everyone, I now like to think that I was only blowing a special little kiss to the nice men around me, and I look to see which ones are smiling at me all glassy-eyed and breathing-in deeply through their noses; and which men are looking away, holding handkerchiefs to their mouths and nostrils before they alight in a hurry at the next stop... I'm getting good at reading body-language, sir. Oh, my brother calls me 'cunt-face' too, but now I know he was right about that, in a way.

Ugh… um… Let me explain. There's an attractive shape to some lucky boys bum-cheeks which is often referred to as a 'bubble-butt' David. You know the type… like their bum's stick out invitingly to tempt men just that much more than cute cheeky boy-bottoms normally do.

…Do I have a bubble-butt then Mr Narrator?

Not quite David, I'm glad to say… You see, though bubble-butts are invariably pleasing to the eye, they can have certain disadvantages. The prominent tight bum-cheeks of a bubble-butt do sometimes unfortunately make the little boy's lovehole somewhat difficult for men to get at, unless they're pulled wide apart to reveal the hidden treasure within… You, on the other hand David, have a bottom which approaches the shapeliness of a bubble-butt while, as you saunter along unconsciously wiggling your pert bum, the cheeks of your arse aren't quite so tight together, so that men who look positively salivate thinking of what they would see inside that moist valley between your exquisite globes if only you were undressed. They also ponder how, if they could just get you alone somewhere for a few minutes, it would be a piece-of-cake to give your little cunthole the shagging it so richly deserves without your cheeks getting in the way quite so much, so that they could hammer their rampant dicks even deeper into you, making you yelp with joy!

…Oh, I wouldn't want anything making it difficult for men to plough up into my boy-cunt sir. I even want to wink at them back there too, so they have to be able to see my little bronze eye.

Yes, winking your rosebud is always a good idea… If you've got it, flaunt it... At the... um... private social gatherings you'll be invited to attend; while you're drinking champagne… at just the right moment — and Gerry will tell you when — you should pull your little cheeks wide apart with your fingers to let everybody admire your exposed winking pucker. That will certainly earn you rapturous applause; a cock-standing ovation, no less — to ecstatic chanting of, "Encore, boy-whore; dance David, dance!" — while the flash bulbs will be popping by the shitload. Men also like to feast their eyes by closely examining a boy's sopping open pussyhole, once they've shot their gloop and have withdrawn their softening dicks from the pulsating love-tunnel with a wet 'pop'. Your bum-cheeks won't snap back together like a bubble-butt often does, so the men can gaze in awe as man-spooge, mixed with your abundant arse-juice, trickles from that gaping crimson crater, to flow down between your cheeks, over your wet perimeum, and onto your little scrotum and inner thighs, and from there to puddle beneath you. Many men will take to lapping greedily at the erotic goo-cocktail seeping from the tender puffed-lips of your gyrating love-cup as well, just when you thought it was all over bar the post-fuck kissing and licking their slimy wet cocks clean for them.

…Mmmm… I never realised my ass-pussy could attract men so much, Mr Narrator.

Attract? It's like your cunt-hole is crying out for men's ministrations wherever you go, David… telling them it needs attention of the wet-tongue, four-fingers, and vigorous bumming kind. Your seductive bottom is like a shining beacon to boy-lovers everywhere... an irresistible jail-bait siren luring men to sail recklessly all the way into the narrow love-channel between your splayed legs. A bum like yours will drive men insane with obsessive desire, so that they'll even wish they could climb inside and live there, and some men you meet will try to do just that. Never mind 'bubble-butt' dear boy, you have a 'come-and-fuck-me-butt', which is much, much rarer and far more prized. Simply put, with your stunning innocent looks, your delectable cocksucker mouth, that charming miniature cocklet, and your easily accessible 'come-and-fuck-me-butt', you have all the makings of a highly desirable catamite, David.

…Oh… um… that's nice to know… I think… Thanks Mr Narrator, but… what's a… er… cat… um…

I know, David. Being a catamite is something which, in a perfect world, all little boys would secretly aspire to as an important part of their classical education... and gentlemen of good character, well-versed in the ancient ways, desire a catamite, such as you, as the 'ultimate'… the icing on the cake… the jewel in the crown. A catamite is a 'kept' boy… almost always available for tuition in the art of boylove, who feels a natural and urgent need to throw his body-and-soul into the pleasure and teachings of his sagacious mentor, day and night, 24/7, come rain or come shine, anywhere and… oh bollocks… you get my drift?

...Oooh… I'd love to be a catamite then, sir.

And so you shall be one day very soon, David, though sadly, you'll have to keep popping off to school and to your home to show your face. But fortunately, your sexual patron will be generous to a fault with his friends so that he'll share your favours with lots of other civilised boy-bumming studs who will keep you busy in every opened lovehole, to show you how 'practice makes perfect', stretching your limits and heightening your rapture to such a pitch that you'll scream at them never to stop, while at the same time you'll be desperately trying to milk all of them dry, as only a wanton and agile, 11 year old boy, can.

…Oh good… Wow, I can't wait! I want my sore bumhole to be better real soon, so I can get started quickly at both ends, and I'll certainly give being a catamite my best shot, sir... taking all the men's best shots, I hope… um… Have we told the nice handsome readers everything they need to know about what I look like now, Mr Narrator?

I think they have enough for their mind's eyes to work on for now David, and when you begin telling your story, we can fill in the rest as we go along… you know… things like what the moist love-valley and those pussylips nestling between your shapely orbs taste like... and the flavour of those bounteous juices inside your boy-heaven, and so on.

…But I can't reach to taste them… I've tried sir… I've got some idea from licking my fingers though.

Of course, you can't taste them at source... you're not a contortionist, though I do grant you are extremely supple, even more so than lithe young boys normally are. But men will be licking ambrosia and drinking boy-nectar straight from your most private place almost every day and sometimes several times a day, so that I, as the narrator, will be able to describe the delightful aromas and the tang of the succulent sauce those men will devour when your luscious bum is cheek-to-cheek with them on both sides of their face, so to speak. That's how it works, David… we narrators have always been shamefully underrated.

…I don't underrate you, Mr Narrator. You've been very helpful, sir… How should I start my story, please?

Hmm… I've been giving that some thought, David. Perhaps it would first be a good idea for you to give the readers an account of your life up to now… things like your earlier sexual encounters and how you felt about them… and the events which steered you to what you are today, a ravishing little slut-boy on the verge of greatness. Your account could go up to where you finally lost your cherry last night which will bring us completely up-to-date… only this time you can also tell the readers all about what happened once you'd stopped complaining and then loosened-up so that Gerry could proceed to shove his huge prick all the way in, to finish the job. Giving an account of your earlier life may be tiresome for you and some others, even with the occasional juicy bit, but it will give those who are truly interested in you a better idea of how you came to be a successful boy-bitch, while the gentlemen who don't wish to know such things can skip that part… until you begin telling of your amorous activities as they're going to be from now on, and for a good many years.

…Oh… OK… um… Can I ask a question first? It's nothing to do with sex stuff... I'm just confused.

Certainly you can, David… I'm always here to help you.

…Well… I just don't understand what I'm supposed to be right now… Like, everyone still calls me a 'little boy', and I know that men who like to roger my mouth and bonk my ass are called 'boy-lovers', and yet I'm a 'young man' now aren't I? As far as I'm concerned, I've been a young man almost all my life, but no-one can seem to see it but me. What am I, Mr Narrator, please?

That's a tricky question to answer, David… it's all about perceptions I suppose. That could be a good thing to include in your story somewhere. Why don't you tell the readers your feelings… sort of a discussion about the status of your manhood, or your boyhood, whichever you think it is at the moment? You can jump back and forth in time and all over the place if you feel like it… the story is yours, so tell it in your own way, and if it bores the readers to tears, they can skip through to the next jerk-off bit. The cranky old man on the other side has been doing that for years.

…But what about the big words, Mr Narrator, and my spelling mistakes and things? Will you fix them sir, please?

That's easily taken care of David… you tell your story in your own words, and with your own awful spelling, and I'll use my spellchecker and do some mild editing before we allow the gentlemen readers sight of your tale. God knows, they must all surely understand an 11 year old boy with sore red bum-lips has his literary limitations? …even we grown-ups do, with our over-wanked dicks. I should be able to decipher your meaning and substitute more suitable words and grammar as I peruse, to make your story a little more intelligible.

…But you won't censor me, will you Mr Narrator? …Like, cut out the dirty bits or anything? You see I… I want these nice men... through their imaginations... to use me for themselves; pumping me hard and filling me with their scalding man-cream too... deep inside of me... sort of feeling it spurting into me at both ends... my bowel and stomach impregnated with their living sperm... imagine... all over the world... wherever boy-lovers are lonely or afraid, I could be there for them, with them and holding their hands through my story... and I'd like it to be as real as it can be, so that they can see me as their own little boy, who loves them and who craves their love in return, and needs their man-cocks put to my eager, lithe nakedness... imagine... I can kiss them, and hug them, and hold myself open and exposed for them... trembling with anticipation and nervous energy... vulnerable and ready for mounting, to be pinned down with no escape, even if I wanted to escape... imagine... vigorously sodomising me, their thick pounding love-rods driving relentlessly into my tight boy-fanny, making me their very own little catamite... the one they've always wanted and haven't yet found ... placed in any posture and shagged mercilessly, my whole body shuddering as they powerfully slam into my slippery willing tunnel with their throbbing slick meat... imagine... moving me around into impossible positions, like I'm a bendy rag-doll, to forcefully enter my narrow squelchy hole in every way they could wish for, over and over, mashing into me balls-deep, and grinding their coarse pubic hair against my soft, smooth cheeks... ignoring my groans, and making my aching rectum work harder for them, humping-back to meet their thrusting fleshy cudgels while our pelvises collide… imagine… kissing me all-over and licking at my boy-sweat, their manhood riding my mouth to the hilt, with their heavy ballsacks bouncing on my face… then bumming me to nirvana as I yelp and writhe in ecstasy... so that they breed me and become a part of me forever, like all the other men... They have to be able to see me the same way as Gerry sees me, Mr Narrator, when he gasps in veneration, while he's staring into my cum-filled gaping boyhole... imagine... so steamy and raw, and so slimy with all that fresh man-spunk and unsullied boy-juice in there... dilated and hollow, after a man's big dick has been pistoning in and out me non-stop for over an hour, so that they can see all the way in, where the man sank his tumescent love-truncheon into the core of my being... imagine... all the nice gentlemen gazing right up inside of me through my open red ring, and watching my living, pulsating soul, yearning for them to join with me, to unite together as one... rooting deep into my quivering boycunt, flooding me with their virile seed, and everyone knowing that I belong to them now too... like it was always meant to be... Yeah... so right………… just imagine...

Good heavens, David... You really are a passionate little cum-slut when you're playing with your cocklet, aren't you... but so lovely with it. Just relax and breathe deeply for a moment, you poor darling... at least you don't need a tissue... um... You know, there's an awful lot of men out there reading about you, David... thousands of them probably... and I seriously doubt you could take them all... well, not all at the same time anyway, though I should think it would be very entertaining watching you try... very nice indeed. Of course I won't censor your story. The dirty bits are what the readers mainly come here for, and they'd never forgive me if I cut-out anything even slightly risqué. I'd have my lifetime subscription to Nifty revoked, and quite rightly so, if I denied these gentlemen their jack-off material. Are you feeling better now, dear?

…Yes, I think so... Thanks Mr Narrator… um… I'm sorry, I get carried away when I play with my willy sometimes... It just felt so good while I was rubbing it, and even better when I started twitching, just before my legs buckled and I nearly passed-out. Shall we count to three and then I begin telling my story sir?

If you like David. Let's both count together, shall we?

…Ok then, ready sir? Here we go…

Onnnne… Twoooooo… thr…


Arghh! …Oh God, another day… Fuck!

I really must buy myself a new alarm clock… I'm not sure my nerves can take much more of this one each morning. It's more like waking up to 'Big Ben' every day… 'Big Ben' the clock, I mean… not 'Big Ben' the man. If I could wake up next to 'Big Ben' the man once again I'd be more than happy.

Ah, Big Ben… He must have been in his early 40's when I was 11, and he was very big... Bless him, he's still hanging on as far as I'm aware, waiting to be 'gathered' …in a nursing home somewhere in Surrey, I believe. The last I heard he was reverting back to his childhood, poor thing… having to wear incontinence pants and not even knowing what day it is most of the time. Still, it comes to us all I suppose, though I don't quite see myself ever getting that bad.

I wonder what day it is?


Will young David ever begin telling his story? ....(not at this rate, it seems)... Will Mr Narrator be tempted to make a narcissistic proposition to little David? ...(well, wouldn't you?)... Come to think of it, will little David make a pass at Mr Narrator? ...(dream on, Mr Narrator)... Will the cranky old man maintain some semblance of keeping his marbles until the end? ...(I certainly hope so)... We'll just have to wait and see, won't we?

Don't miss the next exciting chapter

David, a Boy of Pleasure
dry-cumming to a Nifty mirror site
near you soon!

* Please! Oh, I Yflames too J,