David, a Boy of Pleasure
By David Desiree
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
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
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
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
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.
note: especially the americans, you stuffed shirt limey! lol
Let me see… um… I need a really good beginning to this story… Ah, I
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…
…Is anybody here?
…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
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?
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,
…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
…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
...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
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
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
…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
…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
…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
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?
the next exciting chapter
David, a Boy of Pleasure
dry-cumming to a Nifty mirror
near you soon!
* Please! Oh, I Yflames