Diary of a Shota Boy - Part 3

by

Cosmo

Part 3: Strange Bedfellows

So now you know the type of shenanigans that went on in the Saxon Club. That episode with Chip and the two Russian sailors was not common, but it was a good example of the 'anything goes' mind-set of the place, and it was easy to see why it attracted all the pervs and boyfuckers. As a shota boy, I was used to dealing with them. I met all sorts of shady types. I'd been doing it for nearly two years and I had learned a few things about people in that time. I knew that most of them were basically selfish and corrupt. At any rate the ones I mixed with. But then, this WAS Verolino. Verolino was renowned for it's hedonism and self-indulgence. It was full of the worst that Europe had to offer. When the rest of Europe was being ruled by an array of repressive regimes, who all seemed to spring up around the same time, and began to impose draconian laws against any type of unorthodox activity, where do you think all the pimps and drug-pushers went? Anybody who wanted to carry on their illicit little activities all escaped to Verolino, where pretty much anything was still allowed. So Verolino was chock full of the undesirables of Europe. That was why Guus came to Verolino. Apparently he was convicted of running a boy bordello back in Amsterdam. There were some things even the Dutch wouldn't tolerate - and that was a country where the courts allowed a pretty wide interpretation on the age of consent - so it was inevitable perhaps that he ended up in the only place in Europe where he could operate his established business model quite freely.

To be fair to him, Guus was quite an astute businessman. He operated the Saxon Club as something of a cross between a maison close and a maison de passe. That is, he kept all the admission fees that the clients paid, and it was a significant amount. Rightly so. It was designed to discourage casual browsers and the just plain nosey. The admission fee showed that you had to be serious if you wanted to come in. But we shota boys had plenty of opportunity to milk the clients further once they were inside. There was none of that euphemistic 'look but don't touch' nonsense here. It was accepted that the clients wanted to touch you. They could feel us up quite freely. We made plenty of tips just by parading around naked on the Club floor. The punters stuffed bills into your arm-strap for nothing other than because they liked the look of you. If you were an experienced shota boy, and you knew what you were doing, you could earn enough just from doing that. If they groped you or jerked you off on the Club floor, that was almost the equivalent of spending the night with a single client. But if we did take a trick up to our room, Guus also kept a portion of that transaction. I thought that was quite fair. After all, we lived on the premises. He provided our accommodation, and he fed us. As I said, it was a nice arrangement, so we had nothing to complain about. We were free to keep pretty much everything else we made. Not that there was much to spend it on. Verolino was surrounded, and it was too dangerous even to venture outside the compound of the hotel. I kept most of my dosh. I stashed it away, perhaps waiting for the day when I would finally get to spend it.

Did I like my work? Sure I did. At any rate, I was proud of my exploits as a shota boy. I knew I was good at it too. Or so I'd been told. I had a reputation for being one of the best. Truthfully, there wasn't much that really threw me. Nothing freaked me out or fazed me. Whatever perved-out little peccadilloes the clients wanted to engage in, I was usually game. I had learned one thing in my time as a shota boy: that guys were basically ruled by their dicks and would go to great lengths to satisfy whatever erection-induced little cravings they had, and to obey the little sex-devil inside their heads that was relentlessly aggravating that festering itch that drove them to repeatedly seek the fleeting nirvana of blowing their loads in some hot, tight little boycunt. That craving would lead them to want to stick their dicks in the strangest of places. I should know. I had had spunk deposited in and on just about every part of my body, not just the usual areas, my crotch, my face, my chest, my butt, but practically everywhere else too, including my armpits, my feet, my hair and even my ears. Yeah, that's right, my ears.

I had also learned a thing or two about spunk. I had sucked so many cocks and swallowed so much spunk that you might say I had become something of a spunk connoisseur. I could write you a whole treatise on spunkology. And why not? Spunk was a magical substance - drawn from deep within the most intimate places of a guy's body, the byproduct of every good session, and the inevitable evidence of a good fuck brought to an appropriate and fitting conclusion. It was the anticipated finale, the pop of the cork of a good champagne, almost mimicking the overflowing effervescence of it's release, the burn of a good workout, the highest note on the piano keyboard, the fanfare that signaled arrival, the climax of the pyrotechnic extravaganza, the pinnacle of ecstasy that could only be achieved by that ephemeral peep into that boyfuck nirvana that all my tricks had the privilege of experiencing. All too quickly it was gone. And all that was left was the copious liquid emission from their brief visit to the heights of pedo heaven. Spunk was the fruit of their endeavors; the incidental consequence of their energetic thrusting; the residue of their magical, fleeting encounter with me.

So how do you become a spunk connoisseur? By tasting as many different kinds of spunk as possible, that's how. By sucking as many different cocks as possible, and by savoring every one of them. I didn't just swallow straight away, impetuously digesting their seed into my stomach as soon as it came out. No way. That would be a waste. It had to be enjoyed while it was still warm. I would hold it on my tongue, roll it around my mouth, feel its consistency, detect the heady flavors which ranged from the chemically, oily kind, to the strongly flavored salty, seasoned connotations, to those that were just plain weak and floral. Then there were those that tasted clean and healthy, and then of course there were the clear, watery varieties from the younger boys. Kiddiecum was the best. Certainly the sweetest and least offensive. I should know. I've tasted my own clear kidspunk, and it's the best. The only problem with kiddiecum, like mine, is that there was never very much of it. But it made up in taste for what it lacked in volume.

My favorite of all was Ten's spunk. I had tasted Ten's spunk quite a few times. He spunked up a lot. If we worked him up over a long time, and we built up to it, he'd have a good reserve accumulated, just bursting for release, and when that beautiful cock of his let go, it was spectacular, a real gusher that squirted everywhere at tremendous force. His cum tasted great. It always did when the boy was good looking. Ten's spunk had a slightly metallic undertaste, but it was always hot, very white and very sticky, thick and globular. It filled your mouth with a substantial gooiness that was a pleasure to feel sliding down your throat. Better than vanilla pudding.

As for Chip, I knew his little cock didn't spunk up yet. Doubtful his little balls would have anything in them for a while yet. But when that pretty little body finally started up production, I wanted to be the first to swallow its offerings. His kiddiecum was going to be delicious. I couldn't wait to taste the fruit of his little balls - when that pretty cock of his finally spewed forth, I wanted my lips to be around it. I bet Chip's kiddiespunk was going to taste just like he looked - heavenly!

I had also studied the myriad ways that spunk came out. This magical substance was ejected in pleasurable release in as many ways as there were stars in the sky. It was quite spectacular to witness. Sometimes it merely trickled out, sometimes it was ejected in a few muted little squirts, sometimes in graceful arcs. But at others it gushed like a fountain, disintegrating into little droplets that peppered my smooth young body like a little shower of rain. It sometimes came out in strong, forceful jets that could reach up to several feet away, so that some guys could squirt it into their own faces if they wanted, or even above their heads or over their shoulders. Sometimes it would come out in big elongated gobs that landed in little puddles at your feet. If it was particularly loose and watery, you could sometimes hear the splashes as the little spunk jets hit the tiled floor.

The other fascinating thing about spunk, when it wasn't in my mouth, was it's color and consistency, which again varied a great deal. It ranged from the clear, watery varieties, like the kidspunk I was so fond of, and was so colorless it literally resembled warm spit, through to the thin whitish liquid type which looked for all intents just like milk, going on to the slightly more substantial consistencies which resembled more of a creamy, custard-like substance. That graduated up towards the type that had a little more viscosity and was so thick that it clung in loose gobs to your lips and chin, and even thicker than that so that it was sometimes so stringy and gelatinous it clumped together in your mouth like wallpaper paste.

Anyhow, that's how you become a spunk connoisseur. You learn from experience to distinguish the different varieties, and recognize the unique and distinct connotations of each. It's exactly the same as wine tasting. I had read about wine tasting. You take the time to appreciate it and savor it - the only thing I didn't do was spit it out. No sir. I ALWAYS swallow.

Of course, my experience made me something of an authority on cocks as well. Men's dicks were a whole subject in themselves. It never ceased to amaze me how many oddball perky pricks and other strange bedfellows I came across. Men's dicks were such marvelous devices, especially in the way they magically transformed from shriveled little acorns into magnificent rampant beasts. It was amazing how they became so firm and engorged, and how they grew in length and girth, elevating upwards so gracefully like a flower seeking the sun, but also in what they were capable of doing. These magical accoutrements were the source of all men's pleasure, as well as their means of procreation. It was still something of a mystery to me how cocks worked. How was it possible that these magnificent appendages could induce such pleasure? I never tired of watching how a cock, given enough stimulation, could be ushered into such a state of arousal that it literally would go out of its head, enter this ephemeral state of ecstatic seizure and pulse so incredibly that it would literally spit out such vast quantities of spunk, not just in one squirt, but in a whole series of squirts. It was quite the most amazing sight, which I never grew tired of witnessing.

The way a cock spunked was almost as individual as the cock itself. They seemed to have their own personalities, as unique and disparate as the personalities they were attached to. They genuinely did have individual personas. Some were proudly tumescent, stiffly straining upwards with great strength and virility; others were simply long and perpendicular, sticking out like some cocked gun. Some were curved, with graceful inflections that made the little eye in the head point upwards. Others seemed to be lopsided and leaned to one side when erect. I soon found out that these cockeyed cocks were not at all compromised in performance. In fact, it was interesting to see them eject their spunk somewhere off to the side. Some had large heads, big mushroom cap heads that flared over the shaft, looking almost like they could plug any tight orifice, like some fearsome organic plunger. Others had small heads, unobtrusive little conical caps that gave them the appearance of being pointed and streamlined, perfect for fucking into tight little holes.

Then of course there was the cut/uncut comparisons. Most guys, I noticed, came down firmly in either one camp or the other, depending on what type they had and what they had heard. I had heard all the arguments and could only conclude that there were probably advantages and disadvantages to both. I had no real preference, except that the cut ones were of more fascination to me simply because they were so unlike my own. But for giving head, I definitely preferred the cut ones. Even an experienced shota boy in the throes of deep-throating someone could administer the odd involuntary nip on a loose foreskin. In the heat of the moment, I had done that many times. Accidentally of course. Most of the time it was a cock-deflator, guaranteed to cause its owner to utter some terse obscenity and withdraw fairly sharpish from whatever welcoming orifice his cock had been buried in. But not always. There was one trick who discovered he liked it. I accidentally nicked his foreskin as he impetuously stabbed into my mouth, just as he was cumming, and he said it made him cum even harder. I guess there's no accounting for diversity.

The other way I judged a guy's dick was by how clean it was and whether he took good care of it. It was easy to distinguish those who valued their dicks and treated them with the respect they deserved. But there was always a small minority who didn't care. I could easily identify those who didn't care for their dicks because they didn't wash. I was wise to them. I knew what was going through their minds. They thought I was a worthless little fuckboy who was there to be used and abused, to service their dicks and deserved no respect in return. Wrong. I may have been a fuckboy, and sure, sometimes I did feel pretty worthless - when I was dripping with sweat, covered in cum and reeking of sex, yeah I did feel pretty degraded. I may have been willing to take their cock in every hole, and submit my body to just about every demeaning sex act their perved-out pedo minds could concoct, but that didn't mean I didn't have my standards. They thought I didn't care what I put in my mouth or up my bum? Think again. I was actually very discerning. Guus insisted that all his boys had good hygiene and were scrupulously clean. For our part, Guus always insisted that our holes were clean and well cared for before any client could stick their dicks up there. He gave us special cleanser, and always reminded us to make sure our bowels were empty before we started work. We cared for our holes using antiseptic cream and special oils that kept them moist and pliable, and eternally ready to stretch out around some sexed up rampant cock, endure a punishingly stiff fuck and accommodate whatever load was deposited deep within it. I cared for my hole religiously. It was the focus of my nightly exploits, along with my dick, so it deserved special attention. I always ate lightly, avoided anything that gave me gas, and always emptied my bowels before work. I was very clean and quite meticulous. I wasn't willing to wrap my mouth around any dirty old cock, no sir. So if they ever whipped their dick out and it was caked in cream cheese, it wouldn't get past MY lips. If they thrust that yogurt-squirter into my face and it was smelling of fish paste, they would be in for something of a disappointment.

Pet hates? Well, there were some things that really did nothing for me: tricks who couldn't get it up or keep it up, or who couldn't cum even when it was up, usually because of drugs or alcohol. The one thing I did resent was when a client had had too much of the sauce, or whatever other illegal substances happened to be in the offing, and were so whizzed out of their face that they banged hell out of my butt for ages trying to get their cock to spunk up, when in reality it had given up the ghost. Some would go on interminably, roughly manhandling me and sticking it to me in the most ungainly and sometimes violent fashion, reluctant to abort the mission. They would try desperately to shove their load into me by any old means, and would hammer my chute raw in their endeavors. Honestly, some guys just didn't know when to give up. The most frustrating thing about that was that they then had the sheer brass balls to blame ME! As though I was somehow responsible for not being able to bring them off. What kind of kackminded fuckology was that? Like I wasn't SEXY enough, or what? More likely the sauce distorted their savvy of what they were actually capable of. Like, guys who normally never touched fuckboy ass suddenly turned into pedo of the year and were somehow magically transformed into the most luscious boyfuck machine ever created, and thought they were so fucking incredible that every fuckboy from sea to shining sea secretly pulled their little todgers fantasizing about getting that monster twelve inch boy-batterer forcibly shoved up their fuckholes in the most undignified way. Gimme a break. The only thing we fuckboys ever fantasized about was a good night's sleep.

The other thing I really couldn't stand were the boyfuck virgins, i.e. those who had never had the privilege of dipping their wick in fuckboy ass. You could always tell the boyfuck virgins. For one thing their movements were tentative and hesitant, and even when they did coax their rampant boy-plungers out of their pants, they didn't quite know what to do with them. They would usually have this look of perved-out confusion in their eyes, totally overcome by the sheer wonder of actually getting to fuck a luscious piece of fuckboy ass - which for some of them was like their lifetime ambition or something. When they finally did close in to insert it into you, they would go looking for your boycunt in the strangest of places. I mean, surely they knew where their own fuckholes were. Like, did these guys think we were a different SPECIES for chrissakes?

Apart from that, generally speaking, I could handle pretty much everything else. What any trick wanted to do was between me and them, and their little foibles could range from having a favorite position, to playing out some kind of pervy fantasy. You always came cross strange requests as a shota boy. And the funny thing is, it wasn't just the clients. Invariably I fucked about with some of the other shota boys as well. We were always in and out of one another's rooms, and by implication, in and out of one another's butts too.

Take Dax for example. Dax was only a few months younger than me, but so much smaller in stature. He was quite slim, some might say almost too skinny. But I didn't think he was too skinny - his slimness was part of his attraction. He was very lean and still at the stage of growing where he had not yet accumulated a trace of fat on his lithe and compact frame. Sure, he sometimes looked like he could do with a good meal, but that was because Dax was either bulimic or he took laxatives to keep his system flushed. Maybe both, I'm not sure. I doubt he ever felt the benefit of anything he ate because hardly anything ever stayed inside him long enough. His complexion was always white and pasty, and he always had dark rings around his eyes. He sometimes looked quite frail and weak, like he wasn't getting any nourishment at all. That, coupled with the fact that he chain smoked and took speed or PCP or whatever was going. Dax was very wiry by nature, and would have had a very slight composition even if he wasn't underweight. He had long, languorous limbs, with legs that were incredibly shapely and beautiful. His hips were narrow and his tummy was almost concave, so that you could see the lean musculature of his composition beneath that pale white skin. His face was pretty, yet always sad, with an incredibly thick mop of unruly hair that was an odd teal color, and flopped about his ears in lank little waves. His gray eyes were big, round and inquisitive, but always longing. The most incredible thing about Dax, however, was that for such a slight, wiry little guy, he had an enormous cock. In its aroused state, it was inordinately large for such a small boy. When erect, it was like some wayward accoutrement that seemed to take on a personality of its own, waving about in his crotch like some big fat probe, ready to be inserted into some tight cavity that urgently needed plugging. I wouldn't have minded having it in me, tell you the truth. Alas, he never fucked me. Dax was essentially an uke boy and generally took what was given to him.

Yet, despite his apparent frailty, Dax could take extraordinary punishment. He seemed to almost welcome the hurters and the clients who got off on hearing little shota boys squealing with pain. They liked Dax because he wanted to be hurt. It was like he needed it. I was amazed by the amount of punishment that boy could endure. It was not only the extremes of pain that he could undergo, but also the length of the protracted sessions he afforded his clients. They could be with him for hours, tying him down, stuffing ballgags into his mouth, sticking thick dildos up his boycunt, attaching nipple clamps, dripping hot candle wax onto his hairless balls. With Dax, just about anything was acceptable. And if there was no likeminded client, he would invite one of the other shota boys to oblige.

Many times Dax had invited me to whip his butt real hard, so that the blows caused dark red raised welts on his flawless skin, sometimes so hard and deep that the bright red lines on his white skin were actually oozing blood. I don't know how his young, frail, slight little body withstood such punishment. I asked him about it once, because I couldn't really understand why he liked the pain. I could see the attraction in mild bondage, a little restraint and perhaps a hint of forced sex or reluctance was vaguely stimulating, but outright physical punishment, with the objective of causing real pain and suffering, was anathema to me. He said he couldn't get off without it. I remember the way his dull gray eyes looked at me, with that resigned expression that told me he knew I would never understand and he simply said 'There's no hope for me.' I remember thinking how sad that was, before he handed me the little leather cat o' nine tails and insisted I hit him with it as hard as I could. He told me to use as much force as I could muster. He must have seen the look of revulsion in my face because he added 'The harder you hit me, the harder I'll cum.' So I did. I brought that leather cat down on his boyish skin with a small hop and jump from across the room, swinging my arm up in a big arc, and using my whole upper body to bring the full force of the blow down on his little body, at that moment crouched on the bed with his knees splayed and his head down. The crack was tangible, loud and sharp, and he winced and froze at each one, trembling from the pain it induced, and at the same time he was jacking that pretty dick of his. The harder I hit him, the faster he jacked, and he wanted me to hit him faster and harder until he was ready to cum. What a way to masturbate, I thought. What shocked me perhaps more than anything, was that I severely underestimated how many blows this was going to take. I thought maybe ten or twenty, because anything more than that was going to rip his butt to shreds. Well when we got up to about thirty, I lost count, but it must have been maybe double that before his fist jacked back and forth along his shaft at a pace that foretold of his impending orgasm, and he started pleading with me 'Harder, harder,' as he increased his pace and his body at last entered pleasurable release. I must have whacked him maybe three or four more times even while his body was consumed by a tortuous, shuddering orgasm, wracked with pleasure and pain, and he emitted a low, guttural growl as he was cumming. His spunk was copious and liberal, and the big, thick globs fell onto the bedclothes between his knees in a pure white glutinous mess. For such a young, slight, underfed boy, he sure spunked up a hefty load. It was difficult to believe his somewhat immature little body could ever produce cum in such quantities. But it did. Perhaps that was testament to what a good job I'd done. I hoped so. That aspiration was vindicated when Dax turned and stared up at me, red faced, sweaty and looking slightly oppressed, his gray eyes moist with tears, and said meekly 'Thanks, I needed that.'

I never did get to understand the association with pain. I just accepted it as part of the inevitable hazards of being a shota boy. You just had to expect that you were bound to be asked to do stuff like that. Just like any other job, there were always aspects of it that you didn't enjoy. But what can you do? You have to take the rough with the smooth and just get on with it.

As far as I recall, there was only one trick that ever made me seriously hesitate. Let me tell you what happened. It sticks in my mind for a very good reason. It happened not so long ago. I remember it well because it was the first time I ever hesitated when negotiating with one of my tricks. Even then, it was only a momentary hesitation which I overruled almost immediately. He was a man in his late 30s, still at his peak, with dark eyes and a lean, muscled body, well kept hair and classic facial features. He was handsome in his own way. He was nice enough, although fairly typical in some ways because you could detect the distraction in his eyes as we were negotiating the transaction. I could tell he was only interested in the rudiments of sticking his dick into my prepubescent shota boy cunt, and all the time we were talking the look in his eyes was transmitting 'I'm gonna blow such a big load in you fuckboy'. All had proceeded smoothly up to that point, until he decided to unilaterally shift the parameters slightly by adding his own condition to our arrangement - he wanted his son to watch while he fucked me. That threw me. I hesitated slightly, and even as I balked at his suggestion, he unpeeled a further crispy bill from the wad of greenbacks in his hand, and I decided to make no issue. Once I had accepted his Judas offering, it was too late to raise objections.

I almost regretted it. By the time we were inside the room and I saw how young the boy was, I was committed. Not that I was averse to a little 10 year old boy watching. Chip was 10 and was as sexualized as it was possible to be, but this little boy didn't have Chip's knowingness. There was a bright-eyed, fresh-faced innocence about this boy that told me he did not belong in this place, and it was almost as though he didn't deserve the dubious obligation of being a spectator as his father brutally fucked his cock into a boy only a couple of years older than him.

During our session, he fucked very efficiently and pneumatically, even kissing me on the back of the neck as he was slipping his thick, well oiled shaft in and out of my boycunt. He rocked me violently with the impetuosity of his pursuit, eager to bust his load in me, and he was muttering dirty talk into the back of my head. Somewhere off to the side, I could see the little boy sitting there watching from across the room, half fascinated, half scared by the seemingly oppressive and sometimes violent act of his father forcing that big dick up into me, bending me over and slamming into me for what seemed like ages. And as he was doing it he was cursing and swearing, as though that was going to make him cum even harder. He was saying things like 'Yeah, take that dick you dirty lil cunt…' and 'Gonna bust your lil fanny wide open…' and stuff like that. I didn't mind dirty talk. I didn't charge any extra for verbal abuse, that was an occupational hazard, but I'd never heard my boyhole being referred to as a fanny before. That was a new one on me. Then, when he was getting closer, he ratcheted up the excitement a little with 'Gonna fill your lil sluthole…' So it was a sluthole now? Whatever next? Then, as he was cumming, he slammed into me one last time and froze, his enormous dick lodged deep into me, and he barked out a strangulated 'Oh baby boy, take my daddy cum!' So I had started out as a dirty little cunt, he had busted my fanny and filled my sluthole and once the reward of cumming up my butt had ameliorated his desire, suddenly he was my daddy and I had graduated to being his baby boy. He was full of compliments for sure.

When it was over, he pulled his big dick out, and there was an audible pop. His well greased member was still tumescent with lust, and he was smiling, pleased with himself, or perhaps cruelly amused by the fact that he knew he had hurt me. I wasn't looking too happy because my little snatch was stinging, but I bore it and said nothing. As soon as he unplugged his still tumescent cock from my butt, a stream of pure white spunk trickled out. He had sure injected a hefty serving into me. The warm liquid tickled a bit as it ran down the insides of my bare thighs. He saw that and a self-satisfied smirk crept across his lips. He glanced over at the boy, still sitting there obediently, just to make sure he had seen it. Perhaps this was his initiation, I speculated, as I set about wiping down my crotch with a towel. Perhaps he was grooming the boy. Maybe that little 10 year old would eventually fulfill the role of cumdump for his daddy's rampant cock. I don't know why, but the thought of that little boy being utterly corrupted actually turned me on. Perhaps because he was so cute. I wouldn't have minded giving him a few lessons in boylove myself.

As we finished up, I gathered up my clothes and we both got dressed with a minimum of formality. He pulled his clothes back on with an air of accomplishment, and then took the boy by the hand and left. Not even a thank you. That was disappointing, but typical. Once their dicks had been satisfied, it was unusual to receive any hint of gratitude. There was never an acknowledgement for the efforts expended, or the pain endured, or even just for the quality of the service. Oh well, in this trade there were no customs to be observed. Indeed, in the life of a shota boy, the normal social formalities didn't really apply.

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