Date: Thu, 3 Aug 2006 22:44:53 -0700 (PDT) From: Red Head Subject: P.E. Nisley and His Epicurean Appetites 2 Disclaimer: This story is fictional, entirely within the realm of fantasy. The author knows very well that a boy is not capable of consent, so sex between men and boys is rightfully illegal. Note to readers: Send me feedback! This is my first story, and I need motivation to finish it. redhead_1829@yahoo.com P. E. Nisley and His Epicurean Appetites 2 So I was beginning to think that this had been a one-time thing. Try as I might, I couldn't get anyone to obey my thoughts anymore. I tried to get the hot girl at work to flash me, but she just kept filing papers. I tried to get my son to make me French toast, and he kept on reading his damn Harry Potter novel. What a freaking shame! Isn't that just Murphy's Law? The one time you can get somebody to do whatever you want, and for some bizarre reason all you wanna do is perv on little boys. There was money to be made, women to be manipulated, who knows what else? And I was ogling an eighth graders butt. Figures. Life went on. It was three days after my encounter with Kev, and Jan and I were setting up a barbeque. The boys -- their names are Bobby and Dylan, by the way (we were "tangled up in blue" when we named them) -- were playing a game of ping pong on our outdoor table. This was my second encounter with my strange superpowers, and it was a memorable occasion indeed. Zoom in. Bratwurst on the grill. Thick, firm meat, dripping with beads of sizzling fluid. Swelling sausage, enveloped in flame. Flesh bursting out, tearing the skin. Cooked to the point of perfection, ready to be encased in toasted buns, white buns that struggle to enclose those luscious juices. But enough about brats. Let's get to the sex, eh? All in good time. I'm cooking bratwurst on the grill, and shouting encouragement to my sons between points. My wife is setting the porch table gracefully, reaching with long arms to unfurl the umbrella. It is summer, and we are happy. Past transgressions have blown over; suspected lies have been forgotten; face has effectively been saved. Moments like this are rare and priceless -- to the man who longs for freedom, nothing is quite so freeing as a chosen ball and chain. I am blissfully ignorant of the challenges before me, poor schmuck that I am. I just flip my sausages. Fate can take care of the rest. And fate does, as it happens. So now we are sitting down to a nice meal. I give a prayer of thanks, Bobby gives a belch of pleasure, and Jan gives him a look of pure terror. Dylan giggles. Preliminaries dispensed with, we begin to eat. -- Damned if I'm having potato salad, I offer. Fill me up on bratwurst. Jan smiles disapprovingly. -- I swear, if you damn my potato salad again, you got another thing comin, Mister! -- I got another thing comin, Jannie? Awww, you didn't tell me you were pregnant! -- Now, don't you let these boys get the wrong idea, Red. I'm not pregnant, boys. Just a bit ... chubby. -- You call that chubby, babe? I flirt. Brittany Spears would die for abs like yours. We eat and talk, and eat and tease, and I eat three delicious brats along the way. After about twenty minutes, we sit in a food-induced stupor. I feel a little strange, but nothing that beer and bratwurst can't explain. A hand touches my leg, and I turn to look at Bobby. -- Dad, can we go inside and watch the Cubs game? Damn, but that boy is looking pretty! Uh-oh. -- Er, um, boys, listen to your mother, I managed. I pull my eyes away from Bobby, only the find the boyish, adorable face of my eight-year old, Dylan. Why on earth are they wearing shirts, I wonder. Where in the world did we get that disgusting custom from? -- Sure, boys. Jan says. Bring in your plates! They and their cute butts dash inside. Jan and I sure produced some fetching bits of boyflesh. Hehe! I am thinking this way about my own sons. God. Help. Me. Jan goes inside to clean up dinner, and none to soon. I immediately unzip my shorts, dip a finger in, and start caressing my balls. Where is Kev? I wonder. Why did I ever let him leave me? My mind begins to consider the situation at hand. From my perspective, there are several orders of business: 1) Recover Kev's undies. I had, in my staunchy heterosexual zeal, gotten rid of them, tossing them (when no one was looking) into a neighbor's yard. This is no place for such a precious item. 2) Obtain suitable clothing for my boys. All their current clothing makes them look decent, but not appropriately sexy. I've got to get to a computer and order them some wearables. 3) Take care of this massive erection of mine, preferably by depositing my seed in some boy's mouth or bottom. Man, this is fun! Now, let's see. Where did I throw those undies? I'm walking across my backyard to the next, and to the next after that. I see a woman sunbathing in a skimpy bikini on our neighbor's deck, and it's all I can do not to shout for her to put some clothes on. Bikinis are for boys, nitwit. And I am there. My "normal" self would be the definition of paranoid at this point -- I'd be afraid who might see me, whether they'd ask what I am looking for. But fear is a word I've forgotten. The world is my oyster; the world is my fourteen-year-old catamite begging for more. I look through the bushes, under the birch tree. In the flower garden. Under the deck. Nothing. I'm not absolutely that this is the right house; perhaps I should try another. Perhaps I should go back home. Perhaps I should teach my sons a lesson on the ins and outs of fatherly love. I get out from under the deck and hear a voice. -- Whatcha lookin for, Mister? I look around the yard, to no avail. -- Up here, silly. On the deck.' My eyes rise to meet a freckly little redhead. He eyes me curiously, squinting slightly. -- Didja lose something? -- Errr...yeah, little man, I did lose something. Wanna come down and help me find it? -- Sure! I mean, I love looking for stuff. I remember one time when my dad lost his watch and we spent I swear it musta been two full days looking for it. I mean, we stopped to eat and all, but it was fun and I noticed ... His squeaky voice trailed off, as if he were recalling something. -- What did you notice, little man? I asked. -- A-a-are you a neighbor? -- Yes, I live two doors down. See! -- Cool! You're the one with the ping pong table? I love ping pong. I mean, I'm not very good, but my mom says that practice makes perfect and-- -- That's great we'll have to have you over for a tournament sometime. But you were talking about looking for stuff. What did you notice, little man? -- Oh, that. I noticed that when you're looking for one thing, you find all sorts of other things you were also looking for. My name's Critter, by the way. I laughed out loud. -- It fits you, little man. It definitely fits you. The kid cannot stop talking. He is cute as cotton candy. I wonder how old he is. -- I'm twelve in two days, you know. I'd describe him, but you know what he looks like. He is the quintessence of childhood, a little package God fixed up as a sight for His own sore eyes. He keeps delight dangling from his elfin neck, eagerness tangled in his cherry hair, and mischief hidden in his left pocket. Barrie maketh Neverland for such as he. I'd like to see his lost boys. I'd like to grope his Peter Pan. Patience, my libido. Indeed there will be time. -- Hey, big guy. What's your name? -- Name's Christopher Pederast. (I grinned naughtily.) But you can call me `Topher, little man. -- I like the way you call me that. Little man. But you never answered my question, and I don't know what to look for. What did you lose? -- My underwear. I grinned. -- Your what?!? -- OK, not actually my underwear, I've still got these on unfortunately. I lost a pair of boys' underwear, a rather fine pair of boys' underwear. -- Your son's undies? -- Well, no, actually. Belonging to a certain park boy who was quite callipigious. I had a jolly good time getting them off him. --Um, calli-what-ious? -- Cal-lip-idg-ee-ous. It means -- well, first turn around. Mmmmm, nice. You, my good friend, are quite callipigious, even clothed. Callipigious, you see, means having shapely buttocks. -- Buttocks? -- A nice ass -- er, butt. Critter blushed crimson. -- For being so long, that word is awfully naughty, he said. Not nearly so naughty as the things I want to do to you. -- Like what? he asked, almost eagerly. Did I say that aloud? Aieee. -- Never mind, boylips. Let's find these undies. -- Oh, but that's easy. I have them. I couldn't help it; I looked at his middle. -- Not on, silly. They're in the play room. C'mon, I'll show you. I follow him through the basement door. Damn, this place is posh. There are couches and speakers everywhere. Critter got mad cash. He leads me into the "play room." I am greeted by an entertainment system, two computers, three couches, four dart boards, and a pool table. No ping pong, though. How very deprived. Critter goes to one of the couches, and picks up a cushion. I see a S.I. Swimsuit issue, a slew of hardened Kleenex (grin), and -- -- Your undies! See, toldja I had `em. -- I don't know how I can thank you, little man. (Actually, I have a few ideas.) -- You're welcome. One goal down, two to go. I walk up to the computer. -- Mind if I use this for a sec, boylips? -- No prob. I'm gonna stay over here and play Madden. I'm awesome at that game! So I browsed the net for boy accessories, while he yelled and screamed his way to the Super Bowl. I went straight to the sexessories, of course; the internet is full of treasures. A couple Speedos to begin with, neon green and neon pink. A t-shirt that says ... FILLL -- You want some new undies, Critter? -- Uh, yeah, sure. -- You want briefs or boxers? -- Briefs. -- Standard or bikini? -- Hehe. Bikini. -- Loose or form-fitting? -- Huh? -- How shall I put this...do you want them to show off your pecker? For illustration I grabbed my crotch. -- Yeah. You mean, you can see it through the fabric? -- Mmm, hmm. I double-clicked. It's all yours, little man. You'll be the sexiest boy on the block. I lean back in my chair. #1 and #2 accomplished, I have but one more conquest, and this third item on my to-do list I am going to savor. Critter has run back to continue his game. I scratch my chin thoughtfully. I have several ideas of how I can exert my powers of control here, and each of them is quite exciting. The boy has the most adorable voice -- ahhh, yes, I will start my ravishing there. -- Hey Topher! the boy begins. Come watch my game with me. I love football. I don't just play Madden, but I watch it all the time with my dad and -- omygod, have you seen Randy Moss? He is an awesome receiver, and, and, and he is SUCH a hottie! Wide receivers always have the best bodies. I remember going to training camp with my dad once and it is SO cool. On the TV games they always wear pads and stuff, but when they're training they are totally, like, almost naked! Almost nobody wears their shirt, it's so hot, and they wear these little shorts, and there's almost no point because you can see their... Critter blushes crimson. -- What can you see, baby boy? Don't leave me hangin. -- Where their wieners are. -- Does it bulge out, kiddo? You gotta be shittin' me? -- Nahhh. I'm too cute to lie. But I was talking about football. You can see their wieners anyway, and I thought it was funny because you could see them like little packages bounce back and forth when they run. My dad tells me he just likes to watch the football, but I can see him drooling, hehe. I don't blame him either. Dang, those men are soaked in sweat, I love the way the sun reflects off them. I mean, I'm not gay or anything but I guess I do like to look, which I saw about on the Discovery channel is common and doesn't mean anything. -- No, I guess it doesn't, Critter. I grin a silly grin at him, and move my butt to a particularly spacious green couch. It should go without saying that I did not invent those memories of his, nor his attraction to the ballplayers. I simply loosened his lips, to speak things he did not even know he let himself think. This boy called Randy Moss a hottie. You want man, boy? I got it. Hot and ready, keep the five. Come to me, boy. He drops his controller and scuttles over to my couch. I see his hands reach out to explore my arm. I see his glance at my shoulders, my torso. I see tongue slip out of his mouth and curl slowly over his lips. I let his mind go completely; I will simply take control of his body. His mind can observe. -- Whoa! Topher, I'm sorry, I'm totally not doing this. Why can't I move my hands? Why are they touching you? Oh, man, I don't get it. Stop me! Grab me! I can't move my eyes, but they're moving themselves. What's wrong with me! Methinks the youth doth protest too much. -- Little man! It's OK. It's normal. Your body suddenly takes control, and you just sit back and watch. Don't be afraid. -- Really? Like, this happens all the time and stuff? -- Well, not all the time. You have to be a veeeery special boy to get to experience it. And man, does he experience it! His hands trace circles on my chest, coyly teasing my nipples and darting away. Without warning, he grabs my t-shirt and rips it off me, leaving me shirtless. He licks the tips of his fingers and runs them lengthwise down my torso, pulling my shorts down slightly in the process. My bulging meat is probably visible from space at this point, straining to escape its narrow confines. -- Topher, man, you got to understand. I'm not making them do this. My hands, they're moving on their own. I mean, it's like they know what I want and they're going after it -- but it's not me. I don't understand, I ... -- Quiet, Critter. You don't know how much I enjoy this. -- Enjoy? You mean you're not upset -- ? -- Upset? Hehe. No. I've been waiting all week for a ravishing little tyke like you to tear off my shirt. I just wish I could see more of your hot body while you're at it. Critter's face turns red as a cherry. I lean forward and kiss his lips. -- Mmmm. You, my boy, are the tastiest thing I've had all night.