Date: Thu, 4 May 2017 15:40:24 +0000 (UTC) From: Peter Brown Subject: Fourteen again Chapter 33 Fourteen again by badboi666 =============================================================================== This story is - guess what! - fantasy. If sex with boys isn't your thing, go away. If, as is much more likely, you've come to this site precisely to get your rocks off reading about sex with a 14-year-old then make yourself comfortable - you're in the right place. Remember the three things: 1 Cum 2 Wipe 3 Donate =============================================================================== Chapter 33 Next morning I was determined to have a good look at the nice cock I'd spotted yesterday - would it have the usual morning stiffy? I was glad to note that the two other boys weren't together, and when the one I wasn't interested in got dressed and left there were just the two of us still there in bed. I called out softly "Psst!" The other boy looked over. "What it is?" "Hard as fuck," I said, "what about yours?" "Dirty bugger," he grinned, and threw off his bedclothes revealing a tent in his underpants. "Would you like a blow job?" I asked (a damfool question if ever there was one). "What, now?" "Yeah, c'mon, I'll do you if you want." In a flash he was over beside my bed, his cock ready for action. As I had observed last night, it was very desirable. Not long - four and a half inches maybe - uncut with a loose foreskin (already peeled back by yours truly), nice firm balls not yet hanging low, scanty pubes. I got my lips round it. "Oh, fuck!" I took that as encouragement, and started work with my tongue. He took hold of my head - always a good sign in my view - and stroked my hair while I slurped and sucked his cock. It tasted raunchy (I wondered if he had cum last night and I was tasting the unwiped remains of that: whatever it was you could have bottled it and made a fortune selling it to perverts like me - me at 80+, that is) and that stirred me to greater artistry. My tongue danced a ballet on the sensitive head of his cock, a ballet so enchanting that ("Oh Christ! here it comes") his cock leapt in my mouth and delivered itself of a fine bounty of hot boy-juice. Four big squirts! He took his cock out of my mouth and as he did so I pursed my lips and in so doing flipped his foreskin back where it lived. "Oh God!" he said, "I've never been sucked off before. D'you want me to do you?" "No, there isn't time, but thanks for offering. Your cum tasted magic. I'm Peter, by the way, and I'm 14. What about you?" "I'm 14 as well; my name's William." "Well, William, I'm very glad to have got to know you so well," I said and climbed out of bed, my cock rampant in my pants. "Can I see?" asked William. "'Course you can, here," and I pulled down my pants. "That's a nice one," he said, and gave it a stroke. "Much more of that and I'll cum," I said, "oh, fuck it, go on, suck it then." William bent to suck my cock, and his lips were round it when we heard someone approach and the door opened. It was the other boy returning from the bathroom - he'd been gone all of five minutes. Wonderful what you can cram into five minutes if you try. He caught us in the act, me practically naked with my cock in William's mouth. William froze. "Don't stop," I said, "if you make a good job of this our friend will want one too." The other boy stood rooted to the spot. William didn't move. "Oh, get on with it, William," I said. "Yes," said the boy, "I want to see this." William had little option. He resumed his activities and, since I had remained hard and horny throughout, it was only a short while until I told him I was going to cum any second. I wasn't surprised when he took my cock out of his mouth, but his timing was poor (or my balls fired faster than he was expecting0 and the first fierce jet of my cum hit him foursquare on the chest. Two cries sounded at the same moment: "Ugh!" from William (which I thought was a bit hard since I had happily swallowed his), and "Fuck me, that's great!" from the audience. "Like that, did you?" I asked, "what's your name? If I'm to give you a blow job I need to know your name." He announced himself as Vic, 16, and only too willing to be fellated. 30 seconds later Vic was naked and erect (cut, 6 inches, hairy alas); 60 seconds after that he came mightily and saltily; 60 seconds after that I had finished cleaning his cock of all seminal residues; 60 seconds after that he was dressed again. "Thanks, er - ?" "Peter." "Thanks Peter, you're a brick," and out the door, never to be seen again. William hadn't moved throughout this performance, except for wiping my spunk off his chest. "Good fun, eh?" I said, and went for a shower. When I came back William had gone. Ships that pass, if not in the night, at least in the earlyish morning. It was now just after 8 o'clock. I set off for Liverpool Street where I used a left luggage locker to park the gin and the sex toys. I kept the half-used bottle of lube as I had every intention of returning to Liverpool Street with a three-quarters-used bottle. I had my new scout shirt, shorts and hat in my backpack. I was wearing ordinary clothes as I didn't want to be a scout until it suited me, after I'd located the camp and explored a bit. I'm sure there were some items of scouting apparel which I didn't have, but such omissions, if pointed out, could surely be explained away. I bought a return ticket to Thetford and waited for the next train - not due to leave for over an hour. I wondered whether the woman at the station enquiry office would have any information about exactly where the scout camp was - they didn't. "Ask when you get to Thetford, I'm sure they'll know there." I resumed my waiting, keeping an eye out for any other scouts. Eventually my train appeared on the departure board - it would leave in 20 minutes. An idea struck me, and I went back to the enquiry office. "Is there a special train for scouts going to the Thetford Camp?" "Hang on, sonny, ... yes, there is. It doesn't leave till 2 o'clock though." I thanked her. It was now only just after 11. This suited me fine. I would get to Thetford well before the train arrived, although there might be some scouts coming from elsewhere in East Anglia. Play it by ear, Peter, you're good at that. I asked the Stationmaster at Thetford about the whereabouts of the camp. He told me that it was in a group of fields about half an hour's walk out of the town. I set off, and there were signs along the road - you couldn't miss it. As I was dressed as an ordinary invisible 14-year-old I was able to walk past the entrance and explore the surrounding area. The camp was on a farmer's land, and occupied four large fields. It took me half an hour to walk right round. The farmer's land extended beyond these fields in two directions. The road formed the third boundary, and a wood formed the fourth. This looked promising. By this time there were scouts in some of the fields, engaged in putting up tents and digging latrine ditches. All very character-forming, no doubt. The four fields came together at one point, and this was where the big tent - presumably some kind of assembly or eating area - was already up in the corner of one of the fields. Since this was where Authority was likely to be thickest on the ground I noted where it lay in relation to the fields where any likely lads might be found. Avoid Authority! I was glad that the size of the camp meant that there likely to be hundreds of scouts there. That way I would be a stranger to everybody, and it would cause no surprise that I was in any particular part of the camp. I laid my plans carefully. I had to find somewhere to change into scout gear, and where I could hide my backpack. One possibility would be in the woods, but might that be somewhere a curious scout might go? In the end I had little alternative, and I changed in a thicker part of the wood a good hundred yards from the boundary with the field. I found a climbable tree and stowed my backpack in a fork in the branches about 40 feet up. No-one was likely to find it there, especially as leaves shielded it from view. Being prepared (a maxim not only of scouts, but of elderly sexual perverts) I marked the tree carefully. I could now pass as a bona fide camper, or so I hoped. Time to find out. The train from Liverpool Street would have left by now, and I reckoned I had two hours before the London influx appeared. I walked out of the woods towards the camp and clambered over the boundary wall. I was now in forbidden territory. This field was marked out with pegs and posts. The labels told me that this would be a London field. The next was also empty, and this was for London as well. The other two fields had tents up already. I walked across to the latrine area - this seemed as good a place to seek lusty boy-flesh as any. The arrangement was pretty basic. A modesty canvas screen surrounded a rectangle about 8 feet by 20. One end was simply a ditch for pissing in. A duckboard meant that scouts wouldn't be trampling in pissy mud. The larger part, again behind a canvas screen, had two rows of bog seats. Each row was a long wooden board with three holes. The board was on low trestles over another ditch. Rolls of bog paper lay on the boards - but that was that. Anyone sitting shitting would be doing so in full view of up to five other shitters. Magic! It combined the opportunity for maximum sighting of boy cocks with the possibility of making assignations with complete anonymity. All I had to do now was make myself scarce until evening. I walked back into town to find somewhere to eat. Luckily there was chip shop where no-one paid the slightest attention to me. I ate my fish and chips in the shop as I thought it possible that a passing scoutmaster might object to a fellow scout scoffing chips in the street. I walked slowly back to the camp and was passed by several coaches full of scouts from the London train. This was ideal as it meant I could walk in through the main gate without being noticed. It was now after 6 o'clock and the meal would be in full swing soon. I wandered through the fourth field to assure myself that the latrine arrangements were the same (as indeed they were). The two London fields would be the same. I thought about how best to play this. Shitting at busy times with up to five others wasn't going to work. Nor would it with only one other boy unless I struck lucky. The ideal number was probably with two, maybe three, others. Boys being boys the later arrivals in the bog would position themselves further away from those already in possession, and this meant I would be able to choose where to sit. Trial and error time again. The one advantage would be that I wouldn't actually have to shit on each visit, merely strain and look satisfied: there would be nothing as hygienic as flushing. I walked back to the third field. Scouts were leaving the food tent and were making for their tents. The London lot would be in a second sitting probably. I went into the latrine. No action. I came out again and crossed to the other non-London field's latrine. Better luck - I was the third occupant. Two boys were already there, sitting at opposite corners as I had expected. One was at least 16, and of no interest, but the other was more promising, being 12 or 13. I sat opposite him on the same side as the 16-year-old, and waited. The younger boy finished first to my chagrin, and although he had a nice cock it wasn't one I was going to get to know. He wiped and left, and I saw no point in spending any longer in there. "I can never shit in these places," I said to the world at large, and left. I tried the first latrine again, and found four boys there already. The four corners were occupied, so I had to sit between two. Again I chose to sit opposite the more likely ones. As this was only the first day of camp no bog discipline had yet evolved: each boy was studiously ignoring the others. By next Friday this would have been replaced by the camaraderie of the trenches, where modesty was a stranger and conversation was carried on. But not yet. Unless ... "This is much better than last year's camp," I said to the others. "The bogs there didn't have seats, you just had to squat like an animal. At least they've given us a seat this time." The ice being thus broken others joined in. "Gosh, that must've been awful" from the boy next to me (16); "I must've been at that camp too - up in Yorkshire?" (I had to agree; if he'd said Timbuctoo I's have agreed to that too.) My Yorkshire confrere was also older than the object of my hunt. Silence from the two opposite, but they exchanged looks - friends therefore. You don't make eye contact in a bog with anyone except a friend. Not promising - you don't fuck about with friends unless you've fucked about with one of them first. This wasn't looking good. After a minute or two I wiped my beautifully clean un-shitted-out-of arse and left. I tried the first latrine again, and this time my luck was in. One boy was in there, a nice-looking kid a year younger than me. I sat opposite him. He looked at me. I looked at him. Smiles were exchanged. He lifted his shirt which until then had been tastefully draped hiding his boy bits from public gaze. I did the same. He looked at mine. I looked at his. Smiles were exchanged, quickly followed by nods. He wiped. I wiped. We left together. =============================================================================== How would this develop? Keep your depraved ideas coming, guys. They're always welcome and, like a bog wall, often make interesting reading. badboi666@btinternet.com Make sure you drop something Nifty's way at http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html