Selected Transcripts from the "Hard Time Chronicles" of "Billy Budz"

Section 2 (16Mar2034)

2.01 (From Joe's narrative)

Well, I will talk in this thing again.

Old Billy is pretty much used up when he's done with me, and he is happy I know because of the pork chops, because pork chops ain't cheap. Me and Robby, we don't get real meat so much, and Robby he chews that pork chop bone like a dog until it's gone. Okay, me too. Meanwhile, Billy has us listen to classics music, which is not too bad. There is that song "I Will Always Love You" that Mama sung to us sometimes which is real pretty. I like that a lot, and also a song about a snowman name Frosty. I never seen a snowman. They say it snowed here sometimes, but I never seen it.

We didn't get no candy this time. Maybe Billy run out, but I don't want to ask. Shit, we got pork chops!

So Billy is drinking his booze after we eat, and he gives me a taste but I don't likes it much because I feels like my supper might come back up. It don't bother him though. In a little while he's asleep on his couch with Robby asleep on top of him. I know he likes Robby better than me, except to fuck. So I gets up and looks around, but I don't steal nothing. Billy is not a bad guy, and he treats us good.

Maybe if I was gone he would keep Robby. I thinks that sometimes.

2.02 (From Robby's narrative)

Billy snores real loud! It's nice sleeping in his big bed with pillows and a blanket. I had a egg today, and a banana too. I wishes we could live here forever. Uh, I don't know what else to say. Can I hear it back now, Billy? Please?

2.02 (From Billy's "blog")

Robby and Joe are gone now, back out into the streets. I was almost ready to let them stay another night, but a reminder of why that probably was a bad idea arrived in my building's lobby about then. The security guards called up to me to let me know. He was high on something, they figured, and they thought I might want to do something about him before he came to the attention of those inclined to complain to the co-op's board of directors.

It was Stefan, of course. I'm the only one who still calls him Stefan. "Banger" is his street name, and scarcely anybody knows he ever had another. Eighteen years ago, he was the most beautiful boy I'd ever laid eyes on, and his mother was a regular customer. Her particular passion was speedballing, so it was already clear she was not long for this world. I often thought about what might become of beautiful young Stefan when his mother overdosed.

I guess it was partly my fault. I let her talk me into providing enough product for three highs in return for a blowjob from little Stefan, but she loaded the whole lot into one needle, and that was the end of it for her. The liberals were still running things back then, so when I heard about her demise, I figured the boy would be okay. What I didn't know was that she had a will, and probably because I had more money than anybody else she knew, she'd named me as the person to become Stefan's guardian should she happen to kick off unexpectedly. It's true, I could have said no -- but he was just so beautiful. I couldn't resist. Big mistake.

Okay, I'll take a few minutes and recall the past, both for your benefit and for mine. He had perfect skin, creamy white with just the proper hint of pinkness. He was ten. His hair was white-blond, and fell down across his dark violet eyes. There was just the proper amount of meat on his bones, at least by my standards, and his incredibly bubbly butt was nothing short of breathtaking. Mind you, the blowjobs he provided to support his mother's addiction had been no more than perfunctory, but just looking at him was joy enough. When the social worker delivered him to me, I honestly thought all my dreams had come true.

I signed some papers, and soon escorted the social worker to the door.

"You gonna pimp me out, huh?" asked Stefan.

"Not a chance," I replied. "You're all mine now."

Now remember, I was a lot younger back then than I am now -- and not only could I still manage two orgasms in the space of half an hour and another maybe an hour after that, I even looked pretty good. True, I had some wrinkles and more than a little gray in my hair, but my muscles were still pretty well toned -- and unlike most dealers, I never used my own product, so I didn't have that wasted look. I probably seemed pretty ancient to ten-year-old Stefan, but I was sure his mother had whored him out to guys a lot less appetizing than me.

Just the same, I decided to be gentle with him at first. I actually thought I was going to win his love. That first night I figured we could just sleep together and cuddle a little -- after all, the kid had just lost his mother, and I thought he needed comforting. I put him in the tub and bathed him, of course, partly because he needed it and partly because I couldn't keep my hands off him entirely -- but I hardly touched his little winkie and my finger never once entered his ass.

I dried him with a soft towel, and took him into bed. We still had electricity all the time in those days, and hundreds of TV channels, so I turned on a kid show and we watched it together. I pulled him over next to me, under the covers, and held him in my arms. I was happy.

I fell asleep for a while, maybe an hour or so, and when I woke up Stefan was down under the covers with my cock in his mouth. Now, after the half-hearted blow jobs I'd had from him in the past, I'd thought I would have to give him quite a few lessons before he learned how to properly bring me off with his mouth, but it turned out I was wrong. He was teasing the head of my cock with his tongue, demonstrating considerable skill. I reached down and put my fingers in his hair, signaling that I was awake and aware -- and he responded by holding my balls in his hand and moving his head down onto me until I felt myself pass by his soft palate and down into his throat.

He never gagged or coughed, just moved up and down on me at a perfectly steady pace, alternately licking my glans as he came up and taking it into his throat as he went down. His breathing was perfectly coordinated, and he never missed a beat. Honestly, it never even had occurred to me that a boy so young could learn to deep throat, and I remember thinking he was sufficiently adept to have a career, one day, as a sword swallower in the circus. I came long and hard, and Stefan swallowed it all. Not the smallest drop escaped to stain the sheets.

"That," I told him, "was the best head I've ever had. Why didn't you ever do that to me before?"

"No reason to," he replied. "All you were was my mother's connection then. You wanna do me now?"

"Of course I do," I said. "You know you're the most beautiful boy in the world, right?"

He didn't answer me, except to pop out from under the covers and park his crotch on my face, laughing. He had a tiny little thing back then, and his balls hadn't even dropped yet. Not only did his little stiffie and both balls fit into my mouth, but at the same time I could snake my tongue down into his ass crack and tickle his hole. I massaged him with my lips and tongue, and judging by the ecstatic noises he made, I did it quite satisfactorily. His little pecker humped at my mouth faster and faster, until he let out a scream and let himself fall over backwards, twitching and shaking.

That left his adorable bottom just a few inches from my face, and I never have been able to resist tonguing an adorable bottom. I pulled him a bit further onto me, and my tongue darted for his tiny pink rosebud as those wonderful round cheeks engulfed my face. I'm pretty sure it was a first for him, because he giggled and shouted, "Hey! I shit from there!"

I backed off just long enough to say, "Well, just don't shit while I'm licking it." He thought that was pretty funny.

I didn't fuck him that night, nor for many nights after that. I've always been of the opinion that it's just not appropriate to fuck a boy whose balls still haven't dropped. Not long after, I started fingering him, though, so he would be ready when the time came -- but I know he never really enjoyed it. Stefan was never much for being a bottom.

Yes, I know -- after that description of that first night, you probably are wondering why I said it was a mistake to keep him. The answer is very simple -- he turned out to be a particularly crazy little bastard. He was good for over a year, but then puberty hit, and something was triggered in his brain, I guess. I had to pull him out of school -- we still had public schools back then -- after he attacked a teacher and bit a chunk out of her leg. He set fire to the drapes one night, and I couldn't keep matches in the house after that. He started getting into my coke supply. which made him even more violent and uncontrollable. Happily I kept my stash of gold coins in several bank deposit boxes rather than in the house or I don't doubt I would be a poor man today -- probably scrounging through the trash heaps with Robby and Joe.

Other kids ran when they saw him coming. Neighborhood cats were turning up mutilated. To be perfectly honest, I was scared shitless of the boy I'd taken into my home. He was only twelve years old, but I was afraid he was going to kill me in my sleep. I started tying his wrists to the bedposts at night, and sleeping on the couch.

I was not too upset when he was arrested. He'd let some perv pick him up on the street, gone with the guy to a hotel, and then beaten the guy senseless and robbed him. I had people on the police, of course, given my line of work. I also had some pull in the courts, and the perv was nobody special. Probably I could have gotten the charges dropped.

I didn't. Just the same, I didn't totally desert him. I got him a competent lawyer, and pulled some strings to make sure he was charged as a juvenile. He would be released from the juvenile detention facility when he turned eighteen. At that point, I figured, I'd give him enough cash to get by on until he could start a life for himself.

So now he's a thirty-year-old, still hitting me up for cash because -- well, because he can. Like some malignant disease, he keeps coming back, and today was just another day in a long sequence of days. I went down to the lobby and brought him upstairs. The security guards were wrong -- he wasn't high on anything, he was just being himself. Once I got him in the apartment, though, I gave him a few lines of smack to calm him down. He calmed down quite a lot, and even was willing to add his bit to this chronicle before he took his cash and departed.

2.03 (Stefan's narrative)

Okay, Billy, you got me. What should I talk about? What a shit you are? Don't worry, I'll get to that.

They call me Banger. To start out with, it wasn't me who was Banger, it was my dick. When I first went to the reformatory, they had an English "psychologist," or so he said, in charge of our "treatment." He got my pants down first time I met him, and commented on what a charming young banger I had down there -- truly good enough to eat. A "banger" is what the English call a sausage. He was the one who first started calling me "Banger," and the name stuck with me. He didn't. He was gone just over a month after I met him.

All the psychologists who worked there -- seven, I think, in the five and a half years I was there -- all of them agreed I was fucked up. They gave it different names -- affective this and reactive that -- but the basic diagnosis was "he's fucked up." A couple tried to find ways to keep me locked up after I turned eighteen, but they didn't stay long enough to get it done. I've been out of that joint now for over thirteen years, and nobody's managed to get enough on me to lock me up again, so I guess you could say the "treatment" I got there must have "worked."

I'm not mad at you, Billy, even though I could be, and with plenty of reason. I appreciate that you were good to me after my stupid bitch mother killed herself, and that you taught me yourself at home after that stupid bitch teacher got me kicked out of school. Just the same, you owe me -- and you know you owe me.

Most of the fights I got into were because of you. I was the kid who lived with the old fag, and I heard every buttfucking joke in the world because of that. And by the way, I never hurt those cats -- that was that kid Trevor who lived across the street. And whatever you say, I know why you tied me to the bedposts. Do you remember that first night? I do.

I remember I didn't want to suck you off. I'd had a bad day, and I just wasn't in the mood to be cooperative. I told you that if you stuck that thing in my mouth that night it would come out two inches shorter and squirting blood instead of cum. You were drunk, though, and horny. You said you'd show me not to be an ungrateful little cunt, remember? And don't tell me you didn't have it all planned out in advance, because those wrist straps you had weren't something you improvised on the spot -- you bought them at the fetish store, and had them waiting for the first chance you got to use them.

So you muscled me down on the bed. I was struggling to get away from you, but you weighed twice what I did in those days. You buckled those leather straps around my wrists, and you locked the chains that were attached to them around the bedposts. Go take a look. It's the same old bed, and you can still see the scars those chains left in those wooden bedposts as I yanked against them, night after night.

But that first night, I didn't know what was going to happen. Well, maybe I did, because it was what the other kids said you were doing to me all along. You sat on my legs, so I couldn't move, and you opened my pants, and then you pulled them down to my knees. Then you looked down at me, at my dick, and I remember you shaking your head. You got off me, and went into the bathroom, and you came back with your razor and shave cream, and I knew what you were going to do. Billy, I had just grown that little patch of pubes, and I was really proud of it. Most kids my age still had nothing down there, but me, I had my little patch of curlies, and no matter how much they teased me for living with you, I could still feel better than them.

When I saw you coming with that razor, I started to kick at you. You thought that was funny. You grabbed my pants and pulled them the rest of the way off. Then you sat down on my legs again. I'm pretty sure I was crying. It wasn't the foamy kind of shave cream, it was the kind that looks and feels like lube. You rubbed it on me, not just on my pubes, but all over my dick and my balls. I couldn't help it, I got hard. Hell, you were rubbing my cock with a handful of lube, and I was just a kid -- of course I got hard. Then you picked up the razor.

So there I was, pulling against the straps on my wrists, my dick straining in your fist while you shaved away my pathetic little bush, cumming and crying at the same time, shaking all over with sex and helplessness and sadness and shame. It was just three or four strokes with the razor and my brand new manliness was gone. You looked down at me and said something like, "Oh, now that's much better," and you rubbed the rest of that shaving lube all around my naked mound, and up and down my hard, straining dick. And whether I wanted to or not, in my head, I shot my boyish load onto my belly and my chest. You gently pushed it together with your fingers, then scooped it up and carried it to my mouth.

"Open wide," you said. I obeyed.

All the fight was out of me. When you got off my legs and spread them wide, I didn't resist. When you took more of that shave cream and massaged it into my hole with your finger, I didn't resist. When you pushed your finger deep into me, I didn't resist. When you added a second finger, I just shut my eyes and tried to think about someplace quiet, and safe, and happy. That didn't work, though. I'd never been anyplace quiet and safe and happy, and I couldn't imagine what kind of place that could be.

So when you dropped down on top of me, and shoved your big dick deep into my ass, and fucked me as hard and as deep as you could -- well, in my head I was no place at all. I was just drifting through emptiness, far, far away.

I know you realized that I never was hard when you fucked me. I never grabbed at you, or hugged you, or even made a noise when you fucked me. It hurt that first night, but it didn't matter because the person hurting wasn't me. After a while, after night after night strapped to that bed with your cock up my ass, it was like nothing at all. But you still owe me, Billy. You owe me big time.

2.04 (From Billy's "blog")

You know, reading the transcript of what Stefan had to say you might think he was just a normal kid who had some bad luck, and that I was the crazy son-of-a-bitch. Well, maybe I'll try to find that poor Afghanistan vet whose wheelchair Stefan pushed out into traffic, or maybe the fat kid he kicked down a flight of concrete steps to see if he would bounce. They can set you straight.

When he got out of the reformatory, he ran with the Webster Street Crew for a few years, and if you remember them, they were about as bloodthirsty as you can get. They specialized in robbing people who couldn't afford police protection, and while you might think those people have nothing worth stealing, they usually own at least one valuable item: a gun. The Crew's victims frequently wound up dead, and those who didn't show enough "respect" wound up dead in sometimes spectacularly unpleasant ways.

The end of the Webster Street Crew came when Snake Schmidt, their leader, decided they were going to move up in the world, and raid a gated community. Stefan, who never was stupid, didn't show up that night. That's why he's still alive and the rest of them are dead. People were saying, back then, that someone from the Crew had tipped off the security force about the raid in advance. If that's true, the tipster would have been Stefan. After ducking out on the raid, he would have been in big trouble had any of the Crew made it out of there alive.

On the other hand, maybe it was Trevor who was killing the cats, because Stefan never showed any interest in animals, and Trevor was a pretty odd kid. I knew Stefan was hanging out with a kid named Trevor once in a while, but I only met Trevor once. Of course, that one time was unforgettable.

I was out doing a deal one afternoon, just a couple of weeks after they'd kicked Stefan out of school. When I got back home, he had Trevor in the apartment. Trevor was a bit smaller than Stefan, and looked a little younger. He was a bit chubby, but not fat, with reddish brown hair, jug ears, and very white skin -- nothing to write home about, but I suppose some people would find him cute. The most noticeable thing about him that afternoon, though, was that he was dressed in mesh stockings, a garter belt, and nothing else. When he saw me walk in, he blushed all over. I looked at Stefan for an explanation.

"He's been naughty," Stefan said, "taking his mother's stuff and dressing up like a slut. He has to be punished. You can watch if you want."

Trevor let out a little whimper, which Stefan answered with a cold stare. I poured myself a large bourbon and waited to see what would happen next. Stefan sent Trevor to the kitchen with orders to bring back a chair. While Trevor was out of the room, Stefan winked at me, silently mouthing, "Enjoy the show."

Trevor placed the kitchen chair in the middle of the living room. Stefan adjusted it so that it faced the sofa where I sat with my drink, and sat down. Trevor stood in front of him, giving me a good look at his chubby pale cheeks framed between the stockings and the garter belt. Stefan reached out a hand, and I knew he was holding Trevor by his little circumcised dick.

"Do you know why you have to be punished?" Stefan asked.

"Yes sir," Trevor piped in reply, his voice shaking with some combination of fear, excitement, and anticipation. "I stole my mother's things, and I've been acting like a slut."

"Good. Then let's get started." Stefan pulled Trevor a little closer, then bent him across his lap. A loud, hard slap reverberated through the living room as Stefan landed the first blow on Trevor's white ass. Stefan was not holding back at all, and I could see a red hand print appear on Trevor's bottom. Trevor gasped.

"What do you say?" Stefan asked.

Trevor just looked confused, so Stefan instructed him. "You say, 'Thank you, sir, for correcting me.'"

Where, I wondered, had Stefan gotten his hands on British spanking porn, now that the internet was over? He couldn't just be making it up, could he?

"Thank you, sir, for correcting me," Trevor whimpered.

The spanking continued, with Trevor expressing his thanks through more and more tears with each blow. Naturally, Stefan, the little sadist, kept it going a good deal longer than necessary. I think he picked up that I was about to intervene when he finally stopped. Trevor's ass was glowing red. Had Stefan kept it up any longer, the kid would not have been able to walk, much less sit down.

"Stand up," Stefan commanded. Trevor complied.

Stefan rose from his chair and took my glass, which was empty by then. "Another?" he asked.

"Sure," I replied.

He poured me another drink, and poured one for himself as well. Under normal circumstances, Stefan was not allowed to avail himself of my liquor cabinet, but the circumstances certainly were not normal. We clicked glasses and regarded Trevor, who stood in his pathetic garter belt and stockings, ass flaming red and eyes still streaming tears.

"You're a mean little shit," I commented.

"Just giving him what he wanted," Stefan replied. "Right, Trevor?"

"Thank you, sir," said Trevor, "for correcting me."

Ignoring Trevor, Stefan knocked back the rest of his bourbon and dropped into my lap. He pulled my head down to his and locked lips with me. His tongue shot into my mouth. It was not what I had come to expect in recent weeks, and so it came as a very pleasant surprise. I kissed him and kissed him and kissed him, remembering what a sweet boy he was before he had sprouted those pubes and gone crazy. Trevor's eyes darted in our direction, but he did not dare turn his head.

My dick, trapped in layers of clothing, was straining upward in considerable discomfort. I reached into my pants to ease it. Stefan, regarding me with disdain, rose from my lap and redirected his attention to Trevor.

"Do you like your mother's stockings?" he asked. "Do you like her sexy garter belt? Do they make you feel sexy?"

"Yes, sir," Trevor replied.

I remember thinking that the whole scene was more than a little idiotic -- a dumb porn scenario enacted in my living room. Just the same, both boys seemed to be enjoying themselves. Well, okay, Stefan seemed to be having a better time than Trevor, but Trevor still was into it. And my dick was enthusiastically responding to the dumb porn scenario. I would have to get it out of my pants and start wanking it pretty soon -- that was certain.

"There was something else you stole from your mother, wasn't there?" Stefan was back on the chair, caressing Trevor's cherry red ass. "I think you should fetch it now."

"Fetch" it? Pretty clearly, Stefan had been reading some British porn.

"No," Trevor whined, "not now. Please."

He meant it, I'm afraid, but Stefan was not one to accept whining. Trevor went to a plastic bag which lay on the floor next to my coffee table and pulled out a large, battery operated dildo. He knelt before Stefan and presented it, but I heard him whisper, "You don't have to. I mean, you punished me pretty good already. Stefan, please..."

Again, I thought about intervening, but my dick was straining against my pants. I unbuttoned, unzipped, and gave myself a little manual stimulation as Stefan positioned Trevor across the kitchen chair with his chubby red ass pointing upward.

At last, I intervened. "Stefan," I insisted, "use a little lube, at least!" Stefan rolled his eyes, but I went to the kitchen and found a can of Crisco. I don't know if anybody actually uses Crisco for baking any more, but it's still a fairly popular lubricant. Stefan pushed some into Trevor's ass, and rubbed a little more onto that big vibrator before pushing it up between those chubby cheeks and deep into Trevor's boy pussy. As I recall, I came about then, spurting across the room with perfect aim to add a little more lubrication to the mix.

Trevor was absolutely howling as Stefan worked that dildo in and out of his hole. I was hard again in a minute, something still possible for me in those days, but I didn't have much hope of Stefan inviting me to follow the dildo into Trevor's ass. Yes, I suppose I could have "intervened" again, but it was Stefan's scene, and I really didn't have the right to barge in with personal demands. Whatever Stefan tells you, I really do adhere to some personal standards.

No matter what reservations he may have entertained beforehand, Trevor clearly was enjoying his ass reaming. Beneath his chubby belly, bisected by the edge of my kitchen chair, his young stiffie strained forward and his little balls were sucked up tight against his crotch. It wasn't long before he was flopping across that chair like a fish out of water, dry cumming into the air. Stefan, of course, continued reaming his ass for a while longer than necessary, but eventually the dildo was yanked free.

Stefan, however, was not quite finished. Trevor was told to stand again, then led by the dick into the bathroom and instructed to lie down in the tub. Then Stefan pulled his dick out of his pants and peed all over his little friend.

"You can pee on him too, if you want to," he told me.

"No thanks," I said.