(Hey ho, fellow pervs. If you're on this branch of Nifty, you don't need any warnings. Nobody likes us. White bread gays hate our guts, because we make them "look bad." Fuck 'em. Enjoy.)
1) The "Confidential" Therapy Session
Okay, Doc. This is all confidential, right? Good, because I have to tell somebody.
First of all, the sex was not my idea.
You're looking kind of dubious, but it's the truth. I hadn't laid a nasty minded finger on a boy in over thirty years, and I'd promised myself I'd never do it again. Yeah, I'm still a perv â€" can't shake the fantasies, anyway. But, honest, I'd even given up the porn. Well, maybe I read a little Nifty once in a while, but not much. Most of those guys can't spell, and it's distracting. Especially the homonyms -- you know, like there, their, and they're.
Okay, I'll just get on with it. Here's what happened. It's a Thursday night, and I'm driving home from my local old man bar -- you know, the kind of place that still has Frank Sinatra on the juke box. Just a bunch of older guys drinking away the pain. Maybe I had a couple more than I should have. Okay, scratch the maybe.
So I'm driving down the road next to the state park. It's raining, and I'm drunk, so I'm going pretty slow. Not many cops on that road, but you never know. And I see this kid, walking along on the park side, not even the side where the houses are. And to tell you the truth, I really didn't believe it. I'd made that drive so many times, usually half in the bag, and almost every time I fantasized about finding a boy there, out late by himself, cold and wet -- and taking him home with me.
Really, that was just a fantasy. But I still pulled up next to him, rolled down the window, and said, "Hey, kid! Need a ride home? You're soaked."
I could see he was trying to get a look at me, so I turned on the dome light. If he'd said, "No thanks, you're drunk," I wouldn't have been especially surprised. He didn't say that, though. He just opened the passenger side door and got in. I told him to put on his seat belt, and asked him where he lived. That's when the waterworks started, big tears rolling down his very cute face.
Have you seen a picture of him, Doc? Then you have to have an idea of just how cute the kid is, with the big green eyes and the floppy, dirty blond hair. And those lips, oh my god, those lips, the bottom one quivering while the tears rolled down into his mouth.
Well, as a drunk, I frequently belabor the obvious, so I say, "Hey, you're crying."
He looked at me like I was some kind of idiot, but just for a second. Then he said, "I can't go home. Alex is there."
So we talk a little more, pulled over at the side of the road, and it turns out that Alex is his mother's boyfriend, and he can't be around when Alex is there because it gets Alex pissed off. So his mother sent him to his grandma's, but nobody's there because she's probably with her fucking asshole boyfriend somewhere. And he has no place to go.
I suppose I should have turned him over to the cops, or social services, or something, but I didn't. I took him home with me.
Kevin is eleven. Well, almost twelve. Just the same, he's a really smart kid, and no matter what the DA says, I was set up. His mother's a total bitch, and Alex, as you know, is a fucking lawyer. I could have paid, but at that point I just didn't care anymore. So here I am. The craziest thing is that I still feel like I love him.
So we get to my house, and I hit the garage door opener and pull in. Well, I don't have a basement, so my washer and dryer are there in the garage, and he sees the dryer and says, "Oh, can I dry my wet clothes in that?"
"Sure," I say, not expecting his next move, which is to strip off all his clothes and toss them, sneakers included, into my dryer. We haven't even gone into the house yet, and he's naked. And I'm thinking, "What if I had a wife inside? How would I explain bringing a naked boy in through the garage?" But, of course, I don't have a wife. So I open the door that leads to the den, and he pops inside, and I behold the most beautiful little bottom I've ever seen, even including all the porn I watched when I was younger. It's rounded, and soft, and so deliciously pink. It's the kind of ass that makes a perv like me want to stick my tongue right in, right away. But I resisted.
"You're probably cold," I said, even though the house is pretty warm. "I'll find you something to wear while your clothes are drying."
He turns around and shows me his three inches of perfectly circumcised dicklet, pointing straight out with half a stiffie. "I'm not really cold," he tells me, and I answer, "Just the same..."
He followed me to my bedroom, where I pulled out one of my old Grateful Dead t-shirts, I turn to hand it to him, and he's standing there with his arms up, so I can slip it on him. His half a stiffie, at this point, is a whole stiffie, and it looks totally delicious -- but, as I said, I'd sworn off years earlier. So I said, "You have to be tired. I'll show you the guest room."
So I take him to my guest room, and I turn on the light and turn down the bed, and he jumps in, and I cover him up, and I say "Sleep tight, sweetie." And then I couldn't help it. I kissed him good night -- just on the cheek, that's all. Maybe I kissed him a little longer than someone usually kisses a little boy good night, but it still was pretty innocent.
"Why'd you kiss me?" he asked.
"Because children are supposed to be kissed good night, every single night they're still children."
"My mother never does," he said. "Could I, maybe, get a couple of extras?"
I think that's when I fell in love with him. I kissed him all over his face -- both cheeks, his forehead, his eyes, the end of his nose, the end of his chin and, finally, his lips. I swear, there was no tongue. Not then. Not until he kissed me back, and pushed his tongue right into my mouth. I backed up pretty fast. "Where'd you learn that trick?" I asked him.
"Isn't that how you're supposed to do it?" he answered. "That's how Mom does it with Alex. Did I do something wrong?"
"It's okay," I told him. "Just go to sleep, sweetie."
Drink and all, I wasn't ready to go to sleep. I turned on the TV in my bedroom, but I can't remember what bad old movie was on. All I could think about was that there was a beautiful boy in my guest room wearing nothing but one of my old Grateful Dead t-shirts who recently had stuck his tongue in my mouth. Yes, I couldn't help thinking about sneaking in there and doing an "Uncle Ernie" on him, but I just stayed in bed, watching commercials for knives that cut tomatoes after cutting through bricks and for combination HVAC and criminal justice trade schools. Naturally, I also couldn't avoid those old fantasies about finding the cold, wet boy on the road next to the state park and bringing him home. I was just starting to jerk off when my bedroom door opened.
Yes, it was Kevin -- his hair a little messier than when I put him to bed, but maybe even cuter on account of that. "I got a little scared," he told me. "Can I come in with you?"
Well, just imagine. There I was, my dick already stiffer than it'd been in years just because he was down the hall in the guest room, and he wanted to come into my bed. I suppose I should have said, "No, Kevin, go back to your room," but I didn't. Jesus Christ, I'm not made of stone. "Okay," I told him, "just for a little while."
He came under the blankets with me and cuddled right up against me, one of his legs layered over one of mine and his face buried in my neck. It was so sweet, I just had to kiss him some more, but I really stayed away from his mouth. It was hard, but I did it.
Then I noticed that my old t-shirt had kind of ridden up when he came under the blankets, and that totally delicious bottom was, as they say, bare ass naked under my hand. Well, lots of people feel pretty much okay about rubbing little children's bottoms because they're so cute, and little children don't seem to mind. Kevin was not exactly little anymore, but he still didn't seem to mind. He kind of purred, and said, "Oh, that feels good! Rub it some more!"
I suppose I should have sent him back to the guest room, but I didn't. I rubbed that perfect little tush, and squeezed it, and ran my middle finger all up and down his crack -- which was a bit more than I'd initially intended. His purring grew in intensity, and I could feel him rubbing his very hard little stiffie against my leg. That's about when he reached up the leg of my boxers, grabbed hold of my straining, pulsing dick, and said, "Go on. Stick your finger up there."
"Huh?" I said, feigning innocence.
"Oh, come on," he told me. "You know. Up my hole. It's okay. I like it."
"Kevin," I protested, "I honestly don't want to spend the rest of my retirement in jail. The less I do, the lighter the sentence. Let go of my dick, and go back to bed. In the other room."
Well, he let go of my dick. But then he threw his arms around my neck and started kissing me. I really wondered who taught him to kiss like that. It couldn't possibly have been just from watching Alex and his mother. You don't learn that kind of tongue action from watching.
It was around then that I gave up. I was going to spend the rest of my retirement in jail, and so, I figured, why not? Let's just do it.
Okay, I wasn't totally cool with it, but hell -- it was pretty clear Kevin was not exactly an amateur..
"My hole," he implored. Shit. No pun intended. The most beautiful ass that ever sashayed the Earth, and I was rubbing and stroking it.
He grabbed my dick again. "Ya' know," he said, "it's really not all that big. I could take it."
Well, I lost it. It didn't matter if I spent the rest of my life in jail if I just had this one boy this one time. It was just a little push, but he knew what I wanted. He flipped around, so that his face was level with my crotch, and my face was between his smooth, slightly salty thighs. I craned my neck a little, and got my tongue into that delicious rosebud between those perfect cheeks. I probed. It was delightful when he took my cock into his mouth, but hardly necessary. I was going wild.
Okay, you know how it is. Just as his ass was getting perfectly slippery, I came in his mouth. He swallowed, easily. I'm old, and I don't spurt particularly big loads anymore. It would be an hour or more before I could fuck him. Anyway, coming down from my orgasm, I started feeling bad again. Little boys, they tell us, are hurt by sex with men, even if the men are not fucking priests.
I flipped him around again, abandoning the enormous pleasure of having my face in his ass, and just hugged him and kissed him. No tongue. Really. Right then, all I wanted was to love him and, somehow, to get him to love me. Pretty much, though, I figured I'd blown it -- even though it had been him blowing me. I thought that maybe I should flip him around again and suck his beautiful little three-incher, but his eyes were closed, his breathing was deep and slow, and he was falling asleep.
I rubbed my face against his. I kissed him, and kissed him, and kissed him again. Needless to say, I still felt like a very sleazy perv -- but I was a perv in love.
I must have slept for a while, but not that long. When I woke up in the middle of the night, my middle finger was up his ass -- and his ass still felt pretty well lubricated by the tonguing he'd had some hours before. How did my finger wind up in his ass? How the hell should I know? Hell, I was asleep. Just the same, lying there with my finger in his ass, I felt his sphincter pulsing around it. He seemed to be having a very nice dream. Then he opened his eyes and smiled at me.
"That was good," he said.
"What was good?" I asked, wondering if I'd had an alcoholic blackout and forgotten whatever it was that was going to put me in jail.
"Just sleeping like that," he said, "all nice and warm and comfy with your finger up my butt."
My first impulse was to dislodge my finger, but I didn't. Damn, I just left it there, all nice and warm and comfy. We snuggled some more, and, okay, sucked each other's tongues pretty heavy. He reached into my boxers again, and found my cock, which hadn't been so hard for so long -- well, probably ever. If I'd been taking Viagra or some other boner pill, I should have been looking for a doctor about then. Then he took my earlobe in his mouth and kind of licked it, sending all kinds of unknown sensations all over my body. And then he whispered, sweetly, in my ear: "Got any lube?"
You probably don't believe this, but I never felt so torn apart -- so conflicted -- in my life. And I know you don't believe this, but I started crying. And I popped my finger out of his hole. And I got up, and stumbled to the kitchen, and got my emergency vodka out of the freezer, and poured five or six ounces into a glass, and just drank it down. Then I cried some more, and I poured some more, and when I'd knocked that back I saw Kevin standing at the kitchen door, looking really small and unbelievably cute in my old Grateful Dead t-shirt, with his hair all mussed, and his little bare feet, and those gorgeous green eyes flashing at me.
He held out a bottle of thick hair conditioner that he'd found in my bathroom, grinned, and said, "This ought to do the trick!"
It's not an excuse, I know, but I was bombed -- and, worse yet, bombarded by a fantasy I'd nursed for thirty years. What kind of perv doesn't imagine meeting a beautiful, sexually aggressive boy who really, really wants it. Okay, I momentarily forgot about those of us with the rape fantasies, but most of us are not like that. At least I hope we're not.
I let him lead me back to bed.
I'd lost a good half of my erection while I was in the kitchen, probably from the booze, but at least, I considered, I wouldn't have to seek medical help -- albeit the half I'd lost returned very promptly, once Kevin started greasing me up with conditioner. I lay flat on my back, and the bedroom was filled with the smell of coconut. Fake coconut, I guess. It was a bargain brand. I didn't even move, except for my throbbing cock, which throbbed. Then he straddled me, aimed me at that sweet little pucker I'd eaten with such delight earlier in the evening, and pushed himself down on me. I just glided up his ass. I guess I was gasping, or moaning, or something, but whatever noise I was making was to express the very best a dirty old perv can feel â€" ever.
He just sat there for a few seconds, maybe getting himself used to the size or the shape of my dick, not that it's especially large or unusual. Then he slowly started working himself up and down. He was tight, and hot, and he certainly looked like he was loving it. He closed his eyes as he rode me faster and faster, gasping and moaning loud enough to make me wonder, momentarily, if the neighbors were wondering what the fuck was going on over at my house.
The inertia passed off me, and I joined in the revelry, thrusting and pumping. I could hear the slap of my crotch against his ass as I fucked him, harder and harder. His little dicklet was so stiff, it looked like it would snap off if a strong breeze came by. Briefly, I reflected on the sad fact that you can't suck a boy while you're fucking him unless you're some kind of contortionist circus freak.
When I finally came, it was incredible. It was as good as anything I'd felt in the glory days of my adolescence, when I'd persuaded some of the younger boys to suck off their Patrol Leader. I don't know how big a wad I shot, because it was entirely contained by Kevin's ass, but it hardly matters. At the time, I really thought it was worth spending the rest of my retirement in jail.
He didn't want his dick sucked. He said he came four or five times while I was fucking him. Just a natural bottom, I guess. He just folded himself into my arms, and fell asleep. When I woke up the next morning, he was gone.
Did you know that fucking psychotherapists are required to rat you out if you tell them you've been kid diddling? I mean, if you just killed some prostitute and cooked up her liver with bacon and onions, they won't say a word -- unless, of course, she was underage. The fucking shrinks are, legally, "designated reporters." Don't tell them a fucking thing.
Well, long before they sent me to the fucking therapist, I had to deal with Alex, the fucking lawyer. I'd scarcely stepped out of the shower after my night with Kevin when the phone rang. I had a raging headache. Usually, my hangovers are not too bad, but the extra pint or so I drank from the emergency vodka pushed me over the edge. Along with the hangover was a mixture of confusion and sadness and remorse and the feeling that my life had to be over.
So, when Alex suggested my child molestation case might not be reported if I sent him my entire Social Security payment every month, I told him to go fuck himself. I had just enough time to dress before the cops showed up. There were eight cops in four cars -- a little bit of overkill for one old man -- and they ran their lights and sirens to make sure all my neighbors saw them perp walking me away in handcuffs.
I hate cops.
I told the guys at the jail that I was a political prisoner. The cops, of course, told them I was a perv. Nobody bothered me much, though, because I'm old. They don't bother much with old guys. We're no threat.
Then they sent me to see the fucking psychotherapist, and I thought what I told him was confidential, but it wasn't. I figured I was screwed. My case went to the grand jury.
3) Happy Ending (because every fantasy should have a happy ending)
It almost never happens, but the grand jury didn't charge me. The Assistant District Attorney was a dopey little girl who had the job because her father was a state assemblyman. At a grand jury indictment, there's no defense lawyer. Hell, even I wasn't there. Just the same, I had someone on my side. Kevin.
Alex had rehearsed him in what to say. The stupid ADA bimbo rehearsed him too. As I told the shrink, though, he is a smart kid, and it turned out he liked me more than Alex or, for that matter, his mother, who had been renting him out to pervs since he was six. Well, we knew he wasn't exactly an amateur.
A month after the grand jury didn't indict me, Kevin and I were sitting in my new apartment, not far from his grandmother's place. I'd sold the house. For some reason, my old neighbors were acting kind of unfriendly. He snuggled up to me on my new couch, a little smudge of frosting from his birthday cake still decorating his chin.
"I don't believe how you pulled that off," I said.
"All I had to do was lie," he replied, looking up at me with his innocent green eyes. "I just told them that everything I did with you I did with Alex, and that my mother knew all about it."
"Did you ever do anything with Alex?" I asked.
"Nah. He didn't even like me, except as a meal ticket." He giggled. "They don't know that at the state pen, though."
"How is it living with your grandma?"
"Not bad. She's not around all that much, so I can spend lots of time with you."
He grabbed me around the neck, and pulled my face down to his. We happily licked each other's tongues for a while. Then he looked up with a grin, and said, "Time for you to suck me off!"
"You know I'd rather eat your asshole," I replied.
"Yeah, but I had my first wet dream last night, and I don't need spunk in my underwear. I want it in you."
(Note: I sent my first story to Nifty in 1997, and I've been contributing on and off ever since, using a variety of names, and from quite a few different anonymous email accounts. Hell, I even had a penet.fi account back in the day. Right now, I think hushmail is best, and I urge those of you using google, hotmail, or yahoo to switch. Staying secure keeps getting harder and harder. -- firstname.lastname@example.org )