Date: Wed, 9 Aug 2017 07:36:04 +0000 (UTC)
From: Peter Brown <badboi666@btinternet.com>
Subject: Lion-King Chapter 5

Lion-King by badboi666

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If you haven't read "Fourteen Again" here you really ought to read it
before starting "Lion-King", which is both a prequel and a sequel.  You
will meet men and boys here to whom you have been introduced in "Fourteen
Again".  You'll meet some new ones too, so there will be fresh flesh to
read about.  You'll discover some Arabic on the way.  You could Google to
get translations, but the meaning is usually pretty clear, and the English
words are used as well.

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 fresh young lads then make yourself comfortable - you're in the right
place.  We need to establish a few things first, however, so there isn't
much activity in the first few chapters.  But there will be - oh yes, there
will be plenty.

Don't leave, however, without doing this:

Donate to Nifty - these buggers may do it for love but they still have to
eat.  http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html

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Chapter 5

It's odd, this going backwards.  What my brain feels as 'yesterday' but was
really in two years time, I couldn't remember what had happened the day
before - in other words on 30 August.  But this time I can.  Perhaps as I
get further back my memory of what really did happen 'earlier' will
continue to return.  I certainly hope so: it was weird doing things with
Hassan that were new to me, but which I had already done.

Anyway today is 31 August 2011 and yesterday was a big day for all of us.
Yesterday was Eid ul Fitr - the feast marking the end of Ramadan here.  The
family of boys are devout Muslims, and Eid is one of the main days in their
year.  Leo and I were honoured to be invited by Faruq to join them all
yesterday.  We hadn't met Faruq since we first encountered him in 2003, a
meeting whose details I can't remember, but as the fairy allows my memory
to improve I expect we'll get there eventually.  If Faruq hadn't reminded
me yesterday that it was 8 years since we were last in his house I would
have made the dreadful faux pas of saying that I'd never met him before.
Luckily the formal Muslim welcome he gave us saved me from that.  I can't
remember how we started to engage a succession of his sons as houseboys,
but I did know that the current one was something very special indeed.
I'll get to him soon, I promise.  He's worth waiting for.

When Faruq welcomed us it was to a feast the like of which Leo and I had
not seen.  It was clear that by having infidels in his house on such a day
Faruq was paying us a great compliment, and we responded accordingly.  Leo
handled the business side of our annual arrangements, and he reminded me
when we got back to the flat afterwards (for I had forgotten) that we paid
Faruq £1000 a year to hire his boys (a vast sum in Faruq's eyes) and,
without Faruq's knowledge, we gave the boys £10 a day.  All this was in
local currency, of course.  So Faruq's hospitality was in part to thank us
for our contribution to his family's resources.  Still, it was a big
honour.  To mark this Leo, who know the Arab protocol, brought a gift of
money for the local mosque.  Faruq was delighted.  All four of his
surviving sons were there: Haroun (the surviving twin) was now 20, Mustafa
19, Muhammad (we had to make an effort to remember to call him that), our
current boy, was 14 and his younger brother Hassan, still only 10 but very
pleased to be considered a man, rather than a child, on this special day.
You've met Hassan already.

There was eating and story-telling in which we had to play our part.  Our
Arabic is pretty good for the sort of engagement we have in the souk and
with local tradesmen, but we found it hard to tell our story.  Luckily the
stumbling performance of the infidels was a source of tolerant amusement on
Eid, so we kept our end up.

As sunset approached Faruq clapped his hands, and Eid was suddenly over.
"Muhammad will go with you now," he said.  We made our salaams and left.
I've no idea where the women of the house were, but we never saw any of
them.

When we got back Zeb could hardly contain himself.  Oh - you don't know
about Zeb.  It's a good story.  Two years ago - that's in 2009 - Mustafa,
our previous houseboy, brought his next brother to introduce us to him.
This had become the tradition: one boy making his last farewell in the
presence of his successor.  (Why can I remember this?  Earlier today I
could only remember 'yesterday'; now I can remember two years ago.  Is it
because Zeb's here and he carries my memory back to our first meeting?  I'm
going to stop bothering about this, and just accept that the 'earliest'
boundary of my memory isn't predictable.)

Mustafa was 17 when he brought Muhammad - 17 was way beyond the age that
either Leo or I was interested in, but in 2008 at 16 he was still pretty
undeveloped, and that year Muhammad was only 11, just a bit on the young
side.  We welcomed them both, made a fuss of Muhammad, played a little with
both of them, then kissed Mustafa for the last time, and sent him on his
way with a final shukran lak, Mustafa.

Leo turned to me.  "We can't fuck a boy called Muhammad.  It's all wrong.
There'll be an earthquake or something."  I had to agree.  "What can we
call him?"  (All this in English, to save the boy's blushes.)  Leo, quick
as ever, had an answer. "He's very bouncy and jolly.  I thought about
Tigger, but then I remembered Zebedee in 'The Magic Roundabout', bouncing
about on a spring.  Let's call him Zebedee."  "No," I said, "let's call him
Zeb."  Leo grinned.  I reverted to Arabic.  "Muhammad, we want to call you
Zeb."  Gales of laughter from the boy.  "But that means this!" he said,
lifting his dishdash and pointing to his soft cock.  We nodded.  "Yes, Zeb,
we know.  And your cock is going to be very special."  (In fact the Arabic
is zub', but Arabic vowels are notoriously fluid.  For an 11-year-old's
cock zeb would do very nicely.)

As indeed it was that August, and in Augusts since.  But it's well after 11
on 31 August 2011 and I've only got 45 minutes to tell you about today's
adventures.

As I say, Zeb - we'll stick with that now - could hardly contain himself.
We'd been delighted right from 2008 that he was far feistier than his older
brothers, and far keener to initiate sex than any of them had been.  They
had been fun to have, but Zeb was outstanding.  Next time you'll hear about
his stunning exploits in 2009, when he was just 12, but today he's 14 -
that special special age when a boy is at his finest.  These Arab boys have
the cock and balls of a man, in stamina if not yet in size, while still
keeping the soft smooth skin of a boy.  There is no trace of hair on Zeb's
body.  That's mainly because he hasn't produced any yet, but a little bit
of me is aware that his older brothers have advised him to keep himself
smooth down there.  A razor? a cream? who knows.  He is like a baby's
bottom.

We were late waking this morning after yesterday's excitement, and it was
almost 7 when I woke to the delight of Zeb's lips on my cock.  Zeb, like
all his brothers, was fascinated by our foreskins - things he had never
seen before, never mind had in his mouth - and his fascination never left
him.  He perfected a way of using his lips, quite tightly pressed together,
to draw my foreskin back without using his fingers.  My cock invariably
responded by starting to get hard while he still had me in between his
lips.  When he felt this he allowed his tongue to swirl very gently round
my piss-slit.  Since the last thing that happened most nights was that all
three of us came the aroma of my cockhead was not wholly fresh.  It was
wholly to Zeb's liking though, and he bathed it liberally.  He stroked my
balls while he was doing this, and I could feel the pressure starting to
build.  I lifted his head off my cock and said sitatoon tisat.  He giggled,
and told me that that was wrong.  "Rex, I know English words.  I know fuck
and suck and cock and balls and arse, and I know sixynine."  I laughed -
his English, while quirky, was better than my Arabic had been at that age.
So 'sixynine' it became, and sixynine we performed upon each other, his
slim body on top of my old one.  Suddenly I remembered Ace - I'd not
thought about him since the fairy had allowed me to start on this journey.
I thought of him with a mixture of sadness and pleasure, of the tattoo on
his chest, with the Arab boy upside down in his arms while they both sucked
each other's cock.  Oh Ace, I'm coming, I thought as Zeb did his best.  And
a moment later we both came, joyfully and in Zeb's case copiously in each
other's warm welcoming mouth.  Zeb was plentiful today.

I had to go out this morning, and Leo asked me to get some things from the
souk.  This is normally his job, but now and again he needs to have time
with Zeb without me being there, so I'm happy to go along with this.  I
went towards the souk and sat in the shade outside a little shop and drank
the tiny cups of coffee they have in Tangier.  I like to sit there because
the owner, a nice understanding man, has a son who will soon be just the
right age with long eyelashes fringing dark liquid eyes full of suggestive
mischief.  The boy - Hanif - brings my coffee and squats at my feet while I
talk to him about his day, and what he plans to do.  He tells me his
ambitions, both for the day and for the rest of his life, and we spend a
happy half hour getting to know each other.  He is 9 and one day I will
become smitten.  That's what I think in 2011, but it won't happen, alas.  I
find myself coming here most days this month.

I get up to pay, but Hanif forestalls me and takes my hand, leading me into
the cool darkness of the shop.  Here his father sits.  I pay.  The father -
also Hanif - exchanges the news of the day with me.  We both studiously
avoid the unspoken matter of his son and how much Hanif Senior would wish
to charge for Hanif Junior to become economically positive within his
family.  I smile: Hanif's too young.  But I'll be back next week to smile
and dream over little Hanif.  Except, of course, that I won't.  In seven
days time it'll be 14 years ago.

By the time I get home with the ingredients for Leo's dinner he and Zeb
have concluded their business.  Each of them is smiling contentedly - good.
I imagine Leo will have fucked the boy.  That's what he (Leo) likes, and
from what Leo's told me on other occasions the word 'likes' would not do
justice to how Zeb regards being fucked.  "Rex, he can't get enough."
Since Leo brings width to the party and I bring length this can only be
interpreted as a challenge, and that's how it's been with Zeb since his
first day with us three years ago.

We've got into a routine - never call it a rut where sex with a boy is
concerned - where after I get my breakfast Leo spends the morning fucking
Zeb and I spend the afternoon doing the same thing.  On those days the
evenings tend to be relaxed strokings and cuddlings, and if a kiss elicits
a response then there may be an evening orgasm or two as well.  It's not a
bad life.

Zeb sometimes enjoys - no, that's not sufficiently strong: demands - a
threesome, but today isn't one of those days.  He has learned that as well
as fucking boys I have other unusual habits, and one of these habits is one
he has discovered is a big button-presser for him.  It was new to him the
first time, but as ducks take to water, so did Zeb.  This afternoon was one
of those days.

I always know when Zeb is interested in this aspect of our love-making when
he brings a large carafe to the lunch table.  Leo groans - this is not his
thing - but he's tolerant.  He will visit another coffee shop this
afternoon, I expect, leaving Zeb and me to out watery pleasures.

I drink a useful quantity of wine, then a useful quantity of
freshly-pressed lemon juice.  Zeb consumes an unbelievable amount of juice,
so much so that his belly swells under his dishdash.  He grins as we eat
our food.  Afterwards Leo is disposed to hang about, purely to see Zeb's
mounting discomfort, but he takes pity and eventually goes out.  "Enjoy
yourselves, boys," and he's gone.

Zeb and I clear the table - it takes less than a minute.  We're both
desperate.  I take off my wrap and throw it into a corner.  We go into the
bathroom and stand under the shower head.  I lift off his dishdash - he's
completely stiff, his cock sticking straight up against his slim brown
belly.  It's got to be 6 inches, but rising proudly above his soft hairless
balls it looks more like 6 feet of proud boyhood, straining to be freed of
the gallons of cum it will soon squirt.  His balls are a nice size, and his
sack hangs low between his legs.  His heart-beat is visible in the rhythmic
pulsing of his cock, and each beat of his cock gives a gentle twitch to his
balls.  He is, in a word, perfect.

I take him in my arms and kiss him; he responds, and our tongues compete to
see whose mouth they spend more time in.  When he can stand it no longer he
looks into my eyes and says shakh?  I nod, allowing his bladder the release
it craves.  His piss arcs high out of his cock, hitting my chest just below
my chin and running down my belly, my cock and my thighs.  He likes to
empty his bladder in one long act, and I am in paradise while he does so.
The hot fountain from this boy's cock soon finds its way into my mouth and
I manage to swallow at least half of what his beautiful cock provides.  I
caress his arse while he's pissing, knowing that I will soon be in there
returning the favour.  At last his piss stops.  I lift his face to mine and
kiss his lips: he licks his own flavour from me.  He knows what to do now.

The lube is always handy, and he grabs the bottle, coating his hands.  He
takes my cock between his hands and reaches under his balls to stick two
fingers up himself.  We don't really need lube as Leo's already fucked him,
but it never does any harm to have a bit more.  He kneels down with his
shoulders on the tile floor and his pretty brown arse up invitingly in the
air.  "Fuck me, Rex," he says in English, "shakh in my ist."  He's telling
me to piss in his arse, and this is the thing we both crave.

I enter him slowly, the way we both like it.  As he feels my hard cock inch
its way into him he mews like a cat; it's a big turn-on for me knowing that
inch by inexorable inch I'm giving this boy indescribable pleasure, as his
hot moist arse is giving pleasure to me.  I'm constantly amazed that he can
take the whole of my 9 inches, and momentarily it crosses my mind to think
of Ace again - that's twice today.  And as soon as Ace enters my mind
there's Jack, Ace-loving Jack, piss-loving Jack, crowding in beside him.
Oh God, let it happen.  Let it work.  I need it to work so badly.

Zeb's mewing wrenches me back: I'm right in him, as far as I can go.  He
feels my cock pressing in him.  He knows it's time.  "Shakh, Rex," he
whispers, "shakh in my ist."  "Oh Zeb," I murmur as, for an instant, I love
this boy in whom I'm about to empty my bladder, "yes, yes."  And I let go.
My cock gushes all the wine and lemon juice deep inside him; my cock is
filling his arse so much that there isn't room for a bladderful of piss, so
it trickles out of his arse past my still pissing cock, over my balls, down
our legs.  As fast as I fill him he empties himself.  As I feel my bladder
is almost empty I squeeze him gently and start to fuck him, slowly at first
and then with increasing speed and urgency.  I reach round to his cock but
Zeb has beaten me to it and his hand is grasping his turgid 14-year-old
cock in a mad race to see who shoots his spunk first.  We are both crazy
with need, and suddenly I'm there.  I'm there, shooting what little spunk I
can still muster deep deep in Zeb's delicious arse, and the feeling of my
cock swelling and pulsing inside him takes him over the edge too.  His cock
jets several squirts of cum across the tiles.

I pull out.  Gallons of piss gush out of him.  He dashes to the bog where
he allows other, less welcome, matters to escape.  Neither of us is
bothered by this, but nevertheless for 15 seconds or so we tacitly ignore
each other.  A strange modesty.  He dismounts, wipes (he's learnt the
Western way of using bog paper - we insist on that) and together we stand
under the cool shower to wash each other.  I marvel again at the way he
shows no distaste at my ancient saggy body.  This boy is truly a jewel
among his brothers.  His fingers trace my tattoo, as they have traced it so
often before.  He smiles.  "Lucky boy," he says in Arabic.  Lucky man, I
think to myself.

All that happened six hours ago.  Leo came back from his stroll and we
spent a quiet evening sitting, stroking and cuddling until it was time to
write my diary.  And so, as another diarist wrote, to bed.

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<End of Chapter 5>

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