OSMAN GOES TO COURT

A Thousand and One Tales of Osman the Pedophile

By DannyR (MMMM/b, oral, anal, incest, extreme pedo)

Copyright 2009. All rights reserved.

Author's Reminder: Don't forget that inquiring authors want to know -- what did you think? So when you're done, put your fingers to a dried-off, cleaned-up keyboard and start by typing: dr_harris_81@hotmail.com.

DISCLAIMER: Some folks apparently have trouble distinguishing between fantasy and reality. This story is a fantasy. It didn't happen. Never will. And anyone who attempts to do in real life all or any of the things depicted in the story needs to be hanged, then drawn and quartered, and then turned over to the cops for the harshest penalties the law allows. After that, well, hopefully everything Law and Order and the news say is true about child molesters in prison, is really true. Now that we're clear on what's what, and what's not, read on.

SPECIAL NOTE: The Thousand and One Tales of Osman the Pedophile are about a middle-aged Malaysian pedophile, who became a pussy boy quite early when a sixteen year old taught him that next to breathing and eating, his mouth was best used for sucking cock. And the "older man" (mid-twenties?) who taught him a year later that while his asshole was fine for moving stuff out, it was even better used for something going in the other direction...first the cock that took his virginity, and then the cocks of other men and teens. Eventually, of course, he had to grow up and get a bigger dick and hair "down there" and so the men who wanted to use little boys weren't interested any more. That was fine with Osman. There were plenty of men his own age, and older and younger who liked him, and his ass and his mouth, just fine. Then, too, he learned that there were boys to seduce and teach to be fine cocksuckers and better boy cunts. Thanks are due to the real Malaysian man who set these tales (tails? <s>) in motion.

OSMAN GOES TO COURT

This is about how I accidentally fucked a kid. And no, I don't mean I tripped and fell and my dick slid into a young boy's arse.

But really...who could expect that accidentally overhearing a horrified matron's comment on a downtown street corner will result in your cock getting into boy pussy?

I was bored. I'd gone downtown, parked, and was on my way to my favorite restaurant to pig out. Stopped at a busy intersection waiting for the light. Two older women, one almost monstrously overweight, speaking in Bahasa Malaysia, perhaps assuming that because the crowd appeared to be mostly tourists (I was behind them) that they could speak freely and no one would understand, and thus their voices were not moderated or muted. The mon­strous one telling the other with righteous indignation about a hearing that was to start that very day. A rural father was in the dock to answer the charge of sexually abusing his son. Who was only a young preteen! Horror of horrors!

And how did she know this? Her first cousin's husband's sister's son had married a woman in the same village. She (the monstrous one) had even met the man in the dock! Only, of course, she had always known there was something odd, even perverted, about him. But what could one do? No one listened to the old, these days; no one had respect. So she had been forced to say nothing. And see what happened.

The hearing? Yes, yes, the hearing started that very day, only fifteen minutes from then, in a specifically-named courtroom not all that many blocks away, but of course she would not demean herself by being present. Though she had thought of going, but only, of course, to offer sympathy to the betrayed mother of the poor abused boy. But still, having met the man, one might be thought to be supporting him. And that would never do. Yet something in her smug tone said she would find out all the details anyway.

The light changed. We surged across. They were gone.

My cock was twitching. My boredom was not quite gone. But...if I went, might I not see a young little preteen boy whose father had, so I hoped, fucked him long and hard and often? Fucked him as, I'd finally admitted to myself, finally brought that way down deep wish up into the light, the regret, that my own father had never fucked me. Never used my little boy holes. I shook that off. Wondered. Would they let us, the mind-perverted watchers, hear the intimate details? Might I have a chance to imagine his brown and tender and abused pussy as papa's cock slid home? Of course I decided a pedo father's trial was far more interesting than a meal. It would, after all, be quite likely to provide mind meals of gourmet pedo images to savor later with my cock in my hand and a dildo in my own cunt.

In my country, indeed, in much of this part of the world, rural fathers and grandfathers and uncles fucking their own little boys and girls, or the tiny whore-lets in the neighborhood, may not be an everyday occurrence, but is not a shocking rarity. These are men who are not tainted by the mores prevalent when we were a colony, of so many countries for so many centuries; not tainted by the currently militant political correct sexual policing. The "relationships" go unreported, are even shrugged off by those who know, and most likely that is everyone in the village, or in the area.

This father, however, as I was later to learn, had been reported to the authorities by a morally outraged American woman of strict fundamentalist persuasions who was in our country to do her moral duty to those lesser, heathen, not-quite-humans in a third world country by teaching English in a bloody shack school.

I went to the court, of course. How could I not?

The benches for observers were not crowded. A variety of us. Mostly women, but several other men. Men who did not...quite...look at each other, or look at me, when I slipped into a seat on the aisle halfway to the railing that separated the onlookers from the participants.

The charges were read to the father who stood in deference to the magistrate's court. A shadow of a frown, but otherwise expressionless. Tall; thin; a somewhat scraggly beard. Intense. Not handsome, but with me it was the cock that was handsome or not, the face it went with was relatively unimportant, especially as I was growing up. These days I prefer my men hung and handsome, but even so, if the cock is impressive, long and thick and juicy, and my arse is eager....

A woman was seated on the bench just behind the railing. She was crying. His wife, I assumed, and it turned out she was. I looked around the room, surreptitiously, I thought, but the kid was nowhere to be seen. I kept my face impassive as a good pedophile learns to do in public. Not quite good enough. A voice...male...whispered, "He won't testify until the third day."

I winced, did not quite whip my head toward the man two or three feet away from me on the bench, who I had not even noticed as I came in, who was murmuring to me. Much older than me. White haired, a deeply lined Chinese face. Well dressed. Slender. A slight belly. And a very knowing gleam in his eye as he slid just a little closer to me, pulling his slightly frayed briefcase along with him; just enough to make his soft voice even less likely to be heard. I debated indignation; outrage; stupidity; rising and rushing away like a cockroach scuttling under the floorboard when a bright light is lit. Abandoned all in the face of that gleam. If I said nothing, admitted nothing, I could not be guilty.

"The American cunt will testify tomorrow. The mother—" a tiny head-tilt that confirmed my suspicions "and young Bashir will testify the day after."

Bashir. Harbinger of good things. Were I religious I'd say yea, verily, I say unto you, an omen. A veritable omen.

I'd meant to not react at all, but apparently my eyes were speaking up a hurricane in the moment that his eyes met mine before our heads turned away. We were, after all, strangers meeting by chance in a courtroom. What could we possibly have to discuss? But I guess I'd asked how he knew all this, because his whisper continued. "I know my way around the courthouse." Peripherally, I saw a smug smile as faint as the father's frown had been.

The charges were read. All legal jargon and euphemisms, of course, but we, my new-found friend and I, listened avidly. In my head I was translating the stark, neutral words into pulsing images involving a young boy and the father I was staring at. The old chink forgot himself enough to lick his lips, as if to wipe up drool from actually watching what he was imagining.

Over. An announced time for the next day. An announced time for the day after. The judge rose; we rose; the judge exited; we exited. The women were in little clumps and clusters, chattering softly. The men exited, carefully alone. The other four men, who also, like me, had just happened to step into this particular courtroom, who certainly had no personal interest in a case of this nature, did not look at one another. Or me. Or the old man behind me as we passed through the door, and went our separate ways in the currents of people moving in the halls. I saw a men's room sign and swam across the flow to get in there. Two stalls; three urinals. Empty. I pissed long and loud, sighed, zipped, washed, left.

Missed the next day. Too hung over. The young Brit on hols who thought a dark-skinned gook was hot; who thought his toys were hotter still, especially when used on him, had kept me up most of the night. Up in all senses of the word. I probably could have gotten to the court, but really, a fundamentalist American bitch...a Net search had provided me with the short news story of how this case came about...interfering in the basic cultural rights of my country and countrymen? The most I would have gotten from it was titillation if she recited anything she had been told. I rather doubt she saw papa cock in kiddy son cunt.

Third day. And a hesitation about whether to go or not. If I did, if the old man was there, if the others who had not looked at me, nor I at them...not really...but men I would nevertheless recognize, at least in that venue, were there, then I would be admitting what I was. In a courtroom that could be used to condemn me to severe punishment were my secret to be made known. Yet if I only thought, if I did not speak, I could not be guilty.

And my cock wasn't happy with the meagre fantasies I'd generated for a quick wank that first day. My cock wanted, demanded more, was certain that I'd be able to do a better job of satisfying his perversions if I just went, and watched, and thought, and fucking imagined. Naturally, I did as my cock commanded.

The room was much more full than that first day, as I saw when I paused just inside, looking for an empty space, and...yes...looking for the old chink. Three of the other four men from that first day were scattered about. The fourth was not. Probably too scared. But there were three additional men. What the fuck? Was there a Kuala Lumpur pedo newsletter that no one had asked me to sign up for?

The old guy turned his head and the motion of that white hair caught my attention. What? First there's gaydar, and now this old guy has pedodar and sensed my presence? And yes, there was a space next to him. Common sense told me to sit elsewhere. My dick wanted to be close to someone who was probably a fellow pedo, so he could fantasize about the old man's dick, and what well-aged chink meat would look like sliding in and out of dark brown Malay boy cunt. Guess who won that coin toss.

I'm thin enough that my arse wasn't really gliding across the noses of the people already sitting on the bench as I moved past them to the empty place. It just felt like it was. The row was not so crowded that he and I had to sit with our legs and hips touching, but not so empty that anyone who noticed might wonder or remark on it. Fuck me, but there was something erotic, though, about doing it. His thin left leg in the linen suit was blazing hot against me, and it was clear to both of us, it was impossible not to be clear, that this touching was not the inadvertent physical contact of two strangers who had no choice, but rather a queer's (or a pedo's) cruising, deliberate contact.

The prosecutor put the boy's mother on the stand first. I won't try to repeat it all, just the important parts. Or important to me and my fevered imagination and the aching, leaking cock in my jeans that got so very hard so very quickly.

He asked her if she knew what was going on.

"Of course. We have a small wooden house, your honour. Two rooms. I hear them. Almost every night, just like newlyweds. For two years now."

A loud gasp from the general audience. A salacious inhalation from me and the chink; from the rest of the just-happened-to-be-here pedos, too, I'm sure. Somehow resisting the urge to reach between my legs to squeeze my hardon. The kid was that young when it started? Fuck!

There was a majestic magisterial inhalation as well, as he could not lower himself to the level of the titillated observers. "Two years, madame?" he asked with a kind of awful politeness. "And you were not bothered by this...activity?"

"No, your honour."

"Why not, Madame?"

"B...Bashir never complained. And I know... I know..."

"You know what, madame?"

"I know they both liked it."

Another audience-wide gasp, though softer now so as not to miss a detail. My cock spurted precum. I took the moment of silence to glance to my right. The old man had his briefcase on his lap, his left hand conveniently underneath it. Lucky fucking bastard. I could tell from the slight muscle movements in his arm as it rested so hotly against mine that he had to be working his prick.

"And that made it all right to you?"

Mother gave the ignorant magistrate a "well, duh" kind of look. Father wasn't bothering her now, was he? Now that there was someone else? She sighed heavily.

"My husband is like any man. He has urges. A lot of urges." A titter ran through the courtroom, and no, I do not mean a bare-breasted woman. Mother almost glared at us.

"My eldest daughter is fourteen. If my husband releases his urges on her it will be very horrible. Rashid, my neighbor Safiah's husband, sexed their daughter, your honour."

I suppressed a smile. Rashid, which means "rightly guided," had apparently rightly guided his cock into his daughter's cunt. Hopefully he had had a chance to use her for quite some time before the pregnancy.

"Now Safiah's daughter has a baby," she went on. "Things are complicated for them. A baby is what makes people talk, your honour. With my husband and Bashir, the urges are released with no complications. And, your honour, please ask Bashir if he did not enjoy it every time."

After a break for lunch, the boy took the stand. And the room was packed. Still predominantly women, but definitely, unquestionably, more of us.

He was as pretty as anything, and given the utter ordinariness of his parents it almost made one wonder if mother had been unfaithful back then. Slender, quite, quite small. My dick eagerly murmured that he looked like he could not be more than four. How fucking hot was that. Smooth, smooth, smooth café au lait skin. Long-lashed Bambi eyes. He hugged his mother, and waved timidly at his father, who smiled back.

He was scared shitless.

The prosecutor, a stern man with no warmth, no caring for the child he was supposedly protecting by this proceeding, asked, "What things do you do with your father, son?"

A boyish shrug. "Fishing. He shows me how to make kites. Fly them."

"And what else?"

Father-son activities no one would blush to observe.

"And what else?"

Still more of the same. I didn't pity the prosecutor his frustration, even though I suspected the boy was doing his damnedest to protect his papa.

Finally, a near bark, "Do you love your father?"

Bashir looked at his father. The answer was obvious on both their faces.

"Yes. He is my father. He loves me, too."

"And just how does he show his love, young man?" Pompous, stern, prosecutorial arse.

A pause. "He...hugs me. And...and tells me he loves me. And...and kisses me."

"What else? Tell the truth now, boy!" he snapped.

Bambi-eyes looked down. Away. Anywhere but at the prosecutor. At papa.

The magistrate spoke, a kinder, gentler kind of lawyer voice (virtually unheard of these days). "What does your father do to you at nights, son?"

"He... he makes me his wife. Daytimes, too, sometimes."

The magistrate raised a hand that told the prosecutor to kindly shut the fuck up. "Makes you his wife. And what does that mean?"

Bashir looked at his mother, who was crying again. At papa, who was now grim, almost stony-faced at what was about to happen.

"Son, you have to tell the truth."

The boy looked again at papa, who lowered his chin the tiniest fraction, giving the boy permission to speak.

He did, with a rush. "He...he puts his thing inside me, your honour. In my mouth and my bottom."

Truth. But this truth wasn't going to set his papa free. The magistrate opened his mouth to speak after the brief silence the kid's soft-spoken (hardon making in a number of cocks scattered throughout the crowd) admission had caused, but the young boy got there first.

"Please let my father free, sir. Please. He makes me his wife so that tomorrow I will be a strong man." He paused. "I like it very much, sir. Truly. He does it with me only."

Unfortunately for the perverts in the crowd, and the merely gossip-hungry remainder, the magistrate took control back. And took Bashir and his Bambi eyes, and slender body, and delicious little rump that all the pervs noted as he left, back to the magistrate's chambers to continue the testimony in camera. That's legal-speak for in private, in the judge's office, where there's no one to see or hear what's going on, except for whoever's there. The guard moved to block the door, in case there was a mad rush of pedophiles vaulting over the railing, charging the door, eager to get in on some of the in camera kid cunt action.

I sighed; the old man sighed and pressed his arm and thigh into me and relaxed. He removed his hand from his crotch, casually turned his head around as if just stretching his neck, saw the stain on my thigh, and gave me a wicked eye-grin. Aloud, he said, "We must wait now, I think."

No soft murmur this time, anyone could hear. But then, he wasn't saying anything private or perverted, like voicing my own internal wonder, my own internal fantasy that was making it just a little difficult to breathe, that back in the magistrate's office, he was leaning back in his big, luxurious leather chair, his robe thrown open, his pants at his ankles, and delicate Bashir was lowering that delicious boy cunt down carefully on judicial dick and then riding it up and down until legal cum flooded his little pussy. What better evidence for the magistrate to have?

Or the fantasy, as we waited, of what it had been like for tiny Bashir, and oh so tiny he would have been, and his stern, but loving papa, that very first time.

Two years ago papa had made his delicate son his wife.

That small wooden house. Little Bashir must have heard if not seen his parents making the two-backed hetero beast. Did he wonder what they were doing? Figure it out? Ask his father?

Did papa ask him questions while they were alone, fishing? "Did you see what your mother and I did last night? It looked like a good time, didn't it? Oh, yes, your mother loves it when I do that. Feels really good. I can do it to you, too, Bashir. No, no—your boy-hole. Yes, that one."

And papa would be reaching inside his little son's loose shorts, and fingering his tight little bottom hole.

And later. "Now what I must do will hurt you at first. But it must hurt to be a man. Now first you must make me slick. Lick your papa's cock, little one, so papa can make you his very own boy-wife."

The necessarily painful familiarizing of that hot, tight boy pussy to daddy dick. A high-pitched squeal as the knob end is thrust in, splitting the virgin flesh and stretching it, the shrill sound muffled with papa's large, sweaty palm. "Shh, shh, little one, don't worry your mother." The pain he felt as his papa's lustful dick forced every inch into his boy hole. The slow, slow, slow change from pain to almost pleasure during that cherry-raping first fuck. Ah, yes, I remember it well. Then the increasing ease and fervour with each fuck afterwards. The increasingly well-pleased pussy of the young boy. The increasing ease and pleasure of mother as her son became a boy-wife for her husband, leaving tiny Bashir with the primary duty of pleasing the head of the family in bed.

With my eyes closed, my hands casually crossed in my lap, hiding my straining stiff prick, I was snapped out of my horny pedo daydream by a cultured voice somewhere near by, but definitely not the old man tightly pressed to my side. "No, it would be a shame, really, to be punitive to the family. Naturally, I don't condone such activity, but still, they seem to have developed an equilibrium that works for them."

I restrained not only my cock, but stopped my voice from agreeing.

The room became silent and I opened my eyes. We rose, as ordered, as the magistrate returned, one hand on Bashir's shoulder, guiding him. The boy's eyes were puffy. Had he been crying because the magistrate's fuck was rough? Or merely over too soon for his experienced cunt? Because he knew what the judge had decided?

The magistrate sat. We sat. Silence. He asked papa if he had anything to say. Papa's lawyer clamped his hand on papa's forearm when his expression looked like the answer was "yes." Papa paused, shook his head "no."

And then the magistrate shocked the shit out of me. He dropped the charges. No reason given, but then, he's a fucking judge and he doesn't have to. Perhaps he just didn't want to disrupt a reasonably stable family unit. And the only condition was that papa had to swear to Allah never to do it again. Which happened immediately.

Mother stepped through the gate to hug her husband. Bashir ran forward to wrap his arms around papa and press his face into papa's groin. He wasn't after all, all that tall a little boy. I suspected there was an instant foresworn oath, and a looking forward to his next access to the kid's holes, when that hug happened.

The room emptied out, feeding into the crowded flow of humanity in the halls. I loitered outside the door, hoping for another look at the boy, another image with which to build more elaborate fantasy for the wanking that would be happening not too long after I left the courthouse. Tried to not look like a pervert loitering, though I'm not sure I would have succeeded if there hadn't been so many people moving back and forth.

Great...or at least pedo perverted...minds think alike. The old chink was nearby. So was another, no, so were two of the other observers. Papa patted his wife on the shoulder and dismissed her. She turned left and walked away. Papa and Bashir turned right, walked a few steps, went past me and then into the men's room.

Damn.

I tried not to be smug that I touched the door just before the old chink would have. We exchanged glances and he clearly understood that if both of us went in, neither of us was likely to be happy. He smiled ruefully and I went in.

Damn again. The gleeful kind. Father and son were at the urinals, boy at the middle one. I could even hear the piss. I needed to piss. Badly. I stepped up, unzipped, hauled out my cock while internally demanding that it get soft enough to piss. He cooperated, but only barely so. And then egged me on. A man...a pedophile in a public toilet in a fucking courthouse...should never listen to his dick about the little boy pissing next to him. The big head told me to piss, satisfy myself with a quick glance that might let me see both papa's cock and the little boy cocklet, perhaps even with flowing piss, finish and get out. My dick said to piss a little, get hard, hold but not quite stroke, let them see. Talk to them.

No question which head won out.

The piss flow cut off as I went right back to full hard. Hell, I could almost feel the precum rushing through the starter gates, eager to push the last of the piss out my slit and start oozing again. "Congratulations," I said softly.

Papa looked at my dick and then up to my face. Bashir, precious little Bashir, looked at my leaking hardon.

"The magistrate made the right decision." I looked down at Bashir's tiny stiffy, at papa's impressive hardon, short, thick, uncut, large veins, wide, wide knob and large piss slit. Looked at papa. At the uncertainty. At the lust. There were no toilets to cruise where he lived. Both were virgins at this; virgins who looked on the brink of bolting, though that was more papa than the tiny boy.

"Have you ever shared your wonderful little wife?" Now where the fuck did that come from? Oh. Yeah. The knob that wanted a sample of this tight little cunt. Either hole would do, but the bottom was preferable. And papa wasn't in a rage over my pushiness.

"Men would pay to spend time with your wife."

Triple fuck. Now he'd pound me for suggesting he pimp out his boy-wife. Cock, shut the fuck up! I shouted inside my head.

Only...papa just quietly said, "Pay?" and stroked his meat.

Holy shit.

I shoved my hand into my jeans to pull out some wadded up bills from the night before. Counted quickly. Ten...ten...forty ringgit! I held it out, held my breath. Breathed when he took the wad, and pushed them into the pocket of his shirt. He dropped to one knee and turned his boy toward him, papa's so very suckable hard meat still sticking straight out. "You love your papa, don't you, my little wife?"

Bashir nodded up and down, up and down.

"And you will you help your papa if he needs it?"

Another vigorous nod.

"Good, my son, my little wife. Well, this nice man...."

I could barely tell him my name was Osman.

"...Osman, would like you to be a little wife to him."

"N...now?" Bashir asked, twisting his head, and looking right into my oozing cock slit.

It was my turn to nod. "I...I'd like to...put my...er...thing in your bottom hole."

Papa smirked. "That's what little babies, say, isn't it, little one? What does a good boy-wife say to her husband?"

"P...please, husband, won't you put your cock in my boy cunt?"

I looked at papa. "Stall?"

He nodded, stood up, took his son by the hand and went into the doorless stall nearest the urinals. We watched as, following papa's direction, Bashir took off his pants and undies and shoes, and dropped them on the floor. If I believed in a merciful God, or any kind of God, well maybe a boyfucker God, he had blessed me indeed. Such a beautiful piece of glowing brown stiff boymeat, with a small boy balls sac tucked up tight below it. Bashir looked up at his real husband, who nodded.

"P...please, husband, may I get your cock wet?"

I pulled my hairy balls out of my jeans and then thrust cock and balls toward him. Watched him gather up spit in his mouth and lean close and spit on my dick. Repeat a couple of times. Then holding my meat with his very tiny hands wrapped around the base he opened his mouth and swallowed.

FUCK!

Papa was a lot fatter than me, but my dick was a couple of inches longer. He managed to get almost the whole thing down into his throat. And then worked it, little boy tongue lapping and slurping, smearing his spit and my precum around until I was good and slimed. Then he lifted his head away and looked around, clearly puzzled how this was going to work.

Papa turned him to face the wall, lifted, and he spread his naked boy feet to balance on the toilet seat. Bashir bent forward, his papa holding him. I dropped to my knees. I had to see his cunt. It was everything I'd hoped and more. Not a pink little virgin rosebud. The muscles around his cunt hole were thick and brown, sure signs his tender pussy had been abused...frequently and well. Just like my own cunt was, and had been. I leaned forward and did my own licking and slurping, getting him loosened a little, working my tongue into his hole until it was fucking him.

When I pulled away, Bashir was panting. Papa was smiling with approval. "You see, Bashir, husband Osman knows a husband's duty to get a wife's pussy ready for him."

I stood, adjusted myself, pressed my knob against that brown pucker. "Does...our wife scream?"

He looked pleased with his prowess. Or training. "Oh, yes. Most loudly."

Not a good idea, though, in a toilet stall in a rush. As compared to your own village where, apparently, papa doesn't care who knows how deeply his boy-wife is getting fucked and with what shrieking ecstasy.

I lodged part of my knob in his pussy lips, put my right forearm around his belly, and my left hand over his mouth and shoved. Hard. Balls deep. Rewarded with a gratifying, but muffled, shriek. Started fucking slowly, but not too slow, knowing we couldn't afford to be too long at this.

Papa slid behind me. And then I felt a callused hand groping my muscular right butt cheek. A damned nice arse for thirty-three. I heard him swallow as he kept hold of my arse cheeks while I thrust. "Have...you ever been a wife?"

Was I a queer faggot slut addicted to cock in my talented cunt?

Fuck, yeah!

But all I said was, "Yes."

He squeezed my cheeks as I held still, deep inside his boy.

"I...."

"Do it!" I cut him off.

He leaned forward, reached his hands around me to undo my belt, unbutton, unzip my jeans. I could feel his cock on my denim-covered arse. Then air on my arse as he shoved everything down to my knees. His right hand came in front of my face and he forced three fingers into my mouth for the obvious purpose. I got them wet.

My turn to grunt as he shoved two of them up inside me with only the slightest bit of preparation. Then out, then three working in, stretching me. Then my turn to be his wife, as his right arm crossed up my belly, onto my chest and his thumb and forefinger began tormenting my eager left tit. Fuck, fuck, fuck. His left hand clamped over my mouth, just as I was doing to his little boy, and then yet another turn for me as I gave out a muffled yell of momentary agony when he shoved that veiny, startlingly wide, heavy meat up my hole. I could feel his bare flesh and large balls against me. I reached behind, felt his naked muscular butt. Pulled it toward me.

He leaned forward and whispered in my ear, "No money back."

I choked back the near laugh, and let myself go, let him set the pace in my pussy, which in turn moved my cock in tiny, tight boy-wife kid cunt. Papa was the strong, silent type. I was soon grunting and moaning with lust as I tried to concentrate on using my talented cunt muscles to pleasure him, but was almost overcome by the sensation of being fucked by papa while fucking his young son. Papa fucked me harder and faster, making me gasp and moan and incoherently beg him to fuck me even harder and faster, all the while being propelled deep into the bowels of heavenly hot boyhole, the kid getting louder and louder, too, as we both reached intense, barely vocally contained loud cums while papa's slime was splashing up and filling my shitter.

Panting, slightly under control, hands were removed from mouths. Softening cocks reluctantly slid out of well-fucked cunts. Papa leaned against the wall. As I backed out into the open, papa lifted his boy-wife down and leaned back as the kid promptly began cleaning his husband's cum and arse juices covered cock. I sort of waddled to the next stall, grabbed some toilet paper, shoved it tight against my sopping, leaking cunt and hauled my jeans up. Re-zipped, re-buttoned, re-buckled. "I'll go first."

Papa nodded. Reasonably together again, I opened the door outward and almost bashed the chink. He took in my flushed face, my expression, the fact that my clothes weren't as neatly adjusted as they'd been a few minutes earlier...a boyfuck earlier...and smiled. A mixture of congratulations and "you lucky bastard."

Then it hit me. Why the fuck not?

"You got forty on you?" I whispered to him, standing in front of the closed door.

"Wh...." He cut himself off as he caught on. Nodded.

I opened the door and went back in, the old man and his briefcase and the obvious bulge in his suit pants right behind me. Ah, ha. A man after my own hardon. Someone else whose knob end took over. Papa was still leaning against the stall, undoubtedly with baby boy wife sucking him to the pubes, when he heard the sound of the door and looked around the wall of the stall, panic and fear on his face. His oath to Allah to never darken his boy-wife's cunts with cock had gone by the wayside, though I expect his fear was more for the law.

The old man was quick. While we were walking in, he'd taken out his wallet, found the necessary bills, replaced the wallet, and had the money in his left hand. The briefcase had been dropped to the floor.

Papa saw the money and his face became still again. Hopefully he does not gamble in any way that requires an impassive face because the calculations were plainly written there. Forty ringgit in hand (or rather, pocket)...money that would go a long, long way in his village; much further than here in the capital. Eighty ringgit would be even better. And all just for letting a very old man's hardon into his boy-wife. He nodded.

The chink—and what was I supposed to call him? the elegant elderly Chinese pedo pervert?—picked up his briefcase, and walked to the stall. I naturally followed. My idea, so I better not get charged for watching up close and quite personal. Bashir had apparently been instructed in that moment of crossing past the toilets, as when the old man stood in front of the boy, handing the cash to papa, the kid reached up, did the unbuckle/unzip bit, and then pulled both pants and precum stained boxers down to his thighs. Papa lifted his bare foot, having stepped out of his sandals, put it between the old man's thighs and shoved his clothes down to the floor. Papa apparently had a thing for watching naked arse fucking his boy. His coat was tossed over the top of the wall; his shirt tucked up, his tie tucked inside, between buttonholes.

The chink was skinny, his ass and legs wrinkled, skin sagging, stringy muscles. In front, he was surprising. Definitely not the small-cocked Asian stereotype. More of a "holy shit! will you look at that meat?" kind of dick. Smaller at the base, then widening to a thickness bigger than Papa's, and a wide, kind of flat knob. Pale yellow-gold flesh. White, thin, pubes. Balls in a pouch tight up against him. Bashir had gasped when he first saw it, looking almost frightened at the idea of that prick in his pussy, but a quick glance up at papa let him know he would get fucked.

Papa held out his hand, and braced as pussy boy clambered back up on the toilet. Yeah, the old pedo sure as shit knew what to do with kid cunt on his cock. No need to ask if the boy was a screamer. He probably knew that there weren't many boys that age, especially that size, who wouldn't be in pain when that yellow meat slid or rammed home. Same pose as me, left hand on the mouth, right around the waist. And then he shoved in...fast, hard, pubes-deep, one stroke.

And was rewarded, papa and I were clearly rewarded, too, with a louder, shriller scream of pussy pain. If this was his first time being pimped out after two years of papa fucks, then even though his cunt was loosened and lubed with my fuck and cum, he wasn't loose enough to easily take that weapon of arse destruction. I squeezed my meat inside my jeans; papa stroked his cock.

The chink began a steady, relentless power fuck of the well-stretched kid cunt. Like one of those fuck machines you see on the Net. Fuck but I wanted another go at his arse, but I knew I only had enough in my wallet to pay for the parking. And then it occurred to me.

I looked at papa and asked I could use his boy-wife again, if I got him some more money. No fucking contest about the answer. Papa couldn't go trolling for himself; he knew the longer he stayed with his pussy boy in the toilet the riskier it got, but another forty or even more to take home? He nodded.

I didn't quite run to the door, hoping that the other courtroom pedo loiterers were still loitering, having seen my entry/exit; the chink going in. I was in luck as I stepped out and stood with my back against the men's room door, trying to look casual as I looked around. Yes! Both were a little distance away, on the opposite side of the still-well-trafficked hall. Actually standing together, though doing their damnedest to appear not to know each other.

I nodded at them, startling one, while the other did a far better stone-faced pedophile's statue that I had. I tilted my head as subtly as I could, hoping they'd pick up on the hint to come over. I didn't want to leave the door and risk someone walking in on the chink-kid fuck, and I couldn't very well shout down the hall to ask if they had enough money.

But after a slight hesitation, they worked their way over.

"You got sixty?"

The younger one, slender, very dark skin, full lips, shaggy hair, very fuckable himself, was apparently not too bright, or didn't realize how much he'd given away by coming to me. Like admitting he knew there was something going on in the toilet, that it involved a young preteen kid with two years of papa-fuck-my-pussy experience, and that he wanted in on it. But he still tried to be indignant and ignorant and pure and offended, though not loud, in asking why I wanted money from him. The older one, forties, maybe fifties, stocky, lighter-skinned, mustached, just rolled his eyes and murmured, "Arse?"

A good shopper. Making sure what the goods were before shelling out the cash. I nodded. He reached for his wallet, but I touched his arm and stopped him. "Not me. Papa. Cash in hand, cock out so he doesn't panic."

A brilliant smile, quickly muted. The young one got with the program. I held the door politely as two more men with prominent bulges entered the temporary boy brothel. I was about to follow them when I felt the hand on my shoulder.

"What is going on in there?"

I let the door go and slightly turned to look at the source of the firm hand grip and deep voice. And began frantically trying to figure out a way to extricate myself. Selfish prick? Fucking right. So I might have a bit of duty to try to keep the others out of trouble since I started all this, but if it came right down to my arse or theirs? No fucking choice.

A uniformed guard. Turbaned. Full, thick beard. Short. Running to fat. A mental flash of another turbaned man. A Sikh from years ago. Fuck. No time for wanking memories. Focus, Os, you dumb shit. Focus. I opened my mouth. Shut it. His look said he was in no mood for smart-arse remarks and was rapidly losing patience with even this brief silence.. Without smart-arse remarks I generally have nothing to say, and so said only, "Nothing, sir."

He leaned slightly toward me, his expression solemn, shading into don't-fuck-with-me-arsehole. "A man and a little boy go into a toilet and remain there, while you go in, come out, are joined by an elderly man and go back in, then you come out again, signal two men you obviously know, and now they are inside. What's going on?"

Full panic mode. Scream like a little girl and run? Belt him and run? Offer money I didn't have on me? Mentally I was wriggling like a well-caught barramundi, desperately fighting and flopping about, trying to get away, plunge back into the ocean and swim deep and far. And then he gently removed the hook and eased me back into the pedo pond. He said, even more softly, "Is pretty Bashir getting well-fucked?"

I was so relieved I wasn't going to jail I just nodded.

"How much?"

Ah. So he had noticed the older one reaching for his wallet. "S...sixty."

"And what kind of discount would I deserve for not arresting all of you?"

I almost blurted out "At least 100%"—which would have given him the idea of taking a share of the money papa had already collected, which might've pissed papa off enough that I didn't get another boy fuck in, so I just omitted the first two words.

He smiled. "Tell him that the judge's guard will be coming in, and then cumming in the boy. For free. The alternative to agreeing is obvious."

Well, fuck my arse raw. He was the one who'd blocked the door when the judge and the boy left. I needed to get my pedodar tuned up.

He let me go in the toilet. When I started to explain what was about to happen, there was definite fear and loathing going on, and a momentary effort to start getting clothes back in place, at least by the last two, who only had their cocks and balls out. But I calmed them down. Just barely before the impatient guard was inside. And pulling out a set of keys. And locking the damned door.

The guard moved into the toilet area, his commanding voice telling the chink to get his fucking cock out of the kid cunt, it was his turn. Reluctantly, the old man stopped fucking, and withdrew his slimy meat. The guard waved everyone out of the stall, out of the way, then picked up Bashir, set him on the floor, and proceeded through a horny fag's routine, pedo fag or not, of getting his pants down to his ankles, his shirt open, his tee shirt pulled up so that his huge-nippled tits, with one very large silver ring in his left nipple, and his massive belly were visible as he sat his big arse down and then slouched to make it easier to get at his cock.

Is that a cricket bat I see before me? Come let me clutch it.

Which is what the little boy-wife slut did.

The thick dark truncheon sticking up from a jungle of black sweaty hair was going to ruin the kid for the rest of us. We'd be lucky to feel his pussy walls they'd be so stretched out after the guard got through with him. Not that the guard gave a fuck what we thought.

Papa looked dismayed by the sight of the guard's meat, too, but there wasn't fuck all he could do. The guard would be believed if he told the judge what he saw—papa pimping out his precious boy-wife as a whore-let right in the very courthouse where he was set free and promised Allah he'd never do it again—and denied any claim he'd sexed the kid. The rest of us were just as much at risk, and obviously could not supply a really good explanation for why we were in a locked toilet with a little boy who was getting fucked.

Papa lifted little Bashir so that his bare tiny feet were resting on the guard's massive thighs, balancing him there as the guard reached between the boy's legs and thrust two large, hairy fingers up in his cunt. Bashir yelped and squirmed and almost unconsciously thrust his little cheeks down to get more in. The guard pulled his fingers out, smeared the cum and boy cunt juices on his prick and told papa, "Fuck him down on me!"

The old chink dropped to his knees between the wide-spread thighs of the guard, holding that huge cock in place as papa, standing to the guard's right and awkwardly bent over, held onto the thin boy hips and punched that enormous knob right into the kid's arse. The kid wailed, high and shrill, and when papa would have covered his mouth, the guard roughly said, "No! I like it when my boys let me know their cunts are being filled."

So papa continued shoving his boy-wife down on the guard's meat, while Bashir continued crying, and babbling, and struggling and begging his papa to stop because his cunt hurt. Because his boy titties hurt because the guard's fat fingers were tweaking and twisting them. But papa didn't stop. And by the time the whole cock was in that tiny cunt, and Bashir had passed out, collapsed forward on that big hairy belly, all of the men watching, including papa, were once again back to full, almost painful hardons.

Damn but the sight of that boy cunt spread so wide it looked like Bashir was being ripped in half was so fucking hot. The moment got even hotter when the guard grabbed onto the kid's waist and somewhat raised him as he pulled his hips back. Several wide, wide inches of guard meat appeared to our view, the kid's bright red pussy flesh pulled out with it, and then he shoved back in. And repeated. And repeated. Damned fucking precum making to watch that little boy draped forward over the guard's belly, initially screaming and crying but gradually turning to whining and whimpering and then to low moans, while the kid's cunt relaxed so that he was taking that long, long meat in ever harder strokes, sometimes just to the knob, sometimes a stroke too far and the slimy cock would fall out, but the old chink was right there to grab it, place it between the tiny boy's arse cheeks, and feel it up as the guard buried it in kid cunt once again.

We were all crowded in as close as possible to the stall, to get the best view possible of this brutal guard fuck. We jacked our own dicks (papa, the chink and me) or each other's dicks (the two other pedo court watchers) as the guard speeded up again, and young Bashir began babbling.

"Oh, papa, papa, my pussy hurts, he's so big, filling me, hurts, oh fuck, please, sir, please, fuck my boy cunt harder. Papa! Papa! It hurts so good, oh, papa, he's getting bigger up inside my pussy he's cumming papa he's cumming in my cunt!" And with that loud cry, our poor little gang banged pussy boy began writhing and shrieking in an incredible series of dry cums, and passed out again. The kid sprawled bonelessly atop the guard's belly, his sweaty face resting on the guard's hairy pecs.

"Fuck him, old man," the guard commanded.

The old chink got up with as much alacrity as age would allow, and I moved to the empty stall to stand on the toilet and look down on the new fuck. The chink's pale golden meat slid effortlessly into Bashir's gaping, leaking pussy. A fine sight as the chink held onto the thin shoulders, pressing them into the guard's flesh, the unconscious boy's groin rubbing over and over again on the hairy belly as the chink resumed his machine fucking of the boy cunt. But the guard's fuck of the defenseless kid pussy had got him, and the rest of us, so hard and horny it was clear he wasn't going to last long...and he didn't. He speeded up until he was ramming the boy's hole as fast, it seemed, as the jackhammers on the streets in Kuala Lumpur's perpetual repair work and then with a loud grunt of his own, shoved in balls deep and started unloading.

When the old man's prick popped out with a loud noise, and he stepped out of the stall, there was a moment's awkwardness, as the first of the other two pedos...early to mid twenties, smooth faced as if he never shaved, an average six inch cock with average balls sticking out of his pants...stepped up to have his turn, only to have papa quickly move in front of him and hold out his hand. From my vantage point looking down, I saw the way the young man's eyes darted to flicker back and forth between the hand and the guard's face. He was actually more worried about someone "official" seeing him pay money for sex, than the fact that what he was paying for was the right to join in a young boy's gangbang!

I was pretty sure that now that papa had gotten a small taste of the money his boy-wife's holes could earn for him, his facial expression (hidden from me at that angle) was making it clear: no cash, no cunt. With a sigh, he pulled the sixty ringgit out of the pocket he'd shoved it in when the guard showed up, and handed it over. Papa stepped aside.

The guard was holding tiny Bashir in place with his left arm, while his right stroked the somewhat sweaty and glowing flesh, down the boy's side to his arse, between his cheeks to shove a couple of fingers in the leaking pussy. With his legs spread wide, it was clear the three loads of cum were running in thick streaks down his tiny boy balls and puddling on the guard's belly.

The younger pedo didn't bother lowering his pants, just got into position, shoved his cock in hard, and then with outstretched arms, palms flat against the walls, he began his own religious boy fuck, thanking Christ, and Jesus and the Lord for the hot, slimy pussy his meat was buried in. Praising his pedo God for finally giving him a little boy to molest. Fucking faster and faster as little Bashir rolled through another series of dry cums that finally set his molester off, and another load of man cum was added.

The older pedo, late forties or so, very, very thin, mustache and goatee, seven uncut inches, wasn't troubled by paying up, wasn't troubled by the audience, wasn't troubled by how loose the kid's pussy had become. He was troubled...royally pissed, in fact...that he'd jacked too much while waiting his turn, or was just too fucking turned on, because after only a couple of strokes he was done. Five fuck loads of man seed up this little boy.

"My turn," I said as the fortyish prick pulled out.

I stepped off the pan, came around to kid fuck central, and stripped off. There were a couple of shocked gasps from my fellow pedos, but what the fuck. The guard had locked the door, hadn't he? And I wanted this kid fuck bare skin on bare skin to go along with the bare cock in bare baby boy cunt. But first....

I went on my knees, started to move my head towards my goal, but the guard stopped me by telling me to clean his belly first. Not a fucking problem. I licked and slurped and lapped until his hairy stomach was wet but clean of jizz. And then guard held the boy's arse cheeks wide, spreading the cunt open, too. I dived right in. I tongue fucked young Bashir and from the way he cried out and moaned with obvious lust, papa had never done it to him. And then I licked and sucked out what felt and tasted like most of the cum that was still flesh warm from being inside him. Then I stood, cupped my right hand under my raging hard dick, tilted my head and let the last load of man cum and boy pussy slime drop out of my mouth and onto my dick. I smeared it around to get slicked up a little, then licked my hand and fingers clean.

The young boy was clearly too wrung out from the first five fucks to be able to stand on the seat again and brace himself. I looked over my shoulder at papa. "I want a puppy fuck."

He nodded.

I picked the limp boy up off the guard, and backed out of the stall. I moved toward the urinals where there was plenty of space for the other pedos to gather `round and watch. Set the boy on the floor on all fours, his hips and arse thrust up. Slid my dick back into the wonderful warmth of a boy's moist fuck channel. Looked at papa, standing slightly to the right of the boy's hand, stroking his dong. "Has Bashir ever sucked a cock while you had yours in his cunt?"

"Shouldn't he learn?"

The "why?" was plain on his face.

"It isn't just men in the city who will pay you to molest your little boy. Surely there are men within your village who have...urges, your wife said...who will be afraid of fucking their daughters in case they get pregnant as...Rashid? yes, Rashid's daughter did. Don't you think Rashid will be willing to pay for the right to use Bashir's cunt? Perhaps not as much as in the city, but still...something. For a price, Rashid could fuck Bashir's mouth cunt, while you fucked his bottom hole. For another price, Rashid could fuck your boy's cum filled cunt, while your son licked you clean."

Papa gripped his meat harder. He definitely liked the idea. It was his turn to get down on his knees, his thighs spread, and lift his son's small head, gaze into those soulful, pained, weary, Bambi eyes, push his knob against the plump red boy lips, and slide daddy dick all the way back into the boy's throat. And out again as my hips pulled most of my cock out of kid cunt. Then in again, and repeat until we had an easy rhythm going, fucking both of the kid's cunts at once, gradually creating a tempo that made it easier and more erotic for both of us. The talented slut quickly went through a couple of cums.

Papa's eyes and mine were pretty much tied together so we weren't paying all that much attention to the other men in the toilet, figuring they were jacking off while we fucked the boy. I definitely started paying attention, though, when two very fat fingers shoved unceremoniously up my hole. I yelped with surprise and looked over my shoulder. The guard was on his knees behind me, the older pedo's head bobbing up and down the slick fat cock to make it even wetter. There was no point in objecting. Unless I wanted to give up my kid fuck, I was stuck. No fucking way in fucking hell was I surrendering Bashir's pussy.

There was still some cum up inside me, but I figured a good part of it might have been absorbed. "Lick me, please," I said.

The guard pulled the older man's mouth off his cock and turned his head, forcing his face into my ass cheeks. The pedo's mouth was talented, perhaps as good as mine.

"You are a cunt, too, like the boy?" the guard asked.

"Better. He has youth, I have experience and talent."

And made frantic use of that talent, trying to relax my pussy muscles as if I'd been the one gangbanged and loose, to make taking that huge fucktool up inside me fuck all easier. Even so, there was no way I could entirely stop a fairly loud "oh, fuck!" when he breached my arse lips, and a loud grunt when he calmly and steadily shoved in, my bowels spreading wide to accommodate a cock larger than any that had ever fucked me, larger than any dildo I'd ever used to pleasure my pussy.

He paused to let me get used to it, a sure precursor with a man like him of a hard fuck ahead. When I opened my eyes, I saw the old chink standing behind papa with a pretty large wad of cash in his left hand. He reached around and pushed it all into papa's shirt pocket. His right hand was sucking his first two fingers. What the...oh!

He went to his knees, and reached behind papa. Clearly pushed both fingers as far into papa's ass as they could go. The three of us connected by dicks and cunts were motionless for the moment. "There's a hundred in your pocket," the chink said. "For you, if I get to fuck you."

"I have never...."

"Two hundred."

With all the money he'd already collected, with this additional amount, I wasn't sure how long he could live without working, but a decent time. All he had to do was become a whore like his little boy. The money won out.

I was being fucked slowly by huge guard meat, while my own cock fucked tiny boyhole, while we watched this side drama playing out. In a short but clearly painful time the old man's cock was lodged in papa's pussy. But that left the remaining two pedos with hands and no holes.

The chink looked from one to the other of the pedos standing on either side of our fuck statue. "Another hundred, whore, to suck one of these cocks. While I fuck your whore pussy." Papa flushed at being called a truthful name, but greed won again. The older pedo straddled the boy, placed both hands on the back of papa's head and drew papa's mouth all the way down to his pubes. And sighed.

I wasn't sure if I could turn enough to get the younger pedo's dick in my mouth and still fuck Bashir and get reamed by the guard, but the guard solved the problem. He sucked down the younger pedo's meat.

The room was already redolent of cleansers and piss and sweat and cum, but the raunch became even worse as well all began fucking mouths and pussies, with the littlest pussy of all down on the floor at the bottom, his cunts filled with cocks that began almost violently fucking as papa's and my cunts were being rapidly and roughly fucked by the men behind us. This wasn't easy, smooth, rhythmical. This was raw, brutal face and cunt fucking. The three of us whose mouths weren't occupied with cocks began a litany of foul words, obscenities in multiple languages as sweat burst out on all of us and dripped down our bodies, as we rammed and thrust and pushed and shoved, not caring what the fuck was going on with whatever hole was being used by our meat, caring only that we got off and got off fucking well. And below us all we could feel the vibrations and whimpers as poor tiny whore boy-wife Bashir started a sequence of violent writhing cums, clamping tight on my cock, which was enough to set me off as I screamed I was cumming.

And then everyone else was doing the same, hammering into holes, forcing as much seed as our bodies could surrender into bowels, into throats, until at long, long last we were finally through.

Very, very carefully we disengaged. While papa remained on his knees, his boy-wife learning a new skill by wriggling on his back under papa's ass, even though he was nearly ready to collapse from gangbang exhaustion, and then sucking and slurping the old man's cum out. Bashir then got to practice on me and ate out a large, slimy load of guard cum and swallowed it.

The chink got dressed, opened his wallet, came over to papa and very carefully counted out three hundred ringgits into his hand. The other two pedos tucked and zipped and straightened their clothes as best they could. And suddenly there was a sense of fear, of urgency, of a need to flee. The guard slowly and carefully rebuttoned his shirt, deliberately making everyone wait, then pulled his pants up but left his softening dark, raunchy meat dangling out of the fly.

He pulled the key out of his pocket, walked over, opened the door, stood out of sight as the three men quickly moved out into the hall and quickly hurried away. He lifted an eyebrow as I just stood there. Dressed, but not moving. I had a sense things weren't quite over with.

They weren't.

He walked back to papa and son, still on the floor, but starting to move as though to get dressed themselves. With his right hand on the mostly soft, long tube of meat, the guard looked over, winked at me, and said, "I'm still not emptied out."

My eyes widened. He was going to fuck one of them for a third cum?

The first spurt of piss splashing on the boy's tiny tits, running down his belly and onto the tile floor disabused me of that idea. He turned the spray onto papa, a spray he must have been holding for hours because it came out in such a wide, steady stream. Stunned, the two just remained there until he was pissed out, and they were wet and dripping. He put himself back in order, and reached into his pocket, took out a card, and then a pen. He wrote on the back. He handed it to papa.

"If you come back to the City," the guard said, "I will want to use you both again. Not that I will pay you. Whores always let me use them for free. I do, however, have friends who would be willing to pay to molest your son, and to fuck your holes as well. Call me."

With that he walked away, unlocked the door and left without a backward glance. Leaving me in a dirty, smelly courtroom toilet, with a naked piss-spattered boy whore, and the boy whore's almost naked, piss stained father. And I was hard again. The men's room had been occupied too long, the door locked too long. It was fucking stupid, fucking dangerous. Just like papa's greed winning out, my lust won out.

I scrabbled around in my clothes and wallet, figured out how much the parking was going to be, and gave papa the rest. Not forty, though. I pulled Bashir to his feet, got my cock out again, and thrust my meat down into his throat, held his little head and began face fucking him. After a few deep strokes I looked down at papa, and said "You, too."

He struggled to his knees and held very still after a defeated sigh, and I face fucked him, too. He was nowhere near as good as boy cunt Bashir, but then, today was, after all, only the first day of the rest of his cocksucking whore life. I alternated between their mouths, listening for the creak of the door so that I had at least a modicum of a chance of backing away and pretending to be appalled by the sight of the naked father and son sluts in front of the urinals. I suspect it was the even greater risk of discovery then, as compared to earlier, that got me turned on enough to face fuck even faster, and then spew the last of the cum in my balls into papa's mouth. Bashir licked me clean.

I put my cock back inside my pants, headed to the door. No pillar of salt as I looked back...to see papa carrying his naked, pissy, smelly boy back into the stall. Given the hardon, it wasn't for them to piss. Probably a celebratory kid cunt, boy-wife fuck over their new-found wealth. I stepped into the hall and with as much pedo savoir faire ("What? Me fuck little boy pussies and mouth cunts? Moi?) as I could muster, walked away.

I think I'm going to court more often.

End Note: This is the Nifty version of the story. If you'd like to read the original (the differences are subtle but there, although getting to this version didn't require major rewriting), let me know.