Date: Fri, 6 Apr 2007 01:25:44 EDT
From: Tommyhawk1@aol.com
Subject: "The Power of a Name"

[This story involves sex between an adult and a young boy.  If this
storyline bothers you, please read no further!]

			    THE POWER OF A NAME
			   By Tommyhawk1@AOL.COM
		      WWW.TOMMYHAWKSFANTASYWORLD.COM
			WWW.TOMMYHAWKSROGUEMOON.COM

     I couldn't believe it! I couldn't believe it! I was inside the
lockerroom of the Brooklyn Bridgejumpers' basketball team and there,
sitting on a bench just like any other player, was Shambo Peters himself!
Large, tall, handsome, his skin was the deep sepia hue of myself and my
family, and he was all alone, just dressed up in his gear and waiting, it
looked like. I had expected only to get to see Shambo's private locker room
(an alcove with a door, open at this time.) As it was, I was gawking at the
big man himself in the flesh!
     My father, dressed in his janitor's overalls, had said, "Now, son, you
be quiet until I introduce you. If he doesn't want to mess with you, you
just shake his hand and come away again. We can't bother these people, I'm
just the janitor here and you can't make trouble for him, because it'll be
trouble for the whole family, you understand?"
     "Yeah, Dad." I said, and my voice was breathless.
     "Let's go over and see if he wants to mess with you." My dad went
before Shambo Peters like he was an emperor. Me, it was more like he was
God!
     Everyone has their sports idol, I guess, and mine was Shambo
Peters. Six foot five inches tall, he could make basketball hoops and
layups look easy, even as he wove around among the other players to make
them. He handled the basketball often with only one hand while he threw it
with all the ease you and me have with a softball.
     Shambo Peters looked up and his face, neutral, frowned and then
smiled. "Hello, Thompson." That was my father, Willie Thompson.
     "Hello, Mr. Peters." my father said. "This here is my son, Jonquo,
he's seven years old and one of your biggest fans. He come here today
because he's out of school and going to help me clean up. Didn't know you'd
be here still."
     Shambo reached a massive hand out to me and I took it with all the awe
it inspired. This was the hand that made those baskets, that laid up those
easy shots, that now enveloped and wrapped around my own smaller hand about
twice and shook with gentle kindness. "Pleased to meet you, Jonquo."
     "Call me Jonny." I said quickly. "All my friends do."
     "Jonny." his smile caused my stomach to turn flips inside my belly and
I grinned up at him like a sickly pup.
     "You want us to come back later, Mr. Peters?" my father asked. "I can
start on the hallways if you'd like."
     "That's okay." Shambo said. "I was just waiting here for some newsmen,
they wanted to interview me and take a few pictures. You go ahead and clean
up."
     "Can I sit with Mr. Peters, Dad?" I asked.
     My dad looked at Shambo, who smiled. "I'll sit and talk with the boy
while you do your work, until the newsmen get here. He can do his own
interview. Probably ask me better questions than they will, anyhow."
     I giggled at that and my dad smiled, and went off to fetch his mop and
bucket. At Shambo's gesture, he closed the door, leaving us two alone in
this alcove, a small private room.
     "So, Jonny," Shambo asked me. "What would you like to know?" He patted
the bench next to him and I jumped over and sat down next to him, looked up
at that face. Square and even and clean, with a small nose. Shambo's height
and body build and hair and skin color were pure black Afro-American, but
that face...like my aunt said about him, it "spoke of a whitewash brush" in
his past. Hardly any black man in America misses the touch of that brush, I
guess. My Dad is pretty light-skinned, I got my darker skin from my mother.
     I asked Shambo the question he's probably heard a hundred
times. "How'd you get the name Shambo?" I asked. I was enough of a fan to
know his real first name was Edward, so the name seemed to come from
nowhere. He never answered that question the same way twice, it seemed.
     He looked at me, and said, "You know, Jonny, you're the first person I
think I'd like to tell the whole, honest truth about my nickname."
     I sat up and put my face all serious.
     "I was about your age when I got it." he went on. "Times was different
back then. I had gone to the library and checked out a book about Little
Black Sambo. You know about him?"
     I shook my head no.
     "They don't let kids read that book no more. It's just a story of a
little black boy who meets up with some tigers." Shambo went on. "The book
had tigers on the cover, which was why I checked it out, I just wanted to
look at the tigers. But on the way home, three white boys saw me with that
book and they started calling me Sambo, Little Black Sambo, over and over
again. They made that name sound as nasty as it could be. I got mad, and I
turned and I said, 'I ain't no Little Black Shambo!' I was so mad I said
the name wrong, I said Shambo. And after that, all the white kids in school
for a time called me Shambo, just to make me mad. First I hated the name,
and I even got into fights on account of it, but that didn't stop any of
them from calling me that. So I stopped fighting, just turned away when
they called me that, and after a while, they got bored a while and stopped
and went back to calling me Eddie, but I still remembered that
name. Burning inside me like a fire that couldn't ever go out. I couldn't
get rid of it, so after a while, I turned it around and decided to make
those white boys eat the name. I was going to play basketball so well, I'd
become famous as Shambo Peters and they'd have to sit there on their
couches on their fat asses drinking cheap beer and know that I was the
little black kid they'd picked on and now I was better than they ever
thought of being. That just the name Shambo was going to mean a black man
with the power to do and be whatever he wanted. That Shambo would be a name
I was proud to wear, not ashamed like when I was a kid."
     "And that's what you did!" I said.
     "And that's the reason, the real honest reason, I'm called Shambo."
Shambo said to me. "You have to take what life gives you, no matter how bad
it is, and make it into something you want. I learned that when I was your
age. You understand?"
     I nodded very soberly.
     "But that's a secret, okay?" Shambo said to me. "Don't go telling
nobody else, because if they ask me, I'll say it's not the reason why."
     "I promise." I said.
     "That's a good boy." Shambo said. He talked some more but I don't
remember what he said, I was too busy staring up into those eyes of
his. Him looking at me, like I was so important, like he and me had a
secret, just the two of us."
     After a deferential knock, my dad stuck his head in the door after a
time. "I'm going to clean the hallways now." he said to Shambo. "Is my son
causing you any trouble, Mr. Peters?"
     "No way!" I put in. "Shambo and me are friends!"
     "We sure are." Shambo agreed.
     "Well, if he bothers you, just tell him to come find me." my dad said
again. I'll be in the hallways; you can listen for the floor buffer. And
Jonny," he concluded, looking at me, "when those news people come by, you
clear on out of here anyway. He'll be too busy to look after you."
     "I will, Daddy." I said.
     Daddy closed the door and Shambo chuckled.
     "What is it?" I wanted to know.
     "Those newsmen done been here and gone." Shambo confided in me. "I was
just sitting here thinking of what I wanted to do tonight when you came
along."
     "Oh." I said. "So we can sit and talk long as we want to." I said,
thought about it. "Cool!"
     Shambo smiled at me and I felt brave enough to reach over and put my
arms around him. Just a kid hugging a friendly grown-up sort of hug. You
want to be close to people, you miss all the holding and attention you get
when you're younger, and it makes you hug even people you don't know very
well, sometimes, when they're friendly. Like Shambo.
     One big hand extended a finger three times the size of my own and it
touched my chin, lifted my face up. I smiled up into his face, and he
smiled down and then he leaned down and I realized he was going to kiss me.
     Like I said, starved for physical affection like any kid that age. I
pursed my lips and met him head-on and smacked him eagerly. His hand
reached out and stroked down my arm and then over my back.
     "Yeah, you and me are friends." Shambo said to me, his hand running up
and down my back.
     I wanted to stroke him, too, and my hands started moving where they
were, one hand was on his back and went up and down there. The one in
front, it went up and then down. And over a lump and then down his leg. And
back up and that lump kind of caught my hand and stopped it, side of my
hand resting up against it inside his shorts.
     I realized what it was then and I giggled, "That's your wienie." I
said.
     "Yeah." Shambo said to me. "I didn't put on any underwear for the
pictures. Didn't need any."
     I giggled at that again. Shambo didn't try to take my hand away, in
fact, his wienie was sort of...nudging my hand. I realized it was getting
bigger, growing and stretching out.
     I'd grown up in too large a family to not know what this was. "You're
getting a hard wienie." I said to Shambo. "Just like Brent did that time."
     He couldn't know who my cousin Brent was, but he didn't ask. "Yeah, it
is." He said. "What do you think we ought to do about it?"
     I knew the answer to that. "This." I said and I moved my hand back and
snaked it in through the leg of his shorts and caught hold of it.
     Shambo hissed as I grabbed hold of his huge trouser-snake, then he
chuckled softly. "Looks like you know what's what, huh?" he said to me.
     "Yeah." I said. "Only, not this big." I had only fondled the dicks of
kids my own age, this was in a whole other league in size. My hand was
dwarfed by the huge, grayish-brown, one-eyed, weeping monster with a huge
purplish head that seemed to bob its head at me.
     "Think you can handle that?" Shambo asked. His breath was a little
faster than usual, like he was working hard, but he was just sitting
there. "I think it likes you."
     "Yeah." I said and I began to pump my hand up and down on the huge
shaft. It bent and the head slapped at my arm as I worked it, and I said,
"Hey, it's got that sticky stuff on me!" It had, a silvery string of the
icky gunk was reaching from my arm up to the slit on top.
     "That just means it likes you." Shambo said. "Haven't you done it with
a man before? Or just kids your age?"
     "Just kids my age." I said. "I can keep playing with it, though, can't
I?"
     My eagerness was unmistakable and unfeigned. I wanted to play with
Shambo Peters' cock. Plenty of guys could say they got his autograph or
shook his hand, like I had. How many could say they had held Shambo Peter's
wiener and made it feel like mine did in bed at nights when I had
sleepovers with friends? Not many, I bet!
     "You ever done this before, Shambo?" I asked, wanting to know.
     "Not since I was your age." Shambo assured me. "Been a long
time. Didn't know how much I missed it until you got hold of me."
     "Yeah." I said, working his pud some more. Again, more of that sticky
stuff came out and got on me, the first string broke and fell, but another
one replaced it in a slightly different place.
     "Ah, ah, ah!" Shambo sighed as I pumped on his prick, as I jacked his
jimmy, as I worked his willy. I grinned as I looked at the huge prong,
feeling how thick and soft the outer skin was, how it just wrinkled over
the head as I pulled it up, and then slid way down to crumple around the
bottom like a pair of underwear it had just taken down, and that was when
the head would reach over and slap at me.
     "My cock kisses you so much, it must really love you." Shambo
observed.
     "Is that what it's doing, kissing me?" I asked.
     "Yeah, it kisses guys it likes." Shambo said. "You ought to kiss it
back, maybe."
     I giggled at that. "That's silly." I said. Then I leaned over and I
placed a kiss right on top of the purplish head as it bent over onto my arm
again.
     I licked my lips suspiciously as I raised back up. Something had been
on that head. "It tastes funny." I said. "Kind of salty."
     "That's my love juice." Shambo explained. "It comes out when my cock
loves what you're doing."
     "Yeah?" I considered it, licking my lips. "Tastes all right."
     "Want some more?" Shambo offered.
     I leaned over and this time got my lips right on that glans with all
the sticky fluid over it. My tongue pressed against it, and I got a good
taste. Leaned back and that string of the stuff reached out like a crystal
thread, then broke and slopped onto my chin.
     "That's good." I said. "Can I have some more?"
     "If you can get it." Shambo said. "You want my love juice, you got to
work for it."
     I began to whomp his pud really hard at that, but only a little more
of the juice came out. I stopped and slurped it up, licking his cockhead
like a lollipop and Shambo moaned as I played my tongue over his
glans. When I finished, he said, "Good job, but you want a whole lot of it
instead of just a little bit?"
     "Yeah." I agreed. "Sure! What do I do?"
     "Just put your mouth over the top of the whole thing and work it that
way." Shambo said. "That way, you get it soon as it comes out."
     I tried that, putting my mouth over Shambo's cockhead and pumping
it. I got a little more, but not much.
     Shambo realized my problem. About the time I was about to give up, he
said, "Of course, if you keep working it, after a while, you'll get a whole
mouthful of it at once. It's sort of like it saves it all up and then gives
it to you all at once."
     With that inspiration, I resumed. I found it was better to move my
head back and forth along with my hand, that made the skin all along the
shaft move together at once. Shambo liked that, too. He was groaning and he
laid back on the bench so I could get to him easier.
     Shambo's cock got harder than ever and it didn't bent very much when I
skinned it down like it had. The entire thing was getting warmer and
warmer. Shambo was moaning more and more, too. I figured he was getting
close to that "nice time" like me and my friends had in bed, when you got
it all tingling and your breath felt funny and your head kind of spun and
for a few seconds, you just felt great!
     "You about ready for that mouthful of my love juice?" Shambo panted.
     "Mm-hmm!" I grunted around his cock, I was going to get that juice out
of him before he hit his happy time and then his cock got too tender to
work, like it did with my buddies. I wanted that love-juice, I had worked
for it and I wanted it, I wanted it! Give it to me, I thought at Shambo
lying there groaning now real urgently. I knew he was about to have his
happy time and I hadn't gotten any of his love juice, give it to me now,
Shambo, give it to me now, now now! I thought at him urgently, moving
faster and faster, I had to win at this, I had to, I had to!
     And Shambo bucked and thrust his hips up at me real hard, he drove his
cock deep into my mouth so far it kind of hurt, and that's when the love
juices really began to fly!
     Just as much of it as he had promised me, I had a mouthful and then
some! It was pumping out of his prod and onto my tongue and it was as salty
and tasty and good as I hoped it would be, and I had lots of it, lots!
Enough that I couldn't drink it down fast enough, it was dripping out of my
mouth, squirting into my throat so deep I choked, and then I snorted some
of it out of my nostrils like snot and still more filled it up, me hanging
on and gulping it down as best I could, I had streams pouring out of my
nose now, both sides, and my chin was soaking wet from it and I was still
swallowing fast as I could.
     And then Shambo stopped thrashing about, he quieted down and the flood
of his love-juice ended at the same time and I could suck the last of it
off him, and then wipe my chin and nose, and blow my nose to clean it out
of the hot, salty, flavorful love-juice of my hero, of Shambo Peters, all
of it mine, mine, and all over me!
     When I could talk again, I said, "Wow, I got it. I really got it!"
     "You sure did, Jonny!" Shambo panted.
     "Does this mean we're friends?" I said to him.
     "You and me are the best friends ever." Shambo said. "I want you to
come by any time you want and you and me will talk and play and have fun,
just you and me."
     "Yeah." I agreed. I heard voices, and I said, "That's my Daddy."
     Shambo sat up and pulled his shorts back up around his cock and said,
"I guess he's wondering where you are. Come on, you and me will go fix it
so you get a full season pass, so you can visit me."
     We walked out and my Daddy was there, being chewed out by
Mr. Martin. I'd seen him before, a mean old white guy, but he was my
Daddy's boss, and my Daddy was standing there, head hanging down, letting
Mr. Martin be mean to him.
     That got me mad. "You leave my Daddy alone!" I called out.
     "And who are you?" he turned at my voice, then blanched. "Mr. Shambo!
I'm sorry!"
     I'd never seen a white man apologize to a black man before and I
marveled at it. Shambo had done what he'd said he'd do, he had made the
name Shambo a name no white man made fun of.
     "What's the problem here?" Shambo asked him.
     "The janitor just ruined the rug in my office by spreading that wax
too thick. It seeped in and onto my carpet." Mr. Martin said. "I'm going to
make him pay for a new carpet out of his salary."
     "That's not fair." Shambo said. "They ought to be able to clean it for
less than that."
     Mr. Martin started to argue, then wilted. "Yeah, it can be
cleaned. But he has to pay for the cleaning!"
     "Why should he?" Shambo said. "You ought to have a carpet protector on
the doorway to your office, that would prevent that sort of thing. Not his
fault you don't have it."
     Mr. Martin was a beaten man. "You're right, Mr. Shambo. I'm sorry."
     "Say it to him." Shambo ordered.
     Mr. Martin turned an ingratiating grin to my father. "I'm sorry,
Willy. I got angry when I saw the carpet, is all."
     "That's all right, Mr. Martin." my Dad quickly said. "I'm sorry I
wasn't more careful with the wax, sir. I didn't know it was going to run as
much as it did before I got to it. I'll be more careful next time."
     "All right, then." Mr. Martin beat a hasty retreat.
     Shambo turned to me. "Jonny, why don't you go fetch me a cold Coke
from the machine down the hall." He had a small pouch in his shorts, and
from it he pulled a couple of loose dollars I guess he kept there for such
things. "Get one for yourself, too. I want to have a word with your
father."
     I ran to obey. The machine was way down the next hallway, and it took
a while. When I got back, my father was alone but beaming. "Where's
Shambo?" I asked him.
     "He had to go." my dad took the Coke I had bought for Shambo. "But
that's okay. You're going to see a lot more of him from now on."
     "Yeah, he said he was going to get me a pass to all the games." I said
with pride.
     "Better than that." my father put out his chest in pride. "You're
looking at the new janitor and handyman for Mr. Peters' house. Me and your
mother will keep it clean and I'll work in the yard some, too. Room and
board will be included. He has two rooms in the back of the house, and
they'll be one for your mother and me, and the other for your two sisters."
     "What about me?" I wanted to know. "Where will I sleep?" I mean, two
rooms, and neither sounded like mine.
     "He knows that, and he's going to give you an upstairs room next to
his, he said." my Daddy went on. "You're going to have the biggest room of
all. And he's going to double my current salary, plus what he pays your
mother, and you and your sisters can earn some spending money by helping
her and me. Jonny, you and me are moving up in the world, and it's all
thanks to your friend, Mr. Shambo Peters."
     Like Shambo had said, his name was a power to move people in this
world. I squared my shoulders and I said, "From now on, Daddy, you can call
me Jonquo."
     I had my own name to make powerful, to be proud of.

				  THE END
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