Date: Fri, 20 Oct 2023 11:31:52 +0000 From: jacklynch945 Subject: The Prince The Pauper And the Chief 20 Can you imagine life without Nifty? Please show your support with contributions to keep the Archive online. You can find out how at http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html This story includes episodes involving underage minors having sex with adults. I expressly condemn this kind of activity. I have made every attempt to present these acts in a thoughtful, sensitive manner. You may not agree. If so, I encourage to avoid reading it. This story mentions real people, real places, and real events, but the characters and the story are entirely fictional. It contains descriptions of sexual interactions between minors and adult men. Your feedback, whether in the form of comments or constructive criticism, will always be welcome. Please email me: jacklynch945@proton.me. The Prince. The Pauper. And the Chief. By Jack Lynch Chapter 20. But, You're Prince. Aren't You? When they got back, Kip was amazed to find the house had been transformed into party central. A pick-up truck was parked outside. Bill Smith's Clambakes painted on the side. A team of caterers had apparently arrived while they were at the parade. The dining room table was filled with a generous assortment of hors d'ouevres. Two chefs, one in the kitchen, the other working the grill at poolside. Exquisite master pieces of Fourth of July fare were being cooked up. Steaks, chicken, hot dogs, and more. Small American flags were set about on tables and every other surface, including the mantle piece in the living room. Guests began arriving almost right after the parade finished. In minutes, the place was a cacophony of bright greetings, high pitched laughter, and general commotion. His hand on Kip's shoulder, Prince's dad led him around as he introduced him to some of the celebrity guests and friends, many of whom he was supposed to already know, but had never actually met. One man had a booming voice. Older, good looking, a gray mustache. "Prince, this is Walter Cronkite," Looking up at him and shaking his hand, Kip must have had a confused look on his face. "You know. We watch Mr. Cronkite deliver the news every night while we're eating dinner." Kip smiled and nodded his head. I guess the guy's on TV, he deduced. "Bring Ronni and the kids over for a sail," Cronkite said in a jovial tone. "I just got my new Westsail 48." Leaning in for emphasis, "Had her custom made." Harding introduced Kip to yet another newsman. Tall, dark hair, a ruddy complexion. Another booming voice. "Mike, I'd like to introduce you to my son, Wellington." Another blank look. Was he supposed to know who this was? "I hear you're interviewing Ronald Reagan for `60 Minutes.'" Nodding, "Yeah. I'm pretty sure he's going to take another run at the presidency," Mike Wallace replied. Turning to a younger version of himself, "Harding, this is my son Chris." As they shook hands, Wallace continued, "This young upstart just jumped ship for NBC News." Chris Wallace laughed, "Actually, gonna be reporting for WNBC." The same booming voice as his father. "And, of course, you know Mr. Buchwald." Kip smiled broadly at the roundish shaped man with the huge glasses. He'd never met him, but he remembered seeing him around West Chop. "How many newspapers are you up to now?" Harding asked. "Oh, I think something north of five hundred." Art Buchwald was a syndicated columnist. "Mazel Tov!" Both men chuckled. "Ronni and I are making some good headway on our auction idea," he said, leaning into Harding, as if confiding a secret. "Oh?" Harding feigned ignorance. "Yeah. We're going to do something small, probably Labor Day week, and see how it goes. Of course, all proceeds go to the Martha's Vineyard Boys Club." Then with a laugh, "Or the Tennis Club." Just then, he was accosted by another guest, a fan obviously, because she was holding Buchwald's latest book, I am Not a Crook, hoping for an autograph. As Harding guided them away, hands on his shoulders, Kip's eye caught someone looking at him. More like staring, his mouth hanging slightly open. One of the waiters. A guy holding a serving tray, standing along the fence bordering the yard. Tall and thin, maybe six feet. Chocolate colored skin, faultless and smooth. Not just his face and neck. His forearms, too. Visible because the sleeves of his bright white shirt were rolled up to the elbows. Medium length kinky hair. Big lips, a flat nose, dark brown eyes. And a big thick cock. Kip could tell because he could clearly see the outline of it against his tight black pants. Before he could react, Prince's dad directed him to a spot in another corner of the yard where a round, even fatter man stood, holding a small plate of shrimp skewered with fancy toothpicks, a dollop of cocktail sauce in the middle. "Uh-h-h!" Kip impulsively sucked his breath in. Pushing him forward, Harding said, "You remember Mr. Kirschner, don't you?" Harvey smiled at Kip. His beady little eyes narrowed for a second, then opened wider, his eyes bulging ever so slightly, then returning to normal. Couldn't be! A thousand visuals went through Harvey's mind in a milli-second. The last one, this boy's throbbing cock in front of him, just before he sucked it half way down his throat. "Yes-s-s-s!" Harvey drawled out. "Prince! Say something!" Harding admonished. Kip just stood there, a shocked look on his face. Blushing deeply, he finally recovered enough to offer a weak handshake. "Hello, Mr. Kirschner." Harvey rocked slowly from hip to hip. "Remind me, Prince. Why do they call you just Prince when you are one of many?" A sly smile came over his face, his lips slightly pursed. Kip just stood there, too stunned to say anything. Besides, he had no clue as why he was called Prince. "You know, Harvey!" Harding chided with a laugh. "Because he's the ultimate Jewish American Prince!" Harding and Harvey both laughed. And then, Kip said something he immediately regretted. Regretted because it was so incredibly stupid. "So are you the Jewish American King, then?" He asked turning to Harding. There was a brief pause after which both men broke into hysterical laughter, Harding stepping back and bending over to slap his knees. Harvey's mouth was open as he laughed, his tiny eyes scrunched so tight they practically disappeared into his fat cheeks. Just then, another guest grabbed Harding by the arm, redirecting his attention away from both of them. Harvey's laughter quickly stopped. Kip just stood there, staring at him. "So, ahh." Harvey looked from side-to-side, making sure they were left alone. "How are you, ah...Prince?" A knowing smile on his face. "Ok." A half whisper. "You know, I really enjoyed..." Harvey searched for the right words, "Enjoyed...ah...drawing you the other day." What was he going to say? Kip was busted. He tried to hold it back, but he couldn't help it. He smiled back at Harvey, quickly patting the bangs on his forehead. Christ almighty! Harvey thought. That smile! The dimple appearing on his right cheek. That adorable crooked canine peering out of the left side of his mouth. His warped mind went right to work, a dozen scenarios playing themselves out in a rapid sequence. So, Prince or Kip or whoever the hell you are. Let's go up to your room and I'll suck your little cock so hard, it will come off, he thought. "I'd like to do a few more sketches of you, if you're game for it," Harvey said quietly. Kip rocked back and forth on his heels. "I dunno." "It doesn't have to be...ah...that way, ya know," Harvey replied. "Just your face maybe." Of course, he didn't mean it. If it was going to happen, it was going to be a lot more than his face. "Ah, ok." Kip shrugged. "Can I ask you a favor, then?" "Of course!" "Don't say anything," Kip whispered as he looked around to see if anyone was listening. "Oh!" Harvey vigorously shook his head, a serious look on his face. "I'd never tell!" "Ok. Not about that," Kip frowned. "I mean about Prince and me." Harvey was confused. "But, you're Prince." He paused, his eyes narrowing. "Aren't you?" Kip blushed, recovering quickly, "Yeah, of course! I'm Prince!"