The Train Station by Freedom email@example.com © 2006 This story, as all my stories, is fiction. The germ of the plot actually happened, though. It was enjoyable. Please note that no real boys were harmed in the writing of this story. Thanks, as always to HCFU for assistance. This story is for Peter and Dave. The Train Station by Freedom It was a hot day when I walked into the train station. My friend and I had just driven in from the States, and he had dropped me off at the train station in Dorval, so that I could head home. I like Dorval, it’s usually nice and quiet, and I can sit and read in peace. But when I arrived today, the station was packed. It was just after the Lebanese- Israeli war began this year, and Canada had arranged for thousands people to be evacuated from that sad country. Dorval is the nearest train station from Pierre Trudeau Airport, and like I said, it was packed with people. I managed to find a place to sit, but no reading today – I was packed between two old men, one of whom smelt like he had been chewing garlic all the way over, and the other just smelt, like an old sock. Okay, okay, these were refugees. I wasn’t going to complain. Especially not when I looked at the row of seats facing me, and there were two beautiful boys – both olive-complexioned with curly, really curly hair. The older boy was out of my area of interest, about 17 or so. But his brother! Oh, my God! About twelve, I’d guess. The older boy had linked his left arm with the younger, and I wondered about that, but then I looked down, and I nearly laughed. Big brother was trying to stop the little guy from playing with himself, but he was ambidextrous – or is that ambi-sinistral? Anyway he was rubbing away with his left hand. Not much of a boner, but apparently he was itchy, cos he didn’t stop. I thought it was the prettiest sight, and smiled away to myself, wishing I could help him. So anyway, I figured I better stop looking before someone freaked, and unmasked me for the total pervert I am. Not that anyone knows, not really, just about 10 or so boys spread over the course of my life. I regained the custody of my eyes and pretended to be staring off into space. And that was the end of it, so I thought. But after 10 minutes, I saw the younger boy say something to his brother. It wasn’t English, and it sure wasn’t French, so who knows? Anyway, little brother peels himself away and heads in the direction of the toilets. Well, the drinks machine was just before the toilet, as I remembered, so I thought I might wander that way, myself. Just as I got there, I figured I needed to pee too, so I went into the toilet. I couldn’t see him, and a quick look under the cubicles showed no sign of him. That left the handicapped toilet then, which was built with a solid wall, to just above eye level, and had a proper door and lock. So I did my mental shrug thing again, peed and washed my hands. Then I saw him coming out of the cubicle. His face was flushed and when he saw me he gave a little gasp. Well with that evidence, I chanced a quick peek down to where little Happy was, and I noted that he hadn’t quite tidied up. There was a dime-sized spot of damp on his trousers in the usual place – he dressed left, not right like most kids, but, trust me, the spot was in the usual place. He was still blushing and not moving, and waiting for him to do something, I just snapped. I motioned him back into the cubicle. Like a good boy, he did what I told him. I followed him in and closed the door, and locked it too. I turned to look at him and he was looking a little pale now, but he didn’t try to get by me, and he could have, had he wanted. I gave him my nice, sweet smile – the one that one boy told me looked like the Wolf ready to eat Little Red Riding Hood - and he still didn’t budge. So I scooted over, and undid his trousers, did I have a shock! The little bugger wasn’t wearing any underpants! I gasped at the beautiful sight before me, just beginning his pubes, and about 2 inches soft – after all, he had just cum, remember? I looked at him and raised an eyebrow. He caught my drift and looked at the garbage can. I looked in and saw the undies there. Really cummy, they were too. Well, as cummy as you’d expect a twelve year old just into puberty to get. Anyway, there’s this little god standing before me still and his trousers around his ankles, no sign of any modesty anywhere. So I knelt before him as at my prayers, and for sure I was praying. I encircled his firm little ass with my hands, and moved him in closer. And then it was done. My lips were around his cocklet, and my tongue was savouring the sweet, musky smell of unwashed boy. He gasped once, but soon recovered. And so did his cocklet. It grew, with the resilience of the young to about 3 and a bit inches, and I continued sucking and licking. He got the idea really quickly, and soon was moving back and forth in my mouth – not that I let him go, at all. Trust me! Just a few minutes more, and he was busting his nut in my mouth, and I was enjoying a warm little drink. Just then we heard the Toronto train being called – they do it twice in each official language, and that was the 5 minute warning in French. He was finished anyway – such a delightful treat too! I guided him over to the sink at the other end of the cubicle and wiped him down with a wet towel. Then I carefully dried him; very carefully, as he was really sensitive now. He pulled up his pants, and held the cubicle door, ready to go. But I stopped him. “Kid?” I said. The first thing I had ever said to him. He looked quizzically at me. I nodded down at his trousers, and he looked down and blushed cherry red – just like the little end on his still-visible, but highly satisfied penis. He zipped up, and then he was gone. I waited a bit, stuffed the forgotten undies in a pocket, and then I left, myself. When I got out to the station, he was already in line, and I heard him explaining in French to his mother: “Mais, maman! Je faisais un gros kaka!” And then he was gone, as was half the station. I still had time to wait for my train, so I sat down again and picked up a left-behind copy of The Montreal Gazette. I was busy reading, when I had the feeling that I was being looked at. Oh, shit, I thought, I’ve been rumbled, and caught with the evidence too. But not yet it seemed: as I lowered the paper a little blond god about 10 was standing before me, blushing like mad, and with a little tent in his shorts. But he wasn’t blushing so hard he couldn’t look over at the toilets. So I watched with interest until he went in, and then I followed, curious to see what was going on. Once again, the washroom looked empty. The door to the handicapped cubicle was closed, so I tried that. It was unlocked, and so I went in, carefully locking it. Then I looked over and the little guy was just dropping his trousers. Once again I knelt at prayers, pulling the object of my devotion towards me. Saint John Bosco, protector of small boys, pray for me!