Dads 'N' Lads

Episode XII - Thirteen: New Meat

by Daddy.K

© 2016

 

Email: daddy.kevin.p@gmail.com
Twitter: @daddykevinp

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Story Code: MMMBBbb/oral/anal/incest

 

 

 

"Where are you going?"

Gene Franco has just stood. His wife's hastily-made breakfast lies half-eaten in front of him. "First, pee," he says. "Then, see why Victor takes so long."

His wife shakes herself. Forces a smile. "Sorry. I'm out of it. I just wasn't expecting that phone call."

Gene smiles, rubbing his jaw and faking a yawn. "At three in the morning, sweetheart, neither was your Gene. Ask them to be not so rude the next time, will you?"

Gene Franco shuffles out of the kitchen. Because he's wearing an American-style T-shirt -- too snug, maybe, but it does show off his Spetsnaz-class build -- and boxer trunks, which show off a grapefruit-sized bulge, he's got to hurry. Gene's mentioned his son's sacred name, so his round bulge is elongating into a throbbing, leaking kielbasa. Can't let the missus guess what goes on between her husband and their only child, can he? She's got her secrets. Gene Franco's got his.

Gene Franco -- you'd guess that's not his birth name, if you took into account his Slavic-flavored speech, his close cropped Ivan Drago colored hair, and those hints he's dropped (wink wink) to Victor of defending the Rodina in mano-a-gusano fights with the fabled Mongolian death worm -- slips down the hall toward the bathroom. Victor's door is shut but Gene hears his son moving around in there. No need to wake him up. Though, by God, he loves to curl up next to his sleeping son, ease his hands into the boy's briefs, slip them down his satin-smooth thighs to reveal that sculpted butt. And just gaze fondly on what Gene Franco's lust has created.

Then, of course, Gene would do what these American cowboys do. Mount up and ride -- not his horse, but his sweet boy.

Gene pisses loud and long. He stuffs his swollen boymaker back into his trunks. Flushes. Saunters up the hall. Victor's still in his room. What's up with the guy?

Time for a little spying.

Gene cracks his son's bedroom door. The hinges are well oiled. No squeaks to betray him on those nights he dares to slip from his wife's bed into his son's. With one eye, Gene peers in.

It's slobberin' time.

Son in briefs? Check. Streamlined, V-shaped torso? Check. Spine a valley nestled between burgeoning muscle? Check. Fine brown hair? Check. Thighs rippling with young quadriceps? Check.

Gene swallows. His chest begins to rise and fall. His hand gropes his bulge.

Sleek bubble butt? Oh fuck yeah, check!

Gene almost pushes his way in. Because his sexy kid is tempting him!

His son's sweet young ass is fully displayed as Victor turns to his dresser and plucks his Speedo from the drawer. Gene sees a hint of crack, peering lustfully back at the depraved dad over the brief's waistband. The best kind of crack to get addicted to. Boycrack, unconsciously shown off by youngsters who don't comprehend what they're doing to the testosterone-fueled studs round them.

Good thing Gene drained his bladder. Otherwise his pedophile cock would be shaming him right now, straining to escape his trunks, saluting the sexual spectacular going on in the fortress of boyish innocence. A son's bedroom. As it is, he has to adjust himself. Tug his T-shirt lower.

"Is he coming?" the missus asks as Gene settles in his chair.

"Wait a bit. Pass orange juice, will you?"

Gene's wife emotes. She's not happy about having to leave. Wearing a fake smile, Gene nods genially. Beneath the table, however, his hand massages his crotch, as he pictures young Victor in the shower. Water coursing over his porpoise-streamlined body. Maybe his son even exploring his balls, which are getting very big, even though Gene tells his boy not to touch himself down there. That place is a father's to touch, no one else's. His smile transitions from fake to real, but not for the reasons his wife imagines. He's fantasizing about licking the moisture off his son's body. Why use towel, boy, when Da's right here?

The wife places a tender hand on his. "You're sweet, Evgeni."

"You not supposed to use real name," Gene reminds her.

Gene wonders if he should buy Victor new briefs. His son's sack is now full. The crotch bulge -- when his son's not erect, a state Gene rarely sees -- is the size of a plum. Gene's son is growing into a sexual being up front, no longer just in the rear. The boy should have room for his burgeoning equipment. Be comfortable.

Heh. Maybe he too will start fucking kids. Gene's heart swells with pride. But -- maybe that's premature. For, when Gene fucks Victor, Victor doesn't cum, unless a happily drooling boy counts as cumming.

It's natural for Gene to be thinking of his son's nuts. Not just because Gene's a practicing pedophile. Oh no. This is a special day. It's Victor's thirteenth birthday. Every dad thinks of his son's nuts on his son's thirteenth birthday.

The birthday boy, quiet as always, slips into the kitchen. Gene's eyes lock with his son's. He watches the hint of smile appear. It always dawns, shy and cool, the first time Victor's sees his beloved, stud Da that day. Gene notes Victor's shorts. They're a bit tight, but snug shorts look good on a developing boy. Gene wishes the legs could be shorter. These damn Americans, always covering up their boys. Boys should show thigh. And butt. And flat belly. Yes, cutoff shirts, just below their nipples. Sleeveless, too, so you can see there's no hair in their armpits.

Victor totes a backpack over one shoulder and carries a sports bag in one hand.

"Oh, honey," cries the wife, trotting over to their son. "Don't lose your goggles." She shoves them inside the bag. "You need to zip this up."

"Ma," Victor says. "Are you leaving?" His eyes rest on the suitcase by the door.

She kneels, stroking her son's short hair. "I'm sorry. But I got a call last night."

Only Gene perceives, in the subtle changes of Victor's expression, the conflict going on in his son's mind. Between Victor's warm, tender love for his mother, and his hot, growling lust for his Da's sweaty cock. Victor's eyes turn warm and liquid. He embraces his mother.

"I'm so sorry, honey," she says, patting his back. "I know this is a special day."

Pat Victor's ass, you silly woman! Gene mentally orders her. Nuts he goes for that!

Mom, looking apologetic, kisses Victor on the forehead, takes the lad by the hand, and leads him to the table.

"I'm so sorry, Vic," she murmurs.

Victor's warm. "It's OK. I know you got to do it."

Both Gene and Ma have always been vague as fog about They to Victor. But Gene suspects the vague cloud is beginning to disperse. The last time this happened, Victor carried Mom's orgasmic iPhone to her, phone number prominent on the screen. Gene knows his boy is bright enough to figure out that the area code is that of Langley, Virginia.

"Um. How long?" Victor asks. His eyes flick shyly to his Da's.

Gene too wants an answer to that question. He's glad he's sitting down, because his trunks would definitely betray the nature of his interest.

"Not sure," says Ma. "Weeks, at least."

"Oh." Victor takes this news with aplomb. "I'll miss you." Victor's eyes are in a curious state. When he looks at Ma, they seem misty. When he sneaks a look at Da, they're sultry.

"You're my brave boy," says Ma.

Victor's gaze flicks to his Da. He licks his full lips. "You OK, Da? You're not sad?"

Gene says, "Of course your Da is sad. But, little boy must be brave, like he is always, when Ma is gone. " Sly wink. "Though these days not so little, eh?"

Father and son share a warm giggle. Though not for wholesome, Disney-family-friendly type reasons.

Will my boy's dick leak? Leak like it did the last time?

A few days ago, Victor and his Da had enjoyed a delicious father/son buttfuck. It'd been a quickie, because father and son knew Ma was on her way home. Victor, naked and glorious, flat on his back on his bed, legs pinned between Gene's heaving body and his own. Moaning. Drooling. Squeezing his tight ring on his Da's plunging shaft. Gene had gazed with pride at his son's dick. Erect, of course, because dadcock always makes boydick stiff as a nail. But it was growing noticeably. Puberty's immanence had made it a bit longer and definitely thicker than the last time Gene and Victor enjoyed incest. Of course Gene noticed it, even if Victor, in his boyish fixation on his tight chute, missed it. In fact, Victor's balls were big enough Gene could barely see his dadcock stretching Victor's butthole.

In some ways that's nice, even welcome, because Gene wants Victor to become a man. In other ways, it's sad, because Gene likes molesting tight-assed little boys.

"I'll miss you, Ma," Victor says, moving his sports bag to hide what's going on behind the fly of his shorts: instant stiffy, bane of all thirteen-year-old boys.

"I know," she says, caressing Victor's still-damp hair. "But still. Your thirteenth birthday ..." Regret is heavy in her voice. Mom looks at Victor with shining eyes. "I'm so sorry --"

"Sit, Victor. Let the boy eat, mother --"

A horn blares outside the house.

"Well. Honey. I'll call you tonight. If I can. I love you."

The sound of her heels on the floor fills the kitchen. Then her suitcase is gone, and the screen door clatters shut.

"Finally," Gene mutters. "A fine woman is your mother, but a hint she cannot take."

Victor just grins.

Neither man nor boy yields to their lust because they know that Ma sometimes forgets things. There's been many a time when Victor has to snatch his hand from his Da's groin. When Gene must pull his hand from the back of his son's shorts.

Nevertheless, a father can ogle his son. And a son can, when given permission, show off for his father's lust.

Gene nods once. Victor slips his backpack to the ground, drops his sports bag, and faces Gene. Victor's eyes smolder at his father. Victor's erection strains against his shorts. He eases his crotch forward just a bit. Look at me, Da! I got a hardon! It's his way of asking for his manly Da's approval. Gene's eyes twinkle beneath his heavy eyebrows. He nods again. Victor's grin broadens. The lad's chest swells against his shirt.

The sound of a car engine fades.

Gene Franco relaxes. What a wonderful gift his wife has given him. Today, on his son's thirteenth birthday -- and who knows for how many days hereafter -- he can show off his proud dadcock to Victor's adoring gaze. This must be what it's like to live in the Peake family. Gene's long been envious of Keith Peake's incestuous household.

Victor trembles, eager to move. To do something for his Da.

"Little boy," growls Gene, "Sit you down. Your breakfast you must eat."

Victor, a tingly sensation creeping over his skin, sits. He helps himself to eggs. To bacon. To sausage. Pours himself orange juice from the pitcher. Smears peach jam on his toast. All the while humming softly to himself, not looking at his Da.

No need to. He can feel his Da's lust.

Gene watches Victor eat. Watches the grease shine on his son's pouty lips. Adjusts his hardon so it's not so cramped. Should he order Victor to strip down to his briefs? A shirtless son always pleases a Dad.

"Little boy," growls Gene, pushing his plate away and leaning back in his chair. "Take shirt off." He folds his arms behind his head. His eyes blaze as he awaits his personal home porn show, courtesy of his son.

Victor freezes halfway through chewing a strip of bacon. He swallows. Stands. He peels off his shirt and drapes it across the back of a chair. His little thirteen-year-old dick dances in his shorts. He won't look at his Da. Because that's part of the game this father and this son play. But his eyes are bright with eagerness.

"Lift arms, little boy."

Victor raises his arms and crosses them atop his head. His head bobs and weaves, almost as if he's singing a song to himself.

Gene's eyes roam like garden slugs over Victor's sleek body. What a boy he's fathered! He lingers long over those naked armpits. Smooth, free of even a hint of down, though a sheen of sweat shines there. Must be tasty, like wine. Gene's eyes flick to his son's navel, a tiny jewel resting on a plain of satin-smooth amber. So pleasing to a pedophile's eye. The thirteen-year-old lad -- even though his balls and cock are swelling with puberty's blessing -- remains the boy. Lithe. Shapely. Trim. Sleek. Sexy.

"Little boy. Your eggs you finish."

Eggs? Damn right Gene Franco is thinking of Victor's eggs. He knows sometime soon sweet little Victor, his boy and sex partner for a long, long time, will -- soon -- be grunting and groaning while Gene's cock saws in his tight hole. And then magic will happen. Victor will begin screaming, and thrashing, his head rolling from side to side, and Gene will feel hot slime streaking his chest, and he'll look down, and he'll watch his son's first ejaculation. Will feel his son's first ejaculation, as Victor's tight butthole milks Gene's cock.

That's Gene's fantasy, at least. What he'd love to see more than anything else in the world. His son, now becoming a man, spewing his first gouts of spunk.

There's another possibility. Gene suspects Victor ignores his Da's prohibition about touching himself down there, and masturbates. The oversexed lad can't get dadcock the way he needs it, and Gene's forbidden Victor to couple with other men. Don't get perturbed! A dad's got his rights. So Victor must play with himself. He wouldn't be a real boy if he didn't. So there's the chance that Victor might be alone in his room, his Da at work, idly fisting his dick when -- bam! Victor begins to fountain.

No! That would be a travesty! The first time a boy cums, it must be with dadcock plugging his succulent butt.

The soft sounds of early suburban morning drift through the screen door.

Victor finishes his breakfast. Victor basks in the obscene lust emanating from his Da's eyes. His young heart hammers the way it does before he starts a diving competition. The same way it did a few weeks ago, when he watched Jesse Peake coming in buckets while his Dad fucked him in Victor's health class. Young Victor had been so jealous of Jesse, so excited by Keith Peake's big dong --

"Enough!"

Gene whips off his tee shirt. It flutters across the kitchen. His chair scrapes. The man stands, exposing a build like a T-34 tank. Soviet dieselpunk, man, Soviet dieselpunk. Broad shoulders, trim waist, pectorals carved by icepicks and heavy as landmines. Man, back in '45 the East Prussian boys must've creamed their pants when men like Gene Franco -- hard men honed by war to a fine edge of perfection -- swarmed over the borders, overthrew Nazi ‹bermensch, and took their place between those boy's needful thighs.

Gene's trunks strain to tame his twitching hardon.

Gene's cock isn't long. Just a smidgen over six inches. But it's thick as his clenched fist. How Victor howled when it first plundered his tender butthole. How the tyke had thrashed, begged his beloved Da to take that demonic instrument out, that it was killing him, splitting him in two. But Gene persevered, stuffing every one of his six inches up Victor's rectum. During those first few weeks of molesting his son, Gene had been the only one enjoying incest. But Victor, the little whore, learned how to play the incest game too, and came -- as all boys do -- to the point where he loved it. Craved it. Instigated it.

Victor loves Gene Franco's obscenely thick cock. Naturally, Victor's thought of other cocks. And, if you remember, he's even enjoyed Coach Dusker's boyfucker. Though don't' spill the beans to Gene. For Gene believes that sons should serve their Das -- until their Das release them to the world. Nevertheless, Victor wonders about big cocks. About footlong daddymeat. How they'd feel, sliding in. Thrusting. Throbbing. Shooting inside him.

But nothing, absolutely nothing, will ever eclipse the image of Gene Franco's uncut sonfucker in Victor's mind.

Victor shivers as Gene squats beside him. He pants, anticipating Da's caress. He jumps when his father's palm touches his thigh. No, dads aren't supposed to touch a boy there. On the inner thigh. But Victor moans when his father's finger strokes his knee.

"Little boy. Open up."

Victor's mouth gapes. He wonders if Gene will shuck his trunks and try, once again, to stuff his fat meat down Victor's throat. Victor loves headcheese. Not this morning. Gene reaches for a strip of bacon, growing cold on Victor's plate. He lowers it between his son's lips. Victor munches.

"Uh, Da,' Victor says softly. "I'll miss the bus."

"I drive you this morning. OK?"

Victor, eyes bright, nods eagerly.

The father's fingers close on the son's jaw. He turns the boy's head. Gene's eyes note the stray wisps of hair in front of Victor's ears. Hmm. Maybe he'll take the kid to the barber for a trim. Thankfully, no hint of whiskers. His son's jaw is still smooth. His boy giggles as Gene's knuckles stroke his jaw.

"Sausage," purrs Gene, guiding a link towards Victor's lips.

Victor meets Gene's eyes. They twinkle as he cups his tongue along the sausage link's underside. Gene pumps the link between Victor's lips. Yeah, Victor would love to be able to blow his Da, but every time he's tried he's come away from it feeling like he's dislocated his jaw.

Thank God the thirteen-year-old has a hole that, no matter how tiny it might look when you peel open his buttocks, is perfectly adapted to servicing his father's bicep-thick boyfucker.

"You stand now, little boy."

Gene turns his son to face the table. Gazes, rapt, at the profile of his son's ass. What a great idea it'd been, getting his boy into diving. What diver -- or gymnast -- or dancer -- doesn't have a fine, eminently fuckable ass? You combine that with the natural allures of boyhood and create an irresistible combination. Something a man wants to -- needs to -- must breed.

Gene cups a buttcheek. So small. So hard. All his. Victor squirms eagerly.

"Nice," Gene growls. "I strip you now. Little boy."

Victor's panting increases while his father pops open his fly. He swallows as the fabric slips down is legs. Unprompted, he steps free. He even kicks them away. Victor's heart is going like a thousand mustangs charging across the desert.

"Very good, little boy."

The sight of his thirteen-year-old son's taut body is better than good. Gene traces Victor's quadriceps up his thighs to the point where the briefs begin. The snug briefs expose a sliver of buttcheek. Gene traces it, moving his fingertip gently inward towards Victor's crack. The boy shivers. The father oozes precum. Gene studies his son as if the kid was his own personal porn mag. In addition to the tantalizing hint of buttcheek, there's the tempting sight of buttcrack above the waistband. Red cape to a snorting bull, man. Up front, his kid shows a respectable bulge. His balls, swelling with excitement. And his dick, forming a long ridge slanting to one side under the tight elastic.

Gene stuffs his hand into his son's briefs. Victor squirms and presses his erection against Gene's rough fingers. Gene fondles it, cups Victor's balls, savoring the silky feeling. The heat. The moisture. Then he slides Victor's briefs down.

Gene Franco might be interested in what Victor's got going on up front. But me, I'm into boybutt. Look at that ass, man! Twin teardrops press together, creating a deep crevice. You can't see Victor's ring but, goddamn, if you're a pedophile, the image of it blazes in your mind. It's your target. Your goal in life. You can picture yourself peeling open those two fresh cheeks. Staring at it. Wondering if it'll take your throbbing mancock. Not giving a fuck if it will, because you're going to stuff the kid and fuck him till your babies drip from his nose like snot.

But let's stay focused on the dad/son action here, shall we?

Gene fondles his son's balls. A hint of a frown darkens his face. He should -- he wants -- to feel a hint of peachfuzz. There's none. Smooth skin, warm as a potato just pulled from an oven. Pure pubescence. Man, Victor teeters right on the knife edge between boyhood and teenhood. Gene bends forward. He nuzzles his son's balls with his cheek. Victor shivers and leaves a trail of slime on his father's face. Gene's lips kiss Victor's hairless groin. His tongue slithers round the smooth base of Victor's cock.

Gene's frown deepens.

Well. His son's bag has dropped, heavy and swollen with newly minted testicles -- but Victor's still got no pubes. Hmm. Good or bad? Because Gene loves fucking boys, he's glad of that smooth perfection. But Gene's a dad, and dads know -- even if they don't want it to happen -- their boy must grow up. Pulling away so he can gaze at his precious son's junk, Gene feels a hint of worry. Big gouts of cum were spurting from his cock when he was eleven. What's up with Victor? Must be the fault of his mom's genes.

Victor knows exactly what his Da's thinking.

"Da," he breathes, "I don't want to be a kid anymore."

Well. Dad'll fix that.

"For just anyone I don't do this, little boy. But for you ... everything!"

Gene has no problem sucking in his son's erection. It barely even touches the back of his throat. The feeling of Victor's smooth groin against his lips reminds him of kissing his wife. He bobs gently then, to steady Victor, seizes his son by the thighs. The boy's pumping at him, which Gene finds rewarding since that means that the fires of manhood have been kindled in there.

An expression of rapture appears on Victor's face as Gene's lips engulf Victor's dick. Not even Saul, looking for the Jersey Turnpike exit on the road to Damascus, wore such a rapturous expression. All Victor's life, delight has come to Victor Franco through his asshole. Maybe his dick, when he plays with it or if Da fondles it while pounding Victor's butthole. Victor groans, grinds his hairless groin against the hint of stubble on Da's lips and chin. What a fucking hot way to start out one's thirteenth year.

Gene's slides his tongue out. Like a banana slug, it cups Victor's balls. Bathes them in spit. But not for long. Gene feels his son's hands in his hair, and he immediately releases his boy. Boys don't fuck their fathers. Not in the Franco household.

Gene stands. Gazing down, he sees the excitement in his son's eyes. Watches his son's dick leap and bounce. Gene wipes his lips. "I molest you now."

Victor begins bouncing excitedly on the balls of his feet, eyes flashing.

"Say no more about bus. I take you to school. Now, for Da, you bend over."

Victor bends over. Victor's butt is something I'd munch on for hours. Maybe days, unless blue balls threatened. Then I'd have to fuck the kid. Fuck him. Get him pregnant. Now, if I'd been there, I'd have lowered my zipper, hauled out my big hairy manshaft, and advanced on those tempting satin globes. Because the kid's positioned himself for a good breeding, bending over the breakfast table, butt out, palms planted on either side of his plate.

Gene's his Daddy, though. Lucky bastard. He gets to eat out that kid's hole, while I'm stuck out here, writing about it.

Gene nibbles at Victor's neck and strokes Victor's torso. Gene traces his son's navel. Grins as he feels Victor shiver. Gene explores each muscle. Have they grown since the last time he was free to lewdly fondle his kid? He lingers long on Victor's nipples, teasing them until his son's head lolls forward and a low growl escapes the sexed up seventh grade boy.

The father gazes down, admiring his son's naked ass like Yahweh slobbering over the nude Adam. Then he kneels, pulls Victor's legs apart. The cleft is so deep that the sweet pucker is still hidden. His concerns over his boys lack of maturity evaporates. Yes, this is the view all dads desire. Pubescent son ass, looming in their face like twin moons. Gene peels open Victor's cheeks. He munches happily on Victor's tiny boycunt. It's tangy, with a hint of sweat, and it resists Gene's tongue.

Victor, cooing, grinds his butt on his Da's face. His toes curl and his eyes roll up. Wow! He and Da can do this for days on end. Weeks! He loves it when Mom's gone.

Gene's hand searches in Victor's sport bag and withdraws a tube of KY. He stands. He's close enough to feel his son's heat against his body. His thick cock, the head wearing the rolled-up foreskin like a scarf tucked under a chin, drools snot onto the base of Victor's spine.

"I fuck you now."

Victor, drunk on the smell of an aroused adult man, watches over his shoulder. Gene -- trembling because, hell, the excitement of violating his son's hole never, ever diminishes for any man -- matches his gaze. Gene's focused. Intent. He's gonna fuck his kid. If his wife barged through the screen door right now, he'd angrily order her out and deposit his last load up his son's tight chute.

Feeling his Da's fingers anointing his bunghole, the quiet boy chuckles. Victor's entire life has been dominated by his Da's lust. His first memory is lying on his back in a bassinet, cooing happily, staring up at a mobile of blue birds and elephants overhead. Then a giant, hairy erection enters his vision, filling it, dominating it, asserting mastery. Victor knows he's a very lucky boy.

"Fuck me, Da." The lad's voice is quiet and intense. "Now! You're being too slow!"

Smearing KY down his fat shat, Gene croons, "I fuck you crazy, little boy!"

Gene Franco's fat dadcock probes between his teenaged son's asscheeks. The head locates the target. Gene's fingers clamp to Victor's thighs. He pulls the boy towards him. Father and son shift, both moving towards one another in an illegal -- but mutual -- dance. Grateful as all hell, the pucker kisses the cockhead. Gene jabs forward, biceps bulging. Victor's mouth gapes, as if screaming, but no sound emerges. The sexy lad's bunghole stretches. And stretches. But doesn't give way. He's a tight kid. One of the tightest you'll ever find.

"You open up now!"

"I'm trying, Da!"

Gene grunts. Stabs forward. With a pop the peach-sized head pushes inside. Victor's bubble-gum colored ring snaps shut behind Gene's cockhead.

"You like?" Gene growls, heart throbbing as he stares down at his son's butt. "Tell me, boy! I know you like your Da in you!"

Victor, tears shimmering in the corners of his eyelids, nods vigorously. Fuck yeah, he loves it. It's just not easy taking it.

"You give this only to Da, right?" Gene asks, his lip lifting in contempt.

Victor freezes. Should he admit he's done it with Coach Dusker? Wants to do it with Keith Peake? With his diving coach? With any hard-bodied man? His Da presses another inch of cock inside. "Only with you, Da!"

Roaring, Gene sinks deeper. Victor's rectum balloons. You'd think the kid couldn't stretch to accept the invading boyfucker, but you're wrong. Victor hungers to submit to his Da's incestuous lust. Drool spackles the thirteen-year old's lips. He sighs. Swallows. Relaxes. Now everything flows smoothly.

"Yes, you need me, little boyslut?" Gene growls.

Shuddering, Victor nods.

Gene drives deep, and his hairy balls smack against Victor's tight sack.

"Yeah," the incestuous pair growl.

Father and son begin rutting in wild abandon. The father drives forward. The son thrusts back. They hear, though the screen door, the cheerful sound of kids running to the bus stop. Gene's hand seizes his son's waist and he pins the boy in place, fucking steadily. His shoulders expand and his buttcheeks clench as he drives his thick child-molesting cock in and out of his son. Victor's delight is easy to see. The boy's eyes are shut, his head bobs and twists like a rag dolls while his father's buttfucking ripples powerfully through his body. Slobber even courses from his lips. That fat cock isn't a problem for this kid. Not since he was six.

Gene, kidbutt-obsessed pedophile that he is, stares downward. At his son's ass -- sweetest and most beloved thing in all the world -- rudely violated by fat, hairy, plunging dadcock. Gene's fists bunch as he watches himself molest his boy. Yeah. To hell with the wife. He's the daddy here. Yeah. He rules. He takes his pleasure in his son's forbidden butthole. 'Cause it's his right. 'Cause it's the best thing he's ever felt.

Squirming under his Da's pummeling, Victor's beginning to realize something.

Something is missing from these delicious moments of father/son lust. But what? Victor can't articulate it. He has no word to offer up. Getting screwed by his Da -- or (don't tell Gene) Coach Dusker -- these past few weeks has left Victor with the feeling of riding a roller coaster that doesn't have that final, terrifying, transcendently thrilling plunge at the end.

Victor yearns for that plunge. That feeling he suspects exists for everyone else but not for him.

Grinding his bubble butt against Gene's hairy crotch, Victor flashes back to the other day, when he watched Keith Peake pound Jesse's ass in Coach Dusker's sex ed class. Victor remembers that shower of juice spurting from Jesse's cock. He remembers Jesse's giggling confession that the blond slut never shoots unless his dad is fucking him.

Why doesn't that happen to Victor?

Maybe, Victor thinks, it's the kind of sex these two are forced to have. This daddy and his boy have to get it on whenever Mother Franco's absences allow.

Yeah, Victor thinks -- eyes closed, lips parted, his ass moving smoothly on his Da's cock, his body swelling with the pleasure that only a dad's cock can give to a son -- that's it. They're not like the Peakes, who get to fuck whenever they want.

"Who's your Da?" Gene pants.

"You're my Da!"

"Who in all the world makes you feel the best!"

"My Da!"

"When, little boy, when?"

"When you fuck me, Da!"

"Now I make baby," Gene grunts. "Be ready, little boy!"

Gene's cock explodes inside his son. Victor coos as his dad's incestuous gravy fills his guts.

Nothing, Gene knows, nothing whatsoever can be better than this moment. When he makes a baby in his son's ass. Gene's heart soars like a pharaoh surveying his realm. He spurts. And spurts. The supply in his balls is endless. He could spend an eternity juicing up Victor's sweet ass.

Victor's hardon beats against his flat belly, smacking against it like a drummer signaling a rapid advance. A strand of precum whips back and forth. His Da's jism gurgles in his colon. The best feeling in the world. It feels awesome but --

But what?

Something's missing. Dammit!

"Whew," puffs Gene, pulling out. "Good one. I put baby in you, little boy. This make you feel good? "

"Yeah, Da! Always!" Victor grins and reaches for his briefs. His butthole feels bubbly as a glass of champagne. He loves that feeling. It makes him feel alive. Like he's awakened from a dream.

As his lad's briefs slide up those smooth calves, Gene pops his son on the cheek. "I know. You make Da sexy. Hurry. To school I take you."

After dressing -- Gene simply pulls on his work overalls, not bothering with those damn trunks -- father and son pile into the car. They pull out of the driveway and head for Calhoun Middle School. Ellicott Fall's isn't LA, but traffic's bad enough. There are long delays at stoplights. Gene takes the opportunity to rest his palm on his boy's thigh, stroking the insides with his fingertips.

Victor Franco's an uncomplaining kid. Asks very little of his Da, since Da gives what Victor needs. Still, there's the matter of that ... missing thing. Victor decides to address it. Victor didn't grow up in the Peake household. Maybe he should bring that kind of exuberant, non-stop, uninhibited sexual deviancy home.

"Da?"

Gene, puffing thoughtfully on a cigarette, looks into his son's sparkling eyes.

"It's my birthday. Do me a favor. Put your finger up my butthole."

"A fingering you want, little boy?" Gene croons, stroking his knuckles lightly between Victor's legs. A massive bulge blossoms in the crotch of his work overalls. "To Freddy I change your name." He's sorely tempted to pull into that vacant spot, fling his son into the back and fuck the kid silly. Instead, he worms his hand up Victor's shorts. Father and son giggle until Gene finds the hole. Victor sighs with relief.

"Oh yeah," purrs Victor. His shaft is five inches of hard boy lust, pulsating against his fly.

Gene, head bobbing to the pop song he's found on Sirius, grins. "Finger not enough for you, boy, eh? You want Daddy cock, I know."

Victor's soft eyes gleam. "Yeah!"

"You good boy. Today special day. You pretty. You make Da feel evil. Da likes feeling evil." Gene's thick brows furrow as he wonders if he should do this. "Your birthday, yes, it is special. So." Gene comes to a decision. "I give you present. I give you present because you such sexy, sexy little boy. Something special we do tonight. But you. You do something for me."

Victor giggles as the light turns. "What, Da?" He grinds his wet butt on his Da's probing finger.

"You find men. All sorts of men. Young men, real men, white men, niggers, spics, wops, dopers, cops. All stud men, with hard bodies, like mine, eh?" Gene slaps his chest. "They fuck you. They fuck you over and over. They fill you with their babies. Your butt, it drips with their babies. Yes. And, tonight, you show how much you love Da. You let Da slide in on stranger's cum --- and Da give you special birthday present. You sleep in Da's bed. Till Mom get home. I fuck you until we both crazy. Then I fuck you more."

Victor's eyes shine. "Sure, Da!" He reaches over and feels Gene's cock throbbing in his overalls. His father's shaft is steely, but Victor's more interested in Da's balls. Victor, for some reason, can't stop thinking about balls. Can't stop wondering how much spunk they hold.

Gene eases his crotch forward. "You like Da's balls, little boy?"

"Um-hmmm!" Imagining what they'll be doing tonight, Victor grins. Yeah. These precious dadballs are good for a long night of hot dad/son work.

Whoa!

Victor realizes that -- yeah, he's not simply been given permission to get it on with other men. He's been commanded to do it. Victor beams up at his Da.

"You crave babies, boy. Today -- and, if you good, maybe every day -- you find how many babies go up your ass."

"Thanks, Da!"

Gene pulls up to Calhoun Middle School. He gives Victor a full-on mouth kiss, pushing his thick tongue through his son's lips. If anyone protests, he'll tell them he's Russian and this kind of kiss is customary between man and boy in the Rodina. You never go wrong betting on the stupidity of the American public.

Just before he succumbs to the temptation of ripping off Victor's shorts and bending his sweet-assed kid over the car hood right here, outside Calhoun Middle School, Gene breaks the kiss. Father's and son's eyes shine at each other. Not with tenderness. With pure, pulsating lust.

"Happy birthday, little boy!"

Victor, giggling, runs his hand over his father's hardon. "Love you, Da!"

"Get fucked, boy, all day get fucked! Da your slimy boyhole wants."

Victor slips from the car, holding his sports bag in front of his crotch. "Tonight, Da?"

"Slimy you come home, little boy. Nice and slimy!"

Luck is with Victor this magic day of his thirteenth birthday. Because of his quickie with Da, he's early. He even beat the slowpokes on the school bus.

Victor darts around other early arrivals dawdling up the walk to the school. Shooting up the steps, Victor's whistling in the happy way that only boys with a buttload of daddyspunk do.

He feels eyes on him. Lustful eyes.

Victor skids to a stop. Scans his schoolmates, most of whom are standing around, energetically bullshitting.

Whoa. Chris Woodpine. A good-looking boy. He doesn't have a spectacular build but he looks damn fine in Calhoun's trademark gym gear: scanty shorts and snug tank top. This morning, however, Chris wears jeans and a plaid shirt. He looks like your normal all-American kid. You'd guess he watches Disney, or Cartoon Network, and would never imagine that while he's laying belly-down on the carpet he's gently grinding his boner against the floor. Chris can smile a charming smile, the way all middle-schoolers can. Or he can smile like a wolf. This morning, Chris Woodpine is showing off his canines.

A smile slowly spreads across Victor's pretty face. Seems like the cosmos is on the side of underage sex. But a question lurks in Victor's mind. Does Chris shoot? Victor's never seen the Woodpine kid fire off a load, but he has heard him boast.

Victor locks eyes with Chris. Smiles shyly. If you were there, you fucking pedophile, you'd interpret the look in Victor's eyes as an invitation to haul your manmeat out and let the boy see it. Victor emanates a lewd, radioactive glow.

Chris's eyes pop wide. He wasn't expecting a positive response. Victor Franco? On the prowl for cock? Since that day in coach Dusker's health class, the guys have known that Victor gets it on with his Da. But Victor's not joined in the seventh grade sexual underground. Yeah, they caught him with Dusker, but Victor's made it subtly clear that his butt belongs to his Da.

But the hunger in Victor's eyes emboldens the wolf in Chris. He grins. Nods. Winks. Moves his hand slowly down his chest. Cups his crotch. All the while, staring at the other seventh grade boy.

Victor rotates a smidgen and lifts up the back of his shirt, knowing his shorts have ridden low and his underwear is on show, exposing a hint of buttcrack. Yeah. That should cement the deal, if Chris is just fucking with Victor's mind.

Chris' wolf whistle pierces the morning.

Grinning, Victor looks over his shoulder and crooks a finger at Chris.

Instantly Chris is there. His open palm comes to rest on the small of Victor's back. "Come on!" An incredible thrill shoots through Chris. He's going to get it on with Victor Franco! Man, the guys are going to hear about this!

"I didn't think you did this," Chris whispers.

"Just started."

"Cool!"

Seething with excitement, giggling uncontrollably, the boys hustle down the hall, dodging other kids.

"Upstairs!" Chris calls, cupping his hand on his swelling bulge.

"You guys really do it up there?" Victor whispers.

"All the time!"

The horny seventh graders charge up the stairs. Ignore threats from the teachers slowly making their way through hall towards class. Dodge slowpokes. The two burst into the bathroom. Skid to a halt, sneakers squeaking.

God dammit!

Bad timing. The bathroom's full of guys draining their bladder. Quizzical stares peer over shoulders at the panting newcomers. Victor, feeling like he's been let loose at the county fair, is tempted to run up to one or two -- no, make it three -- of the cute ones and yank down their pants. Victor Franco's been given his freedom, and he wants to see dick! Victor pictures himself kneeling behind his classmates, kissing buttcheeks, nursing on their buttholes, turning them around and sucking down their pee-speckled dicks.

"Shit!" cries Chris. He's cupping his groin as if he has to pee, but it's to hide his throbbing dick from all these fucking noobs. None of these guys are part of the seventh grade sex hounds! Not cool! Sweet zombie Jesus! The seventh grader needs to get laid! "Downstairs! Come on, Victor!"

At one urinal, one boy whispers to another, "What the hell was that about?"

"I think they're Mormons."

Behind Calhoun Middle School sit the basketball courts, tucked close to the school's shrug-lined back wall. Excited cries ring on the courts as sweaty boys and girls charge from hoop to hoop. Chain link fences keep stray balls from ricocheting everywhere. The courts are always busy these final few minutes before school begins.

Chris ignores the courts. Ignores his schoolmates. He's gotta get this done before the warning bell rings. He charges to the shrugs and pushes his way through a thin spot. Victor follows. There's a path of beaten earth, free of grass, running alongside the school's foundation, shrouded from casual view by the glossy leaves.

"Here?" Victor asks. The shrubs do nothing to muffle the nearby cries of kids at play.

"Yeah, here!" snaps Chris, pulling his shirt tails out of his jeans. He catches the concerned look on Victor's face and lays a consoling hand on his newfound fuckbuddy's arm. "They can't see us. We do it here all the time."

Chests heaving, the boys stop in a reentrant niche. Both drop their bags.

"We're not going to smoke pot, are we?" hisses Victor. He's heard rumors about this place. About how back in the '90s -- or earlier; the chronology was always a bit vague -- middle schoolers used to drop acid here.

"Got any?" Chris asks eagerly.

"Um. No."

"I know a guy, over at George Washington. He sells some good shit. You ever had sex while you were stoned?"

Victor shakes his head. He's sure about buttfucking. He's not sure about drugs.

"Later. I'll teach you later." Then Chris shakes himself. He's being an idiot. Chris, poor guy, is so horny he's about to cream his underwear. Poor guy's from one of those normal, all-American families not into incest or even boyfucking, the crummy bastards. He unzips his jeans, reaches in, and starts trying to fish his dick out through his briefs.

Victor's shorts drop to his ankles.

"I didn't think you did this," whispers Chris. "You know, get it on with guys."

"Well, my dad wouldn't let me," says Victor, kneeling to unzip his sports bag. "But today's my birthday!" He looks up triumphantly, holding up a bottle of lube.

"Hot damn!" Chris fishes his dick through the fly. "Turn around!"

Shuffling around to face the brick, Victor crosses his arms to support himself. He can tell, from the look in Chris' eyes, that his fuckbuddy's gonna dish out some hard buttfucking. He shoves his butt back. His hips work. Buttcheek rolls against buttcheek. Victor Franco's eager to be bred.

Chris, heart in his throat, murmurs, "That looks sexy!" His fingertips caress the firm cheeks, admired so many times through shorts but never actually seen in all their sculpted glory. Wow, and he thought Jesse Peake had a fine butt.

Victor's stomach quivers with trepidation as Chris eases behind him. His Da christened his rectum with a huge load of jism. Heavy. Thick as chowder. It'd be embarrassing if it dribbled out of him just as his brand new fuckbuddy pierced him for the first time.

"Wow," Chris breathes, pushing his cockhead into Victor's tiny socket. "Anyone tell you, you got a nice butt, Vic?"

Luckily -- or, more accurately, because of Victor's determination to hold onto his Da's slimy gift -- not even a drop escapes his ring. Chris' shaft pops inside without even a teardrop escaping. Gasping, Chris stabs home. Victor shudders when he feels the teeth of Chris' fly pressing against his naked butt.

"Oooh! It's so warm!" Chris coos. He licks the back of Victor's neck. "And gooey!"

No artistry. No tenderness. Just two hot kids, fucking. Chris pumps rapidly. The two boys grunt as they work towards release. Both ignore the screeching of the boys and girls playing basketball just a few feet away. Chris, horny little fuck that he is, jackhammers Victor's bubble butt. He's fully aware of the clock, ticking towards the sinister first bell of the day. And Chris Woodpine's gotta get his nut! He's just gotta! It's Victor Franco he's plowing. Chris is the first of the junior high sex gang to nail Victor's butt! He can't claim bragging rights unless he sends his adolescent spunk up there.

Both seventh grade boys are desperate for what the other's got. Anyone standing just outside the line of shrubs, watching the final hectic moments of a basketball game, would no doubt wonder at where all that grunting is coming from.

Victor winces as Chris' cockhead stabs his prostate. It's a sharper sensation than when his Da's cock is up there, which tends to crush Victor's prostate down to dust. But Victor's not complaining. No sir. He likes it. Chris' stabbing makes Victor's hips roll and twist. The quiet lad surges back on the young tool knifing in him.

"Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck here it comes!" Chris surges forward, plastering his groin to Victor's naked butt.

With a sigh Chris Woodpine expels seven or eight dollops of jism into Victor's soupy boycunt. Chris feels the slime up there. He knows he's sliding in on another guy's cum. It's so hot. The slick sensation makes him spurt so hard he almost goes blind. But, like anyone who's gotten sloppy seconds the question is -- who's cum? Victor's Dad? That'd be hot. Incest turns Chris on.

Leaving his dick embedded in the mixed goo, Chris murmurs, "Your dad do you?"

"Oh yeah," chortles Victor, hips still moving, butthole still milking Chris' dick.

"He shoots a lot," Chris says.

"Yeah," says Victor. "That's Da! You done?"

"Yeah."

"You don't wanna, you know, do it again?" Victor's eyes smolder over his shoulder.

"First bell," pants Chris. "About to ring!"

Victor shrugs, stands, and pulls his butthole off Chris' shaft. Carefully, squeezing his ring, he bends down and reaches for his shorts. The slimy bubble shifts in his colon. It feels awesome to have another load up there.

Still, Victor can't shake the feeling he's missing out on something yet again.

"Thanks, Vic!" Chris zips up and pats Victor on the butt. "Um. Can I tell the guys your open for business?"

Victor nods eagerly.

"Fucking awesome!" Chris trots off. The leaves shiver as he pushes his way through the shrugs.

Victor stands alone in the secluded, shadowy lane, shorts halfway up his legs. Squirming. He feels the absence. The incompleteness. What's he missing? He's been feeling that hollowness more and more sharply these last few weeks. It's like being inside an unsolved Scooby Doo mystery. What should he do? Maybe he ought to stick his fingers up his butt. Pump himself some more. Surely something would happen then --

Brrrrring!

Son of a bitch. Victor pulls his shorts up, grabs his sports bag, and hustles inside. Feelings of incompleteness aside, Victor's a happy lad. Every boy should get buttfucked all day long on his thirteenth birthday!

 

Ben Harrison's bowels have been churning all through second period. Not from that, you gross idiot. From his Dad's copious cum. But the pressure's bad. If his Dad's load didn't feel so good up there, he'd beg a pass and go drizzle however many pints Hank Harrison put up there into a toilet. Still, a buttload of jizz makes a thirteen-year-old boy feel loved. So Ben fights the pressure. Fights it so hard he almost misses the vibration of his cell phone in his pocket.

Ben lucks out. Teach is scribbling BS on the whiteboard. All clear. Ben pulls out his phone.

The message is from Chris Woodpine.

i just gave vic my babies.

Ben frowns. His fingers fly.

Vic who?

The reply streaks back.

vic franco u inbred dickhead hes on the market

Really? Hmm.

Thirteen-year-old Ben Harrison epitomizes young, dumb, and full of cum. But not for long. Things in his colon move towards their fate.

As soon as the bell rings, he sprints down the hall. Bad move. He incurs the ire of Mrs. Ogden, who shouts at him to stop running in the halls or she'll send him to the principals.

"I! Have! GOT! To! Shit!" Ben hollers, now racing at full speed.

Ben's pounding sneakers drown out Mrs. Ogden's stupendous outrage.

Yep. Times are hot in the Harrison household, though not as hot as Ben would wish. Ben, if he could, would spend every minute of every day fucking. Something. Anything. Brother Tim. Father Hank. Mr. Ruffles. A squishy old pumpkin with a hole cut into the rind. A firm young zucchini. Jesse Peake. Chase Peake. Hell, he'd like to get that stupid, arrogant bastard Curtis Yarnell pregnant! Jesus, Ben sometimes lies in bed, jockeys down to his knees, stroking his pubic bush, praising it for being so thick. So trim. For making him the young stud that he is.

Times are hot, but it's not easy to enjoy father/son shenanigans in the Harrison house. There's Mom. Nice lady, but she just doesn't understand that men need boys and boys need men. Ben got lucky this morning, though. He eluded Mom's well-meaning micromanagement and slipped down the hall to his parent's bedroom. The door squeaked a bit as Ben cracked it, but it was for the best. Hank Harrison had been dressing. His tee shirt hung over his boxers -- but not for long. Ben's hungry eyes, peering at his half-naked father, caused a tent to sprout into being. Ben, a thrilling sensation in his stomach, had giggled as his father seized him by the bicep and hauled him into the room. No words had been spoken as Hank bent Ben over the dresser and yanked down Ben's briefs. Ben had felt his father's rough fingertips caressing his naked young butt. Felt his father's hand between Ben's shoulder blades, shoving the lad forward so he bent over the dresser. Felt the hot dollop of Vaseline smeared on his boycunt. Hank's brutal thrust knocked the breath out of Ben. Yeah, dads can get a little rough after being ruthlessly teased with a thirteen-year-old son's cotton-clad buttcheeks, but Ben's a tough little stud. He can take what his Dad dishes out.

Ben had grunted when his Dad's teeth sank into his neck, and he'd whine as he ground his sweet young ass against his dad's furry crotch. Hank, growling like a dog, rabbitfucked Ben. The breeding had been brutal, quick, and deeply satisfying to both father and son. Don't tell the middle school boys Ben services, but Ben loves getting buttfucked. Mouth gaping, tongue lolling, eyes rolling like loose pool balls, Ben thrashed in delight until he felt his Dad gush in his tight soncunt. Dad hadn't said a word, merely patting Ben's buttcheek and tugging up his son's briefs then, satisfied, easing his still-stiff son out into the hall. It had been one hell of a gusher, too. At least a pound of hot dadspunk is squirming in Ben's lower colon. Squirming towards an explosive exit.

Ben races on. "'Scuse me, buddy! 'Scuse me, missy! Dammit, Dugger, get the fuck out of my way!"

Sweat streams down his face. Man, he hopes he doesn't embarrass himself. How do you explain dropping a big load of manspunk in your Jockeys when you're a seventh grader?

He guesses Dad hasn't been screwing Mom. Heh. Good. He likes his Dad's cum.

Ben held onto Hank's juice during breakfast, determined not to lose it. Even while roughhousing with Tim until the little bastard squeaked and promised to suck Ben's dick after school. Held Hank's squirming babysauce, grinning goofily as he rode to school, because it made him feel so fucking manly. Studly. Yeah. A teen boy full of spunk. That was an accomplishment!

As Ben's greasy sphincter strains, he begins thinking that maybe he made a fucking huge mistake.

Thank God! There's the damn bathroom! Ben bursts in.

"Get the fuck out of my way!"

Ben hurls himself into an empty stall. Rips open his fly. Shucks his shorts. Squats. Lets loose.

"Holy smokes!" cries a boy pissing into a urinal. "Lay off the Taco Bell!"

Another boy shakes his head sadly. "Fucking Mormons. Can't handle spicy food!"

Fear not. It's not poop geysering from Ben's butthole. The crisp, Clorox-like smell of sperm fills the bathroom. The sexually active boys trade grins. The virgins just wonder what the fuck, dude, what the fuck?

Ben, chin propped on his elbows as the jism blusters out his hole, sighs in relief. He's gonna have to dedicate some time draining his Dad's balls. Not just to prevent in-school embarrassments. Having sex with his dad has conferred lots of benefits. The testosterone Ben's absorbed from his Dad's jism has added at least a half inch to Ben's chest measurements. He knows it and no amount of Jesse Peake's jealous eye-rolling can change Ben's belief. And Ben's been perpetually horny since starting to get it on with Dad, as opposed to being only horny 98% of the time. The seventh grader would like to find out if, as he suspects, he could spurt two or three loads an hour. Every hour. All day. All week. All fucking year. If only he could find enough holes to fuck!

Ah, the travails of being a thirteen-year-old stud.

Ben wipes, flushes, grabs his backpack, and charges towards third period. Mrs. Ogden is screeching again, but fuck her.

Whoa. Would you look at that!

It's Victor Franco, trotting towards class, threading his way through the crowded hallway ahead of Ben. Ben's got a clear line of sight. A whistle escapes him. Victor's got a wedgie. The boy's buttcheeks are on lewd display. Ben's pretty sure that's Victor's doing. Victor's a cocktease. Victor's been shaking his ass at everyone in school. Everyone with a bush and hanging balls, that is. But Victor never gives it up to anyone but Gene Franco. Oh, sure, there was that time Ben and his buttfucking cronies caught Victor in the shower with Coach Dusker, getting molested. But other than that -- nothing. That's not prevented Ben from laying in his own bed, fishing his stiff pubescent dick from his briefs, and churning out a load of nutbutter thinking about Victor's butt.

Hey! Wait a second! Hadn't that retard, Chris Woodpine, said something about Victor?

Ben fishes out his phone. Scrolls down his texts. Yep. There it is. Glowing on the screen.

Ben's eyes focus on Victor's tempting globes. To think that right now, Chris Woodpine's cum is sliming that tight chute, but Ben's isn't? Well, this injustice has gotta get fixed, and like pronto!

Ben sprouts a full-fledged hardon as he follows Victor towards the classroom. Victor pauses in the doorway, chatting with another boy. Perfect! Smooth as butter, Ben begins easing past Victor. He gropes Victor's butt. Wow. Firm. Hard as a rock. Maybe Ben ought to add diving to his athletic repertoire. Victor's eyes flash over his shoulder. Grinning into Victor's astounded face, Ben opens the hem of Victor's shorts and runs his fingers lightly between Victor's waistband and his skin. Then Ben leans over and takes a whiff of Victor's armpit. He savors it, knowing Victor's eyes are wide and staring. Ben struts to his seat. 'Cause he's Ben motherfucking Harrison, and he's a stud, and he's gonna be nailing Victor Franco's butt here in a few minutes, and he wants everyone to know it.

As he swings into his desk, he throws a look Victor's way. Calhoun's champion boy diver's eyes smolder.

Just as the bell rings Victor slides into the desk beside Ben. Mrs. Biddle commences instructive droning -- in what, nobody knows. Victor doesn't look at Ben. He maintains that attentive pose he uses on all the teachers. But Ben, watching from the side, can see Victor gropingh his crotch. Grinning slyly, Ben slides his hips forward. Lifts his waist a bit, to show off his throbbing adolescent bulge under his desk. Victor sees it. Bites his lip. Blushes. Starts playing with his zipper.

"Mr. Harrison!"

"Huh?" says Ben.

"Am I boring you?"

"No more than you normally do." Ben grins triumphantly because he gets a good laugh.

"Are you looking for some after school detention?"

"Why? Is any missing?"

"Do you want detention, Mr. Harrison?"

"No, no thanks, that's OK, I've got plenty, I'll pass."

Mrs. Biddle resumes her relentless boring monolog. Slack-jawed, Ben pretends to pay attention. She's peddling some bullshit story about parts of the world outside the United States. Sheesh. Who cares? Unless these mythical places -- Europe? South America? Africa? and Australia -- what the hell kind of name is that? -- are full of boys with tight assholes -- or men with gigantic dongs -- Ben Harrison isn't interested.

The boy-on-boy cruising resumes. This time, Ben's careful to do it when Mrs. Biddle's got her back turned. He catches Victor staring at him. Yep. Ben's landed himself some meat. Ben smirks, spreading his legs. His fingers curl round his bulge. He waggles his eyebrows at Victor. But Victor's got to make the sign that shows he's given in to Ben's lust.

Finally! Victor, face red, curls his fingers round a phantom cock and makes blow job motions. Confirmation.

Instantly Ben shoots upright and thrusts his hand in the air.

"Mrs. Battle-axe! Mrs. Battle-axe!" Ben cries, too horny to remember you don't call Mrs. Biddle that.

Mrs. Biddle rotates, slow and sinister as a Death Star about to reveal its frowny face to poor Alderaan. She waits, withering dumb, horny Ben with her malevolent gaze. "Ya talkin' to me?" Her Robert De Niro is spot on.

Ben, realizing his mistake, fires off grins to his friends, who are chuckling into cupped hands. "Um. Mrs. Biddle. Can I visit the restroom?"

Without a word, Mrs. Biddle throws to Ben the heavy block of wood used here in Calhoun as a hall pass. It would've conked him good if he hadn't made a graceful catch. Ben, as he exults his way out of the room, shoots a thumbs up at everyone. A ripple of excitement runs not only through Victor but through those boys into sex. That lucky bastard Ben Harrison's trying to score.

For a while the seventh graders seethe quietly. They're all deeply not giving a fuck about the goddamned Azores. Something's going on with Ben. And who else?

"Um, Mrs. Biddle?"

Sweetly -- for the stout, well-armored woman likes the shy, soft-spoken, brown-haired lad with the broad shoulders, narrow waist, and charming voice -- the teacher says, "Why, yes, Victor?"

"Um. My Ma made this omelet, and I think --"

"Well," Mrs. Biddle says, "Ben's got the hall pass, but if that jerk Ogden catches you, you just tell him to bring you here and I'll vouch for you."

"Gee, thanks!"

Victor, still the shy boy, cups his hand to hide his hardon as he leaves the classroom. No one's fooled. When a boy follows Ben Harrison out of class, something sexy's going on somewhere. The precocious boys, as soon as the diver's succulent butt is out of sight, whisper amongst themselves. Making plans. They're gonna nail Victor, either in their treehouse, or in the forts they've built in the woods behind their house, or in their beds, or in the bathroom down at Harrison Pool. But by all that's holy they're gonna fuck that tease.

"Enough of that!" the battle-axe thunders.

In the restroom -- the upstairs one that overlooks the playground; the one that was too busy before school to allow Chris and Victor to be boys in heat -- Victor pauses. Devon Whitewater, washing his hands, leans over a sink as he peers into a mirror. Victor's tempted to ask Devon to join in, since he's heard the slim Cherokee kid is into sex.

But can Devon shoot? That's what Victor's here for.

Impatiently, Ben coughs from one of the stalls. What the hell's taking that retard Victor Franco so long? Doesn't he know how much sperm Ben's balls can shoot?

Victor'll ask Devon later. Yeah. He'll cup the kid's balls. Try and guess if Devon can shoot.

The bathroom's perfect for the trysts the horny junior high boys live to indulge in. This bathroom is L shaped. The front part is lined with urinals and sinks. The back part, which you get to by going round the corner, has the stalls. If a teacher bursts in, the copulating boys have plenty of time to extract whatever they've stuck into each other.

Ben, peering through the cracked door, grins when Victor rounds the corner. Thank God. He was beginning to be afraid he was being played.

Snick. The stall door shuts behind the two boys. Devon, having not found the whisker he'd hoped had started growing, has just left the bathroom. They're alone. No sound, except for their heavy breathing. Victor reaches out and touches Ben's bulge.

"It's a nice one," he says heavily.

"Yeah, I know." Ben's voice is husky. He grinds his crotch against Victor's inquisitive hands. "You got a nice butt."

Victor giggles softly. "Yeah. I know."

Ben, nervously, asks, "You, uh, wanna just suck me or you wanna do --"

"Up my butt," murmurs Victor, falling to his knees. He stares at Ben's dick. The shorts do nothing to hide the adolescent's urgency. Victor gazes at it. He's seen it before. But wow. He's gonna have it now!

A sneer appears on Ben's face. "Yeah. I knew you'd wanna go all the way."

Victor undoes Ben's fly. The shorts slip down Ben's thighs. The kid's white Jockeys bulge in Victor's face.

"You like my bulge?" Ben asks in a husky voice.

Victor, who's spent a lot of time surreptitiously gazing at Ben's swollen Jockeys as they changed into PE gear, is too excited to answer. He leans forward. His lips nuzzle the ridge in the cotton. His head spins. He smells Ben's crotch. Yeah. Victor smells testosterone. He licks the fabric and feels Ben's dick leap.

"Stop drooling!" says Ben, hooking his fingers into the Jockey's waistband and snapping them under his balls. Ben grins. "Now you can drool!"

Ben's dick, at five inches, is nothing compared to Gene Franco's obscenely fat and stubby dadcock. But it is dick. Stiff as a nail, rising from a glossy, trim pubic thatch any thirteen-year-old would be proud to show off. A strand of precum descends from the slit.

"I gotta get it wet," Victor murmurs as he dives onto it. In a flash, his lips are buried in Ben's thatch and the thirteen-year-old stud's dick throbs in Victor's throat. Victor's head bobs.

Ben's eyes cross. He groans. Nice. "Choke on my dick!"

But Victor doesn't choke, not even when his lips kiss Ben's thatch. He inhales Ben's crotch smell. Victor slobbers. Rivulets of Victor's spit sway from Ben's balls. Ben doesn't smell clean there. There's a hint of urine. And sweat. Best of all -- sperm. Victor might think he's getting a whiff of what Ben's got stuffed in his tight young nuts, but it's really the moistened remnants of the load that gushed from Ben's well-fucked butthole. Doesn't matter to Victor. He likes his delusions.

Ben's horny enough to be content with pouring babies down Victor's throat, so his hands clamp to Victor's skull, locking Victor's face in position. Ben's hips shift into overdrive. The boy-on-boy slamfucking begins.

Ben's body quivers. The mahogany-haired lad's head rolls back. His jaw slackens. "OH, I'm gonna --"

Yep., Ben's been experiencing this problem. Ever since Hank started fucking him -- washing Ben's tight guts in potent man seed -- Ben's been a little firecracker on the verge of exploding. Ben can, he knows, juice fifteen, maybe twenty times a day, if only he could find himself enough cunt. Even Tim, Ben's oversexed ten-year-old brother, thinks Ben is getting too horny. Too quick to fill Tim's young butts with frothy seed.

Victor, slobbering down the thick precum, senses Ben's on the verge. The quiet lad knows his stuff. Gene's been a good father, moaning and growling on those few nights where they can be alone together, Victor between his beloved Da's legs, licking Gene's balls and cock. Victor can taste orgasm's immanence. He's got no intention of swallowing Ben's juice. Well, not today. Da's allowing Victor to fuck around and the thirteen-year-old wants Bens juice where it matters. So Victor lets Ben's stiffy escape his lips. His buddy's gleaming dick throbs in his face.

"Whew," says Ben. "Thanks! That was close!" He sounds a little like Shaggy complimenting Scooby-Doo on a timely rescue.

Victor stands, turns, unbuttons his shorts, and whips them down. "Do me."

"Wow!" exclaims Ben.

Wow's an understatement. Those cheeks are two small, round peaches tightly packed together. The mere sight is almost enough to cause Ben to spooge all over the back of Victor's shirt. Victor's ass rivals the twelve-year old Tom Daley's succulent butt.

"Can I feel 'em?" Ben gasps.

"Yeah!"

Ben yanks Victor's underwear down and pushes the diver forward. Ben's fingertips flutter over Victor's butt. What a sight! Ben might've seen 'em before, might've stared at his buddy while they changed in the locker room, but during those times Victor's cunt was off limits. Now it's hear, and Ben swears he can hear Victor's butthole pleading to be filled with Ben's stiff dick. The two boys, shorts round their ankles, shuffle forward until Victor's forehead bumps against the stall door.

"Hurry up!" whispers Victor, shifting his weigh from foot to foot. This makes his smooth buttcheeks rub together, which in turn fuels Victor's insatiable need for cum.

Ben slips his dick into Victor's crack. He shudders. Victor's crack is tight. Tight enough Ben might enjoy hot dogging it. Heh. But not today. Ben Harrison's gonna score! Grinning, he moves his wet dickhead south till he finds the socket. Ben grins. He knew it'd be slimy from Chris' spunk.

"Wow," Ben murmurs, gently pumping the hole, feeling the rubbery lips kiss his dickhead. "He got you good." Ben can smell spunk, knows its Chris'.

"Who? Da?" Victor says hoarsely. "He always does me good!"

"Your dad did you?" Ben whispers, thrusting harder. "Me too!"

Victor sighs. Relaxes. Resistance vanishes. Victor's hungry boycunt sucks Ben's dick inside. Ben groans, feeling the goo gurgling around his dick.

"You're sloppy," Ben breathes, hips churning. "it's like fucking cream of mushroom soup!"

The boys rut. Hips roll smoothly towards one another. Victor, eyes shut, coos, savoring the motion of Ben's dick. The feeling of crisp pubic hair scouring his butt, a sensation all smooth boys long to experience, makes him pant. He sphincter, having been stretched for the majority of his life by Gene Franco's thick boyrammer, absorbs Ben's dick with moist slurping sounds. Is Victor Franco a loose fuck? Well, yeah, he's slimy, given he's got two loads of juice in his butt. But his sphincter, used to being opened so wide by his Da's cock that its little crinkles are stretched smooth, seeks that familiar on-the-edge-of pain feeling. The only way it can achieve this is to clamp tight on Ben's dick. Trust me. Ben's happy. Just look at his hips blur.

"Oh, shit, man, I'm cumming!" Ben growls.

Victor's hardon smears his flat belly as it twitches. He's diligently milking Ben's dick, clutching his pucker on that vibrating rod, coaxing out as much milk as he can. "Give it to me!"

"Take it! Take it! Take it!" Ben's eyes are screwed shut. His smooth belly convulses as his young balls blast dollops of pungent jism up his classmate's guts.

Victor sighs, happy, because the third load he's getting up there feels like a lot! Like maybe a pint of good, hot slime. It makes him feel gooey and syrupy and nasty inside.

When the shooting stops, Victor starts to stand. A ghostly smile plays on his face. His eyes are slits. "I can feel your babies --"

"Hey!" cries Ben, pushing Victor forward. "I'm not done!" He twitches his hard dick in Victor's guts. "See?"

Victor's eyes shine over his shoulder. He grins. Grinds his butt. Then he braces himself.

Barely missing a stroke, Ben hammers Victor. The two boys buttfuck like rabbits in spring. Ben's hips blur. His strokes grow more and more powerful, ramming Victor's head into the stall door and raising an enormous racket. Lewd slurping sounds escape Victor's butthole. Surely some jackass assistant principal would've caught them if Ben hadn't spurted again two minutes later.

"Whew! Nice one!" Ben pops Victor on the butt. "I'm done. You got my babies up there!" He pulls out, though. His dick is still hard, and it gleams with spunk. Chest puffed up, he backs away, looking with pride at the newest member of his harem. Yeah. That's what Ben's gonna put hiss bitches in. Tim and Victor and Jesse and ... say, maybe he ought to cream Victor's butt a third time! He could do it, you know.

Victor, his eyes shut, savors the new flood of cum rising and falling in his rectum. Then he reaches for his shorts. "Thanks."

Ben, unable to resist, plasters himself to Victor's back, churning his slick dick between Victor's cheeks, "Let's do it some more!"

Victor's tempted. But: "We gotta get back to class!"

"You know you want it," says Ben. He tugs his Jockeys in place over his stiffy. He winks. "My jelly's gonna leak from your hole all day long!"

Victor smiles to himself. Because nothing's gonna be leaking from his hole. Not till his Da slides in tonight.

They return to Mrs. Biddle's class together. Victor slips into his desk, the shy smile on his face confirming to the clued-in guys that, yep, Victor Franco just received Ben Harrison's load. Phones slide out of pockets and text messages begin flying across the ether. Ben, after slamming the hall pass rudely on Mrs. Biddle's desk, struts back to his desk, executing crotch thrusts toward the class. He thumps his chest. Yeah. He's Ben Motherfucking Harrison. He's a shooter.

After the bell rings, there's a gathering at the bottom of the stairwell. All of Calhoun Middle School's sexually active boys -- shooters or immature -- form a circle round Victor and Ben. Even bottoms like Jesse Peake and Devon Whitewater are here. Tumult rages upstairs as their classmates race to the next period. Down here, surrounded by painted cinderblock covered with immature graffiti of dicks and butts and boys sucking and fucking boys, hurried whispers are exchanged. Victor beams quietly while Ben whispers about how fabulous Victor's boycunt feels.

"Victor Franco is open for business," announces Ben, eyes gleaming at his conquest.

Victor giggles as the boys crowd around him.

Chris Dugger takes Victor by the arm. "So you wanna --"

"Hell yeah!" laughs Victor, following Chris up the stairs.

"Hey!" says Devon. "What about me?"

"Can you shoot?" Victor calls down the stairs.

"Um. Yeah. Uh. Sure."

"Come on!"

The trio fly towards that magic bathroom overlooking the playground.

Woodpine, Jesse, and Ben throw their arms round each other and exchange nods.

"I got an idea," says Jesse, smirking. His eyes twinkle.

"Well, what is it, jackass?" cries Chris.

"Wait till after lunch." He pats Chris' crotch. Then Ben's. "You keep it together until health class, OK?"

"You're evil," chuckles Chris.

"Hell yeah! I'm a Peake!"

"Hey!" says Ben, cupping Jesse's buttcheek. "Maybe we can do it in the stall next to them!"

"You mean, before the bell rings?"

"Fuck yeah!"

A second trio thunders upstairs. Other boys follow sheepishly. Maybe they might get a crack at either Victor's or Jesse's sloppy cunts before next period begins.

 

Afternoon. Calhoun's students exult, sensing the approach of the final bell. They can escape. Have fun. Thrash out what's been going on at school all fucking day.

There's been a lot of shenanigans going on sub rosa.

Wild rumors have circulated all day about mysterious grunting in that upstairs bathroom that only the strutting boys -- you know, the one's apt to casually palm their crotches, or the ones who wear clothes that show off (gasp!) their butts -- use. Calhoun's stupider kids are sure a gopher's gotten stuck in the toilet again. The smarter kids don't buy that -- but they don't know what they should buy.

What amazes the middle schoolers most of all is that Victor Franco's been in the midst of it. The eye of a hurricane. What's changed with that kid?

An unusual number of high-fives have been exchanged in the hallways between class. Boys have been observed sneaking cigarettes behind the bushes near the basketball courts. And, believe it or not, mysterious grunting has been heard in those bushes as well.

Victor Franco's been in the middle of that, too. Time and time again, girls and boys have gasped, seeing him emerge from the bushes, adjusting his shorts, lugging his precious sports bag, sometimes followed by a sweaty, red-faced guy; sometimes not, because a sweating, red-faced guy has joined the crowd smoking behind the school.

Has Slenderman invaded the school? Possessed poor Victor? I mean, what the fuck's going on?

Let's skip to that throbbing center of male adolescent sexuality. It's 1:15 pm. Seventh grade boy's locker room. Across the gym from Coach Dusker's health class. It's packed with sexy young lads in various stages of undress. It smells, as you'd guess, like heaven. Many of these kids bought what Keith Peake sold them the other day about deodorant. Specifically, skipping it. Rich adolescent funk sizzles in the air.

Man, we're in the perfect pedophile paradise! Look at all that smooth young skin! Look at those bulges swelling briefs and trunks! Check out that kid near the back, the one with one foot on the bench, the other on the tile floor, as he untangles his bunched up gym shorts. Do you see a dark patch behind those snowy-white briefs? Maybe the kid's mature. Let's watch him drop 'em -- yes, we've got a mature boy here, with a sparse, trim thatch, and full sack, and a respectable dick for a seventh grader, hanging over his tight nuts. Maybe bouncing a bit when he eyes a half-naked buddy. Imagine yourself succumbing to temptation, pulling the waistband of some other kid's briefs away and shooting a look down a boy's torso. Ignore his surprised eyes. Focus on what you long to see. Is the lad smooth down there? Hairy? Nope, this lad's smooth. Put your hands down there. Juggle is balls. Feel him up. Watch the shocked look on the kid's face change to a grin. Yeah. He wants you. You knew it all along.

"Jeez, Victor, you're horny!"

Jesse Peake's eyes are fixed on Victor's bulging briefs, revealed when Victor dropped his shorts. For the umpteenth time that day.

Victor, shimmying out of his briefs, nods and grins. "It's my birthday."

Lockers clatter shut. Some boys, now stripped, tug on school issued jockstraps and reach for the school's trademark PE shorts. Other boys -- shirtless, or shortless, or stripped of briefs -- shoot the shit with friends. Two or three of the mature boys casually rest their arms on their heads. The immature ones, heeding what they've been taught, trot over and take a sniff of those armpits, newly dusted with hair. These boys stagger away, dreamy eyed, fondling their crotches. Others stand, still in their briefs or boxers, their crotches shoved forward for everyone to admire with curious palms

The boys shout and hoot with all the energy they can muster. The deeper cries of the pubescent boys mix with the high sounds of the ones as yet unbaptized by testosterone. Wadded up clothing is sometimes stuffed into a locker. Sometimes hurled at a friend. One or two boys lie on a bench, wriggling into Calhoun's sexy PE shorts. They have to do this because they've grown, and Coach Dusker is very slow about granting his boys newer, looser, shorts.

Jesse, reading the hungry look in Victor's eye, smirks. Not contemptuously. The Peake kid knows how awful it is to go around with an empty butthole. He searches for his friend.

There's Ben Harrison, pulling open his jockstrap and letting some kid take a good whiff.

Jesse lets out a piercing whistle. Ben's head whips this way and that. When he finds the source, he grins. Action time!

Jesse crooks a finger at Ben. Our mahogany-haired stud's jockstrap falls in loops round his feet. Ben Harrison stands, thirteen-year-old stud, in the Calhoun boy's locker room, sporting his proud, indomitable hardon. Ben's chest, so lean you can see every muscle, puffs out. Even his tight ballsack seems to swell. Once again, the Harrison lad is ready to do his manly duty.

Ben saunters over. Dick swaying. Eyes track him. Jaws drop. Everyone knows where he's heading. Is he really gonna do it? Here? In the locker room -- not someplace safe, like the upstairs bathroom?

Ben swats Victor's rump. "So, uh, Vic. How 'bout a replay? You and me."

Victor looks over his shoulder. His gaze travels down Ben's torso. He fixates on Ben's crotch.

Breath catches in throats.

"Um. Yeah," Victor says finally. "I can always go for what you got." Victor's five-inch boner throbs against his belly. An inch-long strand of precum hangs from it. The birthday boy is fucking horny. The lad thrusts his butt towards Ben, inviting the Harrison kid to mount up and ride him again.

Jesse, stark naked and grinning to himself, wads up his clothes and stuffs them in his locker. His eyes keep flicking to Victor's dick. He's been noticing how big Victor's balls have been getting. They seem to have swollen before his very eyes this week. He wonders if Victor can shoot. Ben said he hadn't this morning, but you never know. Jesse, imagining Victor's dick piercing his ring, licks his lips.

Victor hasn't moved. Neither has Ben. Both boys are having too much fun ogling the other. Victor's buttocks are displayed to the entire locker room, but Ben's enjoying his primo position.

"You like what I got." Arrogance drips from Ben's words.

Desperately, Victor nods. His buttocks shift, moving against each other like oiled spheres.

"You need my sauce," says Ben, cupping his nuts. "The Harrison cocktail!"

"Come on!" Jesse calls cheerily. "Enough romance! Get it on! Am I right, guys? Am I right?"

"Yeah!" calls a boy in a high-pitched voice. He's jammed his hand down his blue boxers, stroking his dick.

"Fuck him!" croaks another. Damn puberty.

"Yeah, come on, Harrison!" snaps another. "You keep talking like you fuck anything that moves!"

Ben holds up a hand. "Guys, guys, guys! Let me show you how it's done! I mean, I'm the one who got Vic's engine revved up!"

"Bullshit!" hollers Chris Woodpine.

Ben lays a hand on Victor's shoulder. The diver and the weight lifter lock gazes. "Maybe," Ben says thickly, "we can have a naked PE day. Yeah, Victor, what do you say to that? You think Ol' Dusker'll go for it?" He pretends to whisper into Victor's ear: "Betcha if you twitched that sweet ass at Dusker, we could fucking do anything!'

Even though Jesse's young dick is throbbing, there's a look of respect on his face. Directed at Ben. Naked junior high PE. Wow. that's the kinkiest thing the slow-witted Ben's ever come up with!

The locker room is now silent. Mouths gape and the boys breathe rapidly. Will this really happen? Eyes are fixed on the instigators. Jesse. Ben. Sweet-assed Victor Franco. Something hangs in the air even more powerful than these kids' armpit musk.

Victor's breathing heavily. "I feel weird," Victor confesses. "It's like I want something to happen. But I don't know what."

"It's called being a horny boy!" giggles Jesse, brandishing his hardon, an ivory spike rising from his hairless groin.

Ben winks at Jesse. He pats Victor's butt. "I got what'll fix you!" he brags.

Victor says nothing. He keeps thinking of all the dicks he enjoyed today. They felt so good, squishing and spurting in his guts. And there was something special in the way his dick beat on his flat belly while all those guys seeded his hole. His balls felt weird, though. Sometimes, when a boy fucked him, they felt as if they wanted to -- dunno -- spit up. Sometimes his balls have hurt when he's tugged his briefs back into place. A conflicted look settles on Victor's face.

Victor wants more -- but what else is there except the delicious sense of completion when a guy shoots in him?

Ben misreads Victor's silence. He snorts. He turns, showing off his hard dick to the rest of the lock room. "Hey! Which one of you wants my load?" Ben cups his balls. "I got a lot to give!"

"I do!" Jesse and Victor chime in unison.

Ben waggles his eyebrows. "Which one?"

"Me!" cry Jesse and Victor.

Ben smirks. Yep. He's the stud. These boys are bitches in his harem. His gaze shifts from rump to rump. He strokes his chin. "Well, I nailed Victor in third period, so let me get you pregnant, Jesse. But! You gotta promise me something."

"What?"

Ben seizes his friend by the hips and pushes him against the locker, stuffing his dick between Jesse's creamy cheeks. "Don't open your hole so wide! Man, ever since that Marine started on you, it's like fucking the Holland Tunnel!" He guffaws, spits on his palm, slicks his shaft, and jabs inside. "I'm serious Jesse," he grunts, pumping. "Vic's got a tight hole!"

Victor, butt still ready, grins, watching his friends copulate right beside him. Wow. Ben looks ferocious slicing into Jesse that way. Victor's heart swells, knowing he's already taken what Ben's dished out.

"It ain't my fault! And it ain't Landon's! It's my Dad! Come on, Ben, you've taken his cock!" chortles Jesse, eyes beginning to glaze over from pleasure. He grinds his butt against Ben's wiry crotch. "Psst! Hey, Chris!"

Chris Woodpine trots over. Squirming as his best friend fucks him, Jesse cups is hand to Chris ear and whispers, "Use your shoe! Prop the door open!"

"Uh, Coach'll hear --"

"That's the idea, idiot!" Jesse hisses. "Christ, Ben, slow down!"

Victor, watching the two boys rabbitfucking right next to him, nods to himself. Yeah. That looks nice. That's what he needs to be doing. He scans the locker room. Searching for the right bulge. The one that'll, you know, do what his balls seem to want to happen. A ring of slack-jawed, wide-eyed horny adolescents stare at this unheard of scene.

Oh well. That's the problem with junior high school boys. They're dumb. You can give them a live sex show, present them with the school's hottest young butt, and they still won't know how to move.

"Come on! Who's next?"

Victor kind of hopes Chris Woodpine will stuff his meat up Victor's hungry boyhole. A kind of nice, warm, squishy flashback to this morning. But Chris is doing something over at the locker room door.

There's no shortage of hardons. Look at 'em! A ring of stingers. Some of 'em throb and stain jockpouches with precum. Some are flogged by frantic hands. Others twitch up. Drop down. Twitch up again. Check between those smooth, sleek thighs. Some sacks are full, mature, ready to shoot. Some are shriveled, like raisins, not able to spurt. But every cock is hard. Every eye is fixed on Victor's butt.

"I got you, Vic."

First batter up is Tony Trujillo, a tall golden-skinned jock -- man, you ought to see him run track; the boy's a jaguar, leaping hurdles with ease -- with glossy black hair. Fully dressed for gym -- though he really ought to be wearing a skimpy doeskin loincloth, showing off sleek muscles, smooth skin, and flashing his taut butt to everyone -- he'd been about to strut out into the gym. But, hell, he's no idiot! Damn, Victor Franco's finally put his fine butt on the market and damn if Tony is going to chicken out. Grinning, he shimmies his shorts down to his upper thighs and fishes his cock out the side of his jock.

Victor nods happily.

"Lube!" Tony cries. He's picky. Spit won't do for him, unless he's got no choice.

Victor opens his locker and digs out his sport bag. "In there! Hurry up, dammit!" He kicks his legs apart, showing off his clenching hole. He rolls his butt. Fuck, Victor needs it. Will Tony Trujillo be able to show Victor what's missing from all this hot sex he's been having? The diver eyes Tony's seven-inch dick. It's slim, but long. As it stiffens, the foreskin slides further back, revealing a purple cockhead. Yeah. Victor's sure Tony's dick will solve this mystery plaguing Victor's day.

The seventh grade locker room orgy is underway!

Tony smears KY on his seven-inch prong. Carved into his belly is a six pack. It twitches and Tony's dick bounces as if he were a stallion displaying himself to a comely mare. Tony's breath whistles in his nostrils. Ignoring Ben, hammering away at Jesse, Tony takes up position behind Victor's butt.

"Nice," he growls, staring down at buttcheeks he's lusted after for a long, long time. "I'm gonna make it mine, Vic!"

Tony's cockhead leaves a trail of mixed precum and KY as he pushes it down Victor's crack.

"Man," grunts Tony. "You're wet!"

"I've been busy," Victor chortles, grinding his socket on Tony's prong.

Tony slices into Victor's boycunt like a knife into butter. Tony's jaw drops and he savors the gooey warmth up there. He rotates his hips, grinding away and skewering Victor the way the quiet little slut deserves it. Then Tony withdraws.

"Jesus, Vic, what's going on here?" Tony cries.

A thick sheen of gravy coats Tony's prong. Dangling strands quiver.

Victor giggles. "Guess!"

Ben, huffing and puffing as he hammers away at Jesse, slaps Tony on his ass. "I blazed the trail for you!"

"Hey!" protests Chris Woodpine. "I had him first!"

"What do you mean?" gasps Tony, sinking deep.

"You're wearing some of my babies, dude!" Ben grunts.

Tony snaps his groin forward. Grinds away, rotating his cock in Victor's hot guts. He looks about ready to burst. Then he withdraws six inches of teendick. Stares down at it. Inhales. "Wow. That's fucking hot." He stabs in and fucks away.

A heavy, meaty slapping sound fills the locker room as Ben and Tony go at their bitches. Both Jesse and Victor are getting fucked hard enough to ram against their lockers, setting up a metallic clamor. Boys murmur, appreciating the demonstration Ben and Tony are putting on. Other boys groan, wanting to feel teendicks -- better still, fat hairy manshaft -- in their immature holes.

Victor -- panting, eyes closed, lips dry; perfect picture of a boy lost in sexual heat -- shifts and moves. Ah, yes! There it is! Now Tony's stabbing Victor in a sweet spot. The spot his Da's thick cock crushes. Victor's eyes roll up. Yep, our birthday boy needs it right there. Hard and fast. Victor begins to feel a plume like a fire tornado rise up his spine.

Victor impales himself ever faster against the strokes. Oh it feels good! Tony's dick stabs that wonderful something inside Victor. The something like a baked walnut, right behind Victor's balls. With each stab, a worm of precum wriggles from Victor's dick. And Victor's balls spasm like they want to throw up.

But ... it's not good enough. Victor just knows it. His balls swell with each smack. But they won't burst.

Crack!

"Hey!"

Victor's head turns.

Chris Woodpine's handprint glows on Ben's heaving butt. Chris' arms snake around Ben, hauling his friend back, exposing the weightlifter's enticing butt. Chris humps Ben's cheeks.

"Now," Chris growls, "who got Vic first?"

"Fuck you!" cries Ben, trying to wriggle out of Chris' steely embrace.

"Fuck this, I got blue balls, I can't wait!" growls Chris. He pours a teardrop of lube on his forefinger then rams it up Ben's butthole.

Ben stiffens. "Ow!" he hollers.

"Hey!" calls Jesse. "Keep your mind on the fucking, Ben!"

"Hey!" cries Ben, head whirling round. "My hole belongs to my Dad!"

Chris snickers. "Bullshit!" He settles into place behind Ben. "Your dad, Mr. Peake, Sheriff Lord, Curtis Yarnell ..."

"I'll get you, you shit!" cries Ben. He might be trying to wriggle free of Chris' finger. Or maybe just wiggling.

"Hang on, Jesse!" calls Chris, digging his finger in deep. "I'll do the driving!'

Chris gets his hardon between Ben's cheeks. Ben fights the penetration -- don't freak out; Ben likes being a boy when a man's around, but with boys, Ben acts all man -- but Chris is not to be shaken off. Ben snarls and spits but Chris' dick sinks in.

All-boy dogpile!

"You're a bastard!" snaps Ben.

Chris snaps his hips and pins Ben between his belly and Jesse's ass. "You OK, Jesse?"

"Shut up and fuck me!"

Three seventh grade boys begin undulating in unison. A wonderful daisy chain for Satan. Ben's resistance melts away. In fact, the mahogany-haired stud now moves gracefully between his two sex partners, skewering Jesse and then impaling himself on Woodpine's teendick.

The sound of boys grunting and squealing and rutting swells in the locker room.

"Come on! Fill me up!" Victor calls to Tony. He sees Devon Whitewater and he grins. The kid's got no pubes -- and Victor discovered in the upstairs bathroom the boy's got no seed -- but, hell, he's got a hardon, and Victor Franco needs dick. The way he feels right now he'll take any dick. I mean, Da will never know if a dick goes up him and doesn't leave behind any spunk, will he? Besides, maybe Victor can get Devon to shoot his first spunk. The quiet lad grins. That'd be awesome!

"Fuck!" Ben roars, unloading into Jesse's chute. You can't see it but Jesse feels it. The slim blond slut is thoroughly seeded. Ben tries to pull away, but he's got a buddy plastered to his back. "Get off me, Chris!"

"Shut up, you fairy," snarls Chris, groin slamming Ben's supple ass.

Tony grunts, hoots, grunts again. Victor feels warmth blooming in his ass. He relaxes a bit. Just a bit.

"My turn!" cries Devon Whitewater, jerking his stiffy.

"Um," says Victor over his shoulder to Tony. "You're still hard."

"Yeah," breathes Tony. "I am, you slut!"

"Um. Wait a minute, Devon," says Victor.

Tony's hips begin moving again. The waiting boys send up a moan. Dammit! They want in there!

"No fair!" cries Devon, stomping his feet. He's not been taking gigantic mancock up his ass just to wait around while some twerp like Tony Trujillo hogs the good stuff!

 

Today, Coach Dusker's crotch is a jock-free zone. Not of his own will. It's the lads fault. Specifically, the lads caused it when they wrestled.

Being a proud man, testosterone roaring in his veins, Dusker gets hard watching his afternoon PE classes wrestle. And no jock, unless made of a Kevlar mesh, can withstand the force of Dusker's boy-obsessed boner. Yesterday, when the leg bands had given up the struggle, the match between Devon Whitewater and Ben Harrison had almost reached its climax. Devon Whitewater, his succulent, immature butt high in the air as he strained to avoid being pinned by Ben Harrison, did it. There Dusker had been, staring at Whitewater's butt, wondering if maybe he should give the kid gratuitous detention then slide in and enjoy what Keith Peake had deflowered, when snap! Later, he drained his mighty balls in some teenage wrestler he picked up at CCBC. Kid was a little older than Dusker liked, but moaned becomingly when the big man fucked his tight ass.

All these sexy, sexy boys. He loves it. But there's danger. You can no longer be a proud man these days, eager to show off your big cock to curious young tykes. Time for a revolution, maybe?

Dusker goes through a lot of jockstraps. Amazon sends 'em by the crate. Unfortunately, that drone delivery service hasn't started up here in Hicksburg.

For this class, at least -- his "special" sex ed class -- he doesn't have to hide his triumphant, boyfucking masculinity. But he's had to resort to his trusty clipboard to conceal his lurid interest from his other, more innocent classes. A burden? No. It's quite fun to pretend to be a kind, caring mentor while you mentally undress a boy and grope his sweet ass.

Dusker unrolls the wrestling mat and kicks it into place. His sweats already show a big bulge.

The locker room door squeaks. He doesn't turn to look. Not until he realizes how quiet the locker rooms is. He frowns. Maybe Devon Whitewater is peering at Dusker from the door. Dusker grins. Kid's got blowjob lips. Yeah. Blow jobs. How to suck off an adult man. That'd make a good post-wrestling lesson. He imagines himself in the center of the ring, young Devon slobbering on his rod, while his students are gathered in a semi-circle, palming their groins as they stare at the illegal spectacle. He pictures himself assigning homework: OK, guys, you got to suck off five men before next week! I want essays on how their spunk tastes!

Dusker turns, eager to show off his bulge to Devon's adoring eyes.

Hmm. There's no one there. No one's emerging from the locker room. The door is ajar. Some scamp has stuffed a sneaker in the door to keep it from closing.

Well. You don't spend time in a junior high school without learning to recognize shenanigans. Coach Dusker grins. The scamps are restless. He can use that. Maybe he'll ask Devon to join him in the showers for detention. Ah yes, the athletic showers. Dusker's got a fetish for fucking a boy in the showers. Reminds him of his glory days at Penn State.

A rhythmic sound emanates from the locker room. Dusker knows it. Sweaty, taut flesh slapping against sweaty, taut flesh. If your sons are fucking each other, you know that sweet sound. Oh yes. Oh fuck yeah. Precum stains Dusker's sweatpants as he strides towards the door.

Dusker shoves through. The locker room falls silent.

Aw, fuck, Dusker thinks. This is goddamned hot!

It's not Devon Whitewater at the eye of the seventh grade sexual frenzy. It's Victor Franco. Those cool, sensual eyes flash at Dusker through a crowd of naked, excited boys. Dusker can't see Victor's ass -- another boy heaves against Victor's back, thrusting and grunting -- but, of course, Dusker's been intimate with Victor's boycunt. Like everyone worth knowing in Calhoun Middle School, in Ellicott Falls -- everyone's been fascinated by Victor Franco's forbidden, hot, tight boyass.

But only Coach Dusker has been able to get in there.

Not long ago, Dusker finally convinced Victor that spending time with Dusker in the showers would only enhance his diving skills. It had taken a lot of smooth talking, since Victor was devoted to his Da, and obedient, but it had happened. It had been one of the high points of Dusker's life. There had been young, twelve-year-old Victor, his body glistening as water streamed over it, bracing himself against the walls, underage butt thrust out as it is now ... and Dusker's fat, hairy, pedophile cock had advanced towards those globes. It had been exquisite up there. The hottest ass Dusker had ever molested. And Coach Sandy Dusker's molested a lot of hot young guys over the years.

The memory of Victor's muscled perfection is permanently seared in Dusker's mind.

"Started without your coach, eh?" Dusker asks.

Two hips, which had frozen mid-drill, begin to pump. Dusker sees a blond kid grinning at him. Yes, he should've known Jesse Peake would've been mixed up with this somehow.

"We couldn't help ourselves!" calls Jesse. "We were sooooo horny!"

"Why was the door open?" Dusker asks.

"To get you in here!" calls Jesse. "Ooof! Hey, quit slapping me!"

One of these days, Dusker knows, one of the uncool teachers is going to catch these kids at it. Or him with one of the kids. They'll be hell to pay. But until that day ... it's man/boy party time!

"So, Victor," says Dusker, watching sweat trickle down the boy's back. "I see you've decided to join the fun."

"Yeah, Coach," grunts Victor, hips moving back against the boy fucking him. Tony Trujillo. Good choice. "Da gave me a present!"

"It's his birthday!" cries Jesse. "He's been fucking everybody!"

Hooking his hands in his sweat pants, Dusker growls, "Well, let's have some fun with the birthday boy!"

Coach's words work magic on the kids in the locker room. Permission's been granted! The shy boys pull their tender cocks from their pouches. The outgoing boys resume their jacking. Glistening tongues lick palms. Palms pump stiff shafts. Precum dribbles in ropes. The smell of chlorine fills the air. Twenty-one horny seventh grade boys. In a locker room. With their pedophile coach. Paradise.

Suddenly Ben Harrison -- fucking Jesse, and getting it from Chris Woodpine -- huffs and puffs and blows his creamy teen load up Jesse's butt.

"Next!" Jesse calls, wriggling free of Ben.

Ben's cock -- a little limp -- pops out. Woodpine's going nowhere. He manhandles Ben to one side and slams his buddy against the locker, still pounding away. Ben's not complaining. In fact, he's still moving his hips hungrily back.

"I'm on him!" calls Jay Bowman. He's a short boy, wiry and slim, with unkempt brown hair. Not much of a pubic bush, little more than a slim mustache over his throbbing shaft, but he's proud of it. Sleek balls pulsate, eager to dump a hot steamy load in Jesse's guts. He glances back at Dusker. "That OK, Coach?"

"Fuck yeah, Jay. Show me you're a top." Dusker grins. He's been eager to watch Jay's tight little butt clenching and unclenching as he drives his adolescent meat in and out. "Do it good. Have at it!"

Grinning, Jay thrusts up Jesse. The boy shudders, feeling Ben's cream coursing down his cock. He begins fucking. What a nice sight! Jay's new at this sex thing. He's not graceful. He's urgent. He's a seventh grade boy, desperate to get his nut. He rams, jerks back, rams again.

Dusker pushes his way towards Victor and Tony. His cock throbs, proud and erect. The boys he sidles past don't miss it. Who can? It's an adult cock. The image of it throbs in their minds as if coded by their DNA. Dusker savors the miasma of aroused boys. The sharp smell of their pits. The musk of their teen buttcracks.

Ben, bouncing off the lockers as Chris drills him, still manages to high-five Jesse. They trade grins.

"Gangbang in the boy's locker room!" Ben calls. "Ow! Slow down, Chris!"

Chris, arms wound around Ben's waist as he rams his buddy, snarls, "Oh who's the big tough stud now, beeyatch?" He churns furiously. Ben's butthole gurgles. Open mouth, slobbering from the sheer joy of buttfucking Ben's fine ass, he powerfucks Ben, gluing himself to his buddy's back.

"Good work, Woodpine," says Dusker. "I didn't think you had it in you."

"Oh oh oh -- damn!" Chris jabs in to the root, sighs, and spurts rich, creamy boy gravy into Ben's boycunt.

Tony Trujillo delivers his trademark graceful fucking. His long black hair, now dripping with sweat, clutches Victor's neck like tentacles. Tony's eyes begin to glow like burning phosphorus. He rams faster and faster. Goddamn, if this Franco kid hasn't changed from virgin to slut overnight! The kid's so warm and gooey up there, it's like fucking warm liver. Trujillo loves it. He jumps when he feels Coach Dusker's hand start caressing his silky buttcheek. The boy and the man lock eyes. Trade grins. Trujillo hopes no one notices his groan when Dusker's finger pops into his tight butt.

Victor, almost buried beneath Tony's heaving form, wears a slight grin. His eyes are tightly closed. He's a little sexpot, awash in the sensations in his ass. He feels Tony's strokes churn the nutbutter in his guts. Oh man, Da is going to be so proud of his little boy Victor! Victor's got to have two pounds of juice up there right now, moving up and down his colon like a bubble of hot wax.

Dusker, a lewd sneer on his face, stabs his finger into Tony's prostate.

"Oh shit!" cries Tony. "Take it, kid! Take my load!"

Victor rolls his buttcheeks against Tony's groin as a hot flower blossoms inside him. Gasping, Tony staggers away. As his cock slips free of Victor's butthole, it trails a long, white whip of spunk.

"Jesus, Victor," breathes Dusker, admiring that lad's sweaty ass. "How many guys have fucked you today?"

Victor shrugs. "Dunno. I'm no good at math, coach."

Devon's voice rings out, high and clear. "My turn!" He shoulders Dusker aside

Victor bends further, lowering his butt so the immature boy can penetrate him. You can now see his balls, hanging below his purple-red cunt.

"Yippy-ki-yay, motherfucker!" cries Devon. He lines up and slams home.

"Big enough for you, Victor?" growls Dusker, watching Devon's little butt pump crazily.

Victor, eyes sultry, smiles. "He likes it." His breathing intensifies as he watches Dusker's big adult cock bounce before his eyes.

"I make you feel good!" calls Devon.

"Can you even feel it?" asks Dusker, cupping one of Devon's buttocks. The kid's so into his fucking it feels like liquid iron.

Devon thinks the question's directed at him. "Hell yeah I feel it! It's all gooey up there! Nasty! Like warm Jell-O!"

Dusker and Victor trade knowing grins.

Devon -- even though he's already had one go at Victor's hole -- is thrilled to be in there again. Best thing Devon ever did for himself was to let Keith Peake and Sheriff Lord molest him. The Cherokee kid is the young stud. ."Oh, it's so warm! And squishy!" He ramps up to full speed. "Is this what it feels like after you cum?"

Victor feels Devon's strokes missing that spot inside him. Oh well. It's dick. And it's up Victor's butt. The kid's happy enough. "I don't know, Dev," he says.

"Aw!" whines Devon. Devon withdraws his dick with a slurp. He looks down, beaming. His spike is coated with spunk! Again! He feels like he's shot his second load! The smell of spunk makes his head spin. Finally! Taking Keith Peake and Sheriff Lord's gigantic adult cocks up his tiny ass has paid off! The kid sticks it back in.

Dusker says, "You've never cum, Victor?" He peels open Devon's buttcheeks. A fingertip descends the kid's crack. Finds that hole. Dusker inhales Devon's musk, then pushes his finger inside.

Victor shakes his head. "No. Da says boys don't cum. And I'm still a boy.""

Victor remembers those days after Mr. Peake's demonstration of sex. He remembers feeling a fluttery sensation on his butt, turning, and catching Dusker brushing past him, pretending an innocent contact. He remembers thinking of Da's command -- with other men you don't do it, little boy! Daddy's boy you are! -- but the butterflies that Victor had felt when the Coach touched his butt tempted him. He remembers watching Dusker showing the guys how to masturbate. He remembers staring at the Coach's nine-inch cock. He remembers Coach Dusker telling him over and over that a man's spunk changed a boy into a man. He remembers thrashing in his bed at night, alone, Da sleeping with his Ma, while Victor's growing body burned with the need to be bred. Victor remembers the day when he worked up the courage to creep up to Dusker, take the man's hand, and lead him to the showers. Victor remembers the thrill when a man -- not his Da -- rammed his cock up Victor's tight chute. Victor remembers feeling the man struggling not to cum. Victor remembers awakening to the fact that his ass turned men on. That they wanted it. Lots of men. Maybe all of them. Victor knows he wants all men to juice his little chute good.

"Well," says Dusker. His voice is thick. "Can you shoot, Devon?"

Devon whips his dick out. "Look!" Devon's proud of the goo coating his dick like cottage cheese.

"Is that your cum, kid?"

Devon nods eagerly. Victor shakes his head ruefully. Devon plunges back in.

"Well," says Dusker, digging his finger deep into Devon's butt. "Let Dusker lend you a hand." His sweatpants drop. Coach Dusker's famous child-molesting nine-inch cock sways from side to side over Devon Whitewater's heaving back. Dusker snaps his finger and points at Victor's lube. A boy darts forward and pours a line down the shaft.

"Work it in, kid," growls Dusker. "You don't want Devon whining, do you?"

Grateful at the chance to touch the coach's cock, the wide-eyed kid massages the lube in.

"Here I come, Devon," Dusker growls as he gnaws at Devon's ear. He hauls the tyke's butt into position, lines up, and stabs in.

"Oh!" cries Devon. No strain at all. The Cherokee lad's gotten used to giant prongs going up his tight butt.

Dusker rams hard. His fat balls swing so far forward they collide with Victor's spheres. The Coach, snarling like an ape, pile drives Devon's ass. Victor's pinned to the locker. Scrawny little Devon almost vanishes in the sandwich of illicitly copulating flesh.

Dusker, raw brutal power soaring through his soul, looks down. Grins an evil grin.

Nothing's hotter than seeing your pubic thatch blooming in some young kid's asscrack. Dusker continues pounding away. Dishing out long strokes. Shuddering when Devon's tiny anus struggles to eject his big cockhead. Roaring as he rams home up the Cherokee boy's cunt.

Boys press close. Boys who aren't engaged in fucking, that is. There's more sin going on in the Calhoun Middle School locker room right now than if the Roman Catholic church and the Republican National convention hosted a Boy Scout jamboree. But for many, the porn show Coach Dusker, Devon Whitewater, and Victor Franco put on is simply the best. They take turns peering between Coach's legs, staring at his big adult shaft as it plunders Devon's hole. One or two of the braver ones wrestle for position on the floor beneath them, and jack themselves silly, watching Devon's urgent dick tease tiny droplets of spunk out of Victor's squishy butthole.

Suddenly Devon begins squealing. "Oh! Something's happening!"

Dusker, feeling Devon's colon spasming on his shaft, reaches round and crushes the boy's nipples between his fingers. "Cum, little boy. Cum for Daddy!"

Devon hollers, "Something's -- something's -- something's coming out!"

Devon's groin rams against Victor's butt. The kid stares heavenward at the bright, orgasmic light that descended from heaven. The expression on his face says he can't believe this is for real!

"Is he shooting, Victor?" asks Dusker, jammed to the hilt. Nothing's finer than feeling a boy's colon squirming on your boyfucker and knowing that, yeah, this kid wouldn't be cumming right now unless you'd molested him.

Victor shoots a look over his shoulder that says yes, indeedy, something's squirting out of Devon's cock.

"How can you tell?" cries the kid staring up from the floor at Victor's butt.

"I know," says Victor, feeling the spray joining the sea he's already taken up his guts. He beams over his shoulder. "Thanks, Devon!"

Dusker, wanting to get it on with the real object of his lust, grabs Devon by the hips and pulls the kid from victor's hole. Devon's dick emerges, a sleepy worm, but Victor's butthole closes up tight before all that precious cum escapes. Dusker sets Devon aside. He orders the kid on the floor out of his way

"It's me and you, Victor," Dusker growls. "Again. Just me and you."

"Do me, Coach!"

"Gonna fuck you, Victor!" Dusker's barrel chest swells. He looks like a gorilla.

"Take your shirt off, Coach!" Victor pleads.

Dusker's shirt flutters across the locker room, landing on some kid's jockstrap, shiny with seed and precum. Victor's eyes feast on Dusker's hairy chest. The quiet lad grins. The boy seems so small as he bends forward, palms planted against the lockers, thrusting his young butt out for breeding. That posture seems to Victor to be his natural, God-ordained positioned.

Dusker sneers. Yeah, he's got the remedy for the kid's need. It's boiling in Dusker's balls right now. The little slut needs his seed, and by God, he's going to get it. Dusker's fat mancock throbs, whipping a line of precum around.

"I'm not going easy on you, Victor. I'm gonna fuck your brains out, kid."

Victor shivers. Kicks his thighs apart. Arches his back. Hot damn, he's got his first real man of the day! Fuck, the boy's ready to go! It's like all these kids have simply primed him. Victor needs to feel a man's pubic hair, thick and abundant, scratching away at the tender flesh between his buttcheeks. Victor's slimy boycunt, shiny with lube, bulges as it strains to keep inside all the precious loads injected up there.

"Batter up," says Dusker, sliding his cockhead into the kid's crack.

"Do me good, Coach," Victor pleads. "Hard. You know I can take it."

Dusker stares down the lad's spine at the tight cleft so alluring to pedophiles. A red fog limns Dusker's vision. He watches Victor shift his weight from one foot to another. Is this kid trying to escape his lust? Fuck that!

"I'm going to fuck you, Victor. Gonna fuck you hard, like your Da does!"

Dusker seizes the lad's hip with one hand. With his other he wrestles his iron-hard shaft into position. Victor squirms as the coach's cockhead, slimy with precum, presses into his tender socket. He winches -- Victor Franco's getting a little sore from today's incessant buttfucking -- but the kid wouldn't give up this position for the world. Dusker's aware of nothing but Victor's gently tapered back, right in front of him. And the two globes, now balanced on either side of his cockhead.

"You want it, don't you, kid?"

Victor nods, his eyes shut, pushing back, trying to get the fabulous adult boyfucker up his insatiable butt.

"Say it, Vic! Tell all your friends how much you like Coach Sandy Dusker molesting you!"

"Please fuck me, coach!"

"Here it comes!"

Dusker slices in. There's no resistance to his prong. Dusker pulls Victor down, reliving all those times in the shower when boys like this kid tried to escape Dusker's lust. But, with Victor Franco, there's no danger of that. No, these aren't kids he's picking up from a charity. These are Chatauqua County boys. Hot. Sexy. Knowing what they need.

Mancock!

Victor's a slut. A dad-created whore. Dusker feels his mighty manshaft nosing its way through goo. He wonders for a moment how much is really up there. Who's fucked this lad today? The kid's Russian dad, for sure. Dusker grins. He loves feeling a father's cum squishing on his cock as he thrusts in the son's squelching butthole. But, hell, most of the guys in Calhoun had to have porked Victor! Fuck, the hot teenaged sauce gurgles round Dusker's shaft. Dusker backs away from this thought because he's in danger of busting a nut. That's always the trouble with fucking a lad as hot as Victor. That tight rectum -- especially if its slathered with another male's goo -- is enough to make you want to unload. And unload. And unload. Filling the kid up with your best stuff.

"You're a nasty, sexy kid, Victor!" Dusker growls in the lad's ear.

Victor, biting his lip, grins and nods vigorously. His lips part as more and more of Coach Dusker's cock stretches his rectum. A pained look? Maybe. But this thirteen-year-old gotta have that cock. That big hairy mancock.

Dusker advances steadily until he's balls to the wall. Until his fat spheres, thickly furred, tickle the backside of Victor's own.

"Feel it, boy?"

Victor nods.

"Feel my shaft?"

"Yeah, coach, yeah!"

"You like it?"

"Yeah!"

"I'm gonna fuck you, kid," growls Dusker. "I'm gonna show you how a stud buttfucks a boy!" His hips snap back. His fat manshaft glistens with sperm for a moment. Just a moment. Then it disappears up Victor's ring.

"Ooof!" The grunt escapes Victor as Dusker's crotch slams against his butt. His eyes are slits. Wow! Dusker's got the biggest cock he's had all day! Sure, not as fat as Da's, but it's long. Ever since Victor watched Keith Peake buttfuck Jesse with that footlong cock, Victor's been obsessed with long, long, long cocks. He grinds his sweet ass against Dusker's frenetic thrusts, needing every fraction of Dusker's nine inches.

"Oh, do it!"

"Coach is gonna fuck you right, boy!"

The man and his boy, naturally, command everyone's attention now. The boys stare. Even if their getting it on, they stare. Nothing's so mesmerizing as the spectacle of a big, powerful, adult man plowing a sleek, smooth, whimpering boy.

Ben Harrison, frigging his stiffy, sing-songs, "Coachie and Victor, sitting in a tree, eff you see kay eye en gee!"

A few chuckles. But most of the boys watch in awe as Dusker sodomizes the kid with all the power of a mature man. Rams Victor so hard the boy melts against the lockers. Dusker follows him, enfolding him in muscled power, hips churning, sawing away at the kid's sloppy cunt.

"You OK, Victor?" asks Jesse, grinding his butt against the black kid who replaced Jay.

Victor says nothing, having barely heard Jesse's question. Dusker's gnawing on his little ear, groaning and snorting as he molests the thirteen-year-old. No need to worry. Victor's fine. Hungry for big cock. His pouty lips shine with saliva, and he grinds his butt against Dusker's furious strokes. The kid's eager for it. Christ, Victor looks like a pony mare getting service by a proud stallion.

The black kid, who has a remarkable resemblance to Jaden Smith from The Karate Kid remake, unloads in Jesse's butt. He pulls free. The white boys gasp. Even at twelve these black kids could shame a stallion. Another boy takes his place. Jesse barely notices the changeover; he's too busy watching the man/boy porn show going on next to him. Two boys seize Ben's arms and stretch them out. Grinning, the sex-crazed boys hold Ben steady while another lines up to take a ride on Ben's taut butt.

"But I'm not a bitch!" cries Ben.

Jesse giggles. "Don't listen, guys, he tells my Dad the same thing!"

Dusker's muscles bleed through his skin. The Coach is lost in a fuck frenzy. Damn, Victor gets his juices flowing. Dusker's testicles are swollen big as lemons. As he plays the adult stud, they ram against the kid's smooth sack so hard you might thing the collision would be painful. But examine Victor's expression. The kid looks angelic. As if he's climbing towards ... something. As if that brutal pounding is setting something loose in him.

Dusker? No pain for him. The man's in pedophile heaven, screwing a tight, slimy kidcunt. He knows Victor loves it. Victor's chute clutches on his plunging shaft every time he pulls back, because the boy's butthole needs to be filled by Dusker's dripping mancock. Dusker's happy to oblige.

Dusker's big palms turn Victor's head. The adult man plants his lips on the kid's mouth and thrusts his tongue inside. Victor's own tongue dances with it, soft as a butterfly against Dusker's overwhelming presence. Dusker's hairy buttocks work harder and harder, screwing the boy. The metal lockers clatter. Dusker doesn't give a fuck. Let the whole damn county hear him! He's going to screw the birthday boy. Get him pregnant.

"If I was your daddy, Victor," growls Dusker, "I'd never let you out of my bed!"

"Molest me," Victor pleads.

Dusker does his best. Which, given his track record -- Dusker's molested pubescent boys from Pennsylvania to Chatauqua County -- is damn good. Sweat soaks his body hair, which in turn clings to Victor's sweaty back. The smell of rutting boys fills Dusker's nostrils.

"Damn, boy," growls Dusker, "I want you to have my baby!"

Victor's chute, a rubbery glove tight on Dusker's shaft, sends the Coach over the edge. Hurtling into the ecstatic mental space men only discover when they empty their balls into young boys. Roaring, he juices. Juices so hard his eyes cross. Juices like a firehose. He pulls Victor firm against him, almost crushing the lad beneath his muscled bulk, grinding and shooting and roaring.

Victor, buried under Coach Dusker, sighs. He feels so warm. Feels each spurt as it streaks his colon. He feels the Coach's cock seeding him. Pouring gallons of testosterone into his hungry butt. Victor's heart flutters the way it does when you plunge over a roller coaster's first drop.

Victor still feels weird, though. Like a spark trying to escape a fire, trying to whirl higher and higher, but is constrained by some mysterious force to remain within the searing flame. It's not a bad feeling. It's just ... incomplete. Victor's dick lurches and twitches, smearing his belly with precum, as Dusker continues to churn the butter up the lad's butt. Victor's balls throb. His ring squeezes Dusker's pleasing boyfucker.

Nevertheless, Victor Franco needs more!

Even as Dusker's cock withdraws with a disgusting slurp -- Victor's really, really wet up there -- the lad's eyes search out his schoolmates. He's looking for furry groins. Somehow, the kid knows he must feel a furry groin against his satiny butt. That's the only way the magic he seeks is going to happen.

"Thanks, coach," murmurs Victor.

"I did you right, boy. I did you right and you know it." Dusker struts off, forcing his way through the boys lining up.

Victor Franco, obeying his beloved Da, clamps his ring shut. Can't lose this stuff. It's a present to his Da. And what a present! The kid's sure that three or four feet of his bowels are a solid slug of cum. For a moment, Victor rests his sweaty cheek against the locker, chest heaving. Then he grins.

"Next!"

 

- read the epic conclusion to Victor Franco's birthday experience in

Episode XIII: Thirteen - After School Special -