Date: Mon, 06 Sep 2021 21:26:33 +0000
From: indiscribed <indiscribed@protonmail.com>
Subject: Plastic Playground Tunnel 3 (gay, young-friends, incest)

Please send any questions or comments to indiscribed@protonmail.com

Disclaimer: The following is a work of fiction.  It contains explicit sex
scenes between underage boys.  Do not read this if such content is
illegal in your jurisdiction or if you are easily offended.  Any
similarities to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.  The
author no way condones the acts depicted within this story, and no person
should read this story.


3
Stinky Heartthrob

Torrential rain fell from the dark sky and pelted the plastic playground
tunnels. Sheltered inside, 12-year-old Robby crawled through the humid
labyrinth, searching for his twin brother Joe. His nose followed the
tangy scent of Joe's unwashed butt hole to the darkest corner of the
playground structure, a forbidden passageway where boys often went to
play naughty games in private.

A chorus of boyish grunts and girly gasps filled this dark place. Robby
observed the horny scene with his nose. Sniff sniff. The usual boy stink
of the playground tunnels: ammonia, urine, sweat, and... something else.

"OMG. Is Joe really doing it up the butt?" he thought, drawing in
another deep breath of the zesty aroma. The familiar scent of his twin
brother's butt mingled in the stuffy atmosphere with the pungent smell
of hormone-ravaged Kyle's sweaty body. Robby couldn't believe that teen
boys produced such putrid body odor during sex, like a wet garbage bag.
Spiked with teenage pheromones, the disorienting bouquet wafted into his
nose and activated erotic regions of his immature brain. His little
fingers instinctively slipped into his shorts to rub his foreskin back
and forth over his purple tip.

At 13, Kyle's growing body was slightly more developed than the average
seventh grader, and throes of puberty effected more than just the sense
of smell of those around him. Over the last six months, he had grown
lankier; his voice--though still boyish--had begun to deepen and crack;
and in the right light a very fine peach fuzz darkened his muzzle, still
too fine to shave. Though not an uncommon problem among middle schoolers,
his big penis always seemed to tent his shorts whenever he sat down for
long periods of time--especially on bumpy car rides--and he found a
certain satisfaction in exhibiting an extra inch in length over his
peers. Whenever he stretched his skinny arms over his head, he revealed
the quintessential characteristic of teen boy puberty: a few sparse
armpit hairs that flashed under the baggy sleeves of his t-shirt. Though
he felt slightly embarrassed when people noticed his hairy armpits--in
truth the sparse hairs were barely visible--he nevertheless got a special
thrill out of wearing sleeveless shirts or strutting around shirtless at
the pool; Showing off his wispies felt naughty, kind of like when he
exposed his hairy penis to younger boys in the restroom. Indeed, his
display of fury armpits betrayed other naughty secrets of his still
boyish body, secrets concealed in his pants: his big hairy penis that
released fumes of rotten mushrooms, the purple head always encrusted with
white flakes from his last orgasm.

Though Kyle had sprouted his first three or four wispy armpit hairs more
than sixth months ago--just after his thirteenth birthday--he still
hadn't started using deodorant. At various intervals throughout the day,
he would stretch his arms over his head to sample the stinky regions,
first one armpit, then the other. In truth, the young teen enjoyed his
natural scent. His spicy body odor had a calming effect and communicated
his sexually receptive state to other kids: the scent of puberty--a
matter of pride at that age, especially admired by prepubescent boys who
were still anxiously awaiting similar changes in their own growing
bodies. Kyle's pungent fragrance, in addition to his cute blue eyes and
short brown hair, attracted the curiosity of many preteen boys, some who,
under the right circumstances, were willing to experiment with him:
groping, sucking, and dry humping.

The stench of Kyle's armpits was usually obvious from six feet away, but
anyone who got close enough to the young man might also enjoy the scents
that escaped from his shorts, especially when he went commando. Like all
healthy boys Kyle's age, his favorite pastime was rubbing his stiff
penis until it tingled and oozed (sometimes squirted) out creamy liquid.
He didn't have any lotion, so he used spit. He also didn't bother with
tissues; instead, he simply swabbed his belly with a convenient garment
(usually a dirty sock or a crusty pair of undies) and pulled his shorts
back up over his sticky genitals until next time, then wiping his sticky
hands clean on his chest or thighs. He never used soap in the shower--it
seemed a waste of time. In fact, rubbing spittle on his penis two or
three times a day was the closest the organ ever came to being
washed--scrubbed clean with saliva before being plastered once again in a
new layer of boy cum, which dried into crusty flakes.

By Kyle's thirteenth year, it had become impossible for his mom to keep
his undies clean. While shit streaks had adorned the back of his undies
as a preteen, yellow cum stains now began to smear the front. Realizing
the hopelessness of the situation, he started going commando, and a pile
of his yellow, crusty undies ripened on the floor of his room, only
occasionally disturbed when he needed a dew rag. Thus, fumes of bleach
and mushrooms easily escaped from the young teen's shorts, gradually
replacing and overpowering the tangy aroma of his crusty butt hole that
had otherwise characterized his preteen years.

And like most boys his age or younger, Kyle didn't bothered to shower on
weekends. Released from school, he would play and frolic all day with the
other kids from his neighborhood until sweat dripped from their hair and
darkened their t-shirts. By midday on Saturday, each of the boys' bodies
diffused their own unique odor, depending on their age and level of
development. While most of the younger boys smelled of wet dog, in
Kyle's case, a putrid cloud--like sweet onions--followed him everywhere.

On warm days, the boys played shirtless; many evidently didn't wear
underpants, judging from their exposed butt cracks and slim hips. When
Kyle got too hot and whipped off his own shirt, his rank body odor became
even more conspicuous, attracting comment from the other boys. "You
smell good," at least three prepubescent boys had confided in him that
year. The little boys were apparently also mesmerized by periodic
glimpses of his sparse armpit hairs. They often encouraged the musky teen
to strip off his shirt, even on cooler days, and, when they played Shirts
versus Skins, they always conspired to assign Kyle to Skins to peek at
his wispies.

One day in a wooded corner of the neighborhood, the little boys to dared
to sniff Kyle's hairy armpits up close. "Ewww! It smells like rotten
mustard!" the boys squeaked, and their girly giggles echoed off the tree
trunks. Despite their apparent revulsion, the teenager's curiously foul
body odor cast an amorous spell over the preteens. Later that same day,
Kyle gave a more private exhibition to a smaller audience of little boys
in the public restroom at the park. At the children's request, he pulled
his elastic waistband down over his brown bush, and then a bit lower to
reveal his stinky boy bits. The hard surfaces of the restroom amplified
little boys' whispering: "Woah, it looks like my dad's." "It smells
like rotten hamburger." "What's that crusty white stuff?" "Don't
touch it!" "It tastes salty."

Many of the younger boys from the neighborhood began to idolize Kyle.
Some developed a crush on the stinky teen and even fantasized about
being... like his girlfriend or something. How could two boys with penises
be boyfriend and girlfriend? Their fuzzy boy brains filled in the mental
gaps of how that might work as best they could. The little boys were
confused and often overwhelmed by their feelings. Being with Kyle felt
wonderful, and at the same time it broke their aching hearts that they
could not be closer. The crush made their bodies tingle from the hair on
their heads down to their little toes. Butterflies rose in their bellies
whenever the teen idol was near, and for some reason their little penises
swelled up, necessitating hands in pockets to clandestinely rub their
stiff organs for relief.

The prepubescent boys remained glued to the young teen at the hip from
Friday afternoon to Sunday evening. When the sun set and the outdoor
games ended, they always retreated to someone's house for a sleepover.
They would cuddle in front of the TV watching scary movies--the youngest
boys held hands with the older, squeezing their grimy paws during scary
scenes, sometimes hugging their bigger bodies tightly for protection--or
they would play video games with limbs entangled, stinky boy feet
sometimes carelessly strewn in another boy's laps, rubbing a small
erection with each fidget.

The preteens contrived new excuses to investigate Kyle's hairy pits,
instigating wrestling matches that always devolved into tickling
contests, and they soon discovered they could carry the teen's sweaty
stench home with them on their little fingers. Before long, they were
wiping their stinky fingers under their own bare armpits to cultivate
their body odors, a finger sniffing game that many of the 11-year-olds
had already learned in middle school.

Kyle too loved to sniff the boys' grimy, little fingers to see where
they had been: the metallic smell of dirt; the meaty scent of sandwiches
from lunch; and sometimes, if they had wiped recently, the tangy aroma of
their greasy butt holes.

By the end of most weekends, the little boys all shared the musky cologne
of their teenage idol, though they smelled much less pungent than the
original source. At night, they would dream of Kyle's skinny chest, his
small nipples, and the wiry brown hairs that were barely visible in the
crease of his armpits. They slept with one hand cupped over their
immature genitals--an instinct which they didn't quite understand at
that age--and, of course, the stinky fingers of their other hand pressed
to their nostrils, savoring the residual scent of Kyle's armpit musk.

Not surprisingly, when Kyle entered their dreams, a powerful tingling
sensation in their groins often roused them from their sleep before
sunrise, a warm feeling like comfortably stretching out sore
muscles--only a thousand times better. The immature boys would
instinctively hump their stiff penises against their mattresses through
several waves of this euphoric tingle. When it was over, the satisfied
but confused boys curled up, extra warm inside their soggy cocoons, and
fell back asleep, ever searching for the tingly feeling to return, their
prepubescent brains intoxicated by a flood of endorphins from the
experience, which, as they grew older, would become as addictive as an
opiate. When they finally rose from their warm beds sometime before noon,
the little boys discovered a strange, new scent on their hands and inside
their gym shorts, a scent that reminded them of bleach in the laundry
room, a scent sometimes present on older boys. Upon closer inspection,
they were baffled by the gooey substance--sometimes crusty--that was
plastered on the front of their shorts (most of the preteen boys had
began to imitate Kyle by going commando, though some still slept in
pajama bottoms).

The little boys shrugged at the messy, white mystery. They slipped their
crusty genitals into their pants and, without bothering to shower, rushed
down to the park to resume play with their friends in the sun. After many
an exhausting game of b-ball or soccer, the neighborhood gang, shirtless
and greasy with sweat, usually sat together in the cool grass under a
tree to catch their breaths. Shoes came off. Grimy boy paws and sweaty
feet stretched out and overlapped.

As the sun began to set on these halcyon days and the dim twilight
provided some privacy, the little boys would casually snuggle up on the
grass, using each other's bare chests as pillows. The musty scent of wet
dog suffused the tangled mess of boy limbs. The mingling of warm flesh
and aromas of unwashed bodies formed powerful bonds between the boys.
Narrow hips and bony butt cheeks invariably brushed against stiff penises
that tented the thin fabric of their gym shorts. The boys gently humped
against each other on the cool grass, grinding little boners against
smooth bellies.

The damp head of one boy or another always rested against Kyle's smooth
chest, listening to the thump of his big heart and inhaling his calming
body odor. His pungent aroma activated new regions in the little boys'
prepubescent brains--regions that are normally associated with sex in
girls' brains--rewiring even some of the straight boys to be bi-curious.
Instinctively, a few boys dared to grope Kyle's big boner through his
shorts, and though they pretended it was only an accident or a quick
adjustment made for their own comfort, the repetition of the grasps
betrayed their horny intentions. Fearful that any conscious
acknowledgment of their boners might prematurely end the sensual
pleasure, no comment was made. It was as if they were pretending to be
asleep, or as if it was just another naughty game that boys sometimes
played. When Kyle reciprocated their advances by wrapping his warm arm
around their slim torsos, they entered boyhood nirvana, often embracing
each other on the cool grass until bright pinpricks of stars pierced the
navy blue sky, well past their curfew.

A 12-year-old named Kevin had another strange habit of holding Kyle's
hand on these evenings. This act seemed more deliberate than the usual
naughty games the boys played, and, when Kyle pulled the boy's fingers
to his nose to sniff, the scent of bleach surprised him. To be sure, he
sniffed the boy's digits three more times, and associations in his brain
confirmed his suspicion: it was penis juice, but whose?

Chewing on a lock of dirty blond hair, Kevin glanced up at the young teen
and cast a knowing grin with a twinkle in his eye. In response, Kyle's
boner throbbed against the 12-year-old's abdomen, and the small pool of
precum that had saturated the front of his gym shorts slathered the boy's
tummy. With eyes locked together, Kevin grasped the teen's stiff penis.
"It's already wet," he whispered.

The shrill cry of a mother in the distance broke off their embrace, and
the stinky boys sat up in the grass, scratching their messy hair as they
returned to reality.

"You can sleep over at my house tonight," Kevin said, practically
insisting.

"I can't. My cousins are coming over tonight," Kyle said.

"Tomorrow then? My little brother can play with us."

"My mom won't let me," Kyle confessed. "We only see them once a year,
and they're staying with us all weekend."

Though disappointed by the misfortune of their timing, the two boys
scampered home in the twilight, hand in hand, damp t-shirts slung around
their necks. Their different sized boners pointed the way down the street
where they both lived, a block apart. In front of Kyle's house, the boys
bumped groins, grinding their stiff penises together through their tented
shorts to confirm their engagement for another night, and a string of
precum dangled from their bulges as they parted ways.


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