Date: Fri, 17 Aug 2018 11:21:46 +0200 (CEST)
From: jonkent69@tutanota.com
Subject: FEARLESS FRANKIE - GAY - URINATION

FEARLESS FRANKIE
by Jon Kent

DISCLAIMER

Everyone should accept the laws of his country, reserving the right to
strive democratically to change those he disagrees with. Therefore, if the
laws where you live say that you should NOT be reading stories like these,
you are legally obliged to leave now and read no further. It does not
matter if these stories are fiction, made-up, only written to entertain,
instruct, engage, and inform. If for any reason, the law where you live
says you are NOT allowed to read them, you have to go. So off you go.  Live
a healthy and happy life, and come back, if you want to, when your laws
say.

And remember: these are only stories. They are made-up. They did not
happen. And the writer does not believe they should happen. The first
responsibility of adults is to protect children and their innocence. It
doesn't mean some adults won't enjoy reading stories like this, but it
doesn't mean they should go out and do things like this. Who knows? maybe
reading stories like this will actually stop them going out and doing these
things.

This is a revised version of a story I wrote over ten years ago for
Nifty. I have substantially revised it (a) because I'm a much better writer
now than I was then, and (b) because it deals with some aspects of
sexuality, especially scat, that I couldn't handle them. I needed to write
this story to get it out of my system, and that, as they say is that.

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FEARLESS FRANKIE

Frankie is 11 years old. Frankie is not cute. Frankie is beautiful. He
turns heads in the street. In restaurants and cafes, both men and women
find it hard to take their eyes from him. When he flicks his blond fringe
from his eyes, women sigh and think eyelashes like his shouldn't be wasted
on a boy. When he rises to go to the toilet, they marvel he can be so
slender, so slim, and yet not seem skinny. Women would die for those hazel
eyes, perfect skin, small white even teeth, and those pale pink lips that
lick so casually at his ice cream cone.

No, Frankie isn't cute; Frankie is beautiful. At school, his teachers call
him 'Angel' - not to his face and not infront of his classmates, of course,
but together they call him Angel.

Even Frankie's rosebud is beautiful. I know because that's what I'm looking
at now. The pale pink of his skin gives way the the faintest tinge of brown
that finds its centre in the portal to his anus. I pry open his cheeks a
little wider and flick my tongue against the tiny starfish.

I'm stretched out on the bed, full-length, naked. Frankie, naked, is
stretched along my length facing in the opposite direction. He holds my
hard-on at the base, his finger-tips touching as they meet. He licks
tenderly at the head of my dick, then slips it inside his mouth, something
he certainly couldn't do when he was six years old. The fingers of his
other hand play with my balls, slide in the sweaty crease that leads to my
own bruised starfish. His lips, tongue, mouth tenderly caress my glans,
make little circles, plant tiny kisses. He releases me for a moment. Then
returns to his work, his long middle finger sliding back and forth over my
arsehole, mirroring what I am doing to him with my tongue.

Even Frankie's rosebud is beautiful. I know because that's what I'm looking
at now. The pale pink of his skin gives way the the faintest tinge of brown
that finds its centre in the portal to his anus. I pry open his cheeks a
little wider and flick my tongue against the entrance to his rectum. I
place my thumbs on either side of his hole and gently prise it open. A
musky smell fills my nostrils, and I tickle the entrance with the tip of my
tongue. I hear him giggle. Later I will fit his butt plug. I want him to be
ready tonight. Ready for the camera. Ready for those men all over the world
who want to peer into the boy's anus as much as into his hazel eyes.

The boy's penis is as hard as a stick of asparagus, the head poking out
obscenely from the foreskin. I fight my desire to lick it because I know
how easily Frankie can cum when he is fully aroused as he is now. I feel
him pull my open legs even wider as he plunges his face between my legs,
between my buttocks. He is kissing and sucking at my hole, almost
frantically, as if he wanted to find and suck the shit out of me. I can
feel one, then two fingers, fight their way inside me. They start a sawing
motion I know will open me wider and wider. A third finger tries to join
its brothers, but I clench my buttocks, the sign that's enough, enough for
now.

"You're not listening!"

I realise Frankie has been speaking to me. Gently I ease his fingers from
my hole and swing his body, feather-light, round so that his hard-on is
against my belly, his shoulders against my chest, his face and lips to
mine. His breath is so sweet, a wonder when you consider where his lips,
tongue and mouth have been a few minutes ago.

"I said," he repeats, "what should I wear tonight? Until I take it off..."
he giggles. "How many viewers do you think we'll have? We had 808 last
Friday. That's a record, isn't it? Can we have a Big Mac after?"

Frankie, like most boys, flits from one topic to another with hardly a
breath between. I'm still amazed how innocent he can still look. Stretched
out along me, his chin resting on his arms crossed on my chest, his face a
picture of concentration, a frown that only serves to make him more lovely.

"I've got two little hairs down there," he adds suddenly. "They'll have to
come out, won't they? The guys don't like hairs. But you're not plucking
them! You'd fukin' make it hurt." He is serious but smiling at the same
time. "I'm gonna pull the hairs out of your bumhole," he adds. "See if you
like it."

A moment of sadness. Two hairs down there. Time passes so quickly. Was it
only yesterday.....?

Frankie is sitting on a swing in the park. He looks so tiny, so alone. It's
only 6 o'clock but already shadows are long, there's a chill in the
air. Who the fuck leaves a kid on their own in a public park? The toilets
are only a few steps away, for Chrissake, and these toilets are not only
used for the obvious. I sit down on the next swing.

"Hi, kid. You on your own? What you doing?"

The boy raises his head, and for the first time those big hazel eyes look
into mine. My heart skips a beat, no, it skips half a dozen beats. He looks
at me brightly.

"Waiting for mum. She's in there."

He turns his head, and I realise he's looking at the local clinic.

"Oh, is she a nurse or something?"

"Don't think so," he says. "She cleans the place in the afternoon. I play
here till she comes out at the end of school."

"What time does school finish?" I ask.

"Not sure. I don't tell the time so good." Then brightly, "You teach me."

Frankie is one of life's optimists. For him, the glass is always half full.

"Frankie! Frankie!" and a young woman comes clicking across the tarmac.

"Hi, mum," returns Frankie, leaping from the swing.

Frankie's mother stops in front of us. I see where he gets those big eyes
from. "I've told you not to speak to anyone," she begins to scold him. I
intervene with "But Frankie knows that strangers give the best sweets." She
looks at me uncertainly. "And, anyway, Frankie didn't speak to me. I spoke
to him. I'm a teacher. I guess that's what we do when we see a little kid
sitting on his own in the park at this time of night."

"Oh, a teacher... well, thanks. I know I shouldn't have Frankie wait here
for me. But it's only for a couple of weeks. We're new around here. I don't
know anybody. And I've got to keep this job. I've just got to. You
understand, don't you?"

"Coffee?" I say.

"Pardon?" she says.

"Coffee?" I repeat. "And juice for him. No Cola, no Pepsi... juice."

I turn and point to a high-rise behind us. "That's mine. Way up
there. Twentieth floor. Top flat. The lift's working. At least it was this
morning."

Uncertainty flits across her face.

"Can we? Please, mum, can we?"

"Oh, hell, why not? Anything to get off my feet." Pauses. "You sure you're
a teacher."

I laugh

"Well, at least I was at 4 this afternoon. And I'm pretty sure I will be
again at 8.30 tomorrow morning. St. Stephen's. Deputy Headteacher."

Amy blushes, "Sorry," and takes Frankie's hand. The boy takes my hand, or
at least wraps his little fingers round mine.

"Come on, let's go," he pipes.

And so begins an awfully big adventure.

...


I love boys. There. I've said it. I've learned to live with it. I've
learned to accept it. I've spent most of my working life amonst boys. I am
not a saint, but I like to think I've helped more boys than I've hurt. In
fact, I like to think I haven't hurt any boys, but as they say, you never
can tell. I've certainly never forced myself on a boy though I've seduced
my share - or have they seduced me? When an 11-year-old boy is lying on the
carpet, stripped to the waist, an obvious bulge in his jeans, and he looks
seriously into your eyes and whispers, "I like having a hard-on," it's hard
not to believe he has an agenda in mind. And if his agenda concides with
yours, well...

Why me? Why boys? Honestly I don't know. I imagine a Freudian would have a
field day with me, but for the life of me I can't recall wanting to murder
my father and fuck my mother. To be honest, even the idea fills me with
horror. And nobody seduced me, nobody molested me when I was six years old
- my rotten luck I guess - but I knew when I was 11 years old that it was
boys I wanted, and as I grew older, the objects of my desire didn't. Oh, to
be fair, I graduated to 13 and 14 year olds, and I had a 'go' at 15, 16 and
17 years old, but to tell the truth the magic wasn't there. Gone was the
intense desire that drove me on time after time but I'm nothing if not
self-controlled, and even though the ice creaked and cracked under me a few
times, I've never plunged into the icy waters of disaster - yet.

Now, those of you who have already pulled down your zip and fished yourself
out in anticipation, just pop yourself back in. I'm the writer; I say what
goes. Actually Frankie does, but since he's not here at this moment, I'll
sneak in a few bits of the grown-up stuff. Of course, you can always use
Ctrl+F (FIND), pop in whatever you fancy (dick, cock, hole, anus, and so
on), skip the grown-up bits and head straight for the other stuff.

Frankie... ah, Frankie... the little fucker who sneaked up on me when I
wasn't looking, and stole my heart away even before I sneaked into his
little underpants. You'd think a man of my experience would be immune to
'lust at first sight', but no - for Frankie I fell head over heels right
down that fucking hill. Now where did that come from? I still see him as a
kid standing buck-naked in my shower, chanting out nursery rhymes, whilst
I...  You have to admire the boy's powers of concentration. Not many kids
would remain word-perfect with an adult naked man kneeling before them in a
power shower.

And where was the lovely Amy, mother of Frankie, when all of this was
happening to her beautiful little boy? Out at a pub or club probably. And
who could blame her? And where was Dad, father of Frankie, impregnator of
Amy? You might as well ask 'Who was Dad?' And the answer you'd get wouldn't
be much better, though Amy, to her credit, could narrow it down to one of
six, or was it seven, who'd taken it in turns to fuck her on that bit of
wasteground behind 'The Red Lion'.

Now before you go hollering 'rape' it was definitely not that. Amy herself
will tell you that though she was out of her mind on rum and blackcurrant -
Do kids actually drink that stuff? - she really enjoyed that Big Night Out,
or what she can remember of it, which, to be sure, isn't very much. And to
her credit, instead of snuffing out the foetal Frankie, she went through
the whole messy business of pregnancy and birth, to raise Frankie as best
she could, which was pretty good all things considered. Her family disowned
her, of course, chucked her out, which is to be expected from strict,
devout Plymouth Brethern, or some such sect. But like most single mothers,
Amy was doing a great job with Frankie on the proverbial shoestring and the
actual last two-quid on a Friday night.

Then along came me.

Amy'd checked me out: (a) I was indeed a deputy Headteacher, and therefore
CRB-checked, (b) had a beautiful flat, (c) had a BMW, (d) and was obviously
liked by Frankie: she saw her chance for a bit of freedom. And, to be
honest, I saw my chance - to spend time with, support, and enjoy what I
admit I've always been drawn to -a cute boy with high spirits. But one that
young? That gave me pause. I'd never spent much time with boys so
young. And I'd certainly never fantisised doing with Frankie what I'd done
with older boys...  but he was so sweet, so cute, so funny, so precocious,
that, when Amy asked me if I'd mind - "I know it's an impossible favour,
but we've no-one else... and Frankie really really likes you... and it
would only be twice a week, and..."

Oh. come on now, you'd need a heart of stone to refuse a request like
that. So Tuesdays and Thursdays it was, from 3.30 to 6.15, Frankie was to
be with me -and Frankie? - he loved it so much that when he begged for
weekend sleepovers Amy said "Yes, why not?" And everyone was happy. Amy was
happy as she dolled herself up for The Roxy Club. I was happy as I
showered, shaved and scented as I waited for Frankie to be delivered into
my safe-keeping. And Frankie was delighted. What boy wouldn't be in a four
bed-roomed flat (one of the rooms equipped as a small gym), another room
not only with bunk beds but with a host of toys from Hamleys (all of them
new!) -and with its own computer. Then there was the master bedroom with a
giant double bed, a wall-to-wall mirror, and a balcony on top of the world.

Frankie wasn't much interested in the bathroom at first - What kid is? -
until he saw the jacuzzi in action... ah, the jacuzzi - every boy lover
should have one; they are irresistible to small boys. And did I mention the
DVDs - a whole shelf of them from which Frankie could have his pick?  Well,
not those, not quite yet - "You have to be at least eleven to watch those,"
I explained.

Could I have kept my hands off Frankie? Could you? When he was sprawled
across me as we watched 'Toy Story', or 'Transformers', or 'Gladiator', or
'The Terminator' together. Could you keep your hands off a boy as he
wriggled around in your lap making himself comfortable, his pyjama top
riding up to his tiny nipples. the pyjama bottoms hanging from his bottom?

If Frankie asked you, "Can I sleep with you tonight? Mummy lets me
sometimes," would you have the strength to say 'Fuck off'. If Frankie
climbed into the jacuzzi with you and wanted to play at ducks with
your... but I digress. Or rather I jump the gun. And I held out. Honestly I
held out for four weeks, but that Saturday night, yes, that one, was the
beginning, and I guess you want to know what happened - with all the
details, because it's the small things that matter, isn't it?

Well, who am I to refuse you? So here goes.

...

Frankie's eyes are huge as he gazes directly up at the shark circling above
his head.

"Sharks don't have any eyelids," he whispers. "Did you know that?" he asks
without turning towards me. "No, I didn't," I reply, my gaze fixed on
Frankie as intently as his is on the grey-white circling above us. "And did
you know..." the boy continues giving me a potted history of the life of
the shark. A tiny yawn escapes his pretty pink lips.

We've already spent two hours on the beach and Frankie has spent most the
time in the water with me in close attendance since the boy cannot swim
-something he is determined I will put right.  "Mummy's frightened of
water," he confides, "but don't tell her I told you," he instructs
me. "Promise?" I promise. "Solemn promise?" he insists.  "Solemn promise,"
I assure him. "Believe me, Frankie, I know how to keep a secret," adding,
"Mums don't have to know everything."

He smiles his agreement.

The conversation takes place, as with an oversize beach towel, I shield him
from from the eyes of passers-by, but not from own. I'm not surprised by
the beauty of his body; that could hardly be otherwise. But I'm startled by
the size of his penis. Nothing outlandish, but it wouldn't look out of
place on a boy slipping into puberty. A good four inches, it sticks out in
the way that dicks on small boys often do with being in any real sense
erect. Four inches, slender though not skinny; creamy, except for the
little pink mushroom peeking our from the soft foreskin.

He wriggles into his satin Speedos - two shades of blue, electric and
royal, I note his bum deserves the over-used description of 'bubble
butt'. It's like a firm peach slashed through the middle by the crease of
his buttocks.  "These things make my bumhole itchy," he announces, pulling
a fold of fabric out of the crease. "That's better," he sighs, "but I wish
my mum would get me baggies." To myself I laugh, "I'll fukin' kill her if
she does."

"Am I allowed in the water?" he politely asks.

"Yes, but not above your waist. And stay near me all the time. Got it?"

"Got it."

"Now hold the towel for me," I instruct, "and turn your eyes away," I add a
bit primly.

"What for?" Frankie laughs. "You're a boy, too. Well, you're a man, but
you're a teacher, so..."

"Close your eyes, you wretched creature!" I command.

Frankie gets the message, laughs, but turns away as I slip into my baggy
swim shorts.

Two hours in the water and we're both ready for home, stopping on the way
to pick up a couple of ready-to-bake pizzas.

I settle Frankie down in front of 'Merlin' on the TV and head into the
shower since lots of sea and sand still cling to me. I've got a Walk In
Shower Surround, silver-framed, toughened clear glass, a left or right hand
opening, and built in speakers. I chuck my clothes onto the bathroom floor,
turn on the music, and step under a welcome flow of warm water. I try to
keep images of Frankie at the beach - his dick, his balls, his bubble butt
- out of my mind, but it's hopeless, and within a minute my cock is
tumescent and hoping for more. Nobly I resist - Thou shalt not touch! - and
I might have made it if...

I realise the Frankie is there when I feel him bump into me. The shower,
the music, the soap, my own lewd thoughts...  "What the fuck?!"

"You said a bad word!"

I turn to find Frankie standing in front of me, his head bumping against my
chest, my semi-hard cock poking against his I'm-not-sure-what. I turn down
the music.

"Frankie! Get out of here. Get back to Merlin!"

"But it's all kissing stuff," he protests.

"I don't care what it is," I yell. "You can't be in the shower with me. I'm
naked," I add superfluously.

"So am I," he says - superfluously - since I can't keep my eyes from
him. "Mummy lets me share a bath with her sometimes. We gotta protect the
planet," he says.

I'm about to correct his English but realise there are bigger issues at
stake. I kneel down in front of him and take him by the shoulders - my
fingers slide on the silk of his skin - and try to explain.

"Listen, Frankie, there's really nothing wrong with sharing a shower with
me... but some people don't like it. Some people think it's wrong." He
gives me a frown.  "They think it's wrong because... because..."  How do
you explain to a kid that most people would not see the sweet side, the
reasonable side of man and boy sharing a shower of hot water after a sweaty
day at the beach.

"I can't really explain why some people would think it is wrong. They just
do.  I'm not even sure your mum would like it."

Frankie brightens up immediately.

"But remember," he begins, "we don't have to tell mums everything. 'Cos we
don't want them to worry. But I know Mummy likes me to be clean. So... can
I have the soap, please? And can you put the music back on? It's really
nice."

I sigh and hand Frankie the soap. I turn away. Fortunately my erection has
already collapsed - anxiety will do that - but my dick is still swinging
like a small trunk between my legs. That Justin Bieber kid comes on the
radio. I know it's Justin Bieber because the younger kids in my school
spend most of the day singing his songs - at least the girls do, while boys
claim to hate him, say he is 'gay', and claim he takes pills to stop his
voice breaking. Of course I should hate the stuff but something called
'Eenie Meenie Minee Mo Lover' comes on, and I have to admit it's cheerful
and catchy. Behind me, I hear Frankie piping along with Justin Beaver, word
and pitch perfect.

A tap on my back.

"Yes?"

"Can you do my back, please?" comes the request. "Mummy always does my
back, and the soap is too big."

"Too big for what?" I think, but dutifully take the soap and begin to
stroke the cream bar up and down Frankie's back, satin on silk. The bar and
my fingers slip lower and lower until they are caressing Frankie's bubble
butt in unison.  The boy stands there, legs apart, so that the crack in his
buttocks is open to my caress. I drop to my knees and begin to soap him
from the ankles upwards, my hand sliding up the front and back of his legs
until I can only be centimetres from his ball sac and his four inches of
wondrous flesh. It would be so easy to...

"I'll do you now," Frankie pipes.

"What?!"

"Let me do you now," the boy repeats.

I glance down. I'm fully erect. In fact, I've started to ache and leak
pre-cum.  I risk a glance at Frankie. Fukin hell! The boy is erect, too,
his cock stiffly upright against the lower part of his tummy. How the hell
did this happen?!

Flustered and frankly scared by my own lust, I step out of the shower and
grab a towel, fling it round me and announce, "Thanks, Frankie, but I wanna
get those pizzas in the oven. You finish off. Get to your bedroom and get
your jammies on.  You got 15 minutes exactly."

"Okey dokey," chirps Frankie, and I can't help pausing to observe how the
head of his dick has forced its way out of its foreskin for a breath of
fresh air.  My cock leaps in response, and I beat the hell out of there,
not caring whether MY English has collapsed this time.

Pizza on the terrace as the sun goes down. A boy, cute as a button, sitting
opposite me, his lips wet with a variety of flavours and juices, once again
showing me how bright he is, though he clearly isn't aware of it. Frankie,
you're one special kid.

"May I choose the DVD?" he asks, not adding something like "You said I
could," because above all Frankie is being raised to be polite. "Of course
you may," I echo, "but nothing too long, and nothing too violent."

"Toy Story 3?"

"'Fraid I haven't got that one," I admit.

"But I do," he grins. "I got it with me. It's in my bag. I wrapped it in my
jammies. Case Mum said I couldn't. Remember what we said about mums."  His
grin is even wider.

"What's it about?" I stupidly ask.

"Well, toys should get delivered to the attic the night before Andy goes to
college. But there's a mistake, and they get delivered to a day-care thingy
instead. And Woody has to convince the other toys they should..."

"Whoa Whoa, young man. How often have you seen this movie?"

An Frankie frown of concentration.

"I don't know. I don't count. But I got most of the words off by heart."

"Well, just stop there," I admonish him. "I haven't seen it even one time,
and I definitely don't want to know what happens."

"Sorry," murmurs the penitent child.

"No probs. Now get to your room, get the DVD, and load it up pronto.  We've
got to get this show on the road."

Before I can get the plates and glasses into the kitchen, let alone the
dishwasher, I hear, "Ready! Hurry up, you slow coach." I abandon the
dishwasher and head into the salon. The DVD is loaded, the TV switched on,
and Frankie is standing, waiting.

Waiting for what?

"Where you watching from?" he asks.

I point to the couch; it's a four-seater.

"Stretch out on it," he instructs. "Please," he adds.

"Please," he insists.

I humour him by stretching out full-length on the couch, which, I have to
admit, is the only way to watch a DVD with a boy.

Frankie leaps onto the couch, and onto me, and manoevers me until I'm
stretched against the back of the couch with him pinned full-length against
me.

"This is the way me and Mum always watch Toy Story," he explains and
cuddles down against me.

Don't ask me how I survived Toy Story 3 - 98 minutes, and I couldn't tell
you a fukin thing about it if my life depended on it. But I remember every
second of how Frankie's hot little body pressed against me. How when he got
excited - and he often got excited - he would squirm against me, his back,
bum and hips pressing into me. How when he got sad - not often - he would
turn to me and look up into my eyes as if he needed assurance to be sad.

Can you imagine how difficult it was not to lean down and kiss him on those
pretty pink lips, stained a darker pink by fruit juice? How when he needed
a cuddle he reached for my hand and dragged my arm round him - my hand
resting on his naked tummy, my fingers instinctively stroking his belly
button, sliding up his chest, circling his hardening nipples until Frankie
pushed them away only because they broke his concentration.

If this wasn't Paradise, it wasn't far from it.

And yet, and yet... (and I still smile) by the end of the movie, he is
asleep. Sleeping, yes, but probably running the final part of the movie in
his dreams.

Gently I rise and carry the boy through to my bedroom and deposit him
gently on my double bed. Oh no, don't get me wrong. I have no designs on
Frankie's virtue whatsoever; at least I have no conscious desire. I simply
want to be sure he is sound asleep before I deposit him in his bunk
bed. 'Deposit' rather than 'tuck him up' because although it's September,
we're enjoying an Indian summer and a single cotton sheet will do. Frankie
murmurs as I lay him down, and it's a challenge to untangle his arms from
round my neck without waking him as I lay him on the silk top cover.

The dishes are done and tidied away. I've checked our plans for Sunday -the
Toy and Model Museum - then beach sports for kids - I've tried to settle
down to a book, to TV, to...  but nothing works. I'm so conscious of
Frankie stretched out on my bed. I must take a peek - to see he's okay.

Frankie is okay - stretched out on his back. His pyjama top has ridden up
his chest, his pyjama bottoms have slid down to his hips. His pyjamas have
been chosen to last - two sizes too big. His thumb is in his mouth. Now
that surprises me. But then I remember how young the boy is.

... but that's quite a bulge under his pyjamas. .

Gently I sit on the edge of the bed, and even more gently I grip his
pyajama bottoms and slowly lower them down to his knees.

The boy's penis is fully erect, the foreskin completely retracted, the
little pink head wet and glistening. Surely not pre-cum? No, of course, it
can't be, but it makes it o so delicious, o so tempting. And it will do him
no harm as I lean over, flick out my tongue and run it across, then round
the naked glans. My fingers toy with his balls, tiny walnuts in a
sac. Enough - enough - that's enough. But of course it's not. I lower my
head and draw the full four inches into my mouth, let my lips slide up and
down the shaft, as a free hand slides up the silk of his chest.

All of Frankie is in my mouth. No, not all, and I lower my head further and
let his balls slips inside my mouth along with the shaft. I can't slide my
lips up and down on his shaft like this, but it feels so good, so right. I
set his balls free - the sac is wet with my saliva - and slide my lips up
down the shaft, squeezing, easing, tightening, freeing. Frankie's legs
begin to twitch, his tummy seems to flutter, he seems to suck harder on his
thumb. I let one finger slide into his crack, let a fingertip play across
his tiny opening, then bring it to my nose to smell my Frankie as he is -
all boy.

Enough - enough.

No - more - more.

I rise, stand and slip off my robe. I am naked. I am so erect it
hurts. Believe me, I am stripped to finish my interrupted shower. I had no
intention of... I have no intention of...

I see Frankie stretched below me, naked from nipples to knees, his thumb
deep in his mouth. I climb onto the bed, not quite sure of my intentions. I
remove his thumb from his mouth. I place a knee on either side of his head,
take my cock and rub the head along his pretty pink lips. My balls hang
floppily on his neck below his chin. I ease my arse until the boy's hard-on
is snug between the cheeks. I begin to masturbate.

At first I am slow and gentle, working my own foreskin until my precum
drips onto the boy's face, his cheeks, his lips. Then faster, working the
foreskin over the head until my fingers are a blur. It's going to be
messy...  and then...

No, you can't.

Yes, you can!

With two fingers, I pinch Frankie's nostrils. His head rolls slightly. I
hold the pinch gently. His mouth opens. I slip my finger in his mouth and
roll it in circles. His mouth widens in response. His mouth is almost a
perfect pink circle. I can see his pretty little tongue. I can't hold it
any more. I squirt once, twice - that's enough to fill his mouth. I free
his nostrils. He coughs a little and the cum bubbles through his lips. I
twist my body and squirt the rest of the semen onto the silk cover. There's
so much of it I'm relieved I kept some control. I don't want Frankie waking
up, choking.

I lower my lips to his, lick away the cum on his lips, chin, neck and
chest. I keep on licking till there's nothing left to lick. I press the tip
of my tongue against the boy's lips and I'm rewarded when he opens them a
little and I can slide the tip in. No semen. Where's it gone? Down his
throat, all the way to his tummy.  It's strange to think there are now
hundreds if not thousands of tiny me's swimming around inside my very own
boy.

I pull his pyjama top down, the bottoms up. I get my arms under him, raise
him - only the merest of protests - and carry him through to his own bed. I
lay him down, kiss his nose, and leave him to his dreams.  I hope they'll
be as filthy as mine.

...

I play the same image over in my mind again and again. I, a fully-grown
man, naked, kneeling, one knee on either side of a young boy's head,
squirting semen into his open mouth and across his face. I see one drop of
cum hanging from the long eyelashes of his right eye, another splashed
across his blond fringe, his lips, cheeks and chin a mess of splattered
cum. I see my buttocks clenching, my dick so stiff it hurts, as I fire
spurt after spurt across the sleeping boy's face. The image is intensely
erotic, as erotic as the experience itself because I have time to replay
the scene again and again from every possible angle.

The detail amazes me. I see my thumb in close-up as it eases open the boy's
mouth, my finger circling inside his mouth, the way he gasps for breath
when I pinch his nostrils, eyeballs fluttering beneath the thin skin of his
eyelids. Why is this all so intense as I stand in the shower jerking myself
furiously to orgasm, or lie on the same silk top cover - now washed - as I
take all the time in the world to replay the scene again and again before
finally allowing myself to shudder to a climx that leaves me gasping like a
goldfish out of water.

I try to explain it to myself, but none of the explanations seems to
fit. Power?  Am I really enjoying my power over Frankie, his powerlessness
when faced the relentlessness of my desire? I don't believe so. Apart from
the sex, I try not to exercise any power over the boy. In fact, if I'm
guilty of anything, it is allowing the boy to have so much power over me. I
present Frankie with the options - whether it is having mayonnaise on his
chips, a sip at my lager (he loves it), going to the park or the Marina,
choosing a movie, showering alone or with me - and he decides. If I'm
guilty of anything, it is of spoiling the boy, the saving grace being that
Frankie remains as polite and unspoilt as ever.  I dismiss power and
consider other possibilities - the more difficult of which
is... corruption.

Do I enjoy corrupting a six-year-old boy? It's certainly not my intention,
and to tell the truth I'm not even sure what corruption is? Oh come off it,
I hear you say. How many smal boys regard having their bumholes kissed and
sucked as not only fun but something quite normal, though not to be shared
with Mummy? And how many grown men regard a boy's anus as amongst the most
beautiful things our planet has to offer? And how many grown men
would.....? Would you?

But the focus of this story is not on me. I'm not here for analysis, self
or otherwise. I'm here to tell the story of Frankie, Frankie my love, and
then at the end, if there is an end, and only at the end, try to figure out
what it was all about. And ever at my back I hear your voices: O for fuck's
sake, get on with it. What happened next?

What happened next didn't happen next day, or even next weekend.  I tried
to keep myself under control, I really did. Even when Frankie was sprawled
across my lap, more naked than clothed, even when my fingers were permitted
to stroke, caress and tickle more or less where desire led me, I resisted
the compulsion to... It was the showers that were most difficult,
especially when Frankie insisted that if I helped wash him, he was obliged
to offer the same service in return. Not that Frankie, no matter how
precocious he was, put it quite like that. All he said was "My turn now,"
and who was I to deny him.

"My turn now," pipes Frankie, reaching for the wash cloth. He giggles as he
jumps to wipe my face, then solemnly reaches to do my shoulders and
chest. "You've got big nipples," he remarks, "but not as big as
Mummy's. Hers are like dinner plates. But ladies need them for carrying the
milk and feeding their babies, don't they?"

Oh how I would like to feed Frankie, have him suck the milk right out of
me. Frankie doesn't use childish terms for things such as pee-pee for
penis, though equally he doesn't use words such as cock, dick and
balls. Amy recognised early she has a remarkable boy on her hands; she
doesn't treat him as a baby, and she is never condescending or patronising
towards him. So nipples they are as Frankie circles them with the wash
cloth.

Frankie is used to the little trunk swinging between my legs but I wonder
what he'll make of it as it stiffens and heads upwards towards my belly
button. I soon find out as he steps back and says, "Wow! Look at your penis
growing."

I'm surprised by his matter-of-fact statement until he adds, "Mine does
that, too." He points down to the evidence and for the first time I see
Frankie getting a stiffy, a hard-on, an erection that stands vertical
rather than horizontal.

"But look at you," he continues, "when does it stop growing?"

His hand keeps running the cloth across my belly. "And your balls..."  (I
guess gonads or testicles were too much even for a boy as bright as
Frankie.) "...they're huge, too. And really hairy." He pauses, then... "But
you haven't got any hair on your chest. Just this..." and he trails a
finger in my pubic hair. "One of mum's boyfriends was as hairy as a
gorilla. Mum called him her 'chimp' - but not to his face, of course.  That
would be rude." He pauses, then... "I better do your penis. Mum says you
have to be clean everywhere - specially under, under... what's this bit
called again?"

"That's my foreskin," I manage to blurt.

"That's right. This is your foreskin, and this is how you should clean
under it." He lays the wash cloth aside, take the soap, make two handfuls
of bubbles, and places his small hands round the swollen head of my
penis. And Frankie begins to circle the glans again and again. Then he lets
his cupped hands slide down the shaft into my bush before heading back to
caress the head again.  I'm going literally insane with desire. I see the
top of his head, see his hands round my dick, watch his fingers slide up
and down, and I can't help myself. I feel like Alice falling down the
rabbit hole, and, like Alice, I've no idea where this is taking me.

Reaching down, I close my big hand round Frankie's two little hands.

"Oh, am I doing it wrong?" he pipes.

"No, no, you're doing great, but it's even better like this."

I enfold both his hands in mine, and guide them up and down the
shaft. Frankie catches on almost immediately, and I'm able to watch his
small hands and littlefingers work my cock. Now I'm not huge, but I might
just squeeze into the category of big, about seven and half inches, and fat
with it. I'm not huge except maybe to a boy whose fingers barely lap over
each other.  Frankie looks up at me, those big hazel eyes shining. "Am I
doing it all right now?"

This time I can't speak. I grunt like a chimp in heat. Frankie, ever the
scientist, is carrying out little experiments of his own, varying the speed
of the the stroke, and the pressure of his fingers against my tumescent
flesh. I have a decision to make, but in truth the decision has already
been made as I hit the point of no return.

Huge spurts fire from the head of the shaft, splattering Frankie's face,
neck and hair.  As if it were an electrical shock, Frankie hangs on tight
watching each spurt from the little mouth on my cockhead. Only when I push
him gently away does he react with, "What the fuck?!"  I don't know who is
shocked more - Frankie or me. I look down. He is bright red except where
creamy globules spatter his face. I shouldn't burst out laughing but I do,
which makes Frankie go even redder, and for the first time show a bit of
temper.

"I'm sorry. It slipped out."

I realise he is on the verge of tears and scoop him up into my arms. I
plant little kisses all over his face, at the same time licking away the
cum. I give him a huge smile, and, relieved, he smiles right back. "Guess
it slipped out of me, too," I tell him, though I doubt whether he got the
import of the remark right then. "Let's get under the shower again," I say,
"and get the rest of this stuff off us. Remember we're meeting your mum at
seven, and we're all going out for dinner."

The boy babbles on charmingly as we shower again, I dry him off, and send
him to his room to dress in the jeans and shirt we bought in the
afternoon. As we wait for Amy, he asks me again, "What was that stuff that
came out of your penis? It didn't hurt you, did it? You're not sick, are
you?"

I briefly explain that it's 'man stuff' and I'll explain what it's all
about on Sunday. But, no, it's good stuff. Only men and boys, when they're
wee bit older, can make it, and someday he'll make just as much as me."

"I'll be careful where I shoot it," he grins, still with little idea of
whatr the stuff actually is. "Can I help you make some more?" he asks.

"'Course you can," I tell him, "but remember it's 'man stuff', tapping the
side of my nose as I say it. Frankie smiles and taps his nose in response
-"Man stuff. Just between us."

The doorbell rings, and Frankie rushes to the door. It's heartening to see
a boy love his mother as much as Frankie loves Amy, though Amy has less
time for him now that she's recovered some of the freedom she lost as a
single mum.

Now don't get me wrong. Amy adores Frankie, and she has done a wonderful
job of bringing up a wonderful boy single-handedly. But she is only in her
early twenties, and if someone has come along, someone she can trust, who
can take Frankie off her hands now and again, and who can actually benefit
Frankie, she'd be stupid not to, wouldn't she?

"Frankie needs men in his life. There's nothing but women in his school,
and a boy needs role-models, doesn't he?" She admits some of her past
boyfriends had hardly been role-models for a small boy but she'd always
dumped the worst ones as soon as she saw there were no good for
Frankie. "You wouldn't believe what pigs some men can be," she told me as
if it were a secret known only to women. "When you came along, it really
was a bit of a God-send. I can tell you now I was struggling to make ends
meet. And... well, Frankie adores you -he can be very choosy, you know -
and you like Frankie, so..."

There was no need for Amy to finish the sentence, and I was touched when
she laid her hand on mine. "I know whatever you do," she said, "it will
always be what's best for Frankie.  And he knows it, too, because I've told
him so."

Sunday afternoon and Frankie's curiosity is far from satisfied.

"So, you see, the stuff that comes out my penis is semen, and the semen
carries the sperm, and the sperm is what makes the lady have a baby."

"I understand that," says Frankie, but you weren't making a baby, so why
did it shoot out of you?"

This is more delicate, but in for a penny...

"The semen shot out of me because I got excited," I tell him.

"Excited?" he repeats. "What got you excited?"

Deep breath.

"Well, to be honest, it was your hands on my penis, and it was you rubbing
my penis that got me excited.  First the rubbing got me hard..."

"You were hard before that," he interrupts.

"Okay... being in the shower with you got me excited. Your hands got me
more excited. And in the end I got so excited I couldn't help shooting the
sperm."

"I got you excited," he smiles. "You must like moe lots and lots."

"I do."

"That's good." He thinks. "So if you rub my penis, I'll get excited and
I'll shoot sperm just like you/"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because you're too young. Boys can't make sperm until they reach
puberty. Remember, I told you about that."

"Oh yes... pooberty... that's when I get hair, and my balls get bigger, and
my dick - Can I say 'dick'? - Thank you. - and my dick gets as big as
yours."

"You got it."

"Good." Frankie thinks some more. "But can I get them feelings you get? My
dick gets hard, too."

"Yes, you can get those feelings, but you can't cum until you reach
puberty. Remember what 'cum' means?"

Frankie gives me a look that says, I'm a kid but I'm not a dummy.

"I want to try it!" he announces firmly.

"Try what?" I naively ask.

"Rubbing my dick, of course. I know I can't cum but I want to see if I get
those feelings." He twists round against my body, and looks up expectantly.

Decision time.

"Well, go into the bathroom and have a 'go'," I say as if I were sending
him to try a new computer game.

"No way," he says. "You have to do it for me. I did it for you in the
bathroom. Fair's fair. You always tell me that."

"Frankie," I protest, "this is man-stuff, real man-stuff. You're a boy and
I'm..."

"My best friend!" he finishes for me. "But maybe you dont want to do it cos
you don't really like me. Maybe you like my mum better than me. Maybe
you're just like her boyfriends." His voice tails sadly away.

"No, Frankie, that's not it. I like your mum, but I like you
better... better than anybody in the whole wide world, and you know I'd do
anything for you you, but..."

But again Frankie finishes for me. Not by saying a word but by pushing his
trackies and his underpants - psychedelic orange - where does Amy get them?
- to his knees. His dick is in the small-boy position, somwehere round 45
degrees.  As I hesitate, he struggles his way out of the bottoms and
underpants. I say nothing but reach to help him off with his T-shirt. I
shift positions so that I'm sitting on the couch with Frankie stretched
across my lap,

A naked six-year-old boy is stretched across my lap, knees dangling on one
side, head on the other, helpless to my gaze and touch. I reach to stroke
his penis with one set of fingers while the others play with his body. I'm
startled by how quickly he becomes fully erect. His erection remains just
over four inches, but it has the hardness of a school milk bottle.

With thumb and forefinger I draw his foreskin as far back as it can
go. Close it over the head, draw it back, close it over...  sometimes slow,
sometimes faster. I feel the tension in the boy's body as it rises from my
knees, his back arching until the strain causes him to fall back, only for
him to arch again a few seconds later.

Frankie's head, hair hanging back from his face, dangles over my right knee
now, his legs hooked over my left. He is truly helpess in my grip, and in
the excitement that is coursing through his body. He begins to whimper, to
make tiny mewling sounds like a kitten. I want to lean over and take him in
my mouth but that would be for my pleasure, not his, so I concentrate on
the rhythms and pressures that seem to give the him the most pleasure.

Can a boy have an orgasm at six years old? I'm sure he can - though maybe
not connect it to sexual stimulation. Whatever Frankie was having, there
are no better words to describe it than having an orgasm. His bottom, hips,
belly, chest and genital region buck out of control. Eyes tight shut, he
finds the only words he can to express what is happening to him: Fuck!
Fuck!  Fuck!

Even before the convulsions subside, he pulls himself up, turns towards me,
throws his arms round my neck, and buries his face in my chest. I'm growing
sick with worry until I hear: Awesome! Fuckin' Awesome!  Then he pulls
away, looks at me with glazed eyes, and whispers: "Did you feel that way
when I made you... cum?"

"Yes," I nod.

"Do it to me again. Do it again."

I laugh and bounce him from my knee, slapping his cute little arse before
he hits the carpet.

"Get your clothes on, you little minx. We've both got school tomorrow. It's
Sunday. Your mum will be here in half an hour."

"Oh," he murmurs, standing naked before me. He puts a finger to the side of
his nose and whispers, "Man-stuff. Don't forget."

"Man-stuff," I echo as I stoop to help him step into his undies.

I recognise the song on the radio.

It's the Carpenters.

'We've only just begun.'

...

"Your son's a very handsome boy. You must be proud of him."

"I'm not his Dad. I'm his Uncle."

"Yes," piped up Frankie. "This is my Uncle Dan. I'm his nephew Frankie, and
we're very pleased to meet you."  He extended a small hand. The tailor took
the proferred hand and shook it solemnly. I see you're also a very polite
boy. Always a good thing in a young gentleman. Now let's measure your
inside leg."

I must say Frankie looked particularly fetching as any boy should on his
birthday. We'd spent the morning at a Boot Fair where Frankie had bought a
Moroccan cap for 50 pence. Brightly coloured, it fitted round his head
pushing his blond hair behind his small ears and over his collar. The odd
thing is that no matter what Frankie wears, he never looks girlish. Cute,
yes, stunningly cute but rarely did anyone take him for a girl. Now, on his
birthday, he is developing into a remarkably attractive boy. This, of
course, was helped by his height. In a group of boys his own age, Frankie
always stood a couple of inches over the tallest. And slender, yes, but
skinny, no. His flat chest was taking shape, his hips more noticeable, his
legs running on forever.

Frankie's birthday, and Amy and I had agreed I could buy him a new
outfit. Like any good mum, she'd then left it to the 'boys', and thouugh
Frankie and I had decided on new jeans, shirt and light leather jacket, I'd
decided to have the jeans tailored rather than store-bought. There's not
much point earning a deputy head's salary and not being a little
extravagant now and again.

Later we'd meet Amy and off we'd go to the restaurant of Frankie's
choice. He didn't mind which restaurant it was as long as he could have
'mule's mareenyer', by which he meant moules marinieres. He'd tried them on
our day out in France. Frankie could tell you they were mussels cooked in
white wine with onions, herbs and a tiny splash of cream, and they were on
the list of things he wanted to try and make for his birthday. Fortunately,
we'd compromised he could have them as a special treat when the three of us
dined out to celebrate the great day.

After dining, Amy would go on to her club, and we'd head 'home' to watch a
DVD of Frankie's choice, and... there was something very erotic about
knowing Frankie, on his birthday, would be lying naked over my knees as I
stroked and pressed his tummy - full of 'mule's mareenyer - squeezed the
cheeks of his buttocks, kissed his nipples, and worked his hot hard-on to
orgasm as his whole body shook and trembled beneath me. Frankie would then
climb into his terry-towel bath robe and snuggle into my body, naked within
my bathrobe, as we watched whatever he had chosen for that Saturday night.

I'd done well. You have to give me that. I insisted Frankie shower on his
own. I insisted he sleep in his own bunk bed. I insisted he kept his hands
off my dick, no matter how hard it pressed into his hot little
body. Frankie accepted the rules gracefully, if not cheerfully. He loved me
playing with his body but did not seem overly interested in mine. Perhaps
that's a characteristic of small boys; they are more interested in having
their own bodies pleasured than pleasuring others. This made sense, and it
also helped emormously not to give into the lust I felt for him, and every
part of him.

I hope I was protecting Frankie. I know I was protecting myself. Frankly, I
was sometimes terrified, though far less often than I'd been only a few
months before. I knew how ready children were to 'tell tales' - not with
the intention of getting their 'accomplice' into trouble, but simply
because 'secrets' aren't real secrets unless they are shared. I also know
that Frankie might be under immense internal pressure to express his
sexuality with others. But it seemed that when Frankie classified something
as 'man stuff' that's exactly what it was. To be shared with me, but with
absolutely no one else. Still, despite this assurance, I didn't want to
take risks, especially since I didn't know if I could limit myself if I
gave into the desires that prowled my imagination. I couldn't forget that
image: my kness on either side of the sleeping boy's head - my fingers
prising open his mouth - the cum shooting from my cock into his open
mouth. If I could do that, what else was I capable of.

"That man was feeling my cock," says Frankie, his fringe bouncing on his
forehead in time with his skipping by my side.

"Why didn't you say anything?" I ask.

"Because it felt nice," he replies. "I've got a hard-on now," he adds.

"Well, don't think about it," I say, though I can feel my own cock begin to
twitch.

"Don't be silly," he says. "You can't just NOT think of a hard-on when
you've got one. When you try NOT to think about it, you just think about it
even more, and that makes it worse. Wait a minute." He pauses, sticks his
hand in his pocket, and angles his erection up his tummy. "Can we go for a
Pepsi now, please?"

"Half a glass," I compromise. "We'll share."

"Okay," he agrees, "and we can sort out things for my birthday party
tomorrow."

"Agreed. Come on. And remember ... no thinking about that hard-on. I'll do
tht ehtink about that for both of us."

Ten minutes later we're sitting over a large glass of Pepsi - one glass,
two straws. I'm not going to do well out of this arrangement. We're sorting
out Frankie's official birthday party, the first that will be attended by
other boys. The party will take place in my flat, but I won't be there. Amy
will do the honours. But I'm as thrilled as Frankie. He has invited seven
boys from his class - one for each year - and I've arranged for a
professional party person to organise the games and activities.

It seems a weird sort of career: a PPP (professional party person) to make
sure kids have a great time at their parties, but I guess if you are a BL
or GL, it must be a sort of Nirvana. Not for me though. I'll be elsewhere,
among adults, in my role as pillar of the community, rising star in state
education, eligible bachelor, and all-round good egg. And here I sit,
sharing a Pepsi with birthday boy, and wish I could be his tummy with his
hot hard flesh pressed against me.

If I were writing a novel, rather than simply telling a tale, I would give
some account of the birthday dinner, the moules - gobbled everyone - the
slightly tipsy single-parent mother and the deputy headteacher, and the
bright-eyed, rosy-cheeked, ivory-skinned, Moroccan cap betopped,
golden-fringed little boy to whom an entire restaurant sang 'Happy
Birthday' and meant it. I would describe Amy kissing the cheeks of her
little boy, before bundling herself into a taxi with the words, "See you
tomorrow, birthday boy," before she and the taxi disappeared into the
night. I would recount Frankie and I catching our own taxi, negotiating the
lift, and Frankie, rather than I, working the key into the door as we more
or less fell into my apartment.

"Right, birthday boy, into the shower with you," I say. "Properly
dried. Sort out the DVD. Then onto the couch. I'll be back in ten
minutes. The boiler's a bit wonky. I'm going down to see the caretaker. And
remember, birthday boy, properly dry, and... no thinking about hard-ons!"

The ten minutes take thirty minutes. The caretaker is a happy idiot, but a
brilliant engineer, and after a bit of clankimg, banging and dinging at
assorted pipes, he convinces me the problem with the boiler is no more. I
take the lift, my excitement rising, my cock hardening as I think of a damp
Frankie, slippy as silk, stretched out naked on the couch, his hard-on
stiff against his tummy. I'm humming as I open our front door.

Frankie is naked. But he is not stretched out on the couch. He is sitting
there, watching a DVD, eyes wide, mouth open, one hand holding the remote,
the fingers of the other working his cock - it still looks outlandish on
his smallbody - he does not look towards me as I cross the room.

Familiar moaning and groaning tells me this is not 'Toy Story'!

I stand in front of the boy, reach out, take the remote control and flick
off the DVD.

Frankie looks up at me, smiles and says, "I know what to do now." He
reaches out and runs his little fingers down the front of my trousers. I
know I should push his hand away, but a boy is sitting before me, his robe
open to revealed his nakedness, his fingers moving the foreskin quickly up
and down over the head of his sweet prick. I haven't the strength to
resist. I feel myself growing hard. He leans forward and places his mouth
against the bulge and presses with his lips. With his free hand he undoes
my belt, not easy for such a small hand. He flicks open the clasp. Slowly
pulls down the zip. Begins to edge my trousers down and over my hips and
ass. I throw the remote on the couch and help him push my trousers and
boxers down together. I kick off my shoes, then with a slightly comic
struggle kick off my pants and boxers.

My prick, taut and hard, stretches from my bush up to my belly button. I
feel Frankie's fingers, so light, so feathery, run up and down the shaft. I
feel him weigh my balls in his hands, one ball at a time in such small
hands. Then I'm surprised and a little shocked to feel him kiss my belly,
my pubic area, my thick curly hair, and at last the head of my cock which
looks bigger than his tongue. Now he is running his little pink tongue up
and down the shaft while his fingers explore my bush and the trail of hair
that runs up my belly.

"Am I doing okay?" I hear his voice below me ask.

Somehow I get the words out: "Beautiful, just beautiful."

He is moving the skin of the shaft harder and faster now - Where the fuck
did he learn this? - while he tries to fit the mushroom head of my cock in
his little mouth. I hear him gag. He can't do it. So he licks round the
head, up and down, slow and fast. I feel the pre-cum ooze from he; Frankie
licks it up as fast as it reaches my glans. Behind me I hear the soundtrack
of the damned DVD. Did I really leave it where he could find it? The moans,
the groans, the slapping sounds, the squeals, the muffled unbroken voice of
a prepubescent boy being used and abused by two - or is it three grown men?

I'm not going to last much longer.

Gently I ease Frankie away from me. Once more his eyes are fixed on the
screen. I flick a mechanism on the couch, and the back slides down, turning
it into a double bed. I throw off my sweater and shirt. No time to get my
socks off.  I push Frankie onto the couch and go down on him, making sure
he can still watch the screen. I take his four inches between my lips. He
couldn't be harder. Foreskin fully retracted. I lean back at marvel at the
purity of his skin - not a hair, not a blemish, his ball sac almost
completely round with only the hint of the two balls inside. The sac with
the 'seam' that my tongue can follow to paradise. I feel a push on my
head. Frankie is pushing me back down on him. I manage a little control,
running my lips up and down the shaft. It is actually throbbing. He is
pushing his hips up from the couch, sliding into my mouth, withdrawing,
sliding in again. I feel the tension in his body rise. Like me, Frankie
isn't going to last long if I keep sucking like this.

I flip him over onto his tummy - small boys are so flexible -making sure he
still has full view of the screen.  His bum, bottom, arse, ass... is is
open to my gaze. He is ivory clean with the merest hint of an opening
shaded in darker pink. I want to lick that opening, kiss it, suck it, so I
do, though it's practically impossible to suck something so tiny with my
adult lips. For a moment, I expect surprise, shock, protest from the boy,
but he simply pushes his bum into my face.  I would like to work his hole
with my tongue, my fingers, my dick, but that will have to wait.

I flip him onto his back. His head is hanging over the edge of the
couch. He is watching the action on the screen upside down.  I wonder if it
makes any difference to Frankie. I glance at the screen - the boy, 10 or 11
years old, is being arse and face fucked simultaneously. I swallow
Frankie's dick and balls and slurp on them for a while. I slip my finger
between his buttocks, find his tiny sphincter and stroke it. I release his
balls and suck his four-incher as fast and as hard as I can. His body
tightens, bucks, shivers, trembles. I hear squeals and yelps and realise
they are coming from Frankie, not from the screen.  His orgasm hits him
like a silver bullet. He clutches me so hard I feel his nails nip into
me. Pain and pleasure. For the moment there is no difference. He writhes
below me, his cock throbbing in my mouth. Then with a whimper he subsides,
collapses, and for a moment I think he has fainted.  Sure that he hasn't, I
turn his body lengthways on the couch.

I kneel over him, one knee on either side of his head.

"Open your mouth. Open wide," I whisper.

Frankie opens wide.

"Close your eyes," I whisper.

Frankie closes his eyes.

I place the head of my cock against his open lips and jerk as fast as I
can.

It's a matter of seconds. Squirts of warm cum fire into Frankie's mouth,
hitting him on the back of the throat.  He tries to swallow. There's a
brave boy. But there's too much. Reflexively he closes his mouth. Cum
escapes from the sides of his mouth, dribbles down his chin. He begins to
cough - cums fires like snot from his nose. His pink tongue snakes out and
tries to lick the cum from his lips. I pick him up. He has already lost the
bath robe. I carry him into the shower.  I hold him in my arms as the hot
water beats down on us. The jacuzzi filled, I climb into it, still holding
him as the water fizzes and bubbles round us.

In time, Frankie opens his big hazel eyes. I am worried how he will
react. Then he speaks.

"Can we watch the rest of that DVD, please, Uncle Dan? I want to see what
else they do to that boy."

I laugh, relieved, and say, "Nope, we're going to watch the DVD you
chose. What is it by the way?"

"It's the one called 'Braveheart'. I saw a bit of it on youtube. The
battles look well wicked."

Oh, Frankie, my sweet Frankie.

Oh, Frankie, my love.

Happy birthday.

Corruption? Degredation? I'm not sure. Beauty? Oh, yes, beauty. I'm looking
at a photograph of Frankie. Getting ready for bed.  He isn't wearing a
top. He never does. The elastic on his white briefs is folded back on
itself, low down below his hardly-existent hips, exposing the ivory of his
pubic area.  He has a slight tan, all over, since Frankie has no qualms
about stretching out naked on the beach when he can get away with it. He is
slim but not thin, slender but not skinny.  His skin is flawless,
immaculate. He is in mid-step, and even in a still photograph, one senses
the fluid grace with which he moves.

Frankie has flicked his fringe back from his eyes. It's difficult to
describe his hair; not blond, not gold, not chestnut, but a mixture of all
three; straight but with soft waves that curl onto his shoulders. His eyes,
hazel flecked with gold, are startling. His chest is perfectly formed, his
nipples are pert brown cherries that set off the porcelain of his skin. His
chest narrows towards a V as it reaches his hips - waist so small that I
can wrap one hand round it. Tummy button an innie I've explored with my
tongue so many times, and each time afresh.

Yes, Frankie is beautiful, and yet there is nothing feminine about
him. Frankie is a man's boy.

We continue to reach compromises. We can share a jacuzzi but not a
shower. We can lie in my bed while I'm reading a story to him, or him to
me, but he can't sleep overnight in my bed. I am to suck him off two times
before a DVD but not three times - "My dick starts to get sore," - the boy
explains. He sucks me off but I've got to tell him when I'm going to cum
-"I hate when it comes down my nose," he explains. He can go around the
flat naked when the central heating is running riot - the caretaker is not
quite the genius I took him for. I've got to come and watch him in 'Robin
Hood' -Frankie plays Robin - and any other school plays or pantomimes he is
in (as if he could keep me away!) And I've got to come to Parents' Evenings
because "Mum doesn't understand shit about education." - for which remark
Frankie forfeited a a DVD session.

And, finally. Frankie has the right to watch any of my DVDs; his demand not
mine, and I resist nobly for a couple of weeks but then weakly give in.

We see less of Amy. She has a steady boyfriend, Norman (!), and Norman does
not like children, in particular, he does not like Frankie because Frankie
is as bright as Norman is thick, and that takes some doing. But Norman, to
give him his due, (Norman can have anything he wants except Frankie.) is
genuinely fond of Amy. He is bourgeois middle-class, assistant bank
manager, own flat, nice car, and his intentions towards Amy seem
honourable. But like many young men he doesn't have much time for kids, and
certainly not for a precocious, gob-smacking little beauty like Frankie. So
we see less of Amy, and very little of Amy and Norman, and that suits
me. It suits Frankie less, but as he has been spending most of his weekends
with me, he shrugs his shoulders and comes to terms with the set-up.

One night, as he is stretched out naked across my lap (second suck), I hear
him ask, "Wonder if Mum is doing this to Norman." Minutes later, as his
tremors subside, I turn him over and playfully smack his backside, though I
make sure it hurts a bit. "Don't you be rude about your mother," I
say. "I'm not being rude," I hear from protest from beneath me. "I was just
wondering. And - Ouch! - do boys suck girls? - Ouch! - They can't, can
they? - Ouch! - I mean girls don't have anything to get sucked. - Ouch!" I
realise I will have to extend the range of DVDs Ocsar is watching.

Rarely does Frankie give me cause for anger, but I recall one occasion when
he thoroughly deserved a good spanking - if I'd been able to bring myself
to administer one.

It's Saturday evening. We're going out to the cinema, but first I've got to
get a few domestic chores out of the way. These include dumping Frankie's
school shirt, socks and trousers into the wash. I'm emptying his trouser
pockets when I find a crumpled £5 note. At first I assume Amy gave it to
him after school on Friday. Then I remember I picked him up, and Amy hasn't
seen him since Friday morning.

I walk into the salon where Frankie is completing a jigsaw. I hold out the
£5 note and ask: "And where did this come from?"

As soon as I see Frankie's reaction, I know that something is up. The boy's
lip trembles. There are tears in his eyes. His cheeks are on fire. Frankie
has a problem. He is congenitally unable to lie, at least to his mother and
me. He has the tiniest of speech impediments that only emerge when he is
under stress.

"A m-m-an gave it to me."

"A man?" I echo.

I sit on the couch and pat a space next to me. Frankie pulls himself up off
the floor and sits next to me.  I turn his body to face me. I raise his
chin so he is looking into my eyes. God, they are beautiful even when full
of storms.

"Who? Where? When? What? Why?"

This is the formula I have taught Frankie to use when he is writing stories
at school. He understands by asking and answering these questions, he'll
never be stuck on "what to write about next."

"Take five deep breaths, and then tell me."

The boy follows instructions and...

"After school on Friday. I didn't come straight home." He puases, expecting
a lecture. I say nothing.

"I was coming straight home. But I stopped in the toilets, you known the
ones in Albert Street. I really need a piss - a wee," he corrects
himself. "I was having a wee. A man stood next to me. He pulled out his
cock, his penis." He pauses aagain. "I took a peek. I should've put mine
away, I know, but his was so big. I kept on looking. It started getting
bigger. And he wasn't really peeing. Just sort of playing with it. I
started playing with mine, not much, just squeezing and pulling a bit."
Frankie frowns and looks at me. "I was feeling, you know, horny." This is
not a word I've taught Frankie. Damn those DVDs.

"He was a very nice man. Not dirty or smelly or anything. And there was
only us two in the toilet. His penis was standing straight up. I could see
the hair sticking out of his flies. Then he said, "Like what you see, young
man?"

"And you went with him into a cubicle."

"No, no," says Frankie, "we went in his car."

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Frankie..."

The boy can't resist a giggle. "Watch your language," he mimics me so
accurately, sees my scowl, gulps, and goes on with his confession.

"We went up to the park - Cornwallis Park - and he drove up one of those
side roads. It was all shady but still warm. Then he stopped the car."
(Frankie paused and gathered himself.) "He pulled out his wallet and took
out that £5 note. 'That's yours, he said. If I can...'"

Frankie was getting into the story now.

"suck my willy"

"I finished the sentence for him. But it wasn't the right finish. ---- He
wanted to suck my bumhole."

"Are you making this up?"

"No, honest, I'm not. He said for me just to hang out of the car window -
with my bum stuck up. That was easy, and I love it when you do it... and I
really wanted the five pounds, but..."

"But what?"

Frankie blushed.

"I was needing a pooh - a shit - I could feel it inside me. So I told
him. It was rude not to tell him, wasn't it?"

"Go on."

"So I told him, but he just smiled and said 'That's even better.'"

"And that's what you did."

"It was like he was sucking my insides out. He used his thumbs like you do
- to open my up. I could feel his tongue right inside me. The - What do you
call it?"

I helped Frankie out.

"It's called a turd."

"That's it - a turd."

Frankie was animated now. He'd forgotten he was telling me a story about
himself. To him this was another boy, having an adventure.

"I tried hold the turd inside me but can't once it's really started, can
you? I could smell it. But it wasn't that real stinky smell you get when
your shit's all wet and sloppy. It must have been a hard one. It felt like
a hard one. And do you know what the funny thing was?"

"No, what was the funny thing?"

"Well, the man licked my bum clean. He wiggled his tongue inside my bum and
licked all the bits outside. Then he pulled my underpants and shorts
up. And - listen to this - when I turned round the turd was completely
gone. It must have gone inside him! Straight down and into his tummy. Think
of it. My turd out of my bum and straight into his tummy. Some people are
really weird."

"And that was that?" I ask. "He dropped you back at Albert Street."

"Well, no," said Frankie who'd forgotten he was in deep shit.

"He took me for a Big Mac. You know the place in Harbour Street." Which
explains why Frankie had such a poor appetite on Friday evening.

"And then he dropped you at Albert Street?" I ask hopefully.

"Yep," the boy says confidently. "He gave me that £5 note... and asked
me what school I go to."  (pause) "But ha, ha, I told him a different
school." Frankie says this as if it answers everything. It doesn't.

We are quiet for a few moments, then...

"Frankie, do you know why you went to the toilets? Why you let that man...?
I know you were feeling 'horny', but..." and this is hard to
say... "couldn't you wait till you got home?"

We are quiet for a few moments more, then...

"'Cos you won't let me try stuff?"

"'Stuff?' What kind of stuff?"

It's Frankie's turn to find the right words.

"You know... man-stuff, sex-stuff."

"Frankie... I didn't know... I thought that... You can always ask me. You
know that. What is it you want to..."

Fifteen minutes later - and I find this incredible even as I write it - I
am lying naked, stretched out, face down, on the double bed. Frankie is
sitting, naked, half way down my body, pulling my legs ever wider
apart. His fingers wiggle through the hair until he finds my anus.

"It's like a little door," I hear him say. "You've got lots of hair."

I imagine I feel his breath on my arse hole. Surely not. Then I feel his
middle finger stroking the length of the opening. "It's like a little
mouth," he tells me. "Can I get my finger...?" I feel the pressure against
sphincter, Tension keeps it tightly closed. But Frankie is relentless. He
presses and probes, until 'pop' his middle finger is in to the first
knuckle. Then unceremoniously out it pops.

"I know what's wrong," he announces. I hear him clambering from the bed,
pattering across the bedroom, clinks from my dressing table, and he's back
on the bed. "Here, this should help," he tells me, and there's the sudden
shock of cold cream on my arse hole. I think I should say something, but
for the life of me I can't think what. I can imagine the look of solemn
concentration on Frankie's face as his fingers, first one, then two, twist
and turn against my hole until the muscles give way, and his fingers are in
as deep as they can go.

I can feel the boy's fingers - digit and middle -pushed into the knuckles
twisting, turning, circling, stretching as I loosen up for him. That must
be a third finger because for the first time there is a little discomfort,
but most of that is cancelled out by the sheer erotic intensity of the
experience.  A youngboy is triple-finger-fucking me with ruthless
intensity. My prick is so hard I think it might break. I realise if Frankie
tries to jam his little fist right up my arse, I'll do nothing to stop him.

Damn it! His fingers are gone. I suddenly feel so empty.

"Up, up, please, Uncle Dan," I hear him whisper as he pulls my hips
upwards. In response I get half on my knees, my face still burrowed in a
pillow, lavender-scented. Once again I feel him probing at my entrance. I
try and relax and will myself to open for him. It's a shock when I realise
it's not Frankie's fingers - it's his hard little cock - not so little at
just over four inches, but he's fucking kid, for fuck's sake! A kid is
trying to fuck me, and I want to help him. I reach behind me, grab my
cheeks and wrench them as wide apart as I can. I can hear Frankie grunt,
but I'm not sure what the grunt signifies.

He's inside me! Really inside me!

And he's not finger-fucking me, he's fucking me for real - and I can hear
and feel his little belly bouncing off my buttocks.

I try to help by pushing back but realise he's not going to bottom out on
four inches. I only wish I could see his face, see his fringe flopping onto
his face, see his slim arms hang onto my shoulders, watch his belly bounce
against my bum, and, above all, watch his four-inch shaft sliding in and
out of my hairy hole.

Although I can't reach my own straining cock, I realise an orgasm is
building. It's hard to believe I'm going to cum without anyone touching my
erection; it's just as hard to believe I'm not going to cum if Frankie
keeps this up. And he does. Holding on tight, he pushes in and pulls out
faster and faster until I feel like a bitch in heat being fucked by a
randy, unforgiving mutt.

At last, with a yelp, Frankie gives one final push, holds himself inside
me, then collapses onto my back. I collapse beaneath him, feeling cum spit
from me onto my freshly-laundered duvet cover.

We both lie there, man and boy, still joined - satisfied, satiated, dead to
the world... until...

"Uncle Dan, Uncle Dan," I feel him, or think I do, pulling out of me. "Are
you okay? I didn't hurt you, did I?" I grunt non-commitally.  "Remember
we're going to the cinema. We'd better hurry up. Don't want to miss the
start of the show."

Half an hour later we're sitting in the cinema. Frankie turns to
me. "Please may I have a choc ice?" I reach in my pocket and pull out a
£5 note. "Make that two choc ices," I say.

"Hey, that's my £5," he says.

"No, young man. That's MY £5. Unless, of course, you'd rather have the
good spanking, you deserve?"

There's no answer. But as he squeezes past me, Frankie leans over, kisses
me on the cheek, and whispers, "It was worth it."

If you are thinking Frankie and I were leading a life of unbridled lust and
sexual activity, you're wide of the mark. In fact, most of the time Frankie
led the life of a fairly typical boy, though it might strike some as odd
that Frankie spent as much time with me as he did with his mother. Amy went
happily along with the fiction that I was Frankie's uncle and hence her
older brother. She took some pride in introducing me as "my elder brother,
Dan, Frankie's uncle, the deputy headteacher."

Do I think she knew about our 'extra curricular' activities? The answer is
a categorical 'no'.  Amy loved her son, but accepted he was getting a
better deal with me than he ever could if he'd continued to be raised by
her alone. We did have several heart-to-hearts; she did worry whether or
not she was spending enough time with Frankie, but he was 'as happy as I've
ever seen him' and so the arrangement suited everyone, including Norman,
her beau, the assistant bank manager.

And Frankie? He struck me as a very happy boy, especially as I'd widened
the parameters of our relationship.  Not only did Frankie have his own key,
but he was permitted to bring friends home with him as long as (a) his
friend's parents knew where their son/s was/were, (b) I was home, and (c)
the boy/s was/were collected by at least one parent. Surely some parents
were suspicious? About what? They usually knew Frankie's mother, they knew
I was a senior teacher of some sort, and Frankie was on his most solemn
word never, but never, to mention or allude to anything sexual. Which
raises a very interesting question?

To what extent did Frankie regard what we did as 'sexual'? Did he have a
genuine understanding of what 'sex' is?  I'm inclined to think not. I'm
inclined to believe that sex was something that gave him pleasure, gave me
pleasure, and brought tangible rewards - usually more than a £5 note!
But I'm pretty sure he put it on the level of his Playstation. In fact, I'm
inclined to believe he got more lasting, and certainly longer pleasure from
an hour on his Playstation, particularly when playing with school friends,
than he did playing with me. Frankie, it is true, loved having an orgasm,
but after a couple of them his dick got sore and he got bored, which to my
mind is exactly as it should have been. I'm sure I got almost all the
pleasure when Frankie was playing with me, though his natural curiosity
made him more adventurous than most. As when...

"Does it hurt now, Uncle Dan?"

I grit my teeth and whisper, "No, not yet. Push harder... but go slow."

Of course it fucking hurt. I defy you to take a boy's hand and wrist up
your arse and not feel any pain. Of course it fucking hurt. At the same
time it was so erotic that pain and pleasure became inseparable,
indistinguishable, the one fading into the other until they became part of
the same sensation coursing through my body.

"Flex your fingers," I grunt.

"What's 'flex' mean?" comes the unbroken voice.

"It means open your fingers up, but slowly. Fuck it, Frankie. I said
'slowly'. Yes, that's it. Right there. Further.  Push up further, far as
you can go."

I'd fitted a mirror. I could see Frankie was in me up to his elbow. Thank
God, for Vaseline.

"Now fist-fuck me... not too hard... not at first... then, when I tell you,
really hard."

You might legitimately ask what a Deputy Headteacher was doing, on the bed,
on all fours, his arse jutting out, as he watched the slender arm of a
young boy pumping in and out of his bowels. Fucked if you'll get an answer
from me.  I saw it on a clip from a movie called 'Mysterious Skin', and I
couldn't relax until I'd tried it. I had an arsehole, I had a boy with a
small fist, long fingers, a slender wrist and arm. That was the
mountain. It was there.  I had to climb it. That's a very imperfect
analogy. In truth, I was an alcoholic, but it wasn't alcohol that hooked
me; it was sex - sex with boys, or perhaps sex with one boy, with
Frankie. Don't think I wasn't ashamed - I was, now and then.  But I was
like the alcoholic who swears off liquor but stashes one last bottle, just
in case.

I loved watching Frankie play with his school friends, especially with Theo
and Oscar, both red-heads, both long-haired, both cute, and both with
happy, well-balanced personalities. Both were wary of me at first; after
all I was a deputy head, I could silence a school assembly with a look, but
as they realised I was just something in the background, just Frankie's
uncle, they let their hair down, so to speak, sprawled across the carpet,
and squabbled like blackbirds over a worm.

Me, I was just someone who supplied the pizza slices and plastic cups of
juice, with ice! And I never asked about school, never asked about their
hobbies, the movies they liked, or any of that stuff which may be of great
interest to kids, but should be of no interest to adults. I became so
accepted that occasionally, just occasionally, I was invited to make up a
two-versus-two teams as we battled alongside Captain America, swept through
Ultra Mini Golf in 3D, or blasted an unbelievable assortment of aliens into
oblivion. Make no mistake. Frankie was not spoiled. He had three
Playstation 3 games, but his friends had a seemingly inexhaustible supply
and were at their happiest when Frankie allowed them on his set up.
Frankie was a natural leader, but he didn't need to assert himself, and
often seemed happier when he was letting others take the lead.

Me? I was content to sit on the couch, doing marking (not much), completing
forms (endless), scanning the evening paper...  and rejoicing in the bums
presented before my uninterrupted gaze. God bless the Age of the Saggers,
when boys of all ages are only content when their jeans or trousers are
hanging halfway down their arses. And God bless mothers who do not cover up
the beauty of their boys' bums with those tedious boxers that frustratingly
conceal so many charms.

Of course, in an ideal world, I'd be able to sit on the carpet between the
legs of each boy in turn, slip down his trousers and underpants, part his
buttocks and slide my tongue up and down the tiny, unblemished slits. No
doubt each boy would wriggle a bit, but it's amazing how much concentration
a boy has when engaged on a Playstation. I'd masturbate happily, and as I
felt myself coming, I'd prise open the tiny mouth to make sure I could
squirt at least a spurt or two into his pink hole. There would be the
problem of ejaculating three times within the time available, but I'm sure
I could improvise if I had to.

Dream on!

Dreams came partly true when the central heating went wonky and the
temperature soared. Theo, the more assertive of the boys, decided these
were ideal conditions for a wrestling contest. My apartment leans towards
minimalism in style. The salon, in particular, hasn't much more than the
couch, one armchair, bookcase, computer area, TV screen, and a huge
biscuit-coloured carpet. Off came the school shirts, socks, and before I
could stop them, school flannels, all flung haphazardly onto the couch.  I,
naturally, was designated referee, and as such was able to lay down pretty
strict rules. I hardly wanted a parent to arrive and find a sweaty,
semi-naked boy with a broken limb. It still amazes me how unselfconscious
younger boys are about their bodies; it's only when the teen years strike
that embarrassment about shape, size and colour come into play. So there I
sat observing three semi-naked boys, striking poses across the carpet.

It was difficult to decide who I wanted to fuck most at that moment. No
doubt Oscar was slightly over-weight but his bum was so large, so round, so
perfectly curved, the thin white fabric so tightly stretched across the
cheeks, the crack so blatant, that it was all I could do not to grab him
then and there, pull down his underpants, pull his buttocks apart and jam
my already- throbbing seven inches into his guts. Down, boy, down!

Then there was Theo who gave the appearance of being frail but who turned
out to be wiry, cunning and indefatigable in the clinch. The bulge in
Theo's briefs also promised that his 'frailty' was more than balanced by a
cock he'd already moved up his tummy. Or was this an incipient hard-on? The
prospect of battle will do that to a boy. Then there was Frankie, my
Frankie, so elegant, so serene, so untroubled you might have suspected the
contest was fixed in his favour before it began.

The contest was not fixed. Before I'd counted out the mandatory 1 - 2 - 3,
Theo was on Frankie like a ferret on a rabbit, both then flattened beneath
Oscar who straddled Theo's back pressing down his arse onto the boy's
spine.

Frankie wriggles free and throws himself sideways at Oscar, dislodging him
onto the carpet. Down Frankie goes, determined to pin Oscar in a quick
fall, only to find Theo is riding him, sitting across his back, careless
that his underpants have ridden down his skinny hips to his knees. Theo
makes a desultory attempt to pull his underpants up, but almost immediately
abandons the attempt in favour of flattening Frankie who...

This could not go on long. Within ten minutes, all three boys were sprawled
on their backs, sweaty, slippy, panting, trying to laugh but
breathless. And yet everyone demanded Round 2, which I denied them. Quit
while you're ahead, I decided, and declared the contest an honourable draw,
and silencing protests by mention of frozen lollipops in the freezer. A
scamper of bare feet.  Banging of the freezer drawers. Squabble over
flavours. And joyful screams as each boy tried to push his lolly down the
front of each other's underpants. But soon I had them on their fronts
again, arms on huge pillows, lapping up the great battle scenes in 'Lord Of
The Rings', and licking their ice lollies with a lasciviousness that would
put a Parisian whore to shame. I confess I had to retreat to the bathroom
for a while where my imagination played riotously on what I'd like to do
with these boys and their lollies.

As I wiped the semen from the bathroom tiles, I reflected on how wonderful
life was. O, dear reader, never tempt Fate. It is true that all was well in
our world... until I discovered by chance that Frankie was breaking not one
but several of our 'man-stuff' rules.

God bless the boy.

It is Friday around 5 o'clock when I get home from school. The meeting went
more quickly than I'd anticipated, probably because it was a Friday and
everyone wanted home and into the weekend rather than spend time on duties,
schedules, time-tables, and the ever-present threat of an OFSTED
inspection. I wound up the meeting early and hurried home, not because I'd
any worries about Frankie. He was nine now and perfectly capable of
entertaining himself till I got home at the expected hour of six o'clock.

I turn the key in the lock and step inside. It's the silence I notice
first. It doesn't surprise me. Frankie sometimes takes a nap after
school. I slip off my jacket, tie, shoes, slip into slippers, and pad
across the salon. Quietly I peek into Frankie's
room. Nothing. Nobody. Quietly I open my bedroom door and peek in.

There are two boys on my double bed. Both are naked. Though I see him only
from behind, I recognise Frankie immediately. How often have I kissed these
shoulder blades, nuzzled the nape of his neck beneath the thick tumble of
chestnut hair? The other boy I don't recognise until Frankie half turns to
me, puts a finger to his lips, and goes 'Shhhh...'

The other boy is Oscar.

Oscar is lying on his back, his hands folded on the pillow beneath his
head. His eyes are closed. Frankie sits facing Oscar. Frankie has placed
his legs under Oscar's bottom and pulled himself forward so that his legs,
one on each side, are stretched alongside his friend's naked body so that
his feet rest on the pillow, one white-socked foot on either side of his
friend's head. I step forward and with a shock see that Frankie's penis is
half-buried up Oscar's anus.

Frankie beckons me, and, as if in a trance, I move forwards to sit on the
edge of the bed.

Frankie's hard-on, at least two inches of it, is embedded inside
Oscar. Oscar's skin from the bottom of his ball sac is a creamy ivory,
divided by the thin red seam that runs round to his anus. His out-stretched
legs are the same creamy ivory, not a flaw, not a blemish, faultless. His
ball sac, ever so slightly wrinkled, looks as if it's been planted as an
after-thought, and above it, his little cock, still sheathed in its
foreskin leans away at an angle. I look up Oscar's body, see his strong
little chest, his slender arms, his armpits like freshly-polished chalices,
his lips red rather than pink, his cheeks blushed, and his thick eyelashes
highlighting the curve of the lids. A small gold earring winks at me from
his right earlobe.

Frankie jerks his hips forward a little to drive a little more of his cock
into Oscar.

"Ooof," I hear; then, "Not so hard. That bit always hurts."

I can't help myself. I reach out and stroke Oscar's tummy. It flutters
under my fingers.

Frankie jerks his hips again, and I see another inch disappear into Oscar,
stretching the gap on either side of his hole. The boy's eyes fly
open. "Fuck... that really hurts." He sees me. I expect him to panic or at
least show signs of distress, but Oscar smiles weakly and says, "It really
does hurt when he does that." I make soothing noises and continue to stroke
his tummy, his chest, his nipples, his lips.

The boy open his mouth. I slip in a finger and he sucks on it. Frankie
begins to fuck his friend, jerking his hips gently back and forward,
penetrating just a little more each time until bottom meets bottom, and he
can get no deeper unless he changes positions. I lower my face and begin to
such Oscar's three-inch prick to full erection, pushing back his foreskin
with my tightened lips.

My 'nephew' and I are a team.

As Frankie speeds his fucking up, I speed up my sucking, matching my
rhythms to his. Oscar's body begins to turn, twist and wriggle in time with
Frankie's thrusts and trembling body. The boys cum together; it is a dry
cum but it shakes them just as hard as spurting semen would.

As Frankie collapses over Oscar's body, Oscar thrashes from side to side,
and I gently release his hot, hard, swollen penis. It collapses almost
immediately. I look up to see Oscar is shielding his eyes as if he is
ashamed of the amount of pleasure he has given and taken. Frankie slides up
alongside Oscar and whispers in his ear. There's an almost imperceptible
nod and Oscar rolls forward onto his front. No words are required.

I slide onto the bed, part Oscar's gorgeous cheeks and inspect his
freshly-fucked hole. There's a distinct redness around it, but no real
signs of bruising, and no signs of damage, though the rosebud of his hole
is larger and browner than Frankie's. I lower my face and lick the brownish
skin tenderly. The skin is a deeper shade of brown immediately around this
entrance to the boy's body.  I raise his legs onto my shoulders - ah, the
flexibility! - part them as wide as is comfortable for the boy, and fasten
my lips against his hole. The tip of my tongue pushes and probes, and I'm
almost immediately awarded by its opening to admit a fairly large part of
the tip. I can, for the first time, really tongue-fuck a prepubescent
boy. The smells are intoxicating.

Shit, yes, but it's so mild it seems to be swallowed by the other smells. I
could almost swear I can taste Frankie. He isn't old enough to cum, but has
he begun to produce pre-cum, or some such bodily fluid. I don't really care
what makes up these tastes. I want them whatever they are. And one of them
is a turd!

I feel the tip of my tongue blocked by something that can only be a turd. I
stifle a reflex to jerk by tongue out and leave the tip in contact with
Oscar's turd. Shit, yes, but it's Oscar's shit, it's part of him, perhaps
the most intimate part. I understand what the guy who gave Frankie a fiver
felt. I'm not sure I'm ready to swallow a turd yet, but I stretch Oscar's
bum as far apart as I can without hurting him and fasten my lips round his
tiny lips. I suck and wiggle my tongue at the same time. I can feel Oscar
pressing back in response. He knows what I'm doing and he wants what I'm
doing. But Frankie's there and I'm not sure what he'll make of what I'm
doing so...

Satisfied, but unsatisfied, I stand up and consider ejaculating into
Oscar's bowels. He is so open I'm sure he could take at least the head of
my cock, but a glance at the bedroom clock brings me to reality. How can
half an hour passed so quickly? Abruptly, I change from crazed boy lover to
sensible teacher.

"Right, boys," I say, "into the jacuzzi with you. You've got fifteen
minutes in there. First out gets double ice-cream."

Squeals of delight from the boys.

There are times when boys don't need men, and this is one of them.

***

"Lift your bum, Oscar. I want to see it going all the way in and all the
way out."

I feel rather than see my cock sliding out of Oscar's anus because the only
thing I can see is Theo's belly button, and only that for a moment as Theo
pushes himnself back into my mouth, my throat, and continues to face-fuck
me aggressively. Theo may only have three inches but his cock is thicker
than those of the other boys, and I can feel my lips slip and slide along
his shaft.

"Wow, Oscar, doesn't that hurt?" Frankie's voice is enthusiastic rather
than solicitous. "You're sitting right down on Uncle Dan's hairs when it's
all the way in."

"Yeh, it hurts," says Oscar, and his voice is so tiny I remember just how
young he is. "But... ooof - when you get used to it, it feels good. Is it
really stretching me now?

"You bet," says Frankie. "Your hole is like an elastic band stretched round
a... a..." The boy struggles to find an apt comparison. "...stick of
Brighton rock," he adds triumphantly. "Lift up again. I want a close-up of
about six inches so you can see the head of his cock."

It's a little discomforting to hear Frankie discussing me in the third
person, but he's the director as well as camera boy so I guess he is being
professional. To tell the truth, I haven't much time for discomfort as
sensations rush through me,

I manoeuvre Theo up and forward until my face is fixed between his
wide-spread buttocks. Being on the skinny side, Theo is easier to shift
than the others, and he is co-operative though he could be cleaner down
here. I feel his fingers wrapping my hair round his dick as he wanks
happily away. I use my thumbs to loosen his sphincter muscles, prise open
his hole before pushing my tongue inside as far as I can. I don't care what
these juices are; they are a a boy's juices and I want as much as I can
get.

Why do I enjoy licking - rimming - a boy's hole so much? Not so long ago I
would have thought the practice - analingus - pointless if not
disgusting. Now I can't get enough of it. Oddly enough, I'm not that keen
on being rimmed, but offer me any reasonably attractive boy and I'll
happily rim him all night long - and all day, too, if he isn't at school.

Men?

They don't attract me, men have never attracted me, though there may be
aesthetics involved here. A boy's anus can reasonably be described as a
rosebud... or a little mouth waiting to be kissed, licked, sucked,
worshipped. And, of course, there is the pleasure of introducing a boy to
sexual pleasure he'd never suspected existed. Analingus feels erotic for
the same reason that anal play in general is arousing. The anus and
surrounding tissue are richly endowed with nerves highly sensitive to
erotic touch, which is grand for the receiver, perhaps less so for the
giver.

Rimming is a way, I guess, for the rimmer to say, "I love all of
you. There's no part of you that I don't want to have. In turn, it's a way
for the boy being rimmed to say I trust you, you know what you're doing, so
there's no part of me you can't have.  This is true for boy lovers. Boy
lovers don't simply love their boy-of-the-moment; they worship them; if
they could, they would devour them, swallow them whole, and keep them
forever. Of course, if the futile silliness of worship can give way to
genuine love, the man will put the boy's needs first, even if the boy's
gain means the man's loss. All of which wasn't particularly relevant as
Frankie directed Theo to sit facing the other way while continuing to grind
his hole against my lips, for which I was duly grateful.

"Now, Theo," instructs Frankie, "start jerking Oscar off... but don't let
him cum... and if you can, lean over and kiss his dick.  No! Don't suck
it. Just kiss it lots and lots. I'm gonna walk round and take shots
-they're called 'establishing' shots, so that everyone can see exactly
what's going on." (pause) "And, Uncle Dan, raise Theo up and down a couple
of times so we can see your tongue licking his actual hole." (pause) "It'll
look like Theo's gonna take a shit," (collective giggle) "but don't worry,
he's not gonna do that... in this movie."

When had Frankie fallen in love with making movies? His interest had become
an obsession. I'm inclined to think it's when we watched 'Wild Tigers I
Have Known' together. For the first time, Frankie realised you could tell
people what to do, they would do it, you could record it, and what you did
could be beautiful. In making his 'porno' movies, Frankie was not simply
interested in the sex, nor the feelings of power it gave him. He was
genuinely interested in the aesthetics of the images he captured, though he
didn't yet have the conceptual capacity to describe what he was doing in
these terms. But he would capture trickles of sweat running down a boy's
back, the expressions on a boy's face as he came, the blush that ran from
my chest to my neck... even the whorls of hair that ran round my arsehole,
for Chrissake!

I'd bought a Sony HDRCX115EB High Definition Handycam Camcorder, and we'd
agreed that, for the record, it belonged to me, thouugh in reality Frankie
was the proud owner. It wasn't terrible expensive, but I'd made a point of
not spoiling the boy, as far as Amy was concerned I was encouraging her son
in a new hobby.

To tell the truth, Frankie quickly outstripped me in using the camera, and
the 101 magical tricks it could perform. I'm not here to sell the CX115 to
you (LOL) and will only mention if you connect your camcorder directly to
an HD Ready TV you can view your video in spectacular HD on the big
screen. Frankie's bumhole, beautiful in real life, was positively ethereal
in High Definition on a 42" screen!  What next - 3D?!

"Turn round again," instructs Frankie. Theo duly obliges and sticks his
hard-on back in my throat. "Oscar, ride Uncle Dan faster...  but, Uncle
Dan, tell me when you're gonna shoot. Then you pull it out... but don't
shoot till I take a shot of Oscar's hole wide open.  Then, when I tell you,
shoot your cum right on Oscar's hole." (pause to plan) "Then suck Theo
faster and faster. But don't cum in his mouth, Theo. When you're gonna cum,
tell me, so I can get a big close-up of the cum shooting right out of your
pee-hole and into his mouth. And fire some on his face as well. That should
do it."

Frankie completes his movie by having the boys slide up my body to lick the
cum off my face before snuggling down like contented kittens in my
arms. His closing shot is Oscar's bumhole, breathing as my cum trickles
from it. Plastered across the shot is: That's All Folks.

Was I insane? Not one, but three prepubescent boys performing sex acts that
would make a bishop blush. Yes, I was insane - insane in the way that
alcoholic or a junkie is insane. I knew that the dangers were; I knew the
risks; I know the consequences of discovery would be catastrophic? Why
then? Oh, why? Take the last drink, take the last fix, then run, run like
Hell. But I couldn't. Not quite yet.  Not quite now.

***

I'm not sure when Frankie discovered porno sites but when he did he found
extreme sites I didn't even know existed. I'm not sure when he set up MSN
and Skype. And I have no idea when he began 'performing' for perverts
around the world. I'm smiling at my use of the word 'pervert' because I
know I would happily sit in front of a screen watching a beautiful
10-year-old fuck himself with a home-made dildo as I tried to keep it going
before my cum splashed its way messily over the keyboard. A beautiful,
pre-pubescent boy pleasuring himself for your pleasure - would you sit and
watch that?

Maybe you would, but would you sit and watch this?

"Dan, Dan, come here and watch this. I can't understand some it. You'll
have to explain to me. I'll pause at the bits I don't understand. Look,
look, that man's insides are coming out."

The scene seemed to be taking place in a basement. There was a guy, naked,
in mid-twenties in a sling suspended about three feet above the floor, his
legs pulled up but spread wide. There was a boy, naked, around 13 or 14,
standing by the sling, his hard-on pointing between the guy's legs. The
track was a bit blurry but I could make out the name 'Coach Morgan'.

"Can you push it out again?" said the boy, his voice confirming he wasn't
much past puberty. The camera zoomed between the guy's legs and caught the
lips of his anus flutter, open, open wide. Then the guy grunted as he
prolapsed and his insides - scarlet, ruby-red - began to protude - one
inch, two, three - red, wet, slimy...

"What's that? What's that?" whispered Frankie.

"Shhh... just watch. I'll explain it all later."

"Can I touch it?" said the boy.

"Be my guest. Do what the fuck you like?" (pause)"But first do what I
taught you to do. Puke, but this time puke right into my rectum. Spit it
in."

The boy pushed two fingers down his throat and made a gagging sound. He
knelt in from of the man who ran his fingers around inside the doughnut of
his prolapse. "Ready, Charlie?" The boy gurgled. The camera zoomed close
in, and Frankie and I watched him spew directly into his coach's anus and
rectum. He stood up and wiped most of the vomit from his lips and chin.

"Uh Coach?  Can I push my dick into that....?"

"Prolapse. It's called a prolapse," said the man.

"Yeh, into that... thing."

Charlie stepped forward. The camera zoomed in again. Charlie had an
idea. "Can I push my dick inside you please?" he asked.

"Yeh, that'll make an even better movie," grinned his mentor.

The boy spread his fingers round the huge, doughnut shaped prolapse as his
sports coach breathed deeply and pushed out the moist, bright-red,
concentric rings of the fleshy rosebud even further as the rectal wall
slide out through his anus.

Charlie squatted lower and pushed the head of his engorged penis into the
hole. His solid four-inches slid all the way in and, without thinking, the
boy pushed in his low-hanging balls as well. He then began to rock
backwards and forwards, not easy, but persistence paid, until he was
fucking a grown-man's prolapse rhythmically.

"Yeh, yeh," whispered the man, "I'm going to suck all of you inside me,"
and using his rectal muscles that's exactly what he did. The boy lost what
control he had and began fucking the man harder and faster until his hard
breathing told the man he was going to cum.

"Hey, champ," laughed the man. "I don't want you to cum yet. I've got more
things for us to do, and I want them all on camera."

"But I've got to, I've got to," grunted the boy.

"Hey, kid, I'm your teacher. What I say goes? Now get the fuck out of me."

Charlie, a polite, obedient boy, did as he was told and slid himself
reluctantly out. His penis and testicles glistened with a a coating of
golden mucis and debris from the man's bowels.

 "Uh Coach?  Is it ok if I taste your stuff down there?"  The boy's cock
was aching, heart was racing.

"Yeah, get down there and help yourself."

I glance and Frankie. He is leaning forward. His big eyes are huge.

The boy - Charlie - squatted down again. The camera followed him. He stuck
out stuck out a long, pink tongue and took the first, gentle lick along the
thick, swollen anal lips.  The huge rosebud emerged again and the boy's
lips surrounded ruby-red flesh and began sucking. His tongue followed the
prolapse as it contracted into the rectum, then emerged again to let the
boy suck off the salty mucus. The slurping and smacking of lips was as
erotic as what Frankie and I were watching.

After around five minutes, it was the coach's turn to grunt: "Enough for a
moment, Charlie, I need more than your tongue." Eyes glazed, the boy
withdrew and stood up, the camera panning over his naked, glistening body.

"Time you learned the art of fist-fucking, boy. Do exactly what I
say. Cross your fingers over each other - yeh, those three. Now work them
up my ass. Go on. It won't hurt me. ...... There, good boy, that's
it. ...... Now thrust in and out. Yeh, you got it. You're a smart
kid. ...... Now use four fingers and cup your thumb in behind
them. ...... Fuck, that's good. ...... Now saw in and out. ...... Push in
now, but take it gently."

The man's rectum swallowed the boy's hand all the way to the wrist and
beyond. The boy pushed forward feeling the rectum pulsate as he got
half-way to his elbow before running into resistance. Back and forth,
sawing in and nearly out of his coach's bowels as he arm-fucked the man.

"Feel that second ring deep inside me? You're way up my colon."

Charlie grunted and wiggled his fingers deep inside.

"That's my second sphincter.  Work your arm in and out of my gut. Start
punching. But take it easy at first."

Charlie obliged, then rapidly began gut-punching his coach.

"Hey, boy, take it easy," laughed the man, who then turned to whoever was
operating the camera. "Make sure you get all of this. You can have Charlie
later."

"Right, coach," came the reply, and I knew from the voice this was another
boy, or maybe a young man. Whoever he was, he knew exactly what he was
doing with the camera."

"Right, Frankie that's enough for now."

"No," protested Frankie. "I want to see..."

"Nope. That's enough for now. We can watch the rest before bedtime, but
you, young man, have got homework, and homework comes before anything
else." I flicked the remote.

"Okay," said Frankie, "but promise..."

"To the table, boy, and get out your Maths book." And Maths is what we did.

Like many modern computer-savvy kids, especially boys, Frankie knew more
than I did about the magical mysteries of cyber space. I wasn't even aware
he could set up a separate account on my computer of which I was completely
unaware. Later, when I mentioned this to him, he protested: "But, Uncle
Dan, everyone has their own account. And it's private.  I wouldn't look
into your area without your permission. That's invasion of privacy."

At the time, Frankie's middle finger was trying to locate my prostate -
with my full permission.

I discovered what was going on by accident. When it comes to boys, parents
find out most things by accident. It is not that boys try to keep secrets
from their parents; it's just that they feel much of their lives has
nothing to do with adults in general and their parents in particular. From
around the age of 11 onwards, the real lives of boys take place in their
heads, in their bedrooms, and in the company of their peers.

Watch a group of boys as they come out of school at 3.30. Watch them as
they change into their street gear. Watch them as they meet up with their
friends in pre-designated meeting places. Within half an hour, they are
different creatures entirely, and, if one did not know better, one would
imagine they were feral pack animals, set on carrying out as much mayhem as
they can. Not true. Their aim is not mischief, though recklessness can lead
them into it; they are pack puppies, playing follow-my-leader, out to find
excitement or create it when they cannot find it ready-made.

I've no idea how I broke Frankie's password. I was merely fiddling around
trying to remember my own password which does begin with FRANKIE... when an
entirely new planet swam into my ken, and I sat silent, staring at the
Pacific as Frankie's private world - FRANKIESWORLD - opened up to
me. Folders neatly organised: 001PICS - 002VIDS - 003STORIES - 004CHATS.

CHAT 31

LEO69 Hi, Frankie. You're looking hot, Had a good day at school. OSCAR Hi,
Dan. Yeh, not bad. U? LEO69 Pretty good. Some of the customers are dumb
shits, but as long as they pay on time, I don't give a fuck. OSCAR Sorry
'bout yesterday. Uncle came home a bit early. Just got off in time. LEO69
No worries. I saved it for this session. OSCAR You didn't cum then? LEO69
Nope. No point cumming if I'm not looking at you. I like to see your sweet
little mouth when I'm cumming Even better is when I'm staring your cute
little hole. OSCAR Wanna see it again? LEO69 No hurry. When's your uncle
getting home? OSCAR 'Bout 5'clock. What you want me to do first? LEO69
That's my boy. Stand up. Pull your school shirt out. Rub your fingers over
the front of your trousers. I want to see that bulge. I want to see your
stiffy outlined under those flannels. That's it. Take your time.  OSCAR
Like that? LEO69 Yeh, just like that. Get closer to the cam. I want to kiss
you right there. And tell me what you do to your Uncle again. That sounds
really hot.

(I leave this out. Frankly, I'm embarrassed to relate Frankie's description
of what we do in the privacy and intimacy of our love-making.)

LEO69 Shit, your uncle's a lucky bastard, baby. Now work your trousers and
underpants down your stomach. But don't let me see you dick, not yet. Yeh,
that's it. Down a bit more. Right there. Get closer to the cam again. My
God, your skin is so beautiful. Stop giggling. I really mean it. OSCAR What
would you like to do? LEO69 I wanna lick and kiss your tummy. Suck your
belly button. Push down those undies with my tongue. Lick the head of your
sweet little dick. For fuck's sake, Frankie, push them down to your
knees. OSCAR Look the way it jumps up! LEO69 Work your foreskin back. Yeh,
like that. Shit, I want my lips round you. Get those fucking things off.
OSCAR Give me a min. Got get my shoes off first. Hold on. I'm gonna sit on
the couch and get this school shit off. LEO69 Fuck it. Every time I see you
I can't believe you're for real. You're so f-u-c-k-i-n-g gorgeous. OSCAR
Dan... can you put your cam on, please? You can keep your clothes on. I
just wanna see you. LEO69 Sorry, kid. No can do. I'm on my work laptop. No
cam. OSCAR You're always on your work laptop. How old are you really? I
don't care. Just want to know. LEO69 Turn round. Bend over. Lift your
shirt. Pull your cheeks open. Finger that sweet little hole of yours. And
when I tell you, go get that dildo. The big one.

(If I don't go any further, it's pure embarrassment. And also because the
scripts in the end became repetitive. There's only so many things a boy can
do with his body when limited to a camshow.)

I learned later that the term for Frankie is a 'cam whore'. Frankie loved
performing on cam. There were few things he wouldn't do if asked politely
or persistently enough. To his credit, he refused to take a shit on cam. I
was surprised by the number of men - I'm assuming they were all men
-desperate to a close-up of a ten-year-old boy's anus as shit made its
exit.

Lots more wanted to see Frankie pee - he duly obliged - though only a
minority expressed a desire for the boy to piss directly in their gulping
mouths. I must admit reading the scripts opened up a whole new world of
sexual possibilities, but many of them I wouldn't touch with a barge pole;
these were mainly of the sado-masochistic variety, which had limited appeal
for me.  (Oh yeh? And you with little Jack up to his elbow inside of you
last Tuesday.)

What did intrigue me was the offers of reciprocal sex-shows 'starring' men
and little boys - a variation of 'you show me yours, and I'll show you
mine' I hadn't thought of. When I tackled Frankie about this, he was his
usual forthright self.

"Would you do it, Uncle Dan? Would you? I would... but only with you?"

There's a note of excitement in the boy's voice that takes me by
surprise. Only fifteen minutes ago, I'd been giving him hell about the
whole cam/chat business, and here he was trying to persuade me into taking
part with him. First things first.

"Now many men have you been on cam with?" I ask.

"Mmmm... do you mean one at a time or when there's a crowd of them?"

"A crowd of them?!" I'm horrified. "Do you mean more than one man can watch
you at a time?"

"Yeh, lots." Frankie sighs. "You don't know much, do you?"

"Never mind how much I know. How many?"

"Well, one afternoon on Tiny Chat I had 202 viewers."

"Tiny Chat? Viewers."

"Yeh." He sounds a little exasperated. "Tiny Chat is one of them sites
where anyone, everyone can just visit and open up their cam. We all do
it. But I set up my room - chat room - and then invite viewers. Nobody can
watch if they're not invited."

The learning curve is steep but I'm getting there.

"On Blog TV you can get hundreds of viewers."

"Hundreds!"

"Yeh, but they're very strict there. You get booted off if you try any rude
stuff. The girls get most viewers 'cos they show half their tits, and roll
round on the carpet, and do handstands and stuff. Just think of all them
boys - and pervs - sitting wanking, watching them." He giggles, then goes
on. "But things like Skype is much better for one-to-one. The picture
quality is a lot better and it's really private."

"And you know some guys - with boys, I mean - who would...?" I don't know
how to finish the sentence. I don't try.

"Oh, yeh, it's easy." He thinks. "What kinda boy you want? I mean, what
age? Want a black boy?"

I'm flustered.

"Mmmm... I'll leave all that to you."

"What day is it?" The question is addressed to himself. "Friday. Good. I'm
staying here this weekend. That makes it easier.  What's time
now. Five. Mum won't be here for an hour. Let me show you some of the vids
I collected. Some of them you won't believe. Some of them are
really... dirty."

And they were, though none quite reached the depths of 'Training
Charlie'. I'd promised Frankie. Never make a promise to a kid you can't or
won't keep, so here goes.

"My arm's getting tired," said Charlie.

"Okay... I've got something else in mind. Slide your arm out. Take it
easy. Slowly... slowly. Here, stretch out your arm to me." Charlie did that
and watched as his favourite teacher licked the shiny slam from his arm,
grinning "Nothing tastes better than your own insides - except perhaps a
boy's"

Coach Morgan slid himself out of the sling and stretched out on the floor.

"Now squat over my face, boy. Get that sweet hole right over my mouth and
give me what you've got."

Frankie squatted giving his coach an eyeful of his skinny body, angel hips
and bruised anus. Facing the man's crotch, he hunched lower until his hole
was a couple of inches above Coach Morgan's wide-open mouth. He tongued
Frankie's arsehole as the boy pushed it out.

"Here it comes. It feels wide-open now," the boy strained. Two inches of
solid turd bullied their way out of the hole. He held it there, as
instructed earlier by his trainer who began giving the shit-log a blow-job
until it began to dissolve and break up. At the same time, squirts of urine
spit out of the man's semi-hard cock.

Frankie bent down quickly, grasping the fat, hairy cock and aimed it in his
mouth.  He swallowed Coach's urine as the squirts turned into a fountain of
yellow piss. He couldn't hold the turd in and four more solid inches
dropped into the man's hungry mouth, sliding down his throat and into his
belly. The boy felt his belly swell too as the seemingly endless piss
filled it up.

The man swung the boy around, pulled him down face to face, and began
French-kissing him hungrily as he shared what was left of the turd. The man
used his tongue to break up the shit and spit the pieces into the boy's
mouth. They chewed and swallowed their share of the shit. Then, laughing,
he pulled Frankie against his chest: "Maybe a little break now, eh?"

"Yes, sir, please, sir," and Franke let himself collapse happily onto the
man.

Coach Morgan turned to the cameraman.

"Put that camera down and come and join us, Robert. I'll film you fisting
Frankie later, or you two can double-fist me. Two thirteen year
olds... mmm... the customers will like that."

I heard the boy's voice: "And can I bring Rocky tomorrow, sir? He's a
fucking big dog, but I've trained him what do do."

"Course you can course you can," came Coach Morgan's much deeper
voice. "And bring your little brother too. Those pedos like them really
young."

The screen went dark.

***

Saturday evening, couch pulled up close to the computer and web cam, both
of us in our bathrobes, mine green, Frankie's a fetching blue, both naked
beneath, Frankie perched on my lap, adjusting himself to make room for my
hard cock between his buttocks.  He is absorbed in rapping the keys.

Suddenly they are there on the screen, a man and a boy, gazing back at us.

"Hi, there," comes a voice. The accent is antipodean, Australia or New
Zealand, I'm not certain. "I'm Ray, and this is Ben."  A small boy raises
his hand and waves tentatively back. They are both naked. Ray seated on a
what looks like a high-seated green armchair, the boy Ben seated on the
man's knees.

"Hi, there," smiles Frankie, waving back. "I'm Mikey, and this is my dad
Adam."

"You new to this?" asks Ray.

Frankie nods.

"Well, we'd better show you. Here's a little tour to get started.

Ray lifts Ben and balances him on his knees. The boy stands there
precariously, his belly, hips, and genital region filling our screen. "As
you can see," says Ray, "Ben is a well-built boy for his age. Look at that
little pot belly. Look at his sweet little button. And look there, not a
single pube, and not likely to be for some time."

Ray laughs while he speaks; already he sounds like some demented
commentator at a dog show. "Watch how he gets hard, really quick."
Nicotined fingers that seem huge in comparison with Ben's small-boy penis
begin to play with the child's cock and balls.

"Not much there yet," says Ray, "but watch," and we do as the blood pumps
into the boys penis, and we watch it swell from all of two inches soft to
three inches erect. "Not much in the way of balls yet," (Ben's balls are
little acorns in a slightly wrinkled sac.) "so don't expect much in the way
of cum. In fact, don't expect any, but I'll make up for that when I rub
mine all over him."

That laugh again.

"Really sweet on this side, too," Ray continues as he turns the boy round
to give us a full-screen view of his buttocks. The nicotined- fingers part
the cheeks, and the boy is pushed forward so that the immediate area his
anus fills the screen. "Sweet ain't it?  And well broken in to."

The bruising round the boy's hole is obvious, and the reason becomes clear
as the tip of Ray's middle finger brings to stroke the opening. "Look,
guys, no lube needed. I'm beginning to think Ben likes it this way -
doncha, kiddo?" The finger tip corkscrews it way into the boys hole that
opens up like a tiny flower. From the loudspeakers comes the unmistakable
sound of whimpering.

"Aw, for Chrissake, you've had a lot more than that up inside you, you
little faggot." That's to Ben.

To us it's, "Ain't amazing how easy the stretch when you keep at it?"

Suddenly there's a flurry of flesh on the screens and...

Ben is being held upside down. Naked, he is facing a naked Ray. The boy's
face and mouth dangle above a belly thick with black hair, a huge pubic
bush, and gnarled, veined shaft of flesh topped with a head that looks like
a small peach.

Hips are raised along with Ray's voice, "Open wide for daddy," and as Ben
makes a big oval with his lips, the huge head is pushed into his mouth, and
the hips begin to rise and fall in piston-like movements. In the background
we hear Justin Bieber - "one of Ben's favourites," Ray tells us between
breathy gasps. The cam pans upwards to find the man's face jammed tightly
between the child's buttocks.

"Fucking hell," comes Ray again, "this beats a big Mac anytime". The cam
pans backdown and focuses on the boy's face - his eyes are teary, his mouth
stretched to the limit by a cock that must be bouncing off the roof his
throat. The boy is gagging. Something flashes on the screen for a moment,
and Frankie whispers, "They're filming it. They pay if you let them film
it."

"Ooops a-daisy," sings Ray. Ben is upended and planted back on his lap
facing the cam. "Let's try this end now," he croons.

The cam gets in so close you can see the bulbous head of Ray's penis
pressing against Ben's hole. There isn't much resistance, at least for the
first two inches but it's hardly credible that tiny bottom can take 8 or is
it 9 inches of swollen, hardened flesh. Ray's hips rise and fall as screw
his cock into the boy. The silence from the boy is unsettling. The cam pans
back to his face. The boy's eyes are glassy, his big-eyed gaze
unfocussed. The cam pans back down. Seven inches at least are bedded inside
the boy.

"Sometimes they need a little help," laughs Ray, "but when they snap out of
it... that's when the real fun begins." (He paused.) But the real fun will
be on Friday night, same place, same time."

The screen went dark.

I tell myself I won't be there on Friday night. I lied. I'm there. But
Frankie isn't. Despite his protests, I ask Amy to keep him till Saturday
morning because I have to be overnight in London. It's a lie, but I'm
hooked on what Ray consider is the 'real fun'.

The screen lights up.

Ray's grin meets pervs and pedos around the world. I'm one of them. Ben is
stretched out on a double bed. He is naked. He looks tiny. The camera zooms
in on his face. Christ, but he is a gorgeous kid. His eyes are wide open.

"Ah, poppers," says Ray. "Nothing quite like them to keep a kid healthy,
happy and horny." He laughs. He holds up a small brown bottle. He unscrews
the top and holds the bottle under Ben's nose. The reaction is almost
instant as the boy's blood vessels dilate, his blood pressue drops, and his
heart rate speeds up. His face is flushed.

"Now let's see what we have here."

Ray raises the boy's legs and bends them back over his head. The boy,
drugged as he is, is flexible. The camera zooms in on his anus. It is
bruised and swollen. Two fingers appear on the screen. They look huge
against the tiny bottom of the boy. They work their way in and finger-fuck
the boy, withdrawn and then a third finger is added, then a fourth. The
boy's hole looks absurdly big now as the four fingers make circular motions
stretching it wider and wider.

"You ain't seen nuthin' yet," comes Ray's voice, and now half his hand is
inside the boy who begins to twist and writhe. "Hold still, you little
fucker," and the whole hand pushes its way inside. A small boy is being
fisted by a grown man. The boy's whimpers fill the room.

Ray lowers the boy's legs till they are flat on the bed. "Watch this." The
whole hand is inside, then the wrist, then the arm. This can't be happening
but it is. "Look at his belly." Men across the world are gazing at the
huge, long bulge in the boy's belly. The fist and arm are way past the
boy's rectum - deep inside his large intestine - fucking him in the very
depths of his tiny body.

I'm sickened but I can't look away.

Ray fucks the boy about five minutes. He withdraws his fist, hand, arm, and
hold it to the camera. It's covered with slime, mucus and shit. "You might
not want to watch the next bit," he laughs. "It gets a bit messy."

The last thing I see is Ray's leering grin.

I hit the remote.

I sit there stunned.

Is this what I want?

Is this where I'm heading?

Is this where I'm taking Frankie?

***


I must be using by teacher-voice because Frankie follows me with no
protest.

"Delete all of your folders," I instruct.

"All of them?" he enquires.

When there is no response, he carefully highlights each folder - 001PICS
-002VIDS - 003STORIES - 004CHATS - and deletes each one of them with a
stroke of the key. Then he goes to the Recycle Bin and deletes all of
them. He looks at me. I nod. He selects the programme ERASER and sets it to
write over the unused space on the C:drive seven times. By morning, it will
be gone, all of it, forever.

"Delete any accounts you've got, wherever you've got them."

He deletes them.

I sit on the couch, call him over and pat the space beside me. He looks
full into my eyes.

"Frankie," I say, "do you want to stay here and watch some of the things
we've watched? Or do you want to have fish and chips, and then go and see
'The Karate Kid'?

"'The Karate Kid, of course,'" he says, adding, "Who needs that perv shit?"

As he skips off to get his jacket, I think, "You don't. And here's hoping I
don't."...

Every boy should have an obsession, and soon after his 11th birthday
Frankie found his. But it was not the one I expected.  His skill and
devotion to his Sony CX115 made me suspect I had a young Quentin Tarentino
on my hands, but that obsession was nothing compared to what Frankie found
one sunny Saturday morning, though this obsession, too, could be summed up
in a single four-letter word, and the word was GOLF.

This is what happened.

I was leading a Saturday morning seminar and expected Amy would look after
Frankie until lunchtime. I was surprised and not a little upset when
Frankie's mother announced she couldn't possibly change the plans she and
Norman had made to spend the weekend in Brighton. My upset was not having
to change my own plans - it was the casual way in which Amy put her plans
before Frankie's needs. This was not the first time, and sadly it was not
the last, as Amy had become less and less involved in her son's needs.

I was on the point of abandoning the seminar when my deputy - yes, deputies
have deputies - stepped in. Though Ryan carried the title Assistant Head,
he was in effect my deputy. I had a lot of time for Ryan; he was kind,
considerate and damn good at his job. He also had two sons, twins, Sam and
Eric, often address jointly for the obvious reason as Sam'nEric. They were
13, so Frankie was within their range of acceptability. Amongst the young,
hierarchies are strict.

"Look, it's no problem, Dan. We'll look after Frankie," he promised. "We're
going Morton Golf Club. Sam'nEric bash their way round the nine-holer while
I'm making a full of myself on the 18th. If you're finished around
lunchtime, we could meet at the 19th and find something to celebrate."

Once Ryan unravelled the mysteries of what he was talking about, I texted
Frankie with the invitation. Back came one word: FINE.

To say the seminar was tedious would be a useful short-cut but it would not
be true. It was fascinating though I doubt you are much interested in the
science, or is it voodoo?, of phonetics. I'll spare you the details, only
because of what happened at the 19th over a table groaning with pizzas and
assorted drinks, including Irn Bru to which Frankie has taken an
inexplicable fancy!

"I'm telling you the boy's a natural," says Ryan, taking a moment to cuff
Sam'nEric who are squabbling over who'd taken the bigger slice of Pepperoni
Feast, with double pepperoni and extra mozzarella cheese. I'm silently
proud of Frankie who's quietly carving up his Veggie Sizzler, with green
chillies, jalapeños, mixed peppers, and onions into mouth-sized
portions. (Have I mentioned Frankie has become a vegetarian?)

"I'm not joking," continues Ryan. "You sure Frankie hasn't taken lessons?"

I finish a mouthful of my Meat Machine, with pepperoni, ham, steak, spicy
minced beef, spicy pork sausage, chicken. (Have I mentioned I think
vegetarians are fucking nuts, present company excepted?) and repeat,
"Frankie has never held a golf club in his life."

"Crazy golf."

"What?" say Dan and Ryan simultaneously.

"Mum let me play Crazy Golf when we were in Brighton."

"Fuck Brighton." That's me, but only in my head.

"How did you do?" asks Ryan eagerly.

"Don't remember," says Frankie, swigging a mouthful of Irn Bru (so much for
his manners). I was only 5 at the time.

Ryan turns to me again. I point at his Piri Piri, crust packed with piri
piri, reputed to pack a fiery punch, and say. "Eat."  He does so but it
doesn't stop him talking. I glance at Sam'nEric, they, mouthfuls, are
engaged in an intense, whispered conversation.  At least there's Frankie. I
glance at Frankie, Frankie my love. He has three, or is it four?, mouthfuls
jammed in his gob, and is trying to squirt in a topping of Irn Bru. (What
the fuck's in that stuff anyway?)

"It was Sam'nEric who brought Frankie over to me. Said they didn't want to
play with him. Said he was taking three or four shots when they were taking
eight or nine. They weren't upset, just didn't want to play with him."
(Munch, munch) "I took Frankie into my game.  I thought, couple of holes
and we'll let him caddy. Don't worry. We'd hired an electric golf trolley."
(Crunch crunch) "Well, bugger me..."  (Not an invitation I'm likely to
accept, but Sam'nEric... now there's a thought: two 13-year-old identical
twins. I began to wonder how identical they were. I felt a touch on my arm.

"Pay attention, Dan. I'm being serious." (Sam'nEric... so was I.)

"We're on the fourth tee. We take our shots. I shank. Donald hooks. We make
way for Frankie. I know he's a tall boy for his age, but you've told me
he's never played golf in his life. Donald and I stand a bit behind
him. Don't want our smiles to put him off. Up steps Frankie.  he puts his
ball down. Doesn't even use a tee. Steps back, takes a swing, and..."

"And?"

"And belts it straight up the middle of the fairway. 250 yards! At
least. Fuck me."  It's Sam'nEric's turn to cuff Ryan. "Sorry," he says,
then, "I asked Frankie where he'd learned to do that. 'Don't know,' is his
answer. 'Just did it.'

"Of course it's a fluke Donald and I tell each other. We hit our balls -the
golf ones - then stroll on to where Frankie's ball is lying in the middle
of the fairway. He doesn't say anything. Doesn't ask if he should use a
different club. Steps up to the ball. Looks at the flag.  Looks at the
ball. Step backs and... swing. Up she goes, down the comes, tippy toe,
tippy toe, and rolls... Well, we're not quite sure, but when we get to the
green. there it is - five feet from the hole. 'Bet the little shit can't
putt,' whispers Donald. He loses his bet.  Up steps Frankie. Looks at the
hole, looks at the ball, looks at the hole, gets his head over the ball,
and... pings it into the hole, dead centre. Hey, your Frankie used a putter
-he might be a freak but he's not a magician."

I like the 'your' Frankie, but I'm not so sure about the freak.

"So he played a hole really well," I say, swigging Peroni straight from the
bottle, thus reducing myself to that of the present company.

"You don't get it yet, do you?" I admit I don't.

"Your Frankie played all the holes like that. He made 10 pars, 4 bogeys,
and double bogey."

"Dad makes lots of them. Double bogeys, I mean." That's from Sam, or it
might be Eric. Same difference. Ryan ignores him, or them.

"What's a bogey?" asks Frankie.

"That's a booger, only bigger," says Eric. I know it's Eric because Ryan
names him and cuffs him simultaneously.

"A bogey is when you take one more shot than par," explains Ryan, "so a
double bogey is..."

"It flew right in the pond," interrupts Frankie. "How'm I supposed to play
it out of a pond?"

We both ignore Frankie. In fact, we both ignore all three boys. They don't
seem to mind in the least. Sam'nEric invite Frankie to come and watch
people teeing off on the first hole. Frankie looks to me. I wave him
permission. They disappear like meerkats down a burrow,

"Go on," I tell Ryan. He has piqued my interest.

"Well," he continues, "I think you're Frankie's something special." (Tell
me about it.) "Would you mind if he comes with us next Saturday morning?
I'd like the Morton golf pro to look him over. We wouldn't any pressure on
him. To Frankie, it'll be just another game."

"It's up to Frankie," I tell him. "If he wants to play, it's fine by me. If
not..." A shrug of my shoulders completes the thought.

Ryan beams.

"Frankie says it's up to you. He's really keen to play, but he says 'it's
up to my Uncle Dan. He knows what's best for me.'"

If I weren't a Deputy Headteacher, and Ryan an Assistant Headteacher, I
know there would have been tears in my eyes.

"That's that fixed then," I say, "but remember - no pressure."

Ryan reaches, takes my hand and shakes it: "No pressure. He's only 11."

And that's how one obsession began and one ended. The obsession is
Frankie's; the addiction was mine.

To be blisteringly honest, I'd been working hard to end my addiction for
months. I suppose I have to name my addiction, though you already know what
it is. I was addicted to small boys, and only the shock of watching Ray and
little Ben had jolted me into accepting I was as addicted to small boys as
alcoholics are to alcohol, as junkies are to junk. Those afternoons with
Frankie, Theo, Oscar, little Jack, and the others showed me I was as far
from the Yellow Brick Road as I could be. The first law is 'Do No Harm',
but I'd convinced myself I was only giving these little boys what they
wanted; that their pleasures, needs and desires were identical to my
own. That was a lie, but I was prepared to live that lie. Remember, tell
yourself a lie often enough and you'll end up believing it's the absolute
truth.

It wasn't easy. Never let them tell you it's easy. No addiction is easy,
and the more harmful it is, the more difficult it is to give it up. But I
had one thing that helped me through - Frankie. The boy simply stopped. He
made it clear he was there for the taking, but when I didn't take it, him,
he smiled and got on with boystuff rather than manstuff.

When he mentioned Theo and Oscar, I murmured, "Maybe next time..." which he
interpreted as an absolute no, and got on with more boystuff. When I asked
him if he'd made or collected any more vids, he smiled and showed them to
me - every one would easily have found a place on youtube. When I asked him
if he still used Skype and MSN, he smiled and showed me his computer
area. He no longer used a password. Everything was as available to me as it
was to him.

When all my porn DVDs went missing, Frankie explained he'd wiped them by
mistake. They were damaged beyond repair, but not to worry, he'd used his
pocket money and bought me 50 new ones from the £Pound store - total
£7.50p. We no longer watched TV or DVDs naked under our bathrobes. We
watched TV together, we cuddled, we wrestled... Frankie struggled as I
tried to lift him, carry him, and dump him in his bed at bedtime, with
never the suggestion he could sleep in mine.

And then came the day that changed everything. It was time for Frankie to
go to secondary school.

"Frankie might as well go to secondary school in Brighton," Amy tells
me. "Norman and I are moving to Brighton in August. He might as well come
with us."

I am stunned.

"But he sailed through the test," I say. "He'll sail through SATS. He's
already got his place at grammar school. He won't have that chance if he
goes to school in Brighton." Amy shrugs her shoulders. "And what about his
golf? He's making terrific progress. He's already winning competitions."

"It's only a game," says Amy. "He'll get over it. We all have to get over
stuff. That's the way life is."

I play my last card.

"And Norman... what about Norman? He doesn't even like kids very much."

"Can't stand them," confirms Amy. Then adds, "But Norman's got this
promotion in Brighton. He can't pass it up. And I'm not leaving Norman.  I
can't pass him up."

I'm drowning, not waving.

"Mind you," says Amy. "Naw, you wouldn't be interested?"

"Interested? Interested in what?" I ask. I'm too miserable to be interested
in anything.

"Interested in taking Frankie on," she says. "You've got him half the time
anyway." she continues. "Frankie lives with you. He goes to your precious
grammar school here. He comes to us, in Brighton, say one weekend a
month. Maybe when he's older Norman will start to appreciate him... but I
doubt it. What do you say?"

I can't say anything. I'm struck dumb, lost for words, literally
speechless.

"Aw, come on, you're a teacher. Teachers are supposed to have all the
answers. A simple 'Yes' or 'No' will do."

I can form the word in my head, but it's caught on my tongue.

"Shit, I'm going to take that as a 'Yes'."

Amy turns and opens the door of the apartment.

Frankie is standing there. He looks so young, so vulnerable.

"I think it's a 'Yes', kiddo," says Amy.

"Yes! Yes! Yes!"

That must have come from me.

Frankie runs across the room. He throws his arms around me. He hugs me so
tightly that I'm even more breathless. He is crying. Amy is crying.  I am
crying. Then we're laughing. Then I'm whirling Frankie round in
mid-air. His long legs make it look as if he's flying. I'm flying, though
my feet remain on the ground.

That night, as I tuck Frankie in bed, I whisper, "Good night, sweet
prince. Good night, Frankie. --- Frankie, my love."

And I hear Frankie whisper back, "Goodnight - Dad."

THE END
OF THE BEGINNING