A bit more of the tale of urban delinquency, based on the kids we see every day.

Like it? Tell me. Want more? Tell me. Don't rate it? Tell me why.



Street Kids


"Naw. Gerroff!" I muttered. Something was shaking my shoulder.

Slowly my eyes opened. I wished they hadn't. It was bright. Brilliantly bright.

My brain woke up next, to the sounds of a cement mixer bouncing down a set of concrete stairs. And somewhere in there someone was using a battering ram on my skull.

Gradually I focussed on my Mother's face.

"Here you are, I've made you a cup of weak tea." she said. "I'll do you a scrambled egg when you come down."

"Thanks Mum, I'll be down in a bit." is what I wanted to say, but all that came out was "Uuurmmmmmghhhh!"

"Now sit on the side of the bed while you drink your tea, you might feel sick again and have to run to the toilet." she said.

Sit? That means waking and moving other parts of my body. No thanks.

I gently slip beneath the waves of sleep again.

"Anthony! Get up!"

Every part wakes with a jolt. I swing my legs out and assume the seated vertical. Mechanically I lift the cup. Hey! It's only warm! She must have made this yesterday! I smile, and take a sip. Of course, it runs down the side of my chin.

I remember how to drink from a cup, and try again. Yes, that's nice. Slowly I drain the cup, then have to get dressed. Oh, I'm dressed already.

I remember putting this tracksuit on after the shower last night. I shut out the other memories of last night, wisely.

I stand, and don't fall over. That's a bonus. Steadily I walk to the door, out onto the landing, and to the stairs. Concentrate. Remember how.

I make it to the bottom, and I'm still upright. Into the kitchen, out with the chair, and sit. So far, so good.

A plate with a yellow cloud on it appears in front of me, with a fork in it. Scrambled egg. I try a bit, and it's OK. Slowly, I eat it all. A plate with a slice of toast on is slid in front of me, replacing the now empty one. I nibble at a corner, and gradually it all goes. A mug of brown liquid replaces that, and I try it. Coffee. Not too hot, either.

"How do you feel now, Anthony?" comes from somewhere. It's too bright to look.



"Better. (long pause) Thank you."

"Good. Now go out and sweep up the broken glass, and hose off the step and path."

Outside? There are dragons out there. And sunlight.

"Come on, you haven't got all day, it's nearly twelve now!"


With great effort, and despite the jack-hammering inside my head, I managed to sweep and hose the site of last night's events. I dumped the glass in the dustbin and coiled the hose back up, then stepped back in the kitchen. Mum was making some sandwiches. At least working had taken the queasiness away.

"We'll have these for lunch," she said, "after you've showered and changed for the hospital this afternoon."

I smiled weakly, still embarrassed about what I'd done, and having to admit to, and went up to the bathroom for my shower. I stripped and stood under the hot water trying to wash my sins, and my hangover, away.

The last thing I wanted to think about was sex, especially after last night's admissions to Mum. But try to explain that to a 14 year old boy's body: put it under a hot shower and something's bound to come up!

I had soaped and washed myself all over and was swilling off under the shower spray when my hand touched it. My fingers wrapped themselves around without any mental effort, and I was soon stroking it steadily. I leaned forwards, rested my other arm on the shower wall, rested my head on my arm and closed my eyes. The hot spray showering my hair and back was arousing and I just went along with the feeling. The fantasy which played in my mind was a rewrite of the sex I'd had with Rye, but without the violence. His face was angelic and smiling, his eyes eagerly wide open. We caressed, touched, rubbed fingers over skin as we both aroused. His eyes begged and his body invited, and I accepted with a deep feeling I'd never experienced in a fantasy before. The love making was slow and erotic, the kisses electric. His hand held my sides gently, his legs wrapped round behind mine. I sensed his tightness as if it were his first time, and my hand, still covered in liquid soap, gave the sensation of his smooth slick tunnel. Our excitement grew, increasing our speed: his thighs rising to meet my cautious thrusts.

This was the hottest fantasy I'd had in a long time, probably since the early ones when I discovered wanking four years ago, and the effect it had was dynamic. I came hard, many times, imagining my cock was buried to the hilt in Rye's ass. My knees weakened and buckled: my arm, still supporting my head, slid down the wet wall and I ended up sitting in the shower bowl, the last limp squirts of my cum trickling down over my fingers. I lifted those fingers to my lips before the shower could swill them, and sucked in my cream. I leaned back on the shower side and laughed I was still a cum-slut, I loved the stuff! I determined to continue the life I had started to lead, and just keep it well away from home and the dangers of Mum finding out.

I still had to face Rye though: the real one, not the one in my dreams. I stood and swilled myself and the walls, dried, and dressed in the other, clean, tracksuit and new trainers. My headache had almost gone, and I smiled as I sauntered downstairs to find Mum in her coat, all ready to go.

"You took long enough!" she scowled. "I was just coming to get you. I'll take nearly an hour on the bus, you can eat the sandwiches on the way."

I changed my expression to one more expected of me, a sort of exasperated frown. We walked down to the bus stop and within two minutes caught one into town. Then there was a twenty minute wait for the one that passes the hospital, so I sat and ate my lunch. Rye was watching the TV when we arrived, and listening with earphones so he didn't see us until we stood at his bedside. He'd had some sort of pink cream applied to his grazed cheeks and forehead, it looked like he'd been in a blancmange fight!

"Hi Ant, Hi Mrs. Calligan." He said coldly. He tried to move but it hurt somewhere and he flinched and swore.

"Fuuuck! - Sorry Mrs. Calligan."

We stood there for a few minutes not knowing what to say other than polite nothings, then Mum said "I'm just going to pop to the ladies, I'm sure you want some time in private."

As soon as she was out of earshot we both spoke together.

"I'm sorry, I can't -" I started, but he was already saying "I'm glad you've come -"

"After you!" I said.

"I'm glad you've come back, Ant, you really do care, don't you?" He almost smiled as he said it.

"Do I, Rye?" I replied. "I'm here because Mum made me. That's why she's here with me. I got her wound up last night, and she's told me I've got to sort my life out."

"What did you do?" he asked.

"Drunk most of a bottle of Dad's whiskey on the back doorstep, then brought it all up in my lap."

"Eewwww!" Rye wrinkled his face up. "Gross!"

"Why's that and sorting yourself out brought you and her here today?" he asked a moment later.

I looked him straight in the eye as I replied,

"I used you as an excuse."

"How?" he frowned.

"She thinks I want you and me to be well, an item." I said coldly.

"And you don't?"


He stared at me as that sunk in.

"Oh well, it doesn't matter anyway." he said, looking back at the TV.

"Why not?" I asked.

"When I come out of here, I'm going into care."


He turned back and looked at me as if I were the hundredth person he'd explained it to.

"I'm fed up with my life, Ant, and it ain't gonna get any better while I'm at home with - her. She don't want an invalid kid at home, she ain't got time for it. So I've asked if the social will take me in."

"Who have you asked?"

"The sister."

"And what did she say?"

"She'd see what she could do."

I looked round towards the ward office, and saw the Sister and Mum talking. I went very hot.

"That was after she told me not to depend on you."

I snapped back to Rye as he said that.


"She said you weren't dependable." He watched my face as he said it.

Mum came back looking not too happy.

"Ryan says he's asked to go into care." I said blankly.

"I know." Mum replied.

"He thinks he'll be a nuisance to his Mother." I added.

"Well, that's probably true, too."

"So, if he goes into a home, or even gets fostered we won't see each other for some time!"

I was getting desperate here. I wanted Mum to see `it' was over between us, without Rye blurting out that `it' had never started.

"That would be true." she said, emphasising the `would'.

She was up to something, I knew.


The rest of the visit was spent with us (Mum and me) discussing important things with Rye. Things like how good the food was, (I still can't believe she didn't raise an eyebrow when he said `crap'!), what TV shows he would watch and how some of the privacy curtains could do with washing. She hardly said a word to me on the bus journeys home and when we arrived, went straight into the kitchen and started preparing dinner. I had some long-overdue homework to do so I went to my room to start that.

Having cleared a book-sized space on my desk, I opened the maths book.

"Draw a graph showing the relationship between the surface areas and -"

Relationship. What fuckin' "relationship"? The surface area doesn't give a fuck about what was it again? "the exterior dimensions of the following geometric patterns."

That isn't a "relationship", that's one thing making the other what it is, controlling it, like.

Like Rye wants to be controlled, forced into why am I thinking about him? Stupid little shit. If he wants to do that, that's up to him. If he wants to

I suddenly got the vision of Rye running out in front of that truck, and getting killed. How would I have felt about him then? Would he still be a stupid little shit? My spine went cold and the back of my neck tingled. Why the fuck is he always in my mind??? What the hell has it to do with relationships, anyway? If he's stupid enough to think that me and him would well, that's up to him. I've told him now, it didn't mean anything. End of.


I stood up, and for want of anything else to do, went downstairs. Mum was still fussing in the kitchen, so I quietly slipped out through the front door.

Our street corner was deserted, they were all at Dan's I guessed, smoking joints, downing lager and generally wasting their weekend. I wished I was with them. I wished I had a fag.

The garage on the main road! They had fags. Perhaps the bored girl there would stop filing her nails long enough to sell me a pack, I had the money now! I walked on with a purpose.

The sun had been out all day, and there was no wind to cool the air. I was sweating when I got there, and the trainers had blistered a toe.

The bored girl wasn't there, but an older man about 55, fat, balding and with at least two days' stubble on his chin. I pushed the aluminium and glass door open and walked in.

"Twenty Royals please. King size." I said on reaching the counter, and nodding towards the cigarette rack behind him.

"Are you old enough to be smoking, son?" he frowned at me. I flared.

"I'm old enough to do what I fuckin like!" I shouted. Shit. He wouldn't serve me now, I thought.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to say that." I said, quietly and before his shock reduced enough for him to flare back. "It's bin a crap weekend, one of my friends is in hospital and my Mum's pissed off at me. I'm hot, my feet ache an' I'm just desperate for a fag, that's all. Sorry." I tried to look pitiful and tired, but probably just looked a moron.

The fat man smiled, his shock at least not replaced by anger.

"That's OK son," he said, "We all have off days. Sounds as if yours has been worse than usual, though, eh?" He reached the packet from the rack and slid it over the counter.

"Yeah. Far worse." I said, sliding a 5 note the other way.

"Were you looking for Carol?" he asked as he sorted my change.


"Carol. She's usually here Sundays." He handed me the few pennies change.

"The bored-looking girl, always filin' her nails and with the radio on full? Nah. No way!" I half-laughed.

"Yeah, that's my Carol!" the fat man said.

"Your Carol?"

"My Carol. She's my daughter, and you sure have her weighed up!" he laughed.

"Your dau Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean -"

"That's OK, son. No offence taken. It's just that she's always got boys hanging around and I thought sorry if I've got you marked down wrong." He said.

"Say, you look really hot why don't you help yourself to a coke from the display fridge and go through to the back room, it's cooler and you can have a ciggy if you want."

I really did want to sit down, and have a fag. The cold coke was an unexpected bonus.

"Thanks!" I said with a genuine smile, took a coke and found my way to the back room. It was cooler: the air conditioning for the whole place was in the roof. There was a small table with a kettle and a few grubby cups on, an old armchair and a plastic chair, one of those you can stack up on each other. I sat in the armchair and put my feet up on the other, closed my eyes and leaned back. The cold air from the air con wafted down on me.

I didn't hear the fat man come in, but when he lifted my legs to sit I jumped and moved to put them on the floor. He held them though, and when he sat he rested them on his legs. He took a swig from the coke can he had, and said, "I thought I'd close early. There's no trade here Sundays, not since the by-pass opened." One of his hands massaged my right ankle, and it felt nice. I studied his face while it was upturned, taking another swig from the can. He was as old as my Grandad was, but nowhere as smart. I tried to weigh him up, but couldn't, I just felt somehow comfortable with him.

"I'll go if you want to close, thanks for the coke!" I said, and went to move. He held my ankle, still massaging with a finger.

"You haven't opened it yet! Go on, have a drink!" he said, smiling at me.

Just for a split second I panicked, then thought `What the hell, he's no problem.' and popped the can's ring pull.

I was taking a swig when I felt my trainer slipping from my foot, and looked over. He'd put the trainer next to his can on the table, and started massaging my foot with both hands. I wanted to pull away, but it did feel good, and I let him continue.

"You are hot, aren't you?" he asked. "Your socks are soaked with sweat!"

This was getting strange, but he dug his thumbs into my instep and pushed them up towards my toes, taking the ache away completely.

"Have you walked far?" he asked, still thumb-massaging my foot.

"About a mile and a quarter." I said. "That feels nice!" I added, I don't know why, it just did so I said so.

"Shall I do the other one?" he asked while I was taking another swig. Before I had chance to answer, my other trainer was off and he had my feet, one in each hand, and was doing the thumb thing to my insteps.

"Is that nice?" he asked a minute later. I was relaxed and cooler by then.

"Yes." I answered calmly.

Suddenly he lifted my feet level with his face, and buried his nose in my right foot instep, and sniffed in deeply. My face must have registered the shock.

"Very nice!" he said as he lifted his face away. "The best smell a boy can have!" he added, then buried his nose in my other foot. I was totally blown out by this, I mean, smelling feet? My feet at that!! Gross! Totally gross!! -But strangely I felt a growing in my trackies.

I started to pull my feet away, planning to bolt as soon as I could.

The fat man had other ideas, though. He held my feet tight, then noticed a red patch on my left sock. "Oh, you poor boy, you've been bleeding!" he said, sounding genuinely concerned. He peeled the sock off, quick at first but carefully slowly over the bloodied area. "Oh, my!" he exclaimed as the sore, burst blister came into view. "Those new shoes have rubbed you raw!" he twisted my foot, and his head, round it to get a better view. "I'll put a plaster in that so it won't feel so sore." He said.

Well, OK, he seemed to know about feet, and I didn't fancy the idea of walking home with that sore rubbing all the way.

"O-K." I said, hesitantly.

I expected him to warm some water, and dab it with a clean rag or something: perhaps there was a first aid box with some stinging antiseptic or other he could use but no he leans forward again and licks my toe including the sore!

I jerked my foot back, but he held it tight. "It's OK, saliva is antiseptic!" he said, trying unsuccessfully to reassure me.

"No it isn't!" I said, referring to the `OK'. I didn't quite believe the antiseptic bit either. I tried again to pull my foot away, but he still held it.

"Honestly! Look, have I tried to hurt you? I'm trying to help you here, you don't want to walk home with it still rubbing, do you?" he said. I also noticed he'd elbowed my trainers to the far side of the table, behind him, so I'd have to move him to get those if I wanted to run.

"What if somebody comes in? It'll look a bit strange." I said, trying to disinterest him.

"I told you, I've closed up." he said. "The door's locked. Nobody'll come in."

I turned my head, looking for an escape. I felt his hand on my lap, and he felt the one part of me that wasn't fighting this.

"Let me have what I want," he said calmly, "and I'll let you have what you want. I know you young teens are always horny."

There was no escape route, so I'd better play along, I thought. And the sore blister had cooled down after he licked it. I didn't reply, just let the pressure go from my leg.

"That's a good boy!" he said, and lifted my foot again. He licked from my heel to my toes, underneath. He sucked my big toe, then ran his tongue between my toes. "Mmmm!" he uttered as he lifted his head, savouring the taste.

I ought to be revolted, it was worse than `Eewwww!', but my cock told me otherwise. It rose hard, lifting my trackies as an advert to my arousal.

The fat man swapped to my other foot, peeled off the sock and licked the underneath the same. He savoured the taste the same, too. He lowered my foot and rubbed his crotch with it, making me feel what was under the cloth. And then he stared at my lap, which was giving my game away.

"Boys' feet do to me what girls' boobs do to you." He said with a smile. I thought my toe had felt damp on the cloth.

"Not me!" I was saying before I realised. "I'm not into that!"

"Oh! A boy's boy, eh? He exclaimed with a widening grin. "I should have guessed when you said you weren't here for Carol!"

"Don't worry, son, I know how to take care of your needs, too!" he added as he stood and lifted a box from the shelf above the table.

I shot a querying glance, not only at `how he could take care of my needs', but also at what was in the box.

The second question was answered first when he took out a box of Band-Aid plasters, took one out and carefully applied it to my blister. Equally carefully he slid my socks back on, taking care that the left one didn't snag the plaster off. Then, just as caringly, he eased my trainers back on. I was relieved it was over, yet somehow happy with it. All to do with my blister feeling better, I suppose.

"Now then, my boy, I see something else has come up that you want me to take care of!" he said, reaching forward and rubbing the tent in my lap. It bucked, appreciating his touch.

"Just lift your bottom and let me slip your trousers down, there's a good boy!" Despite the words, he didn't sound either condescending or pushy about it. I lifted my bottom.

My cock stood up hard as my trackies and boxers slid down my legs.

"My! Isn't that beautiful!" he exclaimed. "And so big! I bet you keep lots of boys happy with that!"

I felt myself blush. "One or two!" I whispered back. I don't think he heard, if he did, he didn't respond.

His fingers wrapped daintily round it, and slid the skin up and down.

"Just close your eyes and imagine one of your friends doing this." he said. I closed my eyes and smiled. Actually, I was laughing at him, but he must have thought I was imagining someone.

"That's it. Is he young, blond haired and blue eyed?" he asked.

I pictured such a face, felt warm and shivered at the same time. What was this thing about little boys that got to me? I didn't want it, I had to stop it now.

"Is it your friend in hospital?"

I sat up straight and looked daggers at the fat man. "No, it fuckin' isn't. No way!" I shouted.

"OK, OK, I'm sorry!" he said, pushing my chest gently back in the chair. "I didn't mean to touch a nerve, I misunderstood."

I sat back, too angry to relax, too aroused to stop him. I closed my eyes again. Just so I wouldn't see.

"That's it, just imagine someone you -" he started again.

"Just fuckin' wank me!" I said, pressing my head back into the stained armchair.

I detected his anger. He wanked hard, and fast. Actually, that's what I wanted - a hard wank, not a soppy romantic one.

There was no climax, I just came. I felt four blasts shoot from my cock, and it was over. I didn't watch.

"Was that good?" the fat man asked.

I looked at him, almost in disbelief. "It was OK." I said. "I've had better, and I usually charge for the privilege."

"Are you a rent boy?" he asked, a little horrified.

"Not exactly. Sometimes, when I'm in the mood, or need the cash -" I hinted.

"Well, I couldn't afford to pay." he said. "I've only had one good day recently, when the by-pass was closed one evening, and all the traffic came up here." He was going to tell me, whether I wanted to hear or not.

"I was just about to close, and all this traffic started coming past. Then they all wanted petrol. I stayed open till the road was opened again."

"That was my friend the one in hospital." I said. "He got knocked down." I felt it unnecessary to elaborate.

The fat man looked suitably sympathetic.

"and his Mum can't afford the time off work to look after him when he comes out of hospital, so he's going into care."

I tried to pretend stifling back a tear, but to my surprise, a real one rolled down my cheek.

"I won't be able to see him till he's completely better and back home, if that ever happens." I went on. The `if it ever happens' struck me as I said it, and I was suddenly hit by the thought of not seeing him again. A couple more tears rolled down my face. Why? Fuck knows, but it was helping. By then, I'd pulled my trackies up and we were back in the garage's shop.

"I've been trying to raise cash to help them, but it's embarrassing to ask for money in exchange for -"

The fat man went to the till, and took out a handful of notes.

"Here." He said, stuffing them into my hand. "I'm really sorry to hear about him, and there's obviously something special between you both." he said. "I'm sorry if I offended when I suggested him doing you know, back there."

I stuffed the notes in my trackies pocket, and smiled through my wet eyes. "Thank you, Mister!" I said, putting on my coy `little boy' look.

"You shouldn't be doing things like that, you know. You could easily get hurt and whatever you do, don't go behind the cinema after dark." he warned. "There's a couple of thugs work there, you know, for cash, and they've got a nasty minder. He's not afraid to use the knife, of you understand. Just be careful very careful. I'm sorry I can't help you more, but," holding his hands up to show his `business', "I'm losing every day I open. I shall have to sell it up soon."

Like I care, I thought.

The fat man switched everything off and unlocked the door for us to leave, then locked it again behind him.

"I hope I'll see you again!" he said as we separated.

"Perhaps!" I replied. `I doubt it' I thought.

Once out of sight, I pulled out the cash and counted it. 80! Easy money!

I stuffed the cash back in my pocket, unwrapped the fag packet, took one out and lit it. Life was good again.