Date: Tue, 12 Jul 2011 13:05:15 -0600
From: applesandpears@hushmail.com
Subject: A Little Revolution 8: Prevert

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and make any other comments or requests, to Adrian at:

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Editor's Note: Naturally, this is all fiction, don't take it seriously,
don't fuck your kids, etc., or anyone else`s. We don't live in this
world. If you have a hard time telling fantasy from reality, seek
professional help.

CHAPTER EIGHT-PREVERT

Back in Paris, Inspector First Class Prevert had lasted all of a week
before the evil once again overcame him. He'd hunted down young Mohammed on
the hard dirty streets of the city's east end. He actually, for once, found
the boy right where he was supposed to be, coming out of his school for the
long afternoon lunch break.

Mohammed had betrayed a look of disappointment at noticing the inspector's
unmarked Peugeot, but he knew better then to make enemies of such a
powerful flic. This inspector could dry his income right up, even put him
in jail. He'd pasted a fake smile on his beautiful lips, run his hand
sexily across his short buzzed strip of hair, and walked with a young pimp
roll over to the inspector's car.

Back at the hotel, the inspector had once again roughly pushed Mohammed
onto his hands and knees. The boy was a pro, and knew well enough to lube
his hole from the little bottle he always carried while the cop was
preoccupied with the condom. The sex had been as before, rough and
unfeeling, but mercifully short. Mohammed didn't just do it for the money;
he loved the cock, he loved the attention, and from time to time he had a
client who showed him the consideration, the tenderness, even the respect
that was so missing from his otherwise squalid life. It was for these
moments that the boy peddled his beautiful ass.

This was not one of those moments, and the inspector was not one of those
men. Mohammad, who usually lived with the fearlessness and pride of youth
in his breast, was actually afraid of the angry, ugly man.  At least this
time there was no choking. He decided to do his best to please him.

After the inspector finished his business, filling the condom with the sad
little leavings of his inadequate cock, Mohammed fished out the fancy
iPhone his butt had earned.

"So Inspector..."

The cop eyed him with the caution of a john who just wants his business
done with, now that he'd gotten what he'd wanted.

"I know this other boy..."

"Are you trying to get out of fucking me, you little faggot?"

"No! Not at all! I like fucking you" Mohammed lied with practiced skill. "I
was thinking, maybe next time you would like to do something with both of
us? Three way is super hot, you know..."

A cruel smile briefly touched the inspector's lips.

"Who is this other boy?"

"Here, I have his picture."

Mohammed opened the photo function and pulled up an album. The first
picture which he held up to the inspector, was of a blond boy of maybe
twelve. The kid was still untouched by puberty, his fair bangs hanging in
his eyes. Still, there was a touch of street tough in his face. The next
photo showed the boy riding his skateboard, in baggy jeans and a hoody,
pulling a trick off a short flight of stairs at what the inspector
recognized as the Place Bastille. The third pic was of the boy, shirtless,
his white skin unblemished and smooth, his soft lips making what he no
doubt thought was a sexy leer at the camera. He puffed out his narrow chest
and sucked in his flat stomach. You could just see the tops of his boxer
shorts.

The inspector grabbed Mohammad's wrist. Hard. He squeezed and turned the
screen back towards the young hustler.

"Who is this boy!" He demanded sternly.

"I...I don't know. I mean, he's my friend. His name is Rene."

"Where does he live?"

"I, I'm not sure. I think in the eighth."

"Where?"

"I don't know, I've never been. I know him from skating."

"His parents?"

"What?"

Mohammed felt the chill of fear run through his slim form. His balls were
practically trying to crawl back into his body.

"HIS PARENTS! DO YOU KNOW HIS PARENTS!"

"No, no, of course not. I think he lives with his sister. He says he's
mostly on his own. He's... he's just this kid from the neighborhood."

"And you, you sick little faggot, have you fucked this boy?"

At that moment, Mohammed lied his most convincing lie. He looked the
inspector directly into his eyes, and spoke softly.

"I thought, I thought you could be his first. Get him into it. Because you
are, you know, you can be trusted. Not to hurt him."

The inspector placed his large hand around the front of Mohammed's throat.

"Listen to me, you shitty little queer. I only fuck street trash like
you. Stupid dirty Arabs and niggers. I don't fuck proper French boys. And I
don't fuck underage. I am a policeman. I obey the law." The inspector's
fingers closed tighter on the teen's throat. Somehow, he managed to try and
croak some words out.

"What did you say?"

"I said yes sir. I understand. I... I am sorry I even thought of it, sir."

"You are not to touch this fine boy. Do you understand. You are not to
touch him, and no one else is to. You are to find him for me, and when you
find him, you will notify me. Do you understand?"

The inspector let go of Mohammed's wrist and grabbed his short strip of
hair, yanking the boy's head back and staring in his scared eyes.

"Yes sir. I will do what you want, always."

Mohammed managed to reach out with his freed hand and grab the inspector's
short penis, which was incredibly hard. He started to masturbate the
flic. The man released his grip on the boy's throat, and shoved the teen's
head in his lap. Mohammed took the inspector's cock between his lovely
lips. The sticky skin tasted of the latex of the recently disposed
condom. The boy sucked away despite his welling disgust, going to that
place in his head where he went at these moments of pain and
humiliation. Going into the arms of an imaginary father, one who actually
loved him.

"How dare he" the inspector thought. "How dare he show me such a boy. A
young, innocent, white boy like that. How dare he...."

Somewhere in the back of his mind, the inspector did understand the
fountain of his rage; how, for one brief moment when he first laid eyes on
the digital photos, he thought he was looking at the image of his own
son. He shook his head to chase the image away.

* * *

Inspector Prevert loved his regular child porn updates.

They came over the network from the computer geeks at Interpol, who
monitored the regular download and trading sites. They had a program that
had been invented by the American NSA to originally listen in on cell phone
conversations. This program could identify regional accents with a great
deal of exactitude. When a new video popped up on the nets in French, this
program would identify the region. A Paris accent would land it on his
server. This was how he had found young Mohammad, and the other teenage
toughs whom he had used to fulfill his wicked urges from time to time over
the years.

The popular image of underage porn was a creepy man in a caravan with a
puppy and a video camera, but for some time, the vast majority of the
videos the Inspector saw were self produced; kids filming themselves
stripping, masturbating, even having sex with their little boyfriends and
girlfriends. Such videos were essentially useless from a conviction
standpoint; no judicial inquiry in France was going to charge some brat
with posting nude images of themselves on the public sites. Mind you, they
had done just that in the States, in some backwards places in the American
South; arresting kids on child pornography charges for sharing vids of
themselves with their friends. But this was Europe, and that would hardly
fly. He sometimes did track down these budding filmmakers just the same
when they left obvious clues to their identity, usually leading him into
their normal suburban lives; the Inspector had busted a number of pervs who
had pretended to be teenagers themselves on the veiled stage of the
internet; thus camouflaged, they had enticed real kids into performing
little peep shows for their pleasure. But it was low grade stuff. `

More rarely, a real kiddy porn video would come through, a video that
showed an adult with a child. Even more rarely would be one which actually
showed some talent, some dedication to production, to making it look
good. It was never Hollywood, of course, but occasionally there would be a
perv who took the time to put a little craft into his product. None of it
was done for money of course; no one had really made money off of underage
porn since the seventies. Most of it was crap, as a result. But
occasionally, you ran across an artist.

The one who called himself Ganymede in the forums was an artist.

He was Prevert's personal white whale, his Doctor Moriarty. He'd been
operating for at least ten years, producing well lit, well photographed
videos of underage sex. He mostly used males, of different races, between
ten and sixteen; though frequently a girl would make an appearance, usually
attached to some handsome young teen boyfriend. Typically though the sex
was boy on boy, though Ganymede's own body parts often made an
appearance. He was fit and rather hairy, with thick curls running down his
belly, and Prevert guessed him to be in his mid thirties, and rather well
endowed. He never, ever, come even close to showing his face, or really any
identifying characteristics, scars or tattoos. The films were usually shot
indoors, though there had been a few in a cabin in the woods. Normally, the
kids all seemed to be Parisian youngsters, wise and cute and stylish,
though Ganymede had made a series of videos at what appeared to be a beach
house in Portugal, with two French boys and several Portuguese
"actors". There had been several outdoor scenes in the house's walled
courtyard, but the Portuguese police had had no better luck then he in
identifying the locals or the location.

Usually, Prevert busted the better filmmakers through the kids. There were
the real amateurs, who used their own kids or those to which they had easy
access, like nephews or neighbors. Those bozos were normally caught when
the kids themselves ratted them out. It was much harder with the more
professional directors like Ganymede. They usually used child prostitutes;
kids who kept their mouths shut, when they weren't in wicked use, that
is. But ironically, that was exactly how Prevert caught them. Such kids
eventually got into trouble with the system, and when they developed a
record, it was just a matter of matching "victim" with "criminal". Prevert
remembered faces, and if he couldn't match a kid in a porn video with a mug
shot, he would ask around amongst the street urchins and teen whores he
knew until he got a hit. It was exhausting but very rewarding work, a brain
teaser of connections amongst the fresh-faced dregs of Paris society.

That's why Ganymede so frustrated him. He never, ever got a hit off of the
kids Ganymede used. His actors always seemed to be cleaner, more
conventional, more fresh then the burnouts and abuse cases that often
starred in the videos that landed on Prevert's desk. They were never found
in his extensive database of young arrests, a database he could easily
search by physical description. Though he had shared this theory with no
one, he had for some time considered the possibility that Ganymede was
either a cop or someone else with access to criminal records. It almost
seemed as if he did background checks on his own actors, to make sure that
they would evade Prevert's attempts to track them down. Where did he find
them all? Prevert had logged thirty-two different kids in Ganymede videos;
new films seemed to come out about three times a year. He'd never had so
much as a nibble off of any of them. Other then occasionally picking up the
ambient noise of the city in the background, the videos themselves offered
no real clue to their filming location. He had nothing on the perv.

But he admired his skill, and when he saw the new video in his in box, the
inspector locked his door to his tiny basement office and took out the roll
of paper towels he kept in his bottom drawer.

This newest video started in the apartment that had appeared in so many
Ganymede videos, a comfortable, old style Parisian place, with wide wooden
floors and tall windows, all of which were well covered in curtains. Like
so many previous Ganymede specials, it started on his long, black leather
couch. Two teenage boys sat playing a video console, one of those Grand
Theft Auto games he had refused to buy his son last Christmas. Prevert, who
was an expert in such matters, placed them both to be fifteen. One was a
very dusky Arab boy, dark skinned but not black, maybe Egyptian or
Tunisian. He had a shaved head and a nice, slim build. His buddy was a
young Slavic god, Hungarian maybe, a fair skinned, red lipped boy with a
wide flat face and a haystack of dirty blond hair, his body pumped up by
lots of hours in the gym and probably a round or two of steroids. He had a
chest that popped out considerably, stretching his tight cotton muscle
shirt. He was unconsciously flexing his triceps as he handled the small
controller to the game.

One of the boys won the level on the game and did something to the
controller at the end, which opened a special hidden screen. A well
rendered animated video then started. In it, the winning driver walks into
a strip club, where a virtual stripper offers him a lap dance. They retire
to a private suite, and she starts her bump and grind, eventually falling
to her knees and taking out the driver character's digital cock, sucking it
down with relish.

This cartoon action quickly produced very real lumps in the silky
basketball shorts that both the teen boys on the couch were wearing. Soon
enough, the white boy was reaching in and playing with himself while his
buddy eyed him. White boy peeled off his tight muscle shirt and flexed his
huge pecs, then ran a hand down his cut stomach and yanked his shorts down,
plopping out a nice pink uncut dick, which he grasped with eagerness. Dark
boy followed suit soon enough, also stripping off his top and yanking out
his own dark circumcised meat. Both boys massaged their pieces to a granite
hardness, and soon enough they reached out and started up on each other,
tightly fisting their buddy's prick.

The jerk off eventually grew more frenzied, and soon enough the two teens
leaned in and their lips met, their tongues wrestling in lust. Dark boy
copped off first, shooting a large load all over his slim belly and the
pumping fist of his friend who followed him into orgasm a minute later,
splashing his own rock hard body with cream.

As the two lusty teens looked up from the mess they had made, there stood
watching in the doorway a pair of younger boys of maybe twelve, also a
darker one and a lighter one. The darker boy was obviously the little
brother of the older teen; he had the same facial structure and build. He
was rubbing himself through his sweat pants.

The lighter boy was Rene, the young blond French boy whose photo Mohammad
had shown him.

The inspector had been jerking off while watching the video, pulling his
little pud through his unzipped slacks. He sat up when he saw the boy and
froze the video. His heart raced. He had spent the last several days
thinking of this boy in his idle moments, ever since that little piece of
teenage Arab trash had shown him the kid's pre-pubescent face on his fancy
phone. He leaned in and stared at the digital image of the boy, his hand
wrapped tightly around his diminutive cock. As his face came up close to
the monitor and took the beautiful kid in, he surprised himself by coming,
hard, shooting his load all over the front of his shirt and tie.

"Merde"! He exclaimed, wiping himself up with the paper towels and getting
up to open the tiny closet behind his desk and take out his spare shirt and
tie. His office, deep in the basement, was only ten meters or so from the
Seine, through the rock and dirt of the Quai des Orfevres. If only the big
shots upstairs could see what he was doing...

Inspector Prevert changed himself and stuffed his dirty laundry into his
gym bag. He sat down again at his desk. One reason he had his own office is
because the other flics never wanted to have to see the filth that he had
to watch on his screen from time to time. That worked out well for him.

He started the video again. Young Rene walked over to the older two teens
and expertly slid his track pants down, obscenely groping his tented white
bikini briefs. The darker teen leaned forward and pulled the waist band
down, to reveal a hairless crotch from which rose a small but very hard
pink boycock. The teen licked his lips and then licked young Rene's shiny
smooth three inches, before sucking him between his lips.

The younger Arab boy followed suit, offering his own pre-pubertal meat to
the Slavic stud on the couch.  Before long, the two older boys were hard
again. Multiple orgasms were a hallmark of Ganymede's videos. He liked to
get at least two cums out of his young actors in each scene. It wasn't hard
with his horny adolescent talent.

Inspector Prevert watched with his own meat hard again in his pants as the
younger boys sucked off the older boys, getting them hard and ready, and
then climbed into their laps, each younger kid lowering himself onto his
older counterpart. Rene slid the big dark cock up his pale white backside
with ease as Prevert once again took out his angry little penis and jerked
himself off, this time being careful to land his pitiful load into the
paper towel.

Mohammad had lied indeed. This Rene was no eager virgin, waiting for a man
to turn him out. He was an experienced cock jockey who, judging by the ease
he took the older boy's erection inside him, had a world of experience in
fucking.

Inspector Prevert felt this knowledge burning within him like a hot coal,
like the devil's tongue. He had never broken the law, never been with a boy
under the legal age of consent. But as he looked at young Rene, with his
slim white child's body, his soft round face pursed in lustful
concentration, his dirty blond hair hanging in his eyes, he knew that he
would have this boy. No matter the cost.