Date: Sun, 16 Mar 2014 19:36:47 -0300
From: James Fitzhugh <fitzh1943@gmail.com>
Subject: My Convertible Story

My Convertible Story

by: James FitzHugh <FitzH1943@gmail.com>

Many thanks to Len in South Africa for his editing and to Rob in Alberta,
Canada for his technical assistance.

Here we go with all the legal stuff. If you are under the legal age; then
you really ought to leave now. If, on the other hand, you find the story
offensive or it is illegal according to the laws of your Country, State or
Province for you to view this content, I suggest you tune out and go find a
good Sherlock Holmes mystery or a good novel written about the days of
wooden ships and iron men. If you need help to find authors, just drop me a
note.

If you enjoy this story - or any others on this great site - remember that
you can only read them if Nifty remains online. For that they need our
cash. If we all give just a wee little bit, the site won't disappear and
take our stories with them. No-one is asked to do any more than they can
realistically afford but every ?, Euro or $ helps?

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

I was lazing around this morning reading a who-done-it story by Jack
Preston (the Physic Detective) on Nifty and when I'd done with his latest
chapter, I rummaged around and came across a cute short story about a guy
in his early 20's and his experiences using his convertible to seduce both
local cheerleaders and obnoxious jocks into sucking cock. Well that
convertible story brought back a memory. And, like it or not, here goes.

I was living in a village outside Montreal. I was 14 or so at the time. Up
the way was a small cul de sac that had no more than three or four houses
on it. In the lovely ranch style house on the first property next to the
woods a lady, I'll call Mrs. Bullock, lived. Her husband had won the
Victoria Cross during the Second World War but had sadly died in the Korean
War. She lived alone, except for the occasional visitor and, if the wags of
the village were to be believed, she was being regularly serviced by the
very talented dick of Mr. Armstrong whose young wife had died of an
inoperable brain tumour shortly after giving birth to the last of her three
sons. Those sons would each play a small part in my training as a
cocksucker but not just yet.

Anyway, I used to use this little wee road to enter the woods at the end. I
would walk through the next field until I came to the horse trail that had
been used for years by the owners of the horses that were stabled at the
Rhenish farm. If one followed that trail it went deeper into the woods and,
eventually, I found a lovely, natural spring fed pond that I would sneak
off to any chance I got. I didn't know how many of the neighbourhood boys
knew of the pond but I was not going to be kind, inform them of the pond's
whereabouts and lose my favourite spot complete with the privacy it
afforded me.

So, on this particular day, like the proverbial bull in a china shop,
paying no thought whatsoever that the pond might be known to others, I
crashed through the partially covered pathway to the pond. To my shock and
horror there was a big lad, older, perhaps 17 or so, lazing about in the
water. He had obviously heard me because he looked straight at the close
crop of shrubs and young trees behind which I was standing and told me that
if I'd come for a cool swim then I'd better get into the water. So shyly, I
came out from my hiding place and walked down to my favourite entry point
ditched my shorts, left on my tightie whities, and slid into the pool. It
was only when this boy-man lazily moved over towards me did I realize he
had no clothes on, no swimming suit. Well, we swam for a while but he never
came close enough to me to touch me and I wasn't, not at that moment
anyway, interested in touching him.

Well I'm sure you want me to get to the convertible so I'll skip over the
seduction scene and my induction into the cocksucker's fraternity but
that's exactly what happened. He slowly and patiently taught me all I
needed to know about, as he called it, "swinging on his meat". And, it
didn't only happen the once. I turned out that Colin was the nephew of
Mrs. Bullock and was visiting for the summer. Apparently he attended the
Royal Military College in Kingston. He intended to become a naval officer.

Okay, just think about it for a moment. Here is this young guy who seduces
a 14 year old boy into becoming his personal cocksucker for the summer and
this dude is working his way up to becoming a naval officer on a ship full
of horney matelots with nary a woman in sight for miles around. Talk about
a rewarding career.  I bet you this guy works his way through the ships
company starting with the youngest sailor and working his way up the chain
of command.

So, what started off at the pond as an initiation ended up with my
servicing Colin and his 8" dick at least once a day, sometimes twice and,
if we got the chance to get to the pond, it might have happened three and
sometimes four times a day. Colin always complained of bloated balls and
was forever convincing me that my warm mouth and throat were just what he
needed to relieve the stress. He would brag that the best position was for
him to be lying on his side with his cock wedged into my throat and lazily
'fucking face' as he called it. I was in love with his dick so I didn't
mind just so long as he wasn't too rough.

Now, let me tell you about that convertible.

One afternoon I was making my way back home from a dunk in the pond when I
left the woods at the Bullock house. I noticed this absolutely beautiful
yellow and silver (well to a 14 year old boy ....chrome looked like silver)
1955 Chevrolet convertible was sitting in the drive. I'd never seen a
convertible car before. My grandfather always had Desoto's which were a top
of the line luxury car in their time and my father, even though he normally
drove a chev, actually preferred driving his Harley Davidson Indian
Chieftain. It was something he learned to drive when he was a dispatch
rider during the war. It's also something he'd bought from the war surplus
and my mother was forever telling him to get rid of it lest I wanted to
learn to drive 'that bloody awful thing' as she called it.

As it turned out, it was my brother who had a love affair with
motorcycles. I hated the bleeding things. One day, when we were in our mid
20's my brother took me for a spin on his brand new motorbike through the
famous, narrow Wellington Street tunnel. All that short trip did for me was
reinforce my hatred for motorbikes. I got my own back a few months later
when, late one night, my brother had a terrible accident and hit a horse
that had jumped a paddock fence and was wandering on a lonely stretch of
road coming back to the City. While I was thankful that my brother had
survived his accident, I stood and watched as the hospital attendants
slowly, I am sure it was very painful, pull the clothing from his beat up
body. In fact, I got so pissed watching that scene that when I left the
hospital I spoke to the QPP and had the motorcycle taken to a scrap yard
where I had the broken, mangled thing crushed into a nice, neat cube. That
cube, covered by a very colourful blanket I had brought home from Mexico
sat in his living room for nearly 25 years until his dear wife thought I
had made my point and had it removed. Okay, I hear you. I'll get back to
the convertible.

So there I was in the drive admiring this beautiful car getting my grubby
hands all over it. Then this chap, tall, blond, blue eyed who looked like
he had been moulded to perfection came out of the house. What struck me
most as I looked at him without his shirt on was the hair on his
chest. That dense mat of hair came right down to a narrow point at his
belly button and then fanned out to become lost below the waist band of his
shorts.

Nope! He didn't yell at me to get my grubby hands off his prized possession
but he did walk over to me and slipped his arm around my shoulder. He asked
if I liked what I saw and, of course, like a bloody school boy which I was,
I was all oooohs and aaaawwwws. But, while mesmerized by the car, I was
actually looking for Colin.

So when I looked up at the young man who had to have been in his very early
to mid-twenties, he introduced himself as Trevor and when he asked my name
and I told him, he replied that Colin had spoken to him about me. I didn't
really know if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

But Trevor didn't say anything other than that Colin had had to go to the
doctor with his aunt that afternoon and that he, Trevor, was babysitting
the house. He asked me if I wanted to go for a drive. Hmmmmm, does a bear
really shit in the woods? Of course, I wanted to go for a drive. Who the
hell wouldn't have wanted to go for a drive in that car?

So, remember there were no seat belts back then, we got into the car and he
slowly drove it through the village until we came to the main road that led
to the double lane highway leading to the City. Once we were on that road,
he let her fly. We had just driven onto the highway when he leaned over to
me and said that Colin had told him all about how I suck a mean cock. I
really didn't know what a mean cock was so I simply said that I took care
of Colin. And I never forgot his next words to this day.

"Well, maybe kiddo. You can take care of this for me."

And when I looked down at his crotch, he had opened the top button of his
shorts. He definitely had no underwear on. He put his right hand on the
back of my head and slowly drew it down to the leaking circumcised knob I
could clearly see. He slowly moved my head back and forth so that the clear
liquid that had formed a bubble over the piss slit was now transferred to
my lips and right under my nose.

We drove down that highway on our way to the big city with me crouched
over, sucking on his cock that he was slowly moving in and out of my mouth
and listening to his constant words of either endearment or encouragement.
I did remember passing the big truck but I didn't see the face of the
driver. Nor did I see the faces of the women on the bus we passed either.
But I did take the offered load that he shot at the entrance of my throat
and I was ever so proud because I didn't spill a drop. He took me to his
apartment in the City where I met his roommate.

Trevor first introduced his roommate by his nickname which I didn't
understand until a little later in the afternoon. His nickname at
University was 'cherry picker'. I gathered from the stories I was told that
he got that nickname because of his prowess as a cherry picker of young
high school and college maidens. Trevor also told me other stories that
afternoon of the cherry picker's propensity for humiliating out-of-control
jocks by forcing them onto their knees to suck cock in the locker room in
front of their mates. Apparently some of the stories were legendary.
Anyway, his 8?" very thick, circumcised cock was the very first cock to
slide up my ass. He was not a rough cocksman. Nope, this guy was a master
and took his prey with both patience and a great deal of finesse. Three
times before I went home Devon, his real name, filled my ass with his
white, thick cum while Trevor massaged and anointed my throat with his.

I spent the afternoon at the apartment and had supper with them (both what
was served above and below the table top) before Trevor took me
home. Thankfully, he had put the top up otherwise, without a jacket; I
would have been frightfully cold. Just as we drove onto the Victoria
Bridge, Trevor undid the top button of his jeans and I blew him all the way
home. He timed it perfectly and shot his last load down my throat just as
he turned onto my street. But, I have to admit, even though I enjoyed
working on his big rod all the way home, I didn't find it as exciting as it
had been when the top was down.

And that was my one and only experience with a convertible. Oh ya! To
answer that question about bears and shitting in the woods. Now come on
fellas, how do you think those little cute white bunnies get turned into
little brown bunnies? Hehehehehehahahahahahaha lol lol.

TTFN