Date: Tue, 29 Jul 2014 14:52:12 +0000 (UTC)
From: fiveholepunch@comcast.net
Subject: Keith's Dirty Ass

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Disclaimer: While dirty boys, of every age, exist, this is entirely of the
mind, a fantasy.


Keith's Dirty Ass


"Keith?  Come on out here, honey.  Coach Monahan's here.  Come say hello."

"Coming, Mom."

I heard the young adolescent voice, typical in its teenage exasperation and
slightly more than typically irritated, from the back of the house.

"He's probably in his room playing video games," Mrs. Kerry explained with
a note of resignation.

After a minute, the bare footed boy made his dutiful appearance at the
entrance to the living room from the back hall.  He was basically as I
remembered him from the St. Francis Boy's 12 and Under Basketball Team,
disheveled brown hair and a fidgety demeanor.

"Say hello, Keith."

The twelve year old gave a quick hello as demanded.  Before I could say the
same, Mrs. Kerry began an unexpected line of inquiry with a definite
parental tone.

"How did you get the front of your shirt wet?"

Keith had appeared in boyish summer garb; perforated white nylon basketball
shorts and an oversized orange t-shirt, the bottom of which was splashed
with water.

"I was in the bathroom," the boy said minimally.

I could see that he was hoping that would be enough of an explanation.  It
wasn't.

"Well, how did you get the front of it wet?  You didn't pee yourself did
you?"

"No, Mom!" came a loud, understandably embarrassed, denial, "It got wet
when I was washing my hands."

"Okay, honey," Mrs. Kerry accepted with look of annoyance, "Coach Monahan's
here because he wanted to talk to you about this fall's team."

I spoke up quickly to end the boy's mortification.

"It will just take a few minutes, Keith.  How about we go to your room so
your mom can get back to what she was doing and we can talk?  You can you
show me your video games."

"Why don't you do that, honey, so I can finish up in the laundry room?
I've got a ton of wash to fold."

"Okay."

"That's a good boy.  Now you take Coach Monahan back to your room."

I am sure, Dear Reader that you know that there was more here than meets
the eye, just as I did.

While it is true that Keith was a student at St. Francis, a school for boys
with emotional and behavioral problems and Keith had issues that might have
led Mrs. Kerry to believe her son might have had "an accident," as a guy I
knew that there was a more probable explanation as to why a twelve year old
boy might have "accidentally" splashed the front of his shirt with water in
the bathroom.  I knew Keith had been caught out at being summoned to the
living room and hadn't the time to do anything else in his desperation to
cover up his predicament.

Keith had probably been masturbating in his room and had more than likely
ejaculated on the front of his shirt; we know the distances that a young
teen can shoot.  Keith went into the bathroom to make sure there was no
tell tale stain left on his garment and before it could dry he was called
to the living room.

Without going into too much detail, it may help the Reader to know that
Keith was a "dirty boy."  He had been doing "dirty things" since he was
little.  A strict home, strict discipline, and strict Church attendance did
not seem to cure the boy of his behaviors.  Mrs. Kerry had long suffered,
at times questioning the burden that God had imposed upon her.

I knew Keith's family situation led to his psychological problems and I
also knew that he needed guidance, a guidance that wasn't offered in school
or a psychology manual.  I felt it was time to offer such guidance.

Keith led me to his room.  I closed the door behind us.

"My games are over here."

"Keith," I began seriously, "You can show me your games some other time.  I
came over here today to talk to you about the upcoming basketball season,
but that can wait as well."

The boy looked up to me, a bit nervously, but expectant.

"Keith, I know why your shirt is wet."

I could see the immediate expression of alarm in the twelve year old's face
confirming my suspicion.

"You were masturbating" I stated directly and firmly.

"I ... I wasn't ... I ... I ...," the boy stuttered.

I cut him off.

"Yes you were.  You shot come on your shirt and you tried to wash it off in
the bathroom, but it didn't have time to dry."

The boy was stunned and silent.

"Isn't that right?" I demanded.

"Uhh ..."

The scrawny boy looked down at his feet.

"Keith, you can lie to your mother, but I know."

"I wasn't ... I swear."

He looked guilty and would soon be upset in trying to deny it.  I took a
step and put my hands on his bony shoulders.

"Keith ..."

"I wasn't," he pouted, his denial less convincing.

"Turn around."

I didn't wait for his compliance, spinning him gently by his shoulders to
face his dresser mirror.  I reached down with my right hand and pulled the
fabric of his t-shirt upward, my hand on his chest.  I lifted the cotton
far enough so I could hook my left index finger in the elastic waist of the
boy's shorts.

"Hey, wait ..."

"Quiet, Keith," I ordered with a tone that brooked no opposition.

It took two or three tugs to get the elastic over Keith's butt before the
slippery shorts and his tighty whiteys fell to the boy's ankles. His
juvenile penis was exposed as was his darkened pink scrotum.  I could see
all of this reflected in the dresser mirror. I felt my cock stir at the
sight. The boy raised his head to look into the mirror as well.

I reached down with my left hand and took the purplish circumcised head in
my thumb and first two fingers.  I could feel the sparse, just emerging
pubes above his cock against my thumb and the sparser hairs on his boysack
brush against the back of my pinky.  Keith gave a slight groan.

I gave the glans a light squeeze, I could feel the stickiness.  I brought
the fingers to my nose, smelling the scent of Keith's recent ejaculation. I
then held them under his nose as proof of his recent activity.

"Keith," I explained, "we both know that you like doing dirty things, don't
try and deny it. You've tried to hide this in the past and when you got
caught you've gotten in trouble, haven't you?"

The boy could only muster a petulant and barely audible "yes" in response.

The Reader should know that Keith had exhibited inappropriate behaviors
throughout his young life. Keith had quite often soiled himself, either
peeing his pants, or worse, throughout his grade school years. These were
dismissed as accidents at first, but it soon became obvious that Keith
enjoyed being dirty, he enjoyed being defiant to his mother, father, and
teachers. He had been involved in, and caught, many times playing the
traditional "dirty games" with other neighborhood children. He had been
involved in more serious mischief as well; breaking windows, setting small
fires, etc.

When Keith reached pre-adolescence, he was also found to have been involved
in sexual contact with animals. It had been known that he and some other
boys had been masturbating male dogs from the neighborhood. Furthermore,
Keith had gotten caught, by himself, pants down, half naked on all fours
behind a neighbor's garage, having his bottom licked by a large male German
Shepherd.

I continued my admonishment of the boy, "You were masturbating in your room
just before I came over, weren't you?"

No answer.

"You like playing with yourself," I stated matter-of-factly, "You do it
several times a day, don't you?"

The boy squirmed uncomfortably, halfheartedly trying to break free from my
grasp. I wouldn't let him avoid the question.

"Don't you?"

"Yes," he admitted.

"Well, I think it's time you learn, young man, the consequences of being a
dirty boy. And I think you should learn your first lesson right now."

I grasped Keith more tightly to my side. I ran my left hand down to the
boy's naked buttocks caressing the smooth flesh. Keith froze, not wriggling
for the moment, at this unexpected development. I looked up to our
reflection in the mirror. Keith, sympathetically, did the same. A partial
understanding passed between us. Keith knew that he wasn't going to be told
on, but he didn't know what was going to happen beyond that.

I continued, running my hand under the firmly muscular, but boyish
buttocks, my fingers seeking admission to the taut cleft, clenched somewhat
in nervousness. I pulled the twelve-year-old closer in a more intimate
embrace. I ran my left hand slowly forward, around the boy's hip, waiting
for Keith's reaction in the mirror. I hesitated, waiting for the
anticipation to show on his face, before I ran my fingertips ever so
slightly over the boy's penis and scrotum.

Keith gave little gasps at the exquisite sensation. He erected quickly, as
quickly as only young teens can. Any resistance or hesitation he had melted
at this moment. His sensual writhing excited me. My member swung upwards
over my right thigh as it pulsingly engorged in my boxers.  My fingertips
continued to graze his stiff penis and tightening scrotum with light
touches.

"Oh ... Ohh"

"Does it tickle?"

"Y-y-yes ..." the boy breathed, shuddering in my embrace.

"Play with your penis, Keith," I quietly urged the boy.

A hesitant moment.

"Go on," I encouraged.

Keith reached down with his thin fingers and did what every boy will do
until the end of time.  I could smell, in his hair, the scent of him as I
peered over his shoulder.  We both looked down as he began delicately
manipulating his erection.

It wasn't too long before the boy became aware of my cock pressing against
his back.  I became aware of his awareness.  I pressed my hips forward to
make certain he knew of my aroused state.  Keith looked at our reflection
in the mirror and smiled.

"Masturbate your cock, boy," I whispered lustily into the twelve-year-old's
ear.

The youngster stroked with increased vigor.

I slid my hand back to the boy's bottom, goose pimpled from the cool air
conditioned air of the late August afternoon.  I sought a path through the
valley.

"Nnnhh."

The boy moaned at the combined sensations of his hand on his rigid penis
and my thumb tip tickling his quivering roesebud.

"You're a dirty boy, Keith," I said salaciously, firing the boy's rampant
lust.

He moaned in affirmation. I could feel the erotic tension in the boy's
body. My own stiff and slimy rod twinged in sympathy.

"You like masturbating, don't you?"

Keith had stuck the tip of his tongue between his pursed lips, delighting
in stroking his cock. I could see his eyes twinkle in our shared
understanding of his forbidden pleasure.

"I can see that you do," I whispered, my breath caressing his neck.

I reached over with my right hand and gave a light pinch to the boy's left
nipple. Keith squirmed a little, first resistant, but then succumbing to
the erotic sensation.

"Nnnh ... Mmm ..."

I took advantage of the boy's squirming to press my thumb firmly against
Keith's creamy anus.

"Your butthole's dirty," I stated lasciviously, "You like having a dirty
butthole, don't you, Keith?"

I knew the boy liked being dirty. I knew it would turn him on to hear me
talk about it.

"Nnngh!  Yes!"

"I bet you finger your dirty asshole. You like doing that, don't you?"

I pressed my thumb against the muscular ring. It gave way for a moment
before clamping down on the tip of my intruding digit. Keith wiggled his
legs, halfheartedly trying to escape.

"Nnnnh!  Nnnn ... Nnnh ...," came the boy's high-pitched whine.

"You like to do things that people don't know about. Well, I know about
them. I know you're dirty boy and you like to do dirty things. Dirty things
like playing with your butthole."

It was here that I vigorously pushed the first joint of my thumb beyond the
boys clinching ring.

"Nnnhh!  Uhnnh!"

The boy dropped his head and tried to stifle his moans, knowing full well
that his mother might hear.

"You like to do that in secret, don't you?"

"Y-y-yes ... Yes, I do," the young teen confessed, panting.

I knew he wouldn't last much longer. I decided to drive him to higher
heights of sensual ecstasy.

"I want you to come, Keith. I want you to come with my thumb in your dirty
ass."

I pushed my thumb completely into the boy's rectum.

"G-g-ghhh! Guhh-uhh ... uh uh uhh."

He blubbered and panted.

"Quiet!" I ordered, "You don't want your mother to hear, do you?"

"Nnn – nn – No!"

"Don't stop beating your meat," I commanded.

The boy had stopped at my anal intrusion. He started in again.

"Faster!"

The boy complied. He gritted his teeth and huffed in erratic breaths. I
knew he was close. I decided to drive him over the edge.

"Come," I hoarsely whispered in his ear, "Shoot your sperm you dirty boy!"

With this I swiped my enveloped thumb back and forth across the
twelve-year-old's prostate. Keith threw his head back in shock.

"Ihhnng!  Ihhnnngh!  Innnnggh!"

I reached up and put my right hand over the boy's mouth muffling his
orgasmic cries. His anus clenched with rhythmic pulsations. Two, maybe
three, clear jets shot out onto his bedroom carpet. Enraptured, I watched
his erotic transports in the dresser mirror.  As his ejaculatory spasms
eased, the boy's tense body relaxed; he went limp, leaning into my
supportive embrace.  His eyes opened, his breathing slowed.

"Good?"

"Y-y-yeah ...," he gulped out, mouth dry.

There was an interlude of languid satisfaction.

I broke the spell first.  Keith's eyes widened as I slid my thumb from his
hot, sticky, clinging anus; I felt it close smoothly as I withdrew.  I
wiped my thumb, which wasn't really dirty, in a theatrically exaggerated
manner conspicuously in the pouch of Keith's white underwear which I lifted
from around his ankles.  This dirtiness delighted the mischievous
twelve-year-old.  I pulled his tighty whiteys up over his bottom and now
wilting cock.

Standing up, I said, "You'd better clean up before your mom finishes in the
basement."

"Okay."

After pulling up his shorts, Keith turned around.  I openly adjusted my
bulging erection, making sure the boy would see my aroused state. Keith
looked up to me, nervously unsure.

I smiled and said, "Tomorrow afternoon, two o'clock at school gym. You'll
get a chance to see it."

I winked at Keith.  He flushed a little.  I turned and, without another
word, left the boy in his room.

After calling out my goodbyes to Mrs. Kerry downstairs in the laundry room,
I let myself out the front door.  Standing on the front porch, I smelled my
thumb.  I was definitely looking forward to coaching basketball this year.


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