Date: Wed, 10 Jun 2020 08:01:07 +0000 (UTC) From: Peter Brown Subject: Last of the Line - Chapter 67 Last of the Line by badboi666 =============================================================================== If sex with boys isn't your thing, go away. If, as is much more likely, you've come to this site precisely to get your rocks off reading about sex with 14-year-olds then make yourself comfortable - you're in the right place. NOTE to the reader: "Peter Brown" aka badboi666 is, as you might guess, not in the first flush of youth: indeed he is well into the you'll-die-if-you-get-this-fucking-thing age cohort. It has been his habit in all his stories published here to be two or three chapters ahead of publication. If he gets a nasty cough and a temperature he will post all outstanding chapters together with a synopsis of what is still to come. Then, if he snuffs it, you can at least have some idea of what befell Dab in the end. A bit like Edwin Dro Don't leave, however, without doing this: Donate to Nifty - these buggers may do it for love but they still have to eat. http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html =============================================================================== Chapter 67 I had had my mouth round Francis's cock for only a few minutes before he leant forward and cradled my head in his hands. "You're good, Bertie," he whispered, "very good." I continued eagerly: He had praised me, and I wanted so so much to be the best boy at sucking his cock that he had ever had. I had no way of knowing that mine was by far the youngest mouth to play host to his cock - I should not learn that for several days (not until I was 8, in fact). "You can feel my balls, Bertie." My hands ventured to where they had been invited. He moved forward a little, allowing me access. I could see how big and hairy they were - quite unlike James or Nicholas. Being completely smooth myself, and having seen only my father and his valet naked I had no idea that pubic hair existed - how could I have? - so the natural inference for an enquiring mind was that if your cock had been cut like that then you grew hairs to make up for it. All this took less time to work out than the time it took to pass my tongue over his cock-head five times. The first time I did it Francis shuddered, and I knew that when somebody had his cock in your mouth and he shuddered that meant he liked what you were doing, and wanted you to do it again ... and again. "You're making me very hot, Bertie, and soon -" I broke off from sucking to advise him that I knew what he was going to do, and that happy though he would be to do it in my mouth, his happiness would not come close to mine in receiving the warm fluid straight from my lover's balls. What I actually said was probably more like "you can do it in my mouth, I like it," and I returned to my post - a fitting description, for it was hard and proud and utterly utterly magic, possessed of an ability to turn a little boy into a practised sex worker. After all, Francis had said I was good, hadn't he? I tried not to forget to fondle his balls, but my mouth, my lips, my tongue were so busy that my fingers sometimes forgot their task. Francis groaned: my reward was close! I well knew the signs. He raised himself an inch or two off the bed - I stayed fastened - and put his hands under his arse cheeks, pulling them apart and pushing his cock further into my mouth. I spluttered and drew back half an inch. "Sorry, sorry," he muttered. His groans grew more intense - he was close! Then ... Even now, over 80 years later, I can remember the sensation of the next minute. I had sucked both Nicholas and James to orgasm in the Empress and had enjoyed the sensation of spunk being squirted into my mouth. I hadn't greatly enjoyed the taste - they were different - but it was by no means unpleasant. What Francis fed me, no doubt because he was who he was, was the most delicious stuff I had ever had in my mouth. It was Him, His spunk in my mouth - more of it, yes, more Francis - and my mouth was full of his precious essence before his cock ceased to give any more. Wise Francis pulled back and his cock left my lips with a small pop! "Now enjoy the taste, Bertie, you'll never have that taste for the first time again," he murmured, still breathless from an almighty come. I swirled it round; my tongue gathered every morsel - nothing would go to waste. I wished I could have kept it in my mouth for ever, so exciting was the taste, but inevitably I had to swallow. I have tasted spunk on thousands of occasions since, shot from hundreds of cocks, often from cocks on men (and boys) with whom I have been more seriously in love than I was with Francis. But first love is intense, especially when you're not quite 8 and are being invited into a secret part of the grown-ups' world, and my feelings that afternoon have never been recaptured. There have been more intense moments - many, in a long and active life - but none where the colours of the rainbow have been so blindingly intense. He picked me up and cuddled me. I offered my lips, uncertain whether he would wish to kiss a spunky mouth. When his lips met mine and two seconds later when our tongues met I knew that my time in Ottawa was going to be the happiest time of my life. Francis felt my cock - iron-hard with all the delight of the last minutes. "Do me," I whispered, our lips still connected. I had no clear idea what he would do - mouth, hand; all I knew was that if I didn't have my come I would explode. He picked me up and stood me on his thighs. "Hold my head, Bertie, and hold tight," and my cock was engulfed right down to the root in his mouth. "Aaah!" was sufficient proof that I was happy for him to continue then ... my balls were in his mouth too! I felt his hands on my arse, as they had been on his, pulling me open. I was loving every second, but I found the breath to say softly, "you can fuck me if you like, after you've done me." He let my boy bits back out into the open air. "Are you sure? Have you been fucked before?" I nodded. "Yes, and I love it. But please please do me. Fingers are best." Francis was a great sucker and a great wanker. Of course an orgasm is always better if there's an emotional element as well. An hour later I was able to say that Francis was a great fucker - better by far (assisted by that one-way emotional flow) than James or Nicholas. As I lay in his arms after I asked if we could do it again. Francis laughed. "Of course we can, Bertie, but not today. I need time to recover. When your balls squirt - when you're 13 or so - you'll be able to do it half a dozen times a day. Old men like me need time to let our balls fill up again. Besides, it's after 4 o'clock and I need to start to get dinner ready. You can help if you like." No royal command has been more readily complied with. I learned a great deal from Francis in my 5½ years in Ottawa, and not all of it in bed. ***** You must not think that my infatuation with Francis was linked to any feeling of fidelity to him, to his cock or to his bed. My immature mind had yet to link love with fidelity. I continued to enjoy sex with James, and with Nicholas, and it wasn't long before my activities with Francis became known to those with whom, until then, I had confined my sexual life. I was in bed with James one night, still a few days shy of my birthday. He had sucked my cock and when I had come he had made me squat over his chest, my arse displayed for his lips and tongue to thrill. I knew he would fuck me once he had made me ready, and I relaxed: when James fucked me he was always gently, right up to the last minute when he became fierce. I liked it when he became fierce and I knew that if I wanked myself as he was starting to get there my cock would give me a really good feeling when I came again. Looking back I know I was incredibly lucky in so many ways: no-one ever did anything to me as a boy that I did not enjoy, or which gave me more than short-lived pain. And any pain was always worth it! After James had come inside me and I had had a second come his cock slipped out and he cuddled me on his chest. I liked lying on him and we both liked the feeling of his spunk trickling out of my arse down onto his belly. He kissed my nose. "You're a good boy, Bertie." I smiled: I liked being told I was a good boy. "I love what we do, Papa, it makes me feel so good inside." James chuckled. I chuckled too, causing more of James's deposit to emerge. That was the signal for James to reach round and gather some in his fingers, fingers which he brought to my mouth, fingers which my tongue fed upon, fingers which gathered another harvest of nectar. "You like that, Bertie, you like my spunk." I nodded. "You like Francis's spunk too, I expect." I must have frozen, for he quickly said, "I don't mind, Bertie, Francis is here for us to enjoy just as much as Nicholas." I relaxed; if James said it was all right then I had nothing to worry about. "Who do you like best, Bertie?" My mouth was buried in James's neck. My muffled "Francis" was only just audible. "Better than Nicholas?" I nodded, though I couldn't bring myself to say why. Luckily I wasn't asked to give a reason. "You mustn't stop doing this with Nicholas, Bertie." I sat up. "Why would I stop, Papa? I like it with Nicholas. It's just that ... I prefer it with Francis." "You're a good boy, Bertie," my father said again. That was good enough for me. ***** My birthday was special. James took me for a ride in an open horse-drawn carriage through Ottawa, pointing out the important places. Being wrapped up in thick rugs (it was freezing with the threat of snow) was exciting to an 8-year-old whose experience of travel had never included anything horse-drawn before. When we got back to where we'd got into the carriage we were greeted by Nicholas who gave James a flask and me a big mug of hot soup. And then, right in the street where everyone could see he kissed the tip of my nose. "Happy birthday, Bertie," he whispered. My nose, my cheeks, my whole face were bright red. Bloody Cunliffe hair! But I was thrilled all the same. Not every boy of 8 gets kissed on the nose, more's the pity. A man and woman nearby smiled at the sight, presumably in their minds a little boy being teased by his big brother. They were not to know that the situation wasn't entirely innocent, for while he had been fucking me the day before Nicholas had promised that he would give me a special present out in public where everyone could see. Dinner was special too. Francis must have got James to agree that for one night only the fare offered would be more appealing to a child than to his father. Sausages and creamy mashed potato with lots of gravy, followed by treacle tart and custard, followed by ice cream. Followed by a night in Francis's bed. James had started the day by wishing me a happy birthday and telling me that he had listened to what I'd said a few days earlier about preferring sex with Francis. "Tonight, Bertie, as a special treat, you can sleep with Francis in his bed." My eyes must have almost popped out, and I gave him a big hug. "Thank you, Papa, thank you ... but I will come back, I promise." James ruffled my hair. "I know you will, my boy, I know." Francis was most energetic and most tender and most vigorous and most loving and most ... everything. I realise now how much I owe him - and the other two with whom I shared my arse - and I regret not having the wit (or the words) to tell him. All I could do was murmur that I loved what he was doing, over and over again. This was probably enough for Francis: after all, he was enjoying fucking a young boy whose idea that there might be boundaries to what two people, each with a cock and an arse, might do with each other in bed, did not exist. By the time we left Ottawa nearly six years later my feelings for him had naturally changed, but he remained my first choice. ***** You must not think that the culinary expectations on my 8th birthday remained long as fixated on the nursery. Francis saw that I was anxious to spend as much time dogging his footsteps as I could, and he was not slow to see that he could recruit a willing helper in the kitchen as readily as in his bed. By the time my 9th birthday was celebrated my daily meals with James each evening had exposed my palate to things most people don't experience until adulthood. What Francis achieved was that 9-year-old Bertie had a modest part to play in what was put before him and James that Sunday evening in 1931. Bursting with pride I announced "I made the sauce, Papa!" "Well, Bertie, it's very tasty," he said. It was all the encouragement I needed. "All great cooks start with the sauce," he explained. Years later I discovered that this was piffle, but James was well aware that the quickest way to a boy's arse is by praising something of which the boy is proud. In any event I needed no persuasion. James and I passed a busy and rewarding night. My 10th birthday ("now you are in double figures, Bertie, you're really starting to be grown up") saw my first introduction to a lobster. By my 11th birthday I was as adept at getting the thing out of its shell and onto my plate as James himself ("well done, Bertie, you've got the hang of it now"). It wasn't the only thing of which I had mastered the hang by that age. ***** You must not think either that I confined my sexual outlets to other members of our household. I discovered a preference for boys my own age. How did this happen? School! I was always the source of some interest in the school James sent me to - for one thing I was the only English pupil: indeed I was the only non-Canadian pupil apart from a couple of much older American boys, and they were not popular with the local kids. From the word go I had an interest in other boys' bodies when we changed for sports or PT, and when you're 8 there's no shame in overt curiosity. Boys with larger cocks were well aware, even at that age, that what they had was worth displaying, and those of us more modestly blessed were happy to accord them status - provided they let us look carefully. As we got older many boys became either embarrassed, or discovered that gazing at other boys' cocks was somehow not the sort of activity they wished to continue. At that age those of us not so possessed had no way of knowing that this was normal adolescence - however much one might wish it otherwise we queers have to accept that most boys end up straight. Without such life choices there would not be a succession if 14-year-olds for us to fuck, however, so we must be grateful that there are breeders out there to provide what we need by way of sexual thrills. However I'm straying from the point. I and several Canadian boys spend many happy hours enjoying each other. I was much in demand in such matters because I allowed it to be known that my bedroom was perfectly safe, and that there was no fear of discovery of two boys up to no good. By the time we were leaving Ottawa I had had sex (at some level) with at least 20 boys. Most were just wank buddies - and none the worse for that - but once once wanking became spunk shooting things took a different turn. In my last 15 months in Canada (once my cums were productive) I had proper sex with four boys, all of whom fucked me and all of whom I fucked. Naturally, given my experience at the hands of James, Nicholas and Francis, I was far better informed and skilled at what we got up to, and a small percentage of the queer early teenagers of Ottawa had me to thank for their instruction. My particular friends were Pierre and Micky. They couldn't have been more different. Pierre was from rural Quebec. He was a few months older than I with very dark hair and deep brown eyes. I think there must have been Indian blood somewhere, because his skin was naturally darker than anybody else's and he sprouted hair well before the rest of us. He had a long cock - I suppose it must have been 5 inches or so soft, but not a great deal longer hard (but a lot thicker). On a 12-year-old 5 inches is pretty impressive though. He loved it when I licked his balls and sucked his cock. No-one had done those things to him before, and he was very happy to return the favour. Micky was the class clown, always joking and never taking life seriously. His cock, like mine, was ordinary, but he was a source of the dirtiest jokes imaginable, and to a bunch of 12-year-olds that gave him immense status. His willingness to try anything once endeared him to me, and he was the first boy I fucked. James knew perfectly well what went on in my bedroom, but he never showed any interest in being involved until the last few weeks of our stay. He had asked me to chat to the objects of my lusts "between fucks, you know how it works, Bertie" to see whether any of them had any fantasies about sex with daddy types. Pierre hadn't, nor did the other two (Hank and Vic), but Micky was immediately interested. He had an uncle, he told me (we were, as James had implied, resting, touching each other fondly while giving our balls time to recharge and our cocks a rest), who had fucked him a few times. "Why did you stop?" I asked, "didn't you like it?" "I loved it, Bertie, but he left town suddenly, and since he left three months ago if it hadn't been for this hot thing -" (he was holding my cock) "- my ass would've fucking healed up." "Apart from shit." "Yup, you're right. Why didn't I think of that?" "D'you fancy another guy up there, Micky? A proper man with a big cock." "Oh God yes, Bertie, but where will you find one?" I said I could find one at the drop of a hat if he was serious. "You mean it, don't you," he said, looking at me seriously. I nodded. "There's a man who fucks me regularly - he's been doing it for ages - and he'd do you if you want. He's bloody good, but you'd have to promise not to breathe a word." Micky's lust was up (I could feel it) and any caution he might have had went out of the window. "Yeah. Promise. Fix it, Bertie." "There are two conditions," I said. "One, I get to join in. Two, you don't back out when you meet him." "Why would I back out? If he's up for fucking a 14-year-old and he doesn't beat me or anything weird, why would I back out? He's not 80 or anything?" I assured him that he would not be subjected to a fucking from a man of 80. "He's 49. Will that be OK?" Micky grinned. "Oh sure, Bertie, just so long as his cock works OK. Old man's jizz is still jizz, after all." We agreed that Micky would accompany me home after school the following day. We then resumed our own afternoon's pleasure. Micky was a good fucker - very energetic and quite noisy. That was another reason why my friends like to be entertained in my house - they could make as much noise as they wanted. I could tell Micky was antsy all through school the next day. When the bell went at 3.30 he could hardly wait. "Come on, Bertie, let's get on with it." When we got home and consumed the obligatory cookies and milk he asked where we would go. "Where does this guy live?" "Here. It's my dad. He's been fucking me since I was 7 and he's fantastic." Rather as I expected Micky was taken aback by this. "Your Dad!" "Yes. What difference does that make? If it had been one of the teachers - Mr Hodge, say -" (Mr Hodge was popularly supposed by our little group to be fucking anything in trousers) "- he's Barry's father. What's being my father got to do with it?" Micky shrugged. "Dunno, but it seems odd." "Micky, boys of 14 being fucked by grown-ups is odd, so where's the problem. Come on, he's waiting." "You mean he knows what we've been doing?" "Sure, Micky, that's how it works here. Now do you want to get fucked or don't you?" Micky still wasn't convinced. "Are you telling me that your dad fucks you? No kidding?" "No kidding, Micky, and I know he'd like to fuck you too. He likes boys, just like I do. Come on." Micky's reluctance was rapidly fading as the prospect of a proper fuck grew in his mind (and in his trousers). It was inly then that it dawned on me that James, while undoubtedly up for fucking a new 14-year-old, might not have chosen to do so at that moment, and without warning. However it was now far too late to lose face with Micky by backing out, so I simply said "follow me", and knocked at James's study door. "Come in." I put my head round and to my relief saw that he was alone, and not just alone but not sitting working at his desk. "Hello, Bertie, what is it?" That was a good sign - he wasn't busy in the middle of something. "I've brought my friend Micky to see you. He wants you to fuck him." Micky, hearing this, couldn't believe his ears. In Micky's house you didn't say that kind of thing, and certainly not in the hearing of an adult. But here it seemed quite acceptable, because the man just smiled. "That's nice. Come here, Micky. Are you sure about this? Have you and Bertie been fucking each other?" Micky was struck dumb. "Go on, Micky, tell him, it's all right, I promise," I urged. Micky merely nodded. "And you like being fucked, do you?" More nods. "Oh, for God's sake, Micky," I said, "I told you it's OK. He knows you and I have been doing all kinds of stuff for ages." "How does he know?" "I tell him, you idiot. That's how I know he wants to fuck you. `If he's keen, Bertie, go and get him' he said, and here you are." Micky shook his head. This was miles outside his experience of family life. James beckoned Micky over to where he was sitting. "Listen, Micky. What Bertie says is true. I love sex with boys your age. If you are keen then you've nothing to fear. Why don't we see how keen you really are, eh?" James put his hand on Micky's crutch. "I thought so. Let's stop being shy - we're all made the same, after all." He stood up. "Come on, both of you." Micky's jaw dropped. "Bertie as well?" "Too right, Micky, I get to play too, don't forget." Micky shook his head again. I said softly, "just let it happen, Micky, and stop worrying. It's OK, I promise." He looked at me. "Sure?" "Sure." "OK," and I gave him a hug. "Let's go and have fun." =============================================================================== The fun continues in Chapter 68 as Micky has his first experience with a man (and his second and third). Drop me a line at badboi666@btinternet.com - that is after you've dropped nifty a few quid. ===============================================================================