WARNING: This story contains sexually explicit parts involving sex between a minor and an adult. Do not read the contents if it will offend you. If accessing this story causes you to break local laws (village, town, city, county, province, state, or country, etc.), please leave now.

Any characters portrayed in this story are fictional and not representative of anyone living or dead.

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A small sermon. Nothing in life is free. Everything costs, and Nifty is no different, so please send them a couple of $'s/£'s to cover costs and stuff. They're very discreet, and you won't get your name in lights if you do.

Peter Piper and his pickled Pepper.

By John T. S. Teller.

It's mid-July; a blazing hot day and I'm tired when I arrive at my destination just after lunch. The first thing I see as I turn the articulated truck into the entrance of the refinery in southern England is a group of guys with placards. Union guys; and they're on a 24 hour strike. Being a strong union man myself, and because I work for a company that's unionised, to cut a long story short, after phoning my depot back in the Midlands, I don't cross the picket line and make my way back up to Southampton to await further instructions.

I like Southampton. I would have parked up here on the corporation truck park anyway after I'd unloaded, and slept the night in my sleeper cab. Now it's just a case of parking up at two instead of five. There's a swimming baths nearby that also has bathing facilities, so after having a light meal at Joe's Place, I have a bath, change into some light clothes, and go for a walk.

The park I'm walking through is a nice place, and because the kids have broken up for the school holidays, the place is packed with them. That's nice. Lots of nice boys, but in this day and age, the last thing you need to do is perv them, and I'm not one for seeking out kids in the bogs. Dangerous places. You never know when the cops are keeping an eye on the place. So I have to satisfy myself by just walking and looking. There are some Asian boys playing cricket, and a few white boys playing football on the deserted, rock-hard football pitch.

Before I became a trucker, I was signed up to a professional football club, but wasn't quite good enough to make the grade. When I'm home, I play for a local semi-pro side during the football season. Just weekend games, and because I like football, I decide to watch the boys playing, and because I'm only twenty-seven, I reckon I can get away with not being thought of as a `perv', especially when the ball is kicked into touch and I control it easily, bounce it a few times on my trainers and then lob it perfectly into the arms of the boy who comes to take the throw-in. He grins appreciatively at me, and takes the throw-in. I don't miss the fact that he glances at me a few times while he's playing.

I like him. He's what? Thirteen? When I hear him shouting to his pals, his voice is partly broken, which would suggest he's about that age, but he's small for a thirteen-year-old; about five foot tall. He's wearing the red and white colours of Southampton FC., and he's got a nice body; good legs; good looking; brown hair, and he's lithe and supple. He's not a bad player either.

Another look in my direction. And then another, and he's showing off his skills when he's got the ball. He knows I'm watching him and not particularly interested in the others. Again the ball goes out of play in my direction, and again I juggle the ball while he runs to me to take the throw-in. When he gets to me, I grin at him and say, "You're not a bad player!"

He gives me a nice grin and says, "You're not so bad yourself."

I wink at him and flick the ball into his hands.

He puts his head to one side and asks, "Do you want a game?"

I shake my head. "No thanks. It's too warm for me. I'll go over by those trees and sit in the shade for a while. I can watch you from there."

He giggles, and takes the throw-in.

It is hot; the shade is comfortable; the grass is soft beneath me, and after I've been watching the kid for a while, I lie back, rest my head on my hands and close my eyes. When I wake, the noise in the park is much less, and I'm wondering how long I've been asleep. I look at my watch and am amazed that I've slept for two hours. I'm even more amazed when a voice says, "You snore a lot."

I turn and see the kid sitting on the grass not far away from me. He's got that lovely grin on his face, and I grin back at him when I say, "I was tired. I've had a long day."

His face becomes serious, and he says, "You're not from around here, are you?"

I shake my head. "No." And then I tell him why I'm here, and when I've finished, I ask him, "Where are your pals?"

He shrugs his shoulders. "They went ages ago."

I ask, "Why didn't you go with them?"

"I did. I've been home and had my tea. I came back to have a kickabout and you were still asleep."

I laugh. "Snoring."

He laughs. "Snoring. What's your name?"

"Grant. Grant Harrison. What's yours?"

"Piper. Peter Piper."

I chuckle. "Picked a peck of pickled peppers."

He giggles. "Did Peter Piper pick a peck of pickled peppers? If Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers, where's the peck of pickled peppers Peter Piper picked?"

I laugh out loud, and say, "You've heard it a million times eh?"

He nods. "More than that! Where are you staying tonight?"

His question takes me off guard, and I ask, "Why are you asking?"

Another shrug of his shoulders. "I was just asking. If you wanted digs, my mum takes in overnight stayers sometimes."

My mind is working overtime now. This boy has gone home, had his tea, come back here, sat beside me for a while, and now he's inviting me to stay with him at his home tonight. That tells me he's interested in me. I'm interested in him, but very probably not for the same reasons he's interested in me. I would love to have his body; to make love to him. He's my perfect age of attraction, and he's attractive! Very attractive! What to do? I decide to test him further and say, "I usually sleep in my cab." The moment I've said it, I see the disappointment in his face, so I add, "But occasionally I stop in digs. If they're good that is."

Immediately, he perks up and says, "My house is nice. You'll have a double room to yourself. Mum does lovely meals, and she doesn't charge the earth."

I decide to have fun with him. "Ahhhh... but how would she take to somebody who snores?"

He laughs. "It wouldn't be a problem for her. I'd be the one that had trouble."

"Why?"

"Because your room would be next to mine."

Your room would be next to mine. Unless I'm some sort of a dummy, that's an invitation if ever I heard one, and it's not without a hint of eroticism. He's telling me I'll be sleeping next to him! That comment makes my mind up for me. I grin at him and say, "Well, Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers, how far is your place away from the truck park, and how do I book a room?"

His grin is a wide one when he says, "It's a five minute walk. I'll give you mum's phone number."

One more question I need to ask. "Does your dad work?"

The moment I've asked it I know I'm going to get the answer I wanted, because his head drops when he says, "Mum and dad are divorced."

That really settles it for me. I like this boy, and I certainly like being in his company. He's nice, and even though he may not want what I want, just spending time with him will be a pleasure. I take out my mobile and ask, "What's the number?"

He hesitates. "Don't tell mum I gave it to you. Just say somebody gave it to you and you're just enquiring."

Those comments mean I'm staying with him at his invitation – another come-on if ever I heard one, and I'm thinking this boy may be gay when I look him straight in the eye and say, "Understood. I'll act as if we've never met?"

He nods, and gives me the number.

Peter's house is one of those large mid-terraced type. Four bedrooms, and when I've introduced myself, Beccy, Peter's mum, shows me to my room. She's fit, and because she's only in her early thirties, I can imagine that she's glad of some male company. Maybe that's why she takes in lodgers? Maybe she needs a man occasionally. If that's the case, because I only like boys, I'll be disappointing her. I'll have to pretend I'm married or something like that. Whatever, I'm in the house that Peter lives in, and I'm going to enjoy it.

It's seven thirty when I've eaten and I've not seen Peter yet. I think I know where he is because I can hear the TV on in the lounge. Maybe he's keeping out of the way to keep things distant between us. After I've eaten, Beccy tells me that if I want to go out for a beer, I'm welcome to do so. I tell her I've had a long day and that I'm not bothered, and that I'll watch some TV if that's OK. She nods and tells me to go into the lounge, but she warns me that her `grumpy teenager' is in there. She takes me into the lounge and introduces me to Peter. "This is Grant. He's staying tonight because they're on strike down at the refinery."

Peter is sitting on the sofa. Although there are two easy chairs in the room, because I can see the TV better from there, after I've said "Hi" to him, I ask if he minds if I sit on it with him. He grins and moves over, and I sit at the other end of the three-seater. I'd like to sit right next to him, but that would be pushing things. Although he's still wearing his football strip, he's removed his socks and his legs are curled under him. At least I have the enjoyment of having his feet not too far away, and if I get that far... ten little `piggies' to play with. All I need to do is reach out and I could easily tickle his feet. When I'm settled, Beccy asks me if I'd like a beer. I nod, and she goes out to get one. As soon as she's left the room, Peter looks behind him to make sure she's gone, and then looks at me and gives me a big grin. I grin back at him, reach out and tickle his feet, and then we both pretend nothing has happened when Beccy comes in with the beer and gives it to me. I expected her to join us, but she says she needs to do some ironing, and goes back out again.

The next thing I know is that I can hear a radio on wherever she is, and Peter gets up, goes to the door, shouts, "Mum! We can't hear the TV with that noise on!" and closes the lounge door. This is getting more intimate by the minute, especially when Peter sits down again, and this time he doesn't curl his legs under him; he stretches them out so they're within easy touching distance, and I'm beginning to think this is my birthday.

I'm having difficulty now. It's not easy watching the TV and perving a beautiful boy's legs. He's got gorgeous feet; nicely shaped, and toes that are just made for sucking. Yes, I do like boys' feet, and everything above them of course. He has nice calves, and the part of his thighs I can see are tanned and smooth and just a breath of downy hair on them. I'm part ogling him when he asks, "How old are you Grant?"

His question shakes me out of my semi-trance, and because I know I've been caught out ogling him, I grin when I say, "Twenty seven. How about you, Beckham?"

He grins. "Fourteen in December... Messi!"

I laugh. "I wish I was. He's a fabulous player." I point to the TV. "Is there any football on?"

He nods. "Yes. Barcelona versus Real Madrid. At eight o' clock. Shall we watch it?"

I take a sip of my beer. "Definitely." I look at my watch and say, "Ten minutes. What time do you have to go to bed?"

He shrugs his shoulders. "Any time. Mum goes to work at eight in the morning, so I get up whatever time I want during the hols."

I look at him again and ask, "So what time do I have to get out of the house?"

Another shrug of the shoulders. "You'll have to ask mum." And then he asks, "Will you be going home tomorrow?"

I nod. "Very likely, unless they decide to strike for another 24 hours."

Peter seems disappointed and says, "Do you come to Southampton often?"

All this talking is giving me an opportunity to get closer to him, and pretending I'm being absent minded, I play with his toes when I answer, "Once a week. Sometimes twice." I stroke his big toe, and he doesn't stop me or move his foot away. "It depends. My firm has a contract with one of the refinery's main suppliers." Now I'm playing with his other toes, pressing my finger in between the spaces.

He's watching me playing with his toes when he says, "Are you married?"

I detect there's more behind the question than simply making conversation. "No." I push my finger between his big toe and his second toe, and he squeezes them together, trapping my finger. "I have a flat. I live on my own."

"Have you got a girlfriend?"

The toes are now making very slow wanking movements with my finger, and my cock is swelling. Does he know what he's doing? I can't be sure, but if he doesn't, then he's a dummy. I've got a dry throat when I answer him. "No. Have you?"

He grins and shakes his head. "No."

I grin back at him. "I'm surprised!"

"Why are you surprised?"

We make eye contact, and I say, "Because you're such a good looking boy."

I can see the pleasure in his eyes, but I've also embarrassed him by saying it, and he drops his eyes. He points to the TV. "It's nearly time. I'll switch over."

I get up. "I'll have a pee before it starts. Save my place."

He grins, moves down the sofa and stretches his legs out, and I go upstairs to use the bathroom.

In the bathroom, I'm having a job to pee. Peter Piper has certainly pickled my pepper. It's rock hard, and I'm having to force my cock down to get my pee in the lavatory. When I've finished, after I've shaken the dregs off, I'm about to tuck it away when I think that the way things are going downstairs, it might be wise to clean it. God knows what's going to happen, but after Peter had been wanking my finger with his toes, anything could happen, and I don't want an unwashed cock to spoil things, so I give my knob a good scrub and make sure I'm scrupulously clean behind my foreskin before I wedge it down in my underpants so it's not showing. Well, not so obvious. I've got eight inches of hardness and no way can I disguise it completely in my jeans.

When I go downstairs, I can see Beccy ironing in the kitchen. She looks up and says, "Are you boys watching football?"

I grin at her. "Yes. I hope I'm not putting you out."

She grins. "No. I'm used to it. Whenever there's football on the TV, I go up to my room to do some writing. You don't mind, do you?"

I shake my head. "Not at all. You write?"

She nods. "Yes. I write poetry. I love it. It keeps me sane."

I smile at her. "That's nice. What time do I have to be out in the morning?"

She shrugs her shoulders. "Whenever you like." She nods her head towards the lounge. "I go to work at eight, but he'll be in bed `till dinner, and then he'll be off playing football. He's football mad."

I nod. "Thanks. I'll probably set off about eight thirty." Now I'm thinking on my feet and making plans just in case this turns out OK, and I say, "I come down here once or twice a week. I've got a sleeper cab, but it's either too hot or too cold. I prefer sleeping on a proper bed. Would you mind if I book in again when I come down?"

"No, of course not. Just give me a ring after five and you'll catch me in. I don't get many lodgers these days. Most of the drivers sleep in their cabs. It'll be nice to have a bit of company."

I smile at her. "I'd better go and watch the game. I think it's started."

The game has started, but now we're in a semi-dark auditorium. Peter has drawn all the curtains, and there's just a single, low-wattage wall light on behind the TV. This is really cosy, because Peter has changed his position on the sofa. Now, he's lying with his head on some cushions at one end, and his beautiful body is sprawled right down the sofa, and I have to move his feet to sit down. He grins at me and bends his legs slightly, and when I've sat down, he pushes his feet against my thighs. If that were all he'd arranged it would be bad enough, but I don't miss the fact that his shorts are riding high on his gorgeous thighs, and his football shirt is part way up his body, revealing the deep curves of his waist. If I had any doubts before, I have none now that Peter Piper wants me to pick his pickled pepper.

After we've been watching the game for about ten minutes, Beccy pops her head round the door and says, "I'm off upstairs now boys. I'll shut this door. I don't want to hear your yelling if somebody scores. If you want another beer, Grant, there's a couple in the fridge."

I don't want to hear your yelling if somebody scores. Blimey! That's a double entendre if ever I heard one! I nod and thank her, and Peter just waves his hand at her. When she's gone, Peter looks over the back of the sofa to make sure she's closed the door, and when he sees that she has, he stretches and puts his feet in my lap, right on my hard cock, and because it has a mind of its own, it begins to throb involuntarily. I think about moving his feet, but change my mind. This boy knows what he's doing, so why should I try to hide it? Instead, I begin to play with his little piggies again, and the ten little piggies begin to play with my fingers. Niiiiiiice! It's even nicer when I rest my right hand on his calf while I'm playing with the little piggies with my left hand, and I rub the back of his calf with my thumb.

After about ten minutes, Barcelona score, and he yells a loud "Yessss!" and then grins at me.

Because I said I was rooting for Real Madrid, I pull a face at him and say, "He was offside!"

He giggles and silently mouths the words, "Fuck off!"

Now then, my experience of young teenage boys is that when they take liberties like that with an almost complete stranger, the word `fuck' is used because they're feeling randy, and this is just the beginning of the game. Now I need to play my part, and I grin and retort in a whisper, "I'll fuck you if you swear at me again!"

He pulls a silly face and silently mouths, "Fuck off!"

Time to up the ante. It's part of the game, and not to do it would break the cycle of seduction/wanting-to-be-seduced, and I do that by grabbing his arse and squeezing it. He's watching the game now, but he giggles and pulls my hand from his arse and places it on his upper thigh. Perfect. Peter Piper knows how to play this game, and when I begin to stroke the soft skin, he doesn't take my hand away, and neither does he let go of my hand. This is going to be a joint effort. And it is. Very slowly, as I'm stroking him, he begins to direct my hand to the parts of him he wants stroked, and once I've spent enough time on one area, he gently exerts pressure to push or pull it to another. Of course, while he's doing this, he's entirely absorbed in the game. Like my arse he is... he's not interested in the game, and like me, he's only got one thing on his mind, and I'm wondering how big his cock will be when I get to it.

To a boylover, little boys' thighs, when they're like Peter's; well formed; curvaceous; soft to the touch; the inner parts hairless and like silk; warm and pliable, are one of life's most tantalising sexual wonders. The real beauty of them is that they lead to Nirvana: a boy's cock and balls, and those soft buttocks that hide away that delicious morsel; his puckered anus that can lead men to moments of intense sexual satisfaction. Most of the time, they're hidden away from us by whatever apparel they're wearing. But not always! And right now I've reached that not always stage, because Peter draws his legs up and opens them wide for me to see what he has to offer, and because he's not wearing underpants, I can see right up the left leg of his shorts to where his thighs stop and part of his ballsac is showing. More than that, because he's twisted his body almost flat, his erection is tenting his shorts. Come on in!

I don't reject his invitation, but because I'm a gentleman, it takes all of ten minutes of stroking and caressing his gorgeous thighs before my finger ends are touching his balls, and another five before they're stroking his hard cock. This boy is good! When I run my finger nail along his perineum, he eases up slightly to let it wander between his warm buttocks, and with a little waggling, it settles on his puckered rosebud, and I play with it for a while; pushing and rolling my finger end until I gain entrance. Not too far! Maybe half an inch to feel the ring properly and to know I'm touching his insides. My experience of boys is that they enjoy a bit of titillation, but not penetration. That requires a different technique, and is best done with the tongue to start with. But I'm nowhere near that stage. My whole pleasure now is working him up and getting satisfaction myself by touching him.

Barcelona score again, and again he grins at me and mouths a silent "Fuck off!"

For an answer, I give his rosebud a quick stab with my finger. He just grins, and pulls my hand back onto his cock. Good boy! Preliminaries over and it's time to wank him.

His cock is a lovely one; a good four inches, and a nice thickness with a small tuft of pubic hair at the base above it. Good! That means he can probably make spunk. I hope so. The one thing I love is swallowing a young boy's hot spunk. He won't be able to make much, but it will be sweet and nice and sticky even if it isn't really formed into proper semen yet. But his foreskin is a bit tight on the head. Not all boys have foreskins that roll easily on and off, and I reckon Peter has slight phimosis – a foreskin that is difficult to pull right back. I have the cure for that, but it will require my tongue and plenty of spittle and loving to work it off so I can get to the lovely nervous system beneath it. Give me time, Peter Piper, and I'll take you to heights you never knew existed!

So, instead of wanking him hard, I use three fingers and a thumb on his foreskin to manipulate him to a climax. He's with me all the way, pushing his hips up at me in rhythm to my ministrations, and when he comes, with three small spurts of spunk that roll down my fingers, he lets out a low growl that lasts for quite a while until he collapses back onto the sofa. The moment he relaxes, Real Madrid score to make it 2-1, and he grins at me and says, "You scored!"

I remove my hand from his shorts, lick the sweet spunk from my fingers, and grin at him when I say, "It's not over yet."

He giggles and says, "You might score again in the second half."

But I don't score again in the second half, because Beccy opens the door and asks if we want any supper. And to complicate things further, she decides to watch the rest of the match with us, and to make matters even worse, when the game is over (a draw: 2-2) she reads a book while me and Peter watch TV. At eleven, I decide enough is enough, and out of respect I say "I'll turn in now. Thanks for a pleasant evening. I'll see you in the morning, Beccy."

She smiles at me. "See you in the morning, Grant. Good night." Then she looks at Peter and says, "Don't make too much noise on that PC tonight!"

I look at Peter. "See you in the morning, Peter. Good night."

Peter grins and waves a hand. "Good night, Grant. See you later."

See you later. It's those three words that make me go to bed naked after I've opened the curtains slightly so the street lights illuminate the room and it's not completely dark, and it's those three words that stop me having a good wank. I hear them come upstairs; say good night; use the bathroom, and go to bed. Don't make too much noise on that PC tonight! Well, I do hear the familiar sound of Windows booting up, and I know Peter is on the PC. Another thirty minutes and I see my bedroom door open, and Peter comes naked and on tiptoes like Tom out of Tom and Gerry towards my bed. He's grinning when he grabs hold of the duvet and throws it off the bed, and then stands there admiring my swollen eight inches while I admire the perfection of what he is without any clothes and with his pickled pepper as hard as mine.

I've had a few boys on my travels; most of them shy to begin with, which makes it hard to get to the end result, but not so with Peter Piper. Before I can say If Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers, where's the peck of pickled peppers Peter Piper picked? Peter is on top of me in the sixty-nine position and is sucking my knob as if it's a juicy bone. But we can't complete the full circle because he's so small, and instead, bless him, because he's on his knees, I'm presented with a scented rosebud to set upon like a dog in heat. I prise his bum cheeks apart and my tongue goes deep... really deep! He likes it a lot (who wouldn't?) because he's jerking his ass at me like it's got the heebie-jeebies when my tongue flicks in and out of him. And then I alternate between long slurps down the length of his crack to his balls, which I suck and fondle with my fingers and tongue... and then do the same to his rock hard cock that I pull down between his open legs. I last another thirty seconds before I begin to pump spunk. All that's happened during the evening has worked me up to such a frenzy that I know this is going to be a ghetto blaster of a cum, and Peter Piper, bless his little sweet rosebud, holding my swollen cock in both hands, takes every bit of it, and while my tongue is working its magic with his insides, he laps it up like a cat swallowing the cream, and I'm thinking that this sweet boy is hotter than any pickled pepper.

Have you ever seen the wild eyes of a boy in heat? Neither have I, not until I see Peter Piper turn around and scoot up my body to shove his cock in my mouth, grab my head and fuck my mouth until he climaxes. Another bless him. I'm rewarded by two small spurts of his sweet spunk hitting the back of my throat, and I make sure I suck every last drop of it from him before he gets off the bed, grins at me, and whispers that he'll see me in the morning.

The morning. I'm washed, dressed and am eating breakfast when Beccy goes to work after telling me to pull the door shut when I leave, and she hopes to see me again. Ten minutes after she's gone, I'm upstairs and in Peter Piper's bedroom. He's fast asleep, so I give him his morning treat. I'm rough with him as I tug the duvet off him and throw it on the floor. He wakes, and through sleepy eyes watches as I pull him flat on his back, open his legs wide, get down between them, and begin to suck his gorgeous boy cock. Of course it rises! Have you ever known a randy, hormonal teenager's not to? But I'm on a mission. I need to overcome his phimosis, and I do that by exerting downward pressure on his foreskin while licking his knob. Very gently, I pull and lick, and pull and lick, and finally it slips right off the pink swollen head. He's watching me, and I'm watching him. When I use my tongue to play games with his fraenum, his mouth opens wide. I smile at him and continue my ministrations, and I have to pin him down to stop him humping at me. This is to be a nervous explosion of sex for him, and when he shudders and yelps and spurts his boy spunk out of his piss slit two inches in the air, he's almost crying with pleasure.

When I've done with his cock, I lick up his boy spunk, and gently ease his foreskin back. He thinks it's all over, but it's not. No way can I leave this delicious boy without another dose of my own pleasure, and when I think he's recovered enough, I roughly turn him over, turn him around so he's kneeling on the edge of the bed, and wank myself off in the crack of his arse until my own spunk spurts onto the gorgeous rosebud and slithers down his balls and between his thighs.

That's it, and I slap his bum, giggle at him and say, "That was a draw. A rematch when I come down again."

And I did see him again. Regularly... for two more years. Because he didn't like it, I never got to fuck my Peter Piper, but I nurtured his pickled pepper until he was almost a man, and though I never see him now, we're still good friends, and he texts me and emails me every now and again. He's gay, as I knew he'd be, and he's got a partner he's happy with. As for me, well... I just keep on truckin' and hoping I'll meet another super boy like him. I've met a couple of boys who wanted it, but none match up to Peter Piper and his pickled pepper that I picked.

Be good! If you've enjoyed this story, you can drop me a line and let me know. I'll reply to you all, but flames will thrown in the trash bin. john.thestoryteller@gmail.com

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