Date: Wed, 23 Jan 2002 16:35:25 -0500 From: Ashley Smith Subject: The Sense of Smell--gay incest, b/m/m, urination The Sense of Smell Written by: A. Cheshire Catt Wednesday, January 23 2002 Subject: hmm, well, I suppose it's about urine and the smell of it, incest and just men getting really raunchy. But it has a point. Or so I'd have to say. Enjoy. If you're underage reading this you'd make a better subject than an audience so leave and get out there and get yourself wet. When my parents died I was left the house and all that was in it, the money, and the reputation. Picture perfect expectations paved a path of righteous simplicity. Just because my parents had died the few weeks before the incident of this story doesn't mean the rest of my family had plainly disappeared. I was not alone. I had grandparents, uncles and aunts, cousins and family pets. I was surrounded by the butler and the maid. Webster, the man who'd answered the door of our family home for every year of my life still let in the family and the family's friends so they could come to the study, where I spent most of my time, and tell my how sorry they were or how sad the whole situation was. They would bring me food and they would bring me books and magazines, the newspaper and teas and oils and trinkets of my father's or mother's. Some people seemed to forget they'd been buried in the family plot miles away and treated the house and this study, and the only son, as the tomb itself. Flowers began to stink and Gloria, the woman who'd cleaned the house since my birth, took them away so there would be no need to complain of wilting flowers. I hated it. I hated being there, and yet I felt trapped, chained and bound to the leather Queen Anne chair in the study, perpetually staring at the cars as they'd come up the hill filled with good intentions, bearing sentiments that meant only formalities. How long can someone sit and be reminded of sadness before they themselves rise above the murky depths of melancholy to the high ranks of delirium. Basically, I had lost touch with reality about a week after the car accident. I'd been stuck with responsibilities before, smiling at appropriate moments, saying nothing at other times, disappearing from the room whenever possible. I'd had an imagination to escape to, but I was getting tired of past idioms, I was beginning to understand that life was a momentary blink of the eye and one must live as well as they can before unexpectedly the eyes closed to blink and reopen on something else. It was a Wednesday in mid-January. It was a time of year I had come to know as the January Thaw. An unseasonably warm time of year when environmentalists took it upon themselves to preach the end of the world and the fashionable would look unfashionable in their woolly or furry coats. It hadn't been required of Webster to light the fires until later in the evening, the snow was melting off the roof and all I could do was sit and watch it drip, drip, drip in a steady rhythm a little different than the tick, tick, tick of the clock. I had never had a real job in my life. To pass the time around the holidays I would sometimes work in the bookstore in town to help out old Mr. Crinkleton with the Christmas rush, but now that the season was over, and now that New Year's Ever was dead and all resolutions forgotten -- and now that my mother and father had been smashed to pieces after a transport bearing cattle had slid on some slick stretch of road and landed on top of them, killing them without doubt -- I was left to wallow, unshaved, unhealthy, unhappily, in a big old house on a hill. Today I was expecting some company that I looked forward to seeing. Not that I hated the company of everyone else that came, but it seemed that every person that came was attempting to kick my ass into a different gear so I would find the ambition to do something that would make me happy. They'd all gossip and read me the news from the paper, and we'd sometimes laugh, sometimes sigh at the mysteries of life -- but it seemed they'd always be swatting at me with proverbial feet, hoping they'd hit my ass without trying to look like they were doing it. Jack would be different than all the rest. I knew he would, I trusted whatever he would say before he would open his mouth. I needed the attention of someone I could like and someone who genuinely liked me. He didn't care about my family, or my inheritance because as long as I had known Jack I had always been the wealthy son. I'd called him on Monday at the gym, where he ran a successful business, and told him I needed to see him. I did need to see him. I needed to know that people still respected me as a person of youth and not a sudden heir to the world I was born into. He'd told me the soonest he'd be able to see me was Wednesday, so I basically accepted any company that came as a passage of time until this moment. I'd seen an aunt that brought me a book, W. Somerset Maugham's The Razor's Edge. A distant cousin had come in an obvious attempt to get some of the money, with a daughter that wanted some perfume -- which brings me to something else about all that I had inherited. My family's wealth had come from an interesting source. The manufacturing of a glamorous perfume line. My mother, as if posing for some sort of Greek statuary had inspired the smells that my father would make in a factory. Those were the early days of the family company. Eventually it became a popular brand, in demand from royalty and nobility, actresses and models and your run-of-the-mill elite. The house itself seemed to be a monument to the great sense of smell. From an early age I had had to acquire a fine taste for perfume. I had to know what made a certain woman smell like if she wanted to be noticed in a crowd, or if she wanted to enchant specifically one young man. The study, where the leather chair was, and all the trophy furs and oil paintings were, was also the shrine of the perfume bottles. The oddest shapes, sensuous colors, the most romantic smells adorned the shelves and climbed to the ceiling. In the late winter afternoon the sun came in at such an angle, making a rotation of room, making all the crystal jars and bottles and corks and shapes glimmer and sparkle and warm. The room was a chandelier, Gloria loved cleaning it though -- I'm glad she did because I couldn't imagine cleaning every bottle, in between all of them, along the tops of the books and family oil paintings along the wall. It was a glamorous long room, wood paneling along the walls and a wonderfully inlayed tique floor. After the funeral, having the place to myself, I decided that I would make this the receiving room, since this would be the room anyone would want to see. The other rooms downstairs, or around me, were very well decorated, and each had a bit of the whole world in it, but this room was the perfection of the picture-perfect. There was my chair, and there were two others, and when company came we sat near the window. From the window you could see the entire town, and as a young boy I could imagine that I was the king of this town, and everyone looked up to me. I wasn't a boy anymore and I knew a lot of the people gossiped about the history of my family and the way that I have not chosen a woman to be my bride and mother of the children that would someday get all this. I know what they suspected -- that I was gay (the worst possible thing the only child of such a rich family to be) -- and it isn't that they were wrong, in fact I was gay, but sometimes things can't be screamed, or sometimes they can't even be spoken. Jack was really the only one that I could trust. I saw his car come then, up the hill, shiny black and sporty. Inside he probably listened to something really funky and fresh from the spinning-tables of a hot young DJ from the big cities to the east. Knowing that conversation is dull in lulls without the sound of music I had a stereo moved into this room to be my entertainment. Although the bar scene was a dwindling desire for me so I now reclined in my sublime contemplation to a new sort of passion. Quartets and duets from the great composers often filled me with a desire to do nothing but watch the dripping snow or the crackle of the fire. Sometimes, if I found it appropriate, or if company wasn't expected, I would read. But it seemed no story thrilled me. After about ten minutes Webster came to the door of the long room and rather too loudly announced the arrival. "Sir, your friend, Jack Bell, is here. Would you like me to bring you something to drink?" "First some tea, and if I should need anything I will ring for you Webster." "Of course sir." He backed out the door and in his place soon posed the mighty frame of my good friend Jack. I did him the favor of standing. "Come in, please, sit down over here. I'm so glad you cold come." "Dougey, Dougey, you look awful." He said, the honesty was sometimes a bit much, but I could take it from him. He was the only one that neither called me Douglas or sir and it was so nice to imagine I was that same person. "Am I really that bad?" I tried to straighten my jacket and shirt but realized I had suddenly let myself go. As I pouted about my appearance he came up and grabbed me in a big hug, a manly tug, a fierce and rough grapple of my body. He then let go of my body, only to grab my head in his hands and kiss me with his beautiful lips on my forehead. Instantly I became excited but was more flustered by the commotion than by his charming reentry into my life. "Sit down, I wouldn't want you to fall." He didn't beat around the bush, that's why I liked him. Most people would come to the conclusion of some remark and then realizing there'd be some suggestion of death or dying in their words they'd stop midway. I hated that. Jack pretended nothing happened, and that's what I wanted more than anything. "I'm so glad you're here. Sit down, make yourself comfortable." "I can only stay for a short while --" "I have some tea coming, at least stay for that." "Sure," he smiled. He was a couple of years older than me. No matter what he wore he looked exceptional in it and I loved it when he smiled because his complexion was diabolically handsome. He had that sort of blonde hair that had strands of brown in it, and he would tan himself in one of those beds that I believed caused cancer, so he always looked like he had just arrived from the beach. I knew under he creaseless cotton shirt of sky blue there was a chest as smooth and tight and taut as the butt that was holding him up like an aristocrat's brat boy in the chair opposite me. Blonde haired men, with blue eyes and a godly build, look extremely good in blue cotton, with shiny black leather shoes. He crossed his legs and brought out a cigarette -- offered me one, which I accepted -- and then proceeded to light them with a silver lighter. "Didn't my father give you that lighter." "Your father was the only one that promoted my smoking." We chuckled. My father had been a bit of an eccentric. I'd been able to drink since my thirteenth birthday. He told me it was better to learn how to handle drinking when you're impressionable instead of when you're rebellious. I believe it to be true. Jack would come to dinner and get drunk and then go home and get in trouble and be told to never come back to the house again. Of course he came. As much as people hated to know us they knew how important it was to be seen with us. Jack saw me more than anything. Together we'd discovered each other as if we were two lost boats at sea and one day found each other and only each other and therefore grew up and came to shore together. It had been on one of those drunken experiences that Jack and I had found out about sex. That was a long time ago ... Now he was 28, and I was just 26. I knew what he looked like naked, and he knew me too, but so many wished they knew him naked, no one really knew that I wanted to be seen naked so no one tried to find out. After the tea had arrived and Jack asked Webster enough questions to make the old man uncomfortable, we were left alone. A lull in the conversation happened and the view had been thoroughly discussed and even now the music seemed too quiet. All hopes of beginning anything worthwhile faded. I regressed a bit and had to just ask him, "Aren't you going to ask me about it?" "About what Dougey," but he knew what I'd meant. "About them, and everything." "Do you want to talk about it?" Only Jack would ask that. "I've been talking about since the moment it happened. But I haven't told anyone about it that I want to hear it. You're the only one that could comprehend what I've been going through." "Why do you say that?" He smiled and sipped a bit of the chamomile. "Do you know what it was like to see them there," I just began. I felt it all rising to the surface and nothing was going to stop what I was about to say. "Webster drove me to the scene so I could see what had happened to them. It was horrible. It was a snowy night. And the road had been cut off. I knew they were dead and not going anywhere so I got out of the car and walked slowly up to the site. The cattle truck had flipped and about five cows had died and lay scattered over the road, one of them lay on top of the car, and because the car was burning the cow was burning. The stench was unbelievably grotesque. My mother's perfume had been slaughtered by the stench of a burning cow and the putrid manure that steamed in heaps all around." The smell lingered there in my mind as if it were a speck of something that was planted in my eye in order to change my view of everything I knew. "All my life everything has smelled wonderful and like flowers in certain gardens where the sun always shines. I felt like, until that moment, I had been shielded from anything ugly." Jack made a look of concern. "I suppose it's true, you've never known anything by the path of an innocent. You've never been tested, you've never had to try." "But it's more than that Jack. I've never even smelled anything that hurt before, something considered ugly, something considered horrible. All my life I have only been given what someone normally wants, now I am like a crystal perfume bottle, filled with only good and sensual pleasures. I hate it." "What happened at the funeral," Jack asked. "I'd heard through the gossip of my mother that you didn't cry. I wasn't surprised but they were -- the old ladies of the town." "The old ladies of the town are not a 26 year old boy who is suddenly forced to hold onto everything and forced to cry so that everyone knows it is a sad situation." "No one made you cry." "I know, I know, but it seemed that I had to. I remember when the funeral was over and the vault door was open I went inside the family tomb," -- where the coffins were put till spring and then they would open up holes to drop them in when the ground thawed out -- "and I smelled death then. It didn't smell like anything in any of these bottles. It smelled really ... Really the smell of death is a mildew that comes from the clothes we wear into the tomb, it is the rotting of the flesh we made pretty for celebrations when we are alive. The flesh rots and the worms feed and the smell is something no one wants, but we all smell like at some point." "Oh Dougey," Jack smiled, "you're such a morbid young man." "I know, I know. I need to get out of the grave. That's my point. I don't want to smell death anymore. Everyone that comes here smells alive. I want to smell things again. I want to smell new things." I looked at him, it sounded like a mission had just fallen out of my mouth. I drank some tea, which was now cool, but still sweet, and noticed the sun was shining outside for a brief moment. "Then you must get out of this house. You must begin with the simplest of all smells. You must begin with fresh air." "Well, then come on, let's go right now." "Oh terribly sorry Dougey -- I can't, I have an appointment. Anyway, this is something you must do alone. You must go somewhere and you must find the smell that means life most to you and you must -- not bottle it like your father insisted on doing -- but simply keep finding something better than that. Life is not about the happiness people can find, it is about the pursuit for it." We made a formal good-bye out of a simple kiss and then he was gone and a quartet by Schumann swept me up for an emotional moment. I needed to change my clothes, shower and go -- I needed to get outside. The smell of clean clothes. The smell of a warm steamy room. The smell of shampoo, soap and toothpaste. The smell of deodorant. The smell of a light wool coat. The smell of leather boots. The smell of a cigarette. The smell of Webster driving me into town. The smell of the car, the smell of him. The smell of these things are the things I smelled all my life. When I stepped out onto the street in the bustling Market area of town I blended in amongst all the well-dresses snobs of the area. All of the smelled exactly as father would have wanted them to. It was just shortly after noon -- and I had to ask myself, Where does one go to smell things? The flower shop. The smell of life snipped off and then dropped into a bucket seemed to morbid a tasteless for me. I pushed my nose into the delicate frills of a roses and expensive orchids -- had them sent up to the house -- but new Gloria would not need anymore than what I had pressed me nose into -- and I knew that wasn't what I wanted. It seemed to be the opposite of what I was looking for, it seemed I was trying to find a new smell because that smell was too gross. The book shop of Mr. Crinkleton. The smell of dust on the tops of books that had the records of history, the biographies of fantasies that no one read anymore. The mildew of forgotten lore. I opened an old book of mythology and pressed my nostrils against the old woodcut print of some old god and smelled nothing godly, because it smelled the same as the pages in the old edition of David Copperfield. A bakery perhaps. A butchery, maybe. Sweet though, just death too. A cafe. A diner. A tea house. I hardware store. Potent. Greasy. Spicy. Wood. These were not what I wanted. And losing my mind on a pursuit, if not for a smell then a place to find smells, I found myself in a swanky cigar shop. I loved the smell of cigars. My father had always smoked hefty, rich sticks of tobacco. The smell always made me think of the color burgundy and strong liquors, old men and leather. I'd bought something from everywhere so I was both full and tired. I'd sent them all back to the house. I'd called Webster and told him I would want to be picked up soon, but not for another hour at least. I was now intending to buy something nice to smoke and go for a walk in the unseasonably warm evening through a park and smell the world. Perhaps, I figured, by not rushing I may find something of interest to smell. The cigar shop was an old family-run outlet in a series of shops that had been there since the wealthy came to town. Not very many people came in without a wallet full of cash or a piece of plastic that may as well have been gold. Most of the clientele was older, sophisticated, probably going to the opera tonight, or to the black and white charity that I'd been invited to but didn't want to be seen at -- my father said those things were made to make people talk about each other. I could donate if I wanted to, but I didn't have to be seen there until well after my mid-life crisis. The aisles had containers with names on them and flashy labels, but to be honest the smell was more of the containers rather than the contents. There was a young man working the cash. He seemed handsome enough. "I'm looking for something that smells absolutely delicious. I want to taste how well it smells, I want it to smell like wealth and beauty and glamor." Before I finished saying my requirements the young man smiled and reached behind him. "This is the finest thing that we have on our shelves." The case was wooden and when he lifted the lid the contents spilled out an aroma as smooth as all my desires had wanted. The smell seemed to wrap itself around me like a warm vine of a dark and earthy color. I loved it. I want it in my mouth and around me. The cigars themselves seemed such a delicious package, each one wrapped by hands thousands of miles away in a land where the sense of smell was as important as the thought behind the intention of their creation. I wanted them. So I bought them. They were expensive. I smiled at the young man behind the cash. He was probably in his thirties. "It's nice," he began, "to see someone young with a taste for the finer things in life." Smiling I replied, "I am just trying to find life, I do not have a taste for it yet." Suddenly a boy emerged from a door to my left, a door I hadn't seen until then, which must have led to a storage room. He was quite young, with pale skin and curly blonde hair -- I presumed this young man to be the son of the man at the cash because they shared the same hair and the same smile, the shape of their faces were similar save the boy carried a feline's eyes. Then he said, "I've finished dad -- oh, I'm sorry I didn't hear anyone come in." "That's all right," he said. "This gentleman just bought the Brazilian Jewels." Then I noticed that that is what I had in fact purchased. I smiled. "My son," the man introduced me -- I seemed to linger, perhaps rudely, but I was spellbound by their beauty and they seemed to allow it. "William Hull." "Well Mr. Hull," I said to the boy, "you're quite a handsome young lad." He stepped up beside his father on the other side of the counter and smiled. It seemed they were conversing about me without using any language -- it seemed they were happy to greet me there like this. The father spoke about the mother's failure to love him and her abandonment of them -- and how they live together in the back now. "I'd had him when I was a young man, no older than he is now, and so we feel like brothers sometimes." "It's important to be a good father to a son." "I love my dad unlike anyone." I could tell now that this boy was just at the first sign of puberty, his voice tried to be deep was not as deep as it would be someday. "I'm sure you do." I said. About to leave I suddenly felt brave. "Normally," I began, "I dine alone, but I was wondering if this evening you'd like to join me." "Oh --" the father said. Perhaps he felt uncomfortable accepting a stranger's invitation for dinner with his son there. "I'm not sure I should just leave my son --" "Well I meant him too." I smiled at William. He seemed intriguing and filled with an energy that had just faded from me and had dwindled from his father probably sometime around the end of his marriage. "I don't even know you -- I'm sure you mean well but I don't think we should put you through the trouble." "Oh hardly, I think it would be fun to have someone up to the house, it's been so long since my butler has opened the door to a stranger. Anyway, it'd be nice to see some fresh faces. In fact," suddenly filled with my mother's authority and my father's whole-heartedness I introduced myself, "my name is Dougey Clarkeson the third, and I would have it no other way." "Oh can't we dad?" His son was a gem, beautiful and shimmering. "You mean, the Clarkeson's -- you mean that big house on the hill?" I may as well have been that childhood king and he may as well have been a meager peasant, he may as well have bowed instead of blushing. "Well, we close up shop around six, how about around 7:30 then?" "Great, I'll send a car around." Gloria was beside herself, moving a hundred miles an hour, arranging flowers and polishing the dining room table. Everything was sprayed with perfumes that invoked conversation, it was as if my parents weren't dead and were about to entertain royalty like back in the old days. Webster made a great meal and prepared the finest wines. And left to fetch the dinner guests. And when the clock chimed once to signify the three-quarter hour he arrived in the door to the study, "Mister Hull and his son have arrived." Dinner was had and light conversation about this and that occurred only for the better part of an hour. The three of us withdrew into the smoking room. The fire had been lit in here and it had become almost unbearably warm. Young William, unaccustomed to drinking very much wine had helped himself to a couple too many glasses of the expensive year and sat in a daze on the long sofa admiring the room. "I'm sorry, I don't think I caught your name, Mr. Hull." "Oh, sorry, I'm Henry and this is William -- or Willy." "I'm so glad you could come." "Would you like some coffee with your cigars, sirs," Webster said from the corner of the room. "That would be nice. Could you go make some and leave us some time to talk in private." He left, I'd hoped not to insult him but I really wanted to be alone with my beautiful prizes of the day. How awful, I thought, the wine seemed to have made me see these people as no more than purchases I'd made like the flowers that lined the mantle in this room or the pastries we'd had for desert -- or the chocolates -- "Would you like some chocolates gentlemen?" Willy stood up and sauntered over to the table. I chuckled noticing how obvious the son's drunkenness had become. Henry scowled at the boy, obviously the father was embarrassed. "Don't be embarrassed Henry, your boy is beautiful. I think he has your good looks and innocent charm." "Well he is fourteen, he should a bit better than to drink more than he's able to hold." "It's exciting for him to be here." I then turned to the young man (who was younger than I had actually thought) and said, "Do you like this place?" "Oh yes," he said coming near me. "I've seen this house my whole life and wondered what it was like on the inside. I'm so happy to be here." "Come here," his father said, with a swift change in his mood, suddenly becoming more a doting father rather than a brother like he said he sometimes felt. The boy went over and was pulled onto his father's lap in the chair. They both smiled a little strangely when they looked at me, I merely smiled back and now sensed a thickening in the air. The coffee was brought in and served. Wine, water, and now coffee had been drank through the evening. I wasn't surprised when Willie couldn't hold it anymore and asked, "I need to go to the bathroom. I was wondering where it was." "Oh I'll take you, the nicer one is upstairs. Come on -- I'll show you." I grabbed him by the hand and left the father in the chair. We had to go the upstairs bathroom just so I could show the boy some of the things in the house that would make a boy get excited. Statues and paintings and beautiful rooms. He was wonder struck. Finally we reached the master bathroom's entrance from the hallway. It was a room without doors, but a strange curve instead that prevented people from seeing in. The way the room was situated in the building it also had a near soundproof sealing sentiment. I led the boy in and told him I needed to check myself in the mirror. I must admit, the cigars had a near drugging effect on me. The boy was drunk and I was lost in the whirlwind of entertaining him. He stood with his back to me, standing over the toilet with a bit of a sway in his stature. He lowered his pants right to the floor and his underwear slid slowly afterward. His creamy-skinned legs were spread. Through the mirror I had never seen anything so beautiful, so astounding and sweet. He wore a cotton shirt that covered his childish bum, and I could tell he was trying so hard to be a man. "I can't pee with you staring at me like that," he said without turning around. "I wasn't -- I wasn't staring." I said, shocked. Then he turned around and showed me that he was hard, and yet small and gorgeous. I was unable to swallow, and nearly choked. I blushed. This is exactly what I'd wanted, I licked my lips and tasted the lingering stain of the cigar his father had sold me. His father -- the man in the smoking room downstairs. Suddenly I was on my knees, "You're beautiful. I was so obviously staring at him by now. He was smiling. His five inches was an equal distance from my face. I wanted to reach out and touch him. I reached up instead and began unbuttoning his shirt. That thickening in the air I had sensed earlier had returned and it was so thick I could hardly move. Finally I saw his young body before, so pure and -- not muscular -- but slightly chubby and his chest seemed to shudder with each pounding assault of his young heart. I had not even touched is flesh and I imagined it to be supreme to mine. Suddenly, "I wondered what was taking you so long." I stood so fast I felt I'd left the ground and went through the ceiling and come back the floor only to be assaulted by an angry father's fists. I was sure I'd invited these people into the house and now they were going to storm out, rally the mobs in the streets and then tear my family down brick by brick, burning my in the street. "Sorry -- I mean, he -- I -- I mean I don't know what I was doing." "I couldn't pee dad." "That's all right. Was our new friend here going to help you?" "I think he was nervous to help." What was all this cuddling and soft talking? I didn't understand, why wasn't I being pelted with realistic hate and disgust. -- Help him? There was a silence. They smiled at me, and the father reached out. "Do you want to touch my son," he asked rather politely. "He is very beautiful." "I know." " ... Like you." The father blushed. Suddenly the boy was unbuttoning my shirt, as gently as I had unbuttoned his. He was so sweet and delicate with every move he made, and his little hands found my stomach and rubbed it. I nearly fainted it felt so young and small and innocent. He found my nipples and gently rubbed them till they were alive with sensations that sent electricity throughout every part of my body. He pulled my shirt out of my pants and began undressing me. Surely he'd find my erection there, and it was so hard and hoping to be touched. Suddenly Henry had his shirt off and his lips pressed against mine. He smelled of the cigars too, such a potent aroma I wanted to suck out of him every particle of it. Excitedly I felt young lips suck on the tip of my huge cock, I wanted to push it into him until the little boy cried. But then he moved and began sucking gently on my balls. It felt so good, so delicate and thrilling. His father was so masculine. I could suddenly smell his armpits and I buried my nose in there, pulling all of the smell out in huge hauls of delicious odor. His neck bore the traces of something that smelled like a day of work, it smelled of soap and light aftercare. I'd become passionate and enchanted by this thrilling pursuit for ecstasy from their bodies. "Boy," the father said, "do you have to pee still?" "Do I?" I nearly shouted, "Pee on me young man. I want to taste it, piss in my mouth." I knelt and began sucking on the boy's young cock. I could hear the boy moaning and his father was chanting, "Suck my boy's cock, you like my son's little boy cock?" Then he was telling his son, "Piss in him, fill him with your delicious boy piss." Suddenly, the candy that was his boyhood spilled all the juices that had been held in it. It was so hot and salty. It hit the back of mouth with a potency and I shuddered to swallow, so I let it spill all over my face and onto the neck and down my chest. I wreaked very soon of the boy piss, and I was in heaven. I had never tasted anything like it. "It smells so good," I said. "You like that so much I want you to eat my ass --" the father commanded and I obeyed. I ran my hot tongue along the acidic crease of his man hole and savored the taste of his hot little fuck-hole. "Ah yah, man, suck the shit out of my ass. Taste my shit? You like that shit?" And I did. I could taste the most vile product of our natural existence. I had never had more delicious treats in my mouth than the potent and disgusting gaseous farts that Henry Hull pushed into my mouth. "Now I'm gonna piss on you, you little raunchy boy-fucker." He commanded me to suck his son's little boy cock while he pissed first on the writhing pale body. He stood over us like humiliation, and his huge seven and half inches of meaty muscle spewed the delicious elixir of life. It sprayed in my face, all over my head and made stink like ugliness. Suddenly the boy started to get excited and moaned and then pushed on my hungry head until finally a burst of sweet boy-cum shot into my mouth, filling me a shuddering deliverance into the hands of the sins I had committed. I sat on my knees and jerked myself. I felt so dirty, I felt finally human. Henry came up and shoved his cock in my face and I licked the balls and smelled the musk in the creases beside the balls. The sweat of the day had collected there and was rejuvenated by the stench of the hot man piss. I allowed myself to piss all over myself, it splashed onto the balls and anus of the man I sucked on. He moaned and got ready to shoot his when I finally put my face in the aim of it and took the full load of hot cum in my face. The boy wanted my cum so he sucked on my cock until finally I came all inside him and he swallowed it. Licking his lips. I took a deep breath through my nose and pulled the boy against me -- I'd never felt more alive. Come spring they moved in. (E-mail with any comments or fantasies, tell me anything you want me to know. --Nothing homophobic though, that's no fun. Email me at -- cheshire_cat79@hotmail.com.)