A story by Bard Boy [bard_boy(at)protonmail(dot)com]

Disclaimer: The following is a work of fiction about an inappropriate relationship between a man and a preteen boy. One of the boundaries crossed in this relationship is engagement in sexual activity between the man and the boy. If you do not want to read such a story, or it is illegal for you to do so because of your age or where you live, you should stop reading now and go do something else instead. The fictional depiction of an inappropriate relationship between a man and a boy is by no means encouragement to any man who would seek to forge such a relationship for real. This story is not set in the present day, so rest assured every aspect is fictional.

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The dry disclaiming out of the way, I hope you enjoy reading the story (in which ever way suits you best). Feel free to contact me on the email above.

Four: Empires and Dance

I have a little brother who's eleven years old.

He's always been quite comfortable wandering around the house in just his short boxers. As far as he's concerned, clothes are just for going out in.

We love each other, but we don't get on all the time. In fact, we fight a lot. But mostly it's just for something to do. A game to play. He comes into my room knowing I don't want him there, so I try to wrestle him out and he fights back to stand his ground. And if his boxers accidentally come down in the mêlée, that's all part of the excitement.

It excites me too. It shouldn't do; I'm several years older than him. But it does. So rather than using my far superior strength to pick him up and chuck him out, I let him wrestle, waiting to see if his underpants slip down from an unfortunate grapple. And it excites me in a different way from how it excites him.

I'm lying down and, for no apparent reason, he has his pants around his calves and is threatening to rub his bare anus on my face.

Why am I lying down?

Did I let him wrestle me to the ground?

No. I'm in my bed. I was taking a nap.

No, that's not right either. Hidden under the bedcovers, my jeans are down around my knees. I was having a surreptitious wank. He's come in and is – quite literally – being a silly arse, disturbing me mid-session.

He's teasing me, asking if I'm gay and want to kiss his bum. He's never been so forward before. I don't know how to react.

I have to fight my arms to make them move, to go through the motions of pushing him away. His crack looks red and shiny, as if it's sore. As if it had been itchy and he'd over-scratched it, causing his skin to secrete a coat of clear goo to cover the irritated skin.

He's making to sit down on me. My hands push back against his buttocks, opening his crack further, just in front of my face. He's smooth and soft and pliable in my hands. I can see his thin ball sac hanging in front of my chin. He has one hand over his dick. I'm not sure if he's pulling it away from me politely, or if he's hiding a boner. Maybe even playing with his boner.

I'm distracted and miss him pushing down harder, with all his weight. I brace for his backside to make contact with my nose, and just before I close my eyes, there's a single frame of James, thrusting his arse into my face that morning. It's there for a thirtieth of a second, then there's just darkness.

Darkness and me.

No bed, no bum, no brother.

I'm floating above myself in the void. I see my jeans still bunched at my knees. My teenage is dick pole-stiff and throbbing. My t-shirt rides high and my bellybutton is exposed. I look at my skin.

Then I look at my face.

Look at my arms.

Getting younger; going backwards. Thirty frames a second.

I'm in a bright room, still looking at my arm – but from my own perspective. I'm inside my own head.

I'm eleven years old.

No – I'm twelve. I'm in an art lesson, in a large first-floor classroom with windows running down either side of the room. It's a morning in spring and they're flooding the room with pale light. The teacher has gathered us around the front desk and is demonstrating something or other. I'm not paying attention. Not because I don't like art lessons – although it's true I don't like art lessons – but because I'm distracted.

I'm distracted because Alex is standing opposite me, on the other side of the teacher's desk.

Alex is quite different from me. He doesn't turn twelve until April Fool's Day. He's smaller than me too. I'm short, but I'm developing fast and I'm stockier than Alex. He's slight and athletic and not as clever as I am, but then nobody else is as clever as me. He's boyish like someone who's nine or ten would be boyish, not like me or my mates. Our pubes are growing like poison ivy and we spunk all over each other at sleepovers.

I'm looking at Alex and imagining we're in a big bed together. I don't know where it is. The sheets seem silky and there are even silkier curtains billowing in a breeze from the open window, which is letting in bright and pale light like in the classroom. Maybe it's in Paris, though I don't know because I've never been to Paris. Anyway, we're both naked. We're sweaty and rubbing our naked dicks together. His is the same length as mine – 11cm (and it serves whoever pinched that ruler right if they've put it in their mouth, not knowing where it's been) – but it's thinner. His boner curves upwards and stays fully covered by his skin, which is very pale.

Everything in the room is pale. It's like the colour has been stolen. Like the colour was on a meter and we couldn't afford to put 50p extra in, so the colour went off.

Alex tells me to start kissing him, so I kiss him. We're snogging and our boners are grinding together, and I'm starting to get a boner in my school trousers stood in the middle of the classroom, and I think I'm staring at Alex. But that's okay, because I'm not really there. I'm in the bed where I can feel the cool, silky bedsheets on my bare bum, and we're grinding and kissing and he's going to let me spunk all over his dick and his belly.

As I'm pumping my crotch into his, I feel something is wrong.

My cock is huge and hard, and it's mashing against something much smaller, soft and rubbery. I look at Alex and he's turning his head, trying to pull away from me. He's scared. I can see my fringe in the top of my field of vision. My hair's longer than it should be. I'm pinning Alex's arms down with mine, and I see they're thick and hairy. I look down between our bodies. I want to know why I feel so enormously hard. That's when, finally, I see my wide, hairy chest. Beneath it, my bushy adult cock is mashing itself into Alex's soft, babyish willy and balls.

Then there's nothing. Only Alex's voice, laying on aggression and hostility to hide his anxiety.

"Are you a perv? Cos one of your mates said you fancy me."

Some friends of mine I thought were dead are coming back.

What are you doing coming back?



Someone was leaning on my chest. My eyes adjusted to the light enough to make out James' face.

He looked worried.

"Jake? Are you all right?"

"Yeah," I grunted, trying to wake my voice up. It was the middle of the night. "What's the matter, mate?"

"You've been having nightmares again. You were making noises and moving in your sleep. Are you really ok?"

James was leant over me, studying my face deeply. I reached up and caressed his silky cheek, which was a little cool to the touch.

"I'm fine, honestly, James," I said. "It's natural that, with all that stressful travel, it'll take a while to catch up on all that missed rest and work out all that tension. I'm just glad you're doing fine."

"Oh, okay."

He didn't sound convinced. He was still propping himself up using my chest, and I'd moved my hand from his face to rest on his arm. I waited to see if there was more he wanted to say.

"It's just... You can tell me if it isn't really okay. Even if the reason why it isn't okay is because we argued about potatoes yesterday," said James, barely pausing to take a breath. "And if it is because we argued then I'm sorry, because potatoes don't really matter and I didn't mean to be cheeky and shouldn't have played football in the house when I was meant to be helping with vegetables for the stew."

He took a deep breath. His eyes glistened in the dark. I felt bad that part of me wanted to laugh.

"Oh, James!" I said, conveying with my voice that everything – really – was fine. I pulled him into a hug, then held his head gently on either side with my hands, looking him straight in the eyes.

"You haven't done anything to upset me. Not yesterday, not ever. You're a sweet and kind boy, but it isn't your job to worry about me. Okay?"


"Now go back to sleep."

He rolled off to his side of the bed and faced away from me. Then he reached back to grab my hand.

"I love you, Jake."

"I love you too, James."

I lay holding his hand until I heard him fall back to sleep.

For some reason, I couldn't shake the memory of sleeping on a friend's sofa in her apartment in Paris, with her very grumpy, very elderly house cat.


Yesterday's stew had been a success.

We got up from our nap and I set about butchering the goose. It's not all that much harder than a pheasant or a chicken. Just quite a bit bigger. I got some rubber gloves on, sliced down the middle of the bird's chest and peeled off the skin to expose the meat. Then it was just a matter of chopping off what I wanted and not disturbing any organs that were liable to explode. I washed the meat under the trickle of the tap on the outside wall of the kitchen, then left it in a tub of water to soak.

Over the course of a decade or so, what had once been our lawn had been transformed into a disorderly vegetable patch. It was now quite overgrown, as were all the bushes that ran alongside the garden fence, broken by a diseased apple tree – sprouting white fur and producing mouldy apples – and an anaemic pear tree. Even the leafy bamboo my dad had once planted next to the decked area at the back of the house, to hide the wall of the neighbours' rear extension, was getting in on the act. It had taken over its corner of the garden.

I wasn't an expert on cultivating root vegetables. Luckily, I had little Alan Titchmarsh with me, bombarding me with endless facts about potatoes while I did all the work of extracting them. Did I know that potatoes came from the Americas? Evidently James had run out of horticultural facts about potatoes. Yes, I said. Does he realise that means that every great emperor, sultan, or prince of the Old World before the sixteenth century had never eaten a potato? No, he'd never thought about it like that, because those people were just like characters in books, and the books never told us whether they ate potatoes or not. And besides, how could I know for sure that none of them had ever eaten a potato?

For reasons known only to my subconscious, I snapped at him. I told him that I knew because I'd studied a lot and taught people much bigger and cleverer than him. He huffed and stropped off inside. Then I heard him kicking the football around the living room, like a little shit.

I threw down my hand spade and crop of potatoes, and marched inside.

I grabbed the ball and told him firmly that if he didn't want to help with the stew he could go and quietly read on the bed instead. He flopped on the sofa in a silent tantrum. I walked away with the ball. A couple of minutes later he came back outside and said he was sorry and wanted to help. I set him washing potatoes at the outside tap.

I pulled some carrots, but I'm rubbish at even identifying what's what, so I accidentally pulled some parsnips too. This, I told James, was a real vegetable. People here had been using it long before the potato, and it could do everything a potato could and more. Then I put my arm round his shoulders and apologised for snapping at him. I told him I'd always thought he was a very clever boy.


I didn't feel particularly rested when I opened my eyes the next morning.

I wasn't sure if I'd really been having nightmares, or whether it was just because James had disturbed me. He didn't seem too bothered; he was lying on his front, nose avidly buried in Count Karlstein. He'd reached the climax – the ride of the demon huntsman – and I didn't dare ask him to put it down.

I shut my eyes again, and the next thing I knew, my face was being half-caressed, half-slapped.

"Come on, Jake. I'm hungry."

I made myself coffee. I was started to get irritated by the water situation. I could tell that I needed a proper wash again, and kept picking up wafts of James' boy BO too.

"Make sure you eat all your breakfast," I said. "I need you strong to help me get some materials today, while the weather is still dry."

"Materials?" said James. "Materials for what?"

"Building." I said.

"What are we building?" he asked, "Are you going to fill in that hole in the wall?"

He was pointing at a cat flap, half filled in with insulating foam.

"That's a cat flap, James."

"What's a cat flap?"

"It's for when you have cats and they come in and out as they please."

James' eyes went wide.

"You had cats? In your house? That's the coolest thing ever!"

"I like cats," I said. "Very independent."

"I wish I had a cat that lived with me!"

James looked distant. He was thinking about cats.


There was a hardware superstore not too far away, where an uncle had once worked. Reaching it meant going a bit deeper into the city, though, which made me nervous. We were likely to see other people.

I had James in his filthy travel coat by the front door, bow slung over his back. I put my hands on his shoulders and looked into his eyes, just above my nipple height.

"I need you to be on your best behaviour today. No silliness, no wandering off. You got that?"

"Yes, Jake."

"If someone scares you, and you think they want to hurt you, what do you do?"

"I dunno." He shifted his feet awkwardly.

"You fire a warning shot. Where do you aim your warning shot?"

"At their arm or their leg, so it hurts them but doesn't, you know..."

"Good boy. Where do you aim if your warning shot doesn't stop them?"

"At the neck. Right here." He rubbed his throat.

I put on my long travel coat and my rucksack and led him out the front door.

The gun was in my inside pocket.


I wasn't sure what the most efficient route to the hardware place was, nor was I entirely sure how to dispose of what was left of the goose carcass.

That's what led me to pick up the canal at the end of the street. I did the decent thing and dumped the goose remains in the water. Then we followed the canal, because it took us in vaguely the right direction and kept us off the streets.

Eventually, we surfaced on a main road, surrounded by Victorian terraced houses, factories and industrial units. It could really have been anywhere on this side of the city. Luckily, I knew where I was going.

We were walking down the middle of the road with plenty of space around, but James still insisted on walking close by my side, so our arms brushed together.

"The buildings seem really close here," he said. "It's like they're leaning over and watching us."

Ultimately, the trip to the store, though it took a while, was entirely uneventful. When we got there, the door was wide open, and the place was a bit of a mess, but most of the stock looked undisturbed. Not much call for building work with all those houses lying empty.

I liberated a trolley. We were going to need it.


"What are we looking for?" James asked. He was sitting in the end of the trolley. What was on the shopping list? One boy. Check.

"I need some pipes, some water filters, probably some plasterboard, and a bit of wood always comes in handy, whether you need it straight away or not."

"What are we building?"

"A rain catcher, James. Need to make sure we have plenty of water."

He was satisfied for a short moment, then decided that actually he'd prefer not to be in the trolley, nearly tipping it over as he was jumping out.

"What did I say before we left the house, James?"


I picked up a single piece of plasterboard. It would be easily big enough for what I wanted to do.

The next task was to search through the plumbing supplies for what I needed. Money being no object, I decided to take all the fanciest, click-together plastic piping in the width I needed: the size of a bath plughole.

"Pick a load of those up," I said, pointing to filters that looked roughly the right size.

"What are these?" asked James.

"I'll put them in with the pipes and they'll get most of the gunk out of the water."

He picked some up and dropped them in the trolley, then something else caught his eye.

"Can we take this as well? Please?"

It was a little colour-change lamp shaped like a cactus. It was possibly the most useless item I'd seen in the store.

"Go on then," I said. "You can use that if you want to read in bed at night."

He dumped it in the trolley, and I had another idea. I went to find one of those jugs that filters water for drinking, just to add another layer of hygiene. James made for the door.

"Wait for me there," I said as I grabbed the largest filter jug they had.

"Oh, wow!"

I turned the trolley to follow James. That's when I noticed a large, tortoiseshell cat had wandered in, and frozen between James and the front door on noticing our presence.

"It's a cat, Jake!"

The cat bolted for the outside.

"Come back!" called James, starting after it.

I groaned internally.


I motored my legs to get the trolley moving, but it didn't want to move quickly. It was blocking the way in front of me, so it would have wasted even more time to abandon it and run all the way around. I focused on getting it moving and chasing after the boy.

The trolley seemed to snag on everything on the floor along the way what should've been a 60-second dash took a couple of minutes. Eventually I got the trolley through the shop door.

James was a little way ahead, out of the store car park, knelt fussing the cat. I felt a wave of relief.

Then I heard a voice. The cat trotted away at mid-pace. James looked surprised and slowly stood up.

Whoever he was looking at was hidden by the wall of the car park. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then looked around and saw me coming. He must have heard the rattle of the trolley as it made its way over the rough concrete ground.

I pulled alongside him. He was facing an old lady. She wore a dark cardigan and quite smart, pressed black trousers. A brightly-patterned scarf was wrapped around her greying dark hair. Her South Asian skin was careworn, bunched in wrinkles around her brown eyes. She was smiling.

"Is this your daddy?" she asked.

She already knew the answer. James and I hardly looked alike. My flyaway-fine golden hair was turning increasingly white with age. My face was the wrong shape. My body was stocky and hairy with short limbs. There's no way I could be confused for James' father.

"Um... Jake is my friend, he looks after me," James mumbled. "He was my mom and dad's friend."

"We look after each other, don't we mate," I said, looking the woman directly in the eye and pulling James close by his shoulders.

"I don't mean to intrude," she said, smiling again. "I live in this house here," she pointed, "With my son and two granddaughters. My son heard shouting and came to the door, but when he saw it was a little boy, he sent me out so as not to scare him."

"Thank you for your concern," I said. "James and I had a little chat about not wandering off earlier, didn't we?"

"Yes," James said quietly, looking at the ground and pressing his feet together.

"Well, I'm glad everything is fine," said the woman. "Though you should give that coat he's wearing a proper wash. You don't want him catching anything."

I smiled a fake smile and nodded a little too much.

"My family," she said, pointing to the house again, "We've never got sick easily."

"Thanks for looking out for him," I said. "Come on, James. You push and I'll pull."

We dragged the trolley past the lady. I waved goodbye. James looked up at her and smiled. She ruffled his hair and walked back towards her house. There was a little girl standing in the doorway.


"Those people had brown skin," he said to me, when we'd got a few streets away.


"I've never seen that before. Not, like, in real life."

I shook my head to myself and carried on pulling the trolley.


I forced the trolley though the front door of the house and could get it no further, so just left it in the hallway. I sat down on the stairs, exhausted and soaked with sweat.

James looked at me sheepishly.

"Should I go and put the girls' underwear on now?"

"What?" I said, looking down at him with my hand in my hair.

"You said if I didn't behave, I'd have to wear girls' pants," he said quietly.

I exhaled audibly. My dick was stirring in my pants.

"I think you'd better come upstairs and get undressed."

I mounted the stairs and held open the bedroom door to let him past me.


He dutifully removed all of his clothes, one by one. He was a pathetic sight, stood naked with his hands by his sides, looking sadly at the ground.

I started undressing too.

He looked up.

"What are you doing?"

"Getting undressed. We need to have a wash."

"But what about my punishment?"

"It was a joke, James!" I laughed. "I wouldn't really want to humiliate you as a punishment. What lesson would that teach you? I'm not going to dress you in anything you're not comfortable with. You're not a rag doll."

"Oh," he said. Did he sound disappointed?

"Come on, silly boy," I said, and led the way to the bathroom. "In you get."

He stood in the bath. I got a flannel wet with the lukewarm tap and began rubbing his body with it.

"We should have a rest for the rest of the day," I said. "Choose a new book to read together, maybe listen to some music."

"Can we listen to something my mom really liked?"

"I'm sure I can find something like that."

I wet the flannel again and squirted it with shower gel. I started on his belly and worked my way down between his legs. He stiffened at my touch.

I smiled at him and knelt down.


Thanks to everyone who has been reading so far. I hope you're enjoying reading as much as I am writing. And thanks again to those who have contacted me about the story. Every email is appreciated.