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.


Part Three: The Goose Whisperer


Two of my old uni friends are having a baby. It isn’t ideal timing, but it’s happening. They’re intelligent and beautiful, and their little boy or girl will be too. And they’ll all survive and cope. They’ll be very happy together.

They’d been professionals; they have assets. They’ve managed to buy a farm in the North East. Did I want to go and help them? We could be our own little self-sufficient community. Maybe other friends will join too. I’ll have to think about it.




I woke with a start.

For a second, I was worried James had wet the bed, until I realised my hair was soaked too. I’d been sweating like a condemned man in the desert. James had been woken by my jump and I felt his hand brush against my body as he felt the sheets.

“Eurgh! Did you wet the bed?” he complained sleepily.

“Feel this,” I said, bringing his hand to my head and the pillow. “Unless you think I weed on my head, it’s just sweat. I had a bad dream is all.”

He wiped his hand on the outside of the bedsheets and went back to sleep.




It was already light outside when I next woke up. James had opened the blinds and was reading in silence next to me, his bare backside planted on the pillow next to my face.

“Enjoying that?” I asked, looking up at him.


It was Count Karlstein, an early Philip Pullman effort, which he’d found and started reading aloud to me the previous evening. I could have sworn I’d given it away decades ago, but apparently not.

I went to the toilet. When I came back, James was no longer reading, but stood on the end of the bed, studying himself in a large wall mirror propped up on the desk.

He was still stark naked.

“Seen something you like?”

He blushed and turned away. “I dunno.”

“Well I think you smell better than you look,” I said, pulling him back down onto the bed. “And you taste better than you smell.” I started planting little wet kisses on his chest. He laughed and squirmed away, pulling himself up onto all fours.

“Does this taste better than it smells?” He grinned, showing off his crooked tooth, and wiggled his raised buttocks at me.

“Oh, I’m fairly certain of that,” I said. “But I’m always happy to check again.”

He giggled and hopped forward, planting his head on the pillows and spreading his raised buttocks with his hands. “Do a taste test.”

I didn’t need a second invitation. I was rock hard from the sight of him, baring his little pink balloon knot obscenely for me. I crawled over and began slowly licking the insides of his thighs. His body was tense. I nibbled at the bottom of his left cheek, and he gave out a little yip, like a frightened puppy. I shifted my head slightly right and planted a kiss on his bifkin, inhaling the leathery scent of his crack.

I could look at his anus all day without getting bored, but I wasn’t lying when I told him he smelt better than he looked. I licked his scrotum from behind, tickling the underside of his hard little penis with the tip of my tongue. Then, following his seam from front to back, made a broad, full-tongued lick all the way up his middle, tasting the full length of his cleft. I heard him groan and exhale deeply.

He tasted of peppery red meat, bitter as well as tart, like a fine vinegar. I clamped my mouth over the hole and added suction, alternating between tickling him with the tip of my tongue, and the broad, lapping licks of a mother cat grooming a kitten. But, of course, boys are furless.

He was pushing back against me, forcing his skinny ass higher in the air as my head pushed down against it, still tightly parting his cheeks with his spidery little fingers. He was grunting and moaning under heavy breath at the sensation. I grazed my front teeth over his anus and pulled off.

He actually growled. “Don’t stop!”

“I’m going to lie down,” I said. “You’ll be more comfortable sitting over me.”

I lay on my back with my head propped up by the pillows. He threw himself onto me.

“Do it.”

I gripped him at mid-thigh and got back to work. His arsehole had begun to wink open, so I teased it further with the tip of my tongue, trying to gain entry. He was red hot, bouncing on my face. He went to begin playing with himself, but I slapped his hand hard and he growled again.


I was muffled by a mouthful of boy bum, but he got the message. I pulled his hands down and placed them on his buttocks, encouraging him to spread himself wider and help me rim him deeper.

I ran my hands up his thighs and rested them on his crotch, filling his V. I wondered if I could make him cum just from rimming him with his dick tight. I pressed my thumbs into his pubis and used my middle and forefingers to pull down gently on his scrotum. He let out a long, loud moan.

His foreskin must have retracted as far as it could go, because I could smell the yeastier scent of his exposed cock head over the meaty smells of his saliva-drenched ass crack. An ass that I was now tonguefucking as hard and quick as possible. He was bucking like he was trying to make himself seasick, making high pitched moans through his panting.

He lasted a few seconds longer before he froze and went silent. For a moment, his body was completely rigid. He’d stopped breathing. The only movement I could feel was the monstrous gulping of his arsehole around my tongue, and the wild dancing of his steel-stiff willy bursting from the pressure of my fingers.

His breath caught suddenly as if he was drowning, and he let out the longest, loudest moan I’d ever heard from him. Then he practically collapsed down my body, rolling off to the left and shivering uncontrollably. I rolled over to face his back and gently stoked his arms and chest. His teeth were chattering. Sweat matted his hair and ran down his face. He looked like he’s just run a marathon.

I didn’t say anything but nuzzled into his shoulder and gave it a gentle kiss. After a few seconds he calmed down and let me cradle him.

“That was the best ever,” he whispered through a hoarse voice.




It wasn’t long after that we were sat on the living room sofa having a breakfast of canned chunky vegetable soup. We’d both dressed. James was wearing the same clothes as the day before.

“Who’s that boy?” He asked, pointing at a photo on the wall.

“That’s my brother, when he was eleven,” I said. “That was his school photo when he just started secondary school.”

“He looks like he’d be fun to hang out with.”

I paused.

“Do you miss spending time with kids your own age?”

James answered between mouthfuls of soup. “I don’t miss it cos I’ve never been around kids my age.”

“Harry and Cerys were at the farm for a bit,” I countered.

“Harry and Cerys weren’t my age. They were bigger than me.”

I made a noncommittal face with my lips and went back to eating my soup.

“Anyway,” said James, “I’m used to playing with you now.”

“That’s not quite the same,” I said, inhaling sharply.

There was the tinkle of spoons in bowls a while longer.

“What are we doing today?” He asked.

“We need to find you some more clothes,” I said.

“Good,” he replied, pulling at his crotch. “These old pants are a bit itchy.”




I set us off towards the old town centre for this part of the city. It was a sunny day. It felt quite mild, even though there was a slight bite to the breeze. James bounced along at my right hand, enjoying being out and about. I’d let him bring his bow, which he swung in his hand at his side as he skip-walked.

I chuckled when I noticed he was humming a song from the album we’d listened to yesterday. He looked up at me with surprise. The blue of his shirt made the blue of his eyes sparkle. “You liked that music yesterday?” I asked.

He smiled and nodded his head.

“Your dad was a big Radiohead fan,” I said. “Your mom too, but your dad especially.”

James grinned from ear to ear. “Do you think he’d be happy that we listened to it together?”

“I think he’d be very happy with you indeed.”




Urban centres are the worst.

There’s nothing more grimly sobering than run-down shops. Big broken windows. Ransacked displays.

Then there’s the mannequins. I hate the mannequins.

“It’s a bit spooky here,” said James, reaching to hold my hand as we walked down the silent pedestrian high street. He had a little quiver on his back holding three thin, metal arrows, each with a plastic flight like an oversized dart. I wore my rucksack, now empty save for a bottle of water. High above us, a red kite circled, wings wide open in the clear sky.

We entered a derelict shopping precinct. James craned his neck to stare at the ceiling. “Wow, this building is really tall.”

I decided I’d have to take him to the city centre one day.

“Come in here,” I said, making for what was once a children’s clothes shop. It was a mess. Clothes were strewn at random across the floor. Racks had been pushed onto their sides. It was surprisingly dark and dingy compared to the bright foyer.

“We should start with underwear,” I suggested. “See if we can’t find some that’s a bit kinder on your delicate bits.”

He giggled and nodded his head.

There was a specific section of the shop for it, but now everything was all messed up. I decided to try the storeroom and pulled a wind-up torch from my pocket.

“It’s dark in here,” James observed.

“That it is,” I said, rummaging through a couple of plastic boxes. “Ah! How about these?” I held up a pack of plain white knickers at him, grinning.

“I think those are meant for girls,” he said, smiling and shaking his head.

“Maybe I’ll take them anyway and make you wear them as punishment when you’re naughty.”

“But I’m a good boy!” He protested, being very serious.

I made the same face with my lips and put them into my bag. James pouted and stamped his foot. I ignored him and made for a nearby box. He followed and pushed against me. I made room for him and shone the light at the box.

Inside we found a lot of colourful boys’ boxer-briefs. He happily began stuffing packs into my rucksack. I grabbed a pack and opened it up. “Go on, get those horrible ratty things you’re wearing off. They’re nearly as old as I am.”

He took off his shoes and then stripped off his joggers and underpants while I shone the light on him. It was like the world’s most nonchalant striptease. He was left stood in just the football shirt and the oversized socks, his quiver slung across his back.

“Look at you,” I said, with a smile in my voice, as I handed him a pair of brand-new blue and pink striped, form-fitting boxers.

“What?” He said, bending over and pulling them on unceremoniously.

He looked quizzically at his shirt, where the light caught him.

“Why did someone scribble on this exactly?” He asked.

“Football used to be huge,” I said. “Thousands and thousands of people watching. Footballers were very famous, and some of them very rich too. They used to sign their name on things as a present to their fans.”

“That’s stupid,” he said. “I like you a lot, but I don’t want you to write your name on all my stuff.”




We carried on wandering through the shop getting James kitted out. He had an interesting taste in clothing. He picked out a lot of t-shirts with weird tie-die designs. They were quite an expensive, fashionable brand in their time.

“Want me to sign those for you?”

“You’re not funny.”




We wandered through the shopping centre and came to an old sports superstore. James didn’t take much dragging inside. There was a big metal display bucket full of differently sized footballs. I pulled a proper-sized one out.

“It’s really flat,” I said. “See if you can find me a pump.”

Of course, he couldn’t find me a pump, because he had no idea what to look for. I found one nearby and removed it from its packaging.

“How does it work?”

I pulled the piston back and used it to blow a jet of air straight into James’ face.

“Oi!” He whined, and slapped at my arm.

I pumped the ball up to its full glory. I bounced it a couple of times, then chipped it up to James with the end of my foot, at his head height. He headed it back into my arms. We did it down every aisle of the shop, heading the ball back and forth over racks and displays, running the length of the aisles trying to keep the ball from each other. I tried spinning past James with an audacious Cruyff turn, easily holding the small boy off at arms-length. When his leading foot whacked me full on the ankle, I realised it was probably time to call it a day. We sat down against a shelf stacked high with shoeboxes and shared some water. I put the ball and pump in the bag, now overfull from all the clothes we’d picked out.

“Want to see what’s upstairs?”

The upper level was full of more sports kit and equipment. Light shone in from the foyer through a huge front window. James went and leaned full against it, peering out, but I hoiked him back by the neck of his shirt.

“Hey!” He protested.

“Sorry mate. We don’t know how sturdy that glass is.”

We pottered around aimlessly some more.

“A bouncy ball!” James called out, bowling a tennis ball halfway across the shop floor to me.

“Put it in your pocket,” I said, throwing it gently underarm back to him.

“What’s this ball?” he asked, having skipped across to another display and picked up a golf ball.

“Golf,” I said. “That’s no fun.”

“It feels weird,” he said, dropping it back on top of the others. As he wandered off to try on a series of bike helmets, I spotted something that looked a bit more useful.

“James! Come and look at this!”

He sauntered back over with a bike helmet on, the straps hanging down either side of his face.

“Cool!” He squeaked. “More arrows!”

I’d found the small set of archery gear in the shop. I was surprised nobody had taken it all before. But then I supposed most adults living in a city would have no idea how to use it. I certainly wouldn’t have.

James added some mean-looking metal arrows that tapered to a sharp, narrow point, to his quiver.

“Jake, can we find somewhere to test them out? Please?”




We were in the town park. I didn’t think James would want to fire his new arrows at trees or something, but I figured he could fire them up high to land them safely in the grass in a big arc.

We heard them before we saw them. I’d forgotten that there was a large pond here. And there, at its edge, was a large flock of honking and squabbling Canada geese. Suddenly a half-image, like a childhood photo, flashed across my memory. Me as a small boy, herding the grumpy waterfowl across the grass by the poolside.

“How would you like goose stew for dinner tonight, James?”

He smiled and nodded his head, eager to show off for me. We walked closer to the birds at our leisure. They paid us no heed at all.

James stopped and reached for one of his new arrows. I stood back to watch. He lined it up and tensed the bow. He stood in form, pointed towards his quarry, and licked his lips slightly. The geese honked and fluttered. He pulled back and released.

The bowstring was quick and lithe as the young boy’s muscles, as if an extension of body. I thought he would aim for the big birds’ dumpy bodies. Instead, he nailed the nearest goose straight through the back of its little craned head. It dropped to the ground instantly.

“Yes!” He cried out, punching the air. The other geese honked crazily and flew off in all directions. James ran over to his kill.

“Well done, dead eye!” I said, clapping him on the back and squeezing his shoulder once I’d caught up to him.

“Thank you,” he said sweetly, puffed up with pride.

He pulled his arrow from the bird’s head.

“Ugh. Goose brains,” he said, wiping the arrow on the grass. Then he stopped and looked straight up at me. “How are we going to get it home?”




The walk home took us a fair bit longer than the journey there. I’d gone back to the shops to find a plastic box to carry our kill in, then made James carry it. His arms got tired and he whined it was too heavy, so we ended up taking turns, all while I was lugging along a whole new wardrobe for him on my back.

That’s why I was in no mood to start butchering a goose as soon as I got home, regardless of how much I was looking forward to the stew.

I dumped the box on the kitchen counter. James yawned deeply.

“I think we could both do with a bit of a kip,” I said.

James nodded in agreement. I steered him gently by the shoulders to the stairs. When he was a couple of steps up, and our heads were at the same height, I whispered in his ear.

“I think maybe our champion huntsman deserves a prize as well.”

He giggled and leaned back against me. I had to practically carry him the rest of the way with his body pressed backward into mine. He made to go into the bathroom first, so I caught him by the shoulder.

“Make sure you shake off properly afterwards,” I said, winking at him.

He grinned and blushed.




I had a wicked idea.

When James entered the bedroom, I was knelt nude at the end of the bed, gazing at myself in the mirror. He fell about laughing.

“What?” I said, turning towards him, my hard dick pointing straight at him.

“Nothing,” he said, trying and failing to supress more sniggering.

“Oh, so it’s only cute when you do it?”

“I didn’t have a stiffy when I did it.”

“You want to watch yourself,” I mock scolded him. “You’ll be finding yourself wearing your new knickers for the rest of the day!”

He stuck out his tongue.

“Come on,” I said. “Get undressed you cheeky little thing.”

James stripped off and lay on his back on the bed, legs apart, hands behind his head. He knew what he was getting.

I pecked him on the lips and continued kissing lightly down the middle of his body. He stiffened quickly and was stood to full attention by the time I reached his belly button. I picked up the wheaty scent of his immature cockhead alongside the specific boy smell generated by wearing sports clothes but not actively doing exercise. I’m sure I started salivating.

I could feel James’ steady breathing as I worked my way towards the goal. He was radiating heat from his crotch. I kissed his little balls then dived on his cock, taking it all in at once. Not a hint of fresh piss. He was a good boy after all. I bobbed on his hard dick, working the skin with my lips and the exposed head with my tongue. He sighed and rested a hand on my head, proprietorially.

We were just getting going when he tapped my head with his hand, as if to stop me.

“You too,” he said.

I must have looked confused.

“You know, both at once,” he said. “Sixty-nine.”

“To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“No reason.”

I wasn’t tall, but neither was James, even for a boy approaching twelve years old. The logistics were difficult. The few times we’d done this before I had to arch my body while he lay straight. It meant he was pulling my boner downwards to get the angle right to take it into his mouth. Not overly comfortable, but I wasn’t going to complain too much.

James spent a lot of time working just on my head, while I ate him all up. He cocked a leg over my head to push his cock and balls deeper into my mouth, giving me sight of his perfect pucker between his skinny cheeks. And that gave me an idea.

As James popped the head of my dick out of his mouth to give it a good licking, I shoved in three fingers from my right hand instead. He was a bit surprised, but he went with it, sucking on the fingers as if they were a penis. I pulled them out again. They were slimy with his thick cocksucking spit. I wiped the fingers over his bumhole, coating it with a wet layer. He laughed and wiggled his backside a bit, before getting back on task with my hard-on. I stuck my middle finger in my own mouth, alongside James’ stiffy. It tasted of his saliva and his anus. Once it was nice and wet, I brought it back to his arse. This time I jabbed it in.

“Yow!” he protested.

His dick softened a little. I spat it out.

“Give it a chance. If it doesn’t feel good in a minute, I can take it out.”

“It just hurt going in like that,” he said. “It feels funny now.”

“Shall we carry on?”

He answered by taking my dick back into his mouth. I gave his one a gentle little lick and it stiffened back up again. I rubbed my nose on it. James jabbed it towards my face. I took it into my mouth and put a bit more pressure on my middle finger. It slid deeper into him, towards the second knuckle, and his sphincter spasmed. James moaned onto my dick and reared his hips, mashing his crotch further against my mouth. I had a full view of my finger stretching his hole. He felt like fire and velvet and silly putty.

I kept working on his dick, tongue swirling round and round, back and forth, nose occasionally nuzzling his balls. I gave it a minute before applying pressure with my finger again. This time his ass sucked it in, popping all the way past the second knuckle, nearly to the base. He clenched and spasmed wildly on my buried finger, and I felt a familiar pulse run through his dick on my tongue. He came, hard, squeezing my head to him with his cocked leg. That did it for me, too. I filled his mouth with spunk.

I withdrew my finger and watched his arsehole throb a little then close back up. I looked down at James’ face to see him wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. There was a dollop of my cum on the sheets, and another string across his cheek.

“Enjoy that?”

“You could have warned me before just shoving it in. That hurt.”

“Sorry,” I said. “I knew you’d like it though.”

“I did,” he conceded. “And I suppose it didn’t hurt very much.”

“Good lad,” I said. “Let me help you clean up.”

I licked my cum from his cheek and swallowed. Then I gave him a wet kiss. He tasted salty and spicy.

“Want to help me clean up too?” I asked him, offering him the offending finger. It was slimy and the fingernail looked conspicuously dirty.

“Eurgh! No!”

“Your loss,” I said, and sucked on it. It tasted like rusty leather.

“That’s disgusting,” said James. “Really disgusting.”

“It’s only been up your bum.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Well that’s my fart box.”

He let out a sharp, airy fart, and laughed out loud.