The Carriage House

The Carriage House

"Well," I began, struggling and scrambling to find an appropriate response to the querulous young lad in answer to the request, in his innocence I thought, posed to me.

Standing before me, clad only in a tee-shirt and shorts (very short shorts), looking up at me with dark round eyes set in an angelic face, unruly dark black hair laying in alluring, uncombed temptation growing on his head, slim of build, light of weight, and perhaps four foot high at the most, was a prepubescent boy, certainly not older than eight years, at the most, perhaps nine. Not just any boy, understand, but one who might be described as a pulchritude, a neonate, a nipper or moppet, of extraordinary beauty far beyond the magnificence of Helen of Troy, of whom it was said had a face which would launch a thousand ships; a boy causing those with erectile dysfunction to toss away their Viagra, wiping impotency from existence; dead men rising from the graves after poking the sod away with their erections; maiden ladies seeking to do more than cuddle the little innocent on their laps (hopefully face first with no shorts on the lad), and women and young girls soddening their underpants with desire. He was, in fact, too pretty to be a boy, but he was, by all the gods, he was!

"It's sort of hard to answer," I continued. "It's been so long ago. I was probably your age."

I stopped, hoping to direct his attention to another subject, less entailing, revealing, naughty, or delightfully stimulating, entertaining, and erotically sensuous to something more mundane, factual, and unlikely to implicate me in any charges of luring young boys into a life of sin and debauchery and put me in jail for life, which wouldn't be too long, considering my age, but definitely not an attractive option compared to Golden Pines Nursing Home just down the street. I vowed not to enter therein unless in a comatose state and unable to wipe my ass or jiggle the last drops from my aging, sagging penis and balls. Ever see old men nude I wanted to ask him and how their cocks and balls seem to hang pendulously all wrinkled and smooth? I can view that sight every morning by looking in my own mirror. I don't need to inhabit the nursing home to view multiple duplications of the same apparition.

"So, how old are you, young man?"

"Nine!"

I raised my eyebrows, expressing non-verbally my doubts concerning his age.

"Well," he replied haughtily responding to my censorious doubt, "I'll be nine in three more months!"

"I guess I was probably about that age as well," I responded, not wishing to offend him or frighten him away. The sight of him was too appealing to cause that to happen! "Probably eight or nine?" I thought to myself. Bullshit and little green peas, I was, exactly, maybe!

"So?" came the response to my revelation.

Oh, dear! This was not really going in the direction I wished. It was a one word question. No way would one word or several words in answer be sufficient to delineate what, among a number of what now would be considered egregious acts I committed, decidedly setting me on the path down which I'd travel my life. Yet, I hesitated, trying to decide just how much I wished to or should reveal to this young nymph concerning my life experiences leading to the answer to his inquisition.

I do wish he'd remove his right hand from the inside of his shorts and quit fondling his, what I assumed, was his most appealing asset or assets, depending how one would count the contents, if as one or as three, categorizing two of the three with the same anatomical name or as the entire contents as one nice little boy bulge. While gawking at said bulge, imagining the contents, I allowed my mind to wander.

It was the summer of 1948, a little over seventy years ago, the light of the early morning sun peeking over the trees in our yard, giving a faint light to my bedroom, where I lay, in full naked splendor, legs spread, in a delicious act of discovery and intensity, gripping with two fingers and a thumb with one hand, my little two and half inch stiffy, pumping it furiously while the other hand was between my legs, now raising a bit, with my middle finger, wet with spit, plunging in and out of my itty-bitty poop hole, giving me totally mind blowing pleasure, as I reached my dry climax. It was every bit as delightful as the first one I experienced since discovering the pleasure of the use of an erection and the aftermath. My favorite toy was in one hand and the other with a finger up into a most erogenous place intensifying and prolonging my pleasure. This particular exercise of pleasurable activity was introduced to me by a much older dear friend, who delighted in teaching me new, wonderful, and delightfully exciting things to do with and to the male human body, especially the areas in the front wherein the boy-part resided and the backside, where the out chute could be used as an incoming chute.

Laying there as my boyhood softened, my finger still inserted and sort of exploring my insides, my mind wandered wondering what other more naughty and delightfully sensual aspects of life, particularly the pleasures a boy can experience through those parts which make other boys, would be available to me if I could seek them out and take advantage of opportunity. I had a devious mind, that much I must admit. Often my eyes would wander, in the city park restroom with the long trough for a urinal, when other boys, young or older, and men would stand, whip out their todgers and drain the swamp. I was mesmerized by them all, bringing me, and many times those being gawked at, into a full cock-stands. Of course, mine was much, much smaller than the older boys and men, but it didn't seem to faze me any since they often would smile and lick their lips. I suppose, at the time, it was illegal and frowned upon, but to say what was happening in the world of sex between males didn't exist or having the desires either was little more than benign acceptance or denial.

It's not as if others, of all ages, weren't engaged in some sort of sexual activity, with girls, with themselves, other boys, or men during and after the war. It just wasn't talked about and basically was illegal, but that didn't prevent it from happening on a regular basis, in the cover of darkness, in the home, in the vestry of the church, or in back alleys and other convenient, unobservable places when the opportunity presented itself. There was many a boy walking bowlegged and men with happy smiles on their faces after completing the act which no one talked about, but brought great pleasure to both parties involved.

My mother and I lived with my grandparents, her parents, in a small house on the south side between the river and the railroad tracks. I never heard mention of my father, except to be answered, "left for the war and never came back." It wasn't the most prosperous side of town or the most highly educated but everyone who lived there was basically in the same boat – poor! Large gardens, fish from the river, squirrels, rabbits, ducks, pheasant, and quail from the timber south of town or farm fields nearby, pretty much made up the basis or our diet, along with eggs purchased from other people. Rationing was slowly easing off, not entirely, but sugar, salt, flour, milk, butter, and other staples were now available for purchase from the small grocery store/meat market about a dozen blocks from home. Mom had a sister and some cousins who farmed so we had access to butter, milk, cream, eggs, chicken, and some pork during the war.

My clothes were hand-me-downs from other boys in our church, generally well worn by then, but serviceable or from my older cousins on the farm. In summer, I wore as little as possible, running barefoot, dressed in shorts, tee-shirt, and sans underwear, much to my mother's chagrin, but comfortable and made my boy parts readily accessible. It felt good to have my little wiener free from constraint and open for any breeze to waft up my shorts legs and tickle my small uncut pecker and snugged up balls.

My grandfather still worked as a mechanic in one of the local garages, my mother waited tables part-time, and grandma kept house and me. Life wasn't that easy for us, I guess, since sometimes money was hard to come by. There were those in our part of town known for gaining their funds in less than legal ways or honorable for that matter. Many's the time I heard the older boys laugh and say, "what you can't earn standing up, you earn on your back or hands and knees."

Now, the boys and their families living on the other side of the tracks, the more affluent side so to speak, had newer clothes, nicer homes to live in, and extra cash, something which did not go unnoticed by me!

It was the summer I received my first well used and rebuilt bicycle. It was a gift from Mr. Jordan, our neighbor across the street, for helping him with shoveling snow, running errands, chores around the house, and for being "a very good and special boy," especially during our lessons of life. Mr. Jordan lived alone, never married, and was thought by some to be "peculiar." I didn't think so. Besides the "good boy" part was probably debatable, but the "special boy" part probably wasn't. Mr. Jordan made certain of that and often would tell me so after making use of my "special" help what a special and delightful boy I was.

Our front yard was blessed with several large maple trees which provided ample, cooling shade on hot afternoons. It was under those trees, once a week during the summer, the ladies from our church gathered with grandma and mom for "fellowship and prayer."

Bull shit! They loved to gossip and this was the perfect place. In the winter they met less often at one another's houses, taking turns. Mom and grandma always provided lemonade and others would provide some "munchies" such as cake or bars of some sort. Often, during the war, toward the end when I was old enough to remember, they'd have to borrow eggs and/or milk from us. Since Mom's sister married a farmer and they had chickens and a couple of milk cows and shared with us, it seemed only proper to the ladies. Fucking moochers, I thought at the time and it hasn't changed any!

"So," I continued, addressing my young inquisitor, who still hadn't taken his hand off of mine or removed his other hand from the inside of his shorts, which by the by, hung loosely on his very slim, narrow, waist and hips. His tee-shirt wasn't very long either, leaving exposed a band of flesh from his belly-button to the very low waistband of his shorts, so low it seemed the waistband came to just above his hairless pubis; well, perhaps an inch or two above.

"I was an extremely cute, dark-haired, dark-eyed boy with a light brown, perhaps `Mediterranean' complexion, tanning quite easily, with dimples, and a killer smile. The type of little boy women," and some men, I might add but not to him, just yet, "loved to cuddle and coo over. I probably didn't weigh over fifty pounds at the time. Much like you, I should suppose," appraising him carefully. He removed his hands from inside his shorts when I licked my lips, smiled, and waggled my eyebrows. It didn't stop him from quickly inserting it again to check on his special toy or from him grinning at me with what I considered a quite lascivious, inviting grin!

I quickly qualified my statement by adding, "Of course, no where nearly as cute as you," bringing an instant, almost knowing smile to his face, quickly changing from the previous grin to one of "I know it and so do you!" look.

"I tried to stay away as long as I could, preferring to wait at Mr. Jordan's house, so I wouldn't be a bother to the group. I was not at a loss for something to occupy my time with or without enjoyment while at his house."

Well, that was the reason I always gave Mother. Secondary to the real reason was if they were all still gathered when I came home, invariably there's be at least one and perhaps two of the ladies would want to hug me, kiss me on the cheek, tell me how cute I was, and how they'd like to take me home with them (ugh).

"If I returned too early, eventually one would want them all to join with her with praying I be kept pure and wholesome."

Grandma and Mom always thought it was so nice! Personally, with what I knew of the world around me, I thought it'd be pretty damned boring.

"I often wondered what the reaction would be if I pulled down my shorts, exposed my bare crotch adorned only with my little inch and half pecker and marble-sized balls, and shouted here's your chance ladies, wholesome."

"Did you?"

"No!"

"Why?"

Did this child have any other question?

"Because it would not have been polite and was naughty," and I muttered to myself, I would've gotten my ass whopped into next week and my mouth washed out with soap.

"Are they the same size now?"

Aha, a different question.

"What? The ladies? No, they're all dead now!"

"No, your pecker and your balls."

"No!"

"Bet they're a lot bigger by a bunch! My balls are about the same size, but my pecker is bigger. Maybe two inches soft and three and a half hard."

I needed to change the subject, quickly in fear, yet almost desperately wishing, he'd drop his shorts and present me with a request to inspect them, so I asked, "How would you like it if some old lady fondled your pecker and balls?"

Perhaps not the best segue, but I had to try something, I was becoming arthritic in one place on my body.

He had to think on that a moment and decided, hesitantly, "Not some old lady especially," and looked directly at me, first my face and then the eyes dropped to my crotch and be damned, he licked his lips! Oh my!

I didn't care comment or think it proper to play "show and tell" at this time, especially since I was sitting on my front porch, open to public scrutiny, and fodder for gossip should I be overheard saying the wrong thing or touching the wrong little thing either for that matter. I was fearful if I responded, "That's nice" he'd insist on showing me and I didn't dare risk it, at least on my front porch. Of course, who'd ever think man my age capable of anything of a sexual nature? Most imagined men my age had a bad case of cabbage fever; you know, the stem too weak to hold up the head. If they only knew!

"So," he asked, seeming to return to the same subject which started this conversation, "what did you do?"

Got to come up with an answer which might either put this to rest or distract him, and me since he still had a hand down the front of his shorts, absent mindedly scratching, fondling, or just plain feeling his own little penis, I wasn't certain which. I just knew he wouldn't be satisfied until he had a truthful answer, so I decided to prevaricate.

"Oh, I just helped Mr. Jordan with things he needed taken care of or came up or other boys and guys who needed my assistance."

"Doing what?"

"You know, stuff!"

The "stuff" I was referring to, other than "stuff" with Mr. Jordan, began in mid-July that year. I was on my way home from the park on the other side of the tracks (it had a big slide, unlike the small park on our side of the tracks) and passed by the old carriage house near what was once the home of a person of considerable means in the area, but was now the home of an older couple. The house needed painting and the carriage house wasn't used, except for storage I thought at the time. I discovered differently!

Zipping along on my bike, from the corner of my eye I thought I saw the flash of a white tee-shirt near a side door on the old carriage house. I slowed, but lost sight of whatever it was. Curiosity continued to slow my pedaling, my eyes focusing, as best I could since I couldn't steer the bike, and stare too long since I'd probably dump my little ass on the road. A teen boy, clad in a white tee-shirt and low hanging blue jeans, stood a moment, casting his head and eyes about, looking around as if seeking someone or trying to ascertain if he'd been seen.

"Highly suspicious," I thought continuing to ride another fifty yards or so before making a slow, deliberate circle, heading back toward the carriage house, and the teen apparently sneaking into it. Again, curiosity seemed to override my common sense, as if adults thought I had any at such a tender, young age. I didn't want to disappoint anyone, but I wasn't quite so tender or naïve even at eight going on nine. Nope; I was more street wise then they thought.

The door to the carriage house, not the big double doors which would swing open to admit or allow a carriage pulled by a team of prancing, black horses, reined by a dashingly handsome young groom, tight pants hugging his thighs outlining his obvious maleness, and bright white shirt, but the smaller people door allowing, in my imagination, the handsome young man or the older gentleman who owned horses and rig and passengers would enter to ride out in glory. Of course, the stable boy would have the horses all bridled and hitched up and receive an appreciative tap on his shoulder or a pat on his pert, little butt.

The little urchin in front of me, having moved closer, seemed to hang on every word of my description of the groom and stable boy, hand still stuffed inside his shorts, although said hand was jiggling quite a bit more as he pleasured the hard little spike concealed therein, eyes big, asked, rather pleaded I should say,

"Did you peek inside?"

I nodded ever so solemnly, pursed my lips, held a finger to them as it asking him to either be quiet or not reveal a secret of some sort I was about to reveal.

"Was the dashingly handsome groom with the tight pants outlining his pecker or the stable boy with the, what kind of butt was that?"

"Pert!" Kind of what yours appears to be, even covered with shorts, I wanted to add but didn't.

"Okay, pert butt, inside?"

I waggled my head sadly, "Alas, neither were inside, only two local boys whom I'd seen about, but didn't quite remember their names. One was older and taller than the other, but both were handsome and well fit, I thought."

Hesitating to say what else I saw and what proportions, I dodged leading into that subject deciding this might be the time to introduce the subject of Greek Mythology and the sight before me that day of two young men paying homage to the God Priapus, if the bulges in the front of their jeans were any indication. He might not understand what I meant, hopefully, but perhaps later, if the subject came up or anything else for that matter, if exposed, we could discuss it. Not to be!

"What's a pear plus?"

"Not `pear plus' Priapus."

"So you gonna tell me what a pree-a-pus is?

I explained as best as I could, pointing at what his hand was enveloping, might be a good example.

"Oh," he nodded knowingly, "you mean this?" stepped back pulled down the front of his shorts and introduced me to his very stiff, circumcised penis, pink head atop a smooth, delectable shaft about two and a half to three inches in length. The boy tended to exaggerate the length, as all boys and most men do.

"Well, yes," I said sort of stumbling on my words, resisting the opportunity to reach over and check it for stiffness and softness. "Better pull up the shorts so I can continue."

He didn't but I continued anyway.

The interior of the carriage house was illuminated only from sunlight trying to creep through the dusty, dirty windows, yet providing enough light in the room to see well enough to notice the two teens standing near a door leading to a small room I later learned was commonly considered the stable boy's and grooms quarters. There they slept and awaited to be summoned by the master of the house to ready the carriage and horses for a sojourn to some place in or out of the city.

It wasn't to be the case this day however. There was neither carriage or horses, just two boys and the room. Lurking quietly in the shadows so I'd not be seen, I watched the two boys, at the urging of the older and bigger of the two, go into the small room, and not to sleep. No, it was for a much more nefariously exciting and erotic experience. In they went and I slowly carefully crept my way toward the partially open door. People should learn to turn off lights when the leave a room and shut the door when they want some privacy.

"Hardly daring not to breathe in fear of being found out," I continued to my wide-eyed, almost naked, beautifully smooth, invitingly ready, audience of one, "I glanced around the dimly lighted room. All I could see was a wooden straight-backed chair, a small wooden table, a single bed with a rather ratty mattress on it, and two partially naked teen boys, pants down around their ankles, and rampant teen cocks, one larger and longer than the other, pointing up at their belly buttons. The smaller lad had a few dark hairs spattered about just above the base of his four to five inch erection while the other boy, the older one, sported a dense bush of curly black pubic hair at the root of a six inch, man-sized cock."

"I'll bet yours is bigger and fatter," my young friend interrupted, moving closer to my now opened legs.

The older one was telling they younger one to bend over the chair, and "take it" while the other pleaded it hurt when he got stuffed with the older boy's thick cock.

"Don't be such a baby, Jimmy," the older boy admonished, growling as he grabbed Jimmy's hip and prepared to shove the massive missile in the silo, poking at the waiting puckered receptacle.

It was at this point in time, my young entrepreneurial mind began cranking out various opportunities for financial gain I saw presented before me. I wanted a battery light for my bike, but they cost one dollar and fifteen cents, a dollar and fifteen cents I didn't have and, I thought even further, I just might be able to earn some extra, maybe on a regular basis.

Taking a chance, I stepped out of the gloom of the doorway, into the room allowing them to see me. I coughed to draw their attention, since the older boy was concentrating on shoving his pecker up Jimmy's butt!

"It's easier if you get it wet or smear some Vaseline or lotion on it first."

Both turned toward, surprised someone else was in the room, dicks slowly deflating.

"My god, Frankie," Jimmy sputtered, "it's that cute little guy from south of the tracks we see riding his bike near the park almost every day. You know the one we said we'd like to ...," and stopped in midsentence. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what they'd like to do to me and I wasn't about to discourage it either.

"By god, you're right," Frankie acknowledged, a wicked, lascivious grin beginning to form on his face and the soldier between his legs standing up to salute my presence. "You're a real cutie, kid. Come here and let us get a good look at you, a real good look!"

I walked carefully toward him, wary, but not afraid, knowing I could run faster with my shorts on then he could with his pants down. Standing perhaps three foot from him, just far enough away he couldn't grab me but close enough afford me an excellent view of the equipment Frankie carried. It was impressive, uncut, nicely veined, head now poking out from the covering much like a big snake emerging from a burrow. It twitched up and down as he appraised me.

"Why don't you show us what's under those shorts," he continued "and then you wet my dick for me, okay?"

"Okay," I responded, "but to peek at my pecker it's going to cost you ten cents, to wet your fat knob will cost twenty-five cents, in advance, and to fuck me will cost you fifty cents – in advance!"

"Bullshit!" Frankie snorted, "I'll just fuck you dry and still get to see your sweet little pecker and balls and not pay you one fucking dime."

"Think that's wise?" Jimmy sputtered softly, lowering his voice, "he's from the south side, you know."

Frankie was definitely bigger than me, easily overpowering me with or without Jimmy's help, but Jimmy could hold me down while Frankie rammed his long, fat appendage right up my little poop chute and there'd be little I could do about it. A quick switcheroo and Jimmy would pummel me next, taking sloppy seconds.

I'd bluffed my way this far, so what the hell, in for a penny, in for a pound!

Now the boys who lived on the south side of the tracks had sort of reputation. There was a small group of them, kind of rough around the edges, who didn't take kindly to someone from the outside, north side of the tracks, messing with south side girls or fighting, cheating, or otherwise causing harm to other south side boys and would pummel the shit out of them if they did.

Most of what was said concerning the group led by Tony Bianco (Tony B. as he was known as) was mainly gossip, invented by others and promoted by Tony B. and the boys. His reputation was enhanced by such talk and caused many interlopers to rethink their intended actions and steer clear of irritating Tony B.

It all started, it was said, wrongly, Tony knifed a boy from the north side over some minor disagreement. From that day forward, kids and adults steered clear of Tony. It was similar to Moses parting the water since Tony could walk down the halls and never have an obstacle in his path. According to Mr. Jordan, who got the story straight from Tony and his cohorts who happened to be visiting him one day, one day in eighth grade physical education class when another boy from the north side called Tony a "dumb fucking Dago," a very nasty derogatory term some stupid people called those of Italian descent, Tony took offense. Tony and a several of his buddies waited until the offensive lad headed toward the showers and decided to join him. They quickly surrounded him, Tony reached forward and clutched the boys exposed balls. Squeezing them tightly, enough to bring tears to the other boy's eyes, said something to the effect, "better watch yourself pecker-head or someone's liable to take a knife and relieve you of these puny little balls of yours, turning you from stallion to a gelding." That's all it took and the story grew leaps and bounds.

I'd only seen Tony around town and once coming from Mr. Jordan's but really didn't know him. I did wonder if he did the same kind of "stuff" I did with Mr. Jordan. However, there seemed to be no harm as far as I could see, utilizing his name and reputation to achieve my goals this particular day and save me from a beating besides. It might also provide a safeguard for future encounters, if I played my cards right.

"That's up to you," I said with a smile, ignoring what Jimmy was saying, "but if you don't pay up, next time you come south of the tracks, someone might just might cut your balls off and shove them up your ass, especially if I mention it to Tony B."

I made one dollar and thirty-five cents that first day on the job.

My little business venture continued to thrive, even after I decided to supply the Vaseline. Having it handy, not relying on some other dubious lubricant, made the event more enjoyable for those partaking of my body, but also made it less painful and easier on me. I thought at first having the slick substance on hand (or on cock) would decrease my revenue by twenty-five cents per boy, but much to my surprise, it increased by twenty-five cents to one dollar and a half per session. I discovered I also possessed a small, but desirably inviting bit of a snack they both loved wrapping their lips around. Not only did it increase my revenue, it brought me additional pleasure as well.

About the third week, Frankie and Jimmy arrived with two other older boys in tow. Frankie said they were in his grade at school and really liked doing what we were doing and desired to participate in my special talents, especially since I was so young and appealing to both of them. I demanded to inspect their particular pieces of equipment and they both dropped their pants. One was slightly smaller than Frankie's, but not much, and the other considerably bigger.

I nodded my approval, announcing, "It'll cost you one dollar-in advance."

"You only charge Frank, fifty cents," the boy with the bigger todger complained.

"Not anymore!" I said emphatically to the dismay of Frankie and Jimmy.

"Why the hell not?" the boy continued complaining.

"Supply and demand," I explained. I learned that term and concept from Mr. Jordan when he was helping me count out the savings I kept at his house. We finished and did some "stuff" and Mr. Jordan said I was in high "demand." It didn't take me long to figure out I had something other boys, besides men, really, really wanted.

"I got the supply and you got the demand. Take it or leave it!"

"How about letting us taste that little dingus of yours?" the older boy asked.

"Still a quarter!"

Before the end of the summer, I was making well above five dollars per week.

My reverie was interrupted by the young lad now squeezing between my legs, looking up at my face, while kind of thrusting up his bare penis tight against my crotch.

"I know what they were going to do!" he said confidently.

"Who?"

"Those two boys in the carriage house."

I realized then I'd not said aloud what I was remembering so he was unaware of what happened and how I earned some money.

"What were they going to do?" I asked trying to appear innocent and unknowing.

"The bigger boy was going to stick his wiener in the other boy's pooter."

"His what?"

This boy of unknown paternal parentage, born of a young lady of considerable talents in the bedroom and elsewhere living some four blocks away, turned quickly, bent over in front of me, his bare ass pointing at me.

"His pooter!" he explained pointing his finger at his winking, little, pink rosebud of an opening. "You know, you poop through it and toot through it, so it's a pooter."

I nodded, indicating I understood.

"You still didn't answer my question," the boy explained.

"What was that question?" I asked, hoping he'd forgotten it.

"How can I earn some money for a new bike? You said you did `stuff' for Mr. Jordan."

I thought a moment, looked up and down the street, seeing no one who would summon the gendarme and have me incarcerated, I remembered from his age, the warmth of skin on skin, the feelings of fullness, and the rhythmic slapping of large, low hanging balls of an older gentleman up against my own backside and how great it felt, and reached down, pulling up his shorts, allowing the back of my hand to slowly slide up the little boy cock, causing it to twitch in anticipation.

"I think I can find some `stuff' you can help me with!" I said with an inviting smile.

"It'll cost you five bucks – in advance," he announced.

"That's a little high, don't you think?"

"Inflation!" he said with a smirk, taking my hand, and leading me into my own house.

***

The End

***

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