My buggerees, the three of them, issued fully plasticized ID membership cards. At the top, THE CLUB. Head shots, names, titles. Oscar, president; Clyde, vice-president; Charley, secretary-treasurer. Mine, with my photo and name, listed me as mascot. Quite official.
“Mom’s got one, too,” Clyde informed me. “She’s our advisor.” He grinned.
Oscar wanted me to note that, while my card bore the phrase OBLIGATORY OBLIGATIONS in small block caps, theirs said ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. Somebody was trying to show off as if polysyllabically profound, the message being that I was theirs – with special duties. Their ALL RIGHTS RESERVED referred, I concluded, to their rights over me – theirs and theirs only to oblige.
Mascot indeed. More like over-driven sex-slave.
Clever devils: Clyde, age ten (going-for-eleven); Charley, age ten as of a week ago; Oscar, fully twelve. Cock bandits, all three.
“What are these cards for?” my inquiring mind wanted to know.
“For when we’re out in public and people wonder. They’re for your protection,” Charley answered. “How cool is that!”
I ignored the cool bit. My protection?
Clyde read my thought: “If people think you’re hitting on us.”
“You want us to go out in public?” I was incredulous. A switch clicked on. Maybe I stood a chance for a change. I’d try, and before one of them could think of where we might go.
“What if other boys see me and want in?”
A nanosecond of looks exchanged. Oscar was quicker on the uptake than Charley (whose mouth was open), “We’ll tell ’em membership’s restricted.”
*
The initial weeks were rough. On me. First to call had been Mrs. Menendez-Finkelstein. Right to the point she was.
“I know you’re friendly with my son, Oscar.”
Oh crap.
“You know he sings solos at church, don’t you?”
I relaxed. “I do.”
“Are you a singing teacher?”
“Why, no. Why do you ask?”
“Oscar says you helped him learn to hit a high-C.”
“Yes, I guess he might’ve said that. What’s up?” My toes curled.
“The choir master says it needs to become secure. Everybody loved the way he sang it at the end of ‘Ave Maria.’ Only it was loud, you know, and sort of screechy. He’s a nice man and honest. Now he knows, he says, how difficult it is to hit a high-C but how much better if it could be – what’s that word – pianissimo. Oh, and he used another music word – I wrote it down – dolcissimo. Anyway, if you think you could coach my Oscar to do that – and he says he’s sure you can – then I’ll be willing to pay you. How much do you charge?”
“Excuse me, but why does it matter? Wasn’t that a one-time solo?”
“Oh no. Our choir’s going to join with choirs from the Baptist and Presbyterian Churches to go on tour. “Ave Maria” will be a feature of every performance, you know, especially for the Catholics. We’re Methodists. It’s all ecumenical.”
Menendez-Finkelstein, a Methodist name if ever I heard one.
*
Despite my flimsy reason, the boss gave me two weeks of mid-afternoons off (vacation time!) from my job. I could be at home when Oscar came from school and rang my bell.
“Look,” he said, holding up a shiny, round metal thing rather like a yo-yo. “I borrowed it. It’s a pitch-pipe. Listen.” He turned until he saw the engraved G, and blew.
A harmonica-pure tone. He opened his throat and matched it with no vibrato. “Now, listen to this.” He tootled G, A, B, and C. Right up the scale, he matched the pitches an octave higher, he said. Got louder on each. “See, it’s harder the higher I go, so….”
“Yes, you’re having to push.”
“Right. So if you do the pushing, don’t you see, and we work at it – anyway, you have to.”
How it would have pleased me to slap his face, but I couldn’t. His other hand was already on me, making urgent demands. What’s a fellow to do? Why, flash the brat, of course.
I threw off my robe. “What are you waiting for, Oscar, an invitation?” I sproinged up.
In a trice, he stripped, threw himself on my bed, hiked his legs – my, how shapely! – and retorted, “What are you waiting for, an invitation?”
That afternoon, we attacked his G. My sproing stroked and poked as he sang the note over and over. Head thrust back on my feather pillow, his throat as straight as possible, he’d take a breath, hold it, and let go with his best G. I found the spot inside and began a shivering movement which quivered the pitch.
We timed that first G on one breath at ten seconds. The second at twelve seconds. Tried for fourteen but accepted twelve, his age.
“That’s all right, Oscar. Now this time, start as soft as you can and try to get louder while I do this” – my shivering routine back and forth, slow to fast, only a half-inch.
Did a lot of that. Edged him. I was learning.
Impatient boy, wanting to get on with it, proposed we go for A, the note above. Bingo!
It took my next half-inch. He liked singing G-A-G. Both Gs rather quiet; the A louder.
Five afternoons later and me with a sore lower back, Oscar could crescendo from G to high C, then decrescendo from the C back to his starting note. I was learning about music. Aren’t you impressed?
Please don’t think I was frustrated by this period involving only two-and-a-half of my in-demand inches. I would have been in a bad way but for the two non-singers in The Club. They’d agreed with Oscar to take turns popping over just before suppertime to host my cock in its entirety.
“Mom said you’d get blue balls if we didn’t,” Clyde beamed, proud of a new term. His mom, ever thoughtful Alice, sent him over with a nice stainless steel dispenser fitted perfectly into a new jar of extra-virgin olive oil.
One push and out came a teaspoon of the precious stuff so favored by the now-eleven-year-old. (I had not been invited to his birthday party.)
An achievement in which he took pride assured hands-free, thorough coating of my part by means of his mouth. The boy did like olive oil, as you know.
“I’ll slurp ya,” he bragged. Once, he went too far and got more than oil which, with boyish charm, he swallowed. Then burped. It dawned that what happened might have deprived him of his right. In point of fact, he asked, “But what about my butt?”
Inventively, Clyde wrapped a hand around my not-now-so-blue balls and tugged. My part found the back of his throat and, with his tongue fully mobile, perked right up! That’s when he got what he came for. Smug about it, too.
Charley reported that his choir master acknowledged his “vocal security about the G-clef” but wanted a more refined sound. Well, we didn’t know that “eee” wasn’t the right syllable. Needed “aah” and “ohh.” We tackled them.
Such a difference!
“Aahs” on the way up and “ohhs” on the way down. There was a great rhythm to that. It relieved me from having to flick around his anus and sporadically to penetrate more deeply. Surging in and out proved to open up Charley’s voice and to free it dynamically. At least, that’s what I heard from his mother as she paid me our agreed-upon rate for those two weeks.
“They’re giving him some descants to sing over the hymns next Sunday. Thank you. I wanted to recommend you to several other moms who want their boys to learn how to sing high notes, too. You know, the way you did for Charley.”
I gulped.
“Only Charley said not to. That you were too busy coaching his friends, our neighbor boys Clyde and Oscar. Are they learning to sing?”
“No, ma’am. They’re doing some – mmm – physical training to get in shape. Teamwork, you see.
She didn’t know it was me they were forcing to get in shape. They were the team! They worked on me.
On-line, they’d found all sorts of exercises for me. With help from Alice, they’d come up with my diet. Yuck. More salads, protein shakes, different kinds of seeds than you can imagine – and no desserts!
I tell you it was tough.
People at work commented that my color was better, that I was looking “rather fit” for my age. “What’s your secret?” my beer-gut boss asked. I could hardly tell him that a major part of it lay in being forced to fuck three boys afternoons and weekends. No. I merely answered, “Diet and exercise.”
Alice dropped by one day with something on her mind. Little Clyde’s teacher had called her for a meeting. Only the meeting turned out to include Mrs. Finkelstein and Charley’s mother. Seems the school counsellor and the boys’ teachers were concerned, not because Clyde, Oscar, and Charley weren’t doing well with their studies. Seems they were shunning extra-curricular, on-campus, after-school activities with peers.
When queried, to a boy, they simply displayed their membership cards and said that since they’d joined The Club, their afternoons were taken up by “all kinds of activities.”
“I took care of it by showing them my card as advisor. ‘It’s very official,’ I said. The other ladies nodded in unison. They were in full support since they ‘never had to worry where the boys are,’ as Mrs. Menedez-Finkelstein said. ‘Very neighborly,’ Charley’s mother contributed. ‘We’re all on the same street.’”
I listened to Alice with interest. This must be leading somewhere.
“The matter of the school talent show was brought up. Right off, Oscar was volunteered to sing ‘Ave Maria.’”
“They wondered if ‘something not religious’ might be more appropriate. Mrs. Menendez-Finkelstein blew her cork, stood up with her purse, and huffed about being ‘a good Christian’ and anyway her Oscar was going to be featured soloist on a tour. ‘Being in The Club is what got him singing like an angel.’ Said she’d wait for us in the hall.”
“Did that end the meeting?”
Alice was all smiles, “It did.”
“Was my name mentioned?”
“Not at all. No need to encourage those snoops. We don’t want any distractions, do we?”
The next weeks saw me less tense. The Club members continued their “tough-love” of me.
Do this. Do it that way. Some more. C’mon. What’re you a wimp? Fuck me. You can do it harder than that. Put some energy into it. And so on.
Hard to keep track of. Easier to let them control and for me to obey.
Even ate – well, swallowed is more like it – raw oysters with Worcestershire sauce and catsup.
Difficult was that they wanted me hard the moment the doorbell rang. We rehearsed that, one at the door with finger on the bell, another with his hand on my balls answering with a tug.
Call it Pavlovian if you like. It worked. I was conditioned. So well that, one day, I opened the door in the nude, myself in fully-charged readiness and startled the postman who dropped his special delivery.
Some guy named Slowcum wrote from an outfit called D.C. Films, Inc. in response to an unsigned letter he had received offering the talents of three attractively-dimpled pre-adolescents and a studly, handsome, mature gentleman. My name and address were included for Mr. Slowcum’s reference and possible consultation.
He wanted to know the sex of the three pre-adolescents. The same (if so, which?) or a mix of the two possibilities?
Up till then, my thoughts and nights had been so wondrous free. Never slept better. Only not that night.
Fretted. Turned. Tossed.
Next morning, called Alice. Walked to her place mid-morning, letter in hand. Over fresh-brewed cups of tea, we discussed whether it was a trap.
“Don’t see how. Had to have been one, two, or all three members of The Club.”
“Oh?”
“I overheard Clyde saying something about ‘making money for a field trip.’ Funny, not a word about any school trip from the P.T.A.”
“When they first gave me my mascot’s card, Charley said something about going someplace as a group.”
“Whatever it may be,” Alice brightened as she felt my chest, stomach, arms, and crotch, “you’re in shape for it.”
*
Now you know the story behind our ninety-six-minute five-star award-winning feature, Battman & His Buttboys.
Another time I’ll relate how the masks and skin-tight outfits worked. No wonder the studio won for Best Costumes that year. No, wait. I signed a non-disclosure form.
And for Special Effects (that searchlight projecting on a cloud over a skyscraper the moving silhouette of me screwing our crew’s Best Boy who stood in for indisposed Clyde). A tech marvel. The projection, I mean, not the Best Boy. Wailed the whole time.
Impressive numbers of paid downloads on all the world’s continents – including two by ice stations in Antarctica (one American, one Russian). Money rolled in.
Charley, our secretary-treasurer, deposited each month’s take in our joint bank account. Yes, we had one, set up by Alice, who co-signed everything.
Mostly great reviews, too.
Aruba’s The Pink Snorkel hailed the boys’ “deep-face diving skills.”
True: They’d been taught during our week of acting lessons and rehearsals. Part of the contract. Oscar was first to achieve nose-to-pube-bone. Clyde balked but Mr. Slowcum held him to the task until he calmed down. Sure inspired Charley!
Bottles of gargle-stuff proved helpful between takes.
Brazil’s Cabana News was impressed by “the film’s dark-lit booty heaven and Battman’s duty to wield his bat.”
Yep: The whole duty-thing was in the rapidly-developed script. Clever writer picked up on that during our audition and screen-tests. My goose was cooked. Damn Slowcum gave directions to everyone but me, letting the boys instruct me.
I didn’t mind. Just threw myself into every scene, every beautiful butt.
Canada’s Niagara Night Fun liked “the adjustable furnishings of the above-cave manor house and its largely lilac living room, so attractively provided with footstools and cassocks,” even admiring the specially constructed sectional sofa. They called it a “sexual sofa for an occasional piece in the parlor.”
Denmark’s Danish Daily Dally thought highly of “flickering lights in the cave which brought out
the liquescence of lubes and saliva on moving parts among shadowy depths and especially the twitches of loins and limbs. Their critic also cited “the thrill of the boy’s cries echoing in the dankness.”
The crew were attentive to getting the wet highlights of our every parts to register in the camera. Many takes meant filmatic perfection and a tired cast. But the boys were troopers – and knew just how to keep me primed.
Oysters and orders.
Estonia’s The Gay Day Review praised “unexpected drama in the use of intergenerational anal sex.” It cautioned “viewers of a certain age to take their blood pressure meds” to avoid problems with their hearts. Blood pressure. Something like that.
France’s pseudo-scientific La Revue Homosexuelle did make a point to mention the phrase “under parental supervision,” which appeared in the credits. It assured that none of the acteurs immatures had been harmed during the filming. They waxed philosophical about existential questions raised by the plot, cited Buñuel and Dali as possible sources for some of the more moments surréalistes, and dropped de Beauvoir’s name in a passage we couldn’t translate.
Alice, of course, had provided the parental supervision lovingly – and got paid for it. She made sure that Oscar and Charley e-mailed home at least once every day to let their moms know how great the trip was going – the sights they were seeing and visiting.
Mrs. Menendez-Finkelstein cautioned against spending too much time exploring caves though. She didn’t want Oscar to catch a cold. “Remember,” she cautioned, “you need to be in good voice for the choir’s tour.”
He reassured her that his throat was being kept “in great shape.”
Reviews and notices from Germany, Hungary, Ireland, and a good deal of the rest of the alphabet were in keeping with those cited.
Blogs weighed in. Sizequeen.edu and thunderdick.com provided unkind comments about my size. Respectively, they offered to provide “ripper-uppers” and “bottom-busters” for those “underserved butts.” Slowcum was unmoved, citing “aesthetic reasons beyond crass understanding.”
A strong dissent came from Pussy Pulse Publications whose in-house rag thought the three youngsters should have been female. “Male porn is so chauvinistic.”
You don’t want to know what Lesbo Lovers had to say.
A rival studio – name withheld – approached about a sequel. Slowcum rebuffed them, “I’ll do it my way.”
“The Green Hornet & His Hive was proposed. Identities could be concealed as before by costumes and makeup. We considered it. “D.C. Studios, Inc. will float the idea,” Slowcum’s assistant Conroy told us, “to investors, but he’s hot to make a quick killing with Tarzan & His Jungle Boyz.”
Together, we four stars asked, “What?” – aghast.
Conroy tried mollifying us with promises of “curly-haired wigs like Johnny Sheffield.”
“Bull,” I began….
“No bull,” Conroy jumped, “but maybe a chimp or two for local color.”
Clyde, quietly folding a paper airplane, launched same at the man, whose nose it struck.
“Ouch,” he lurched to his feet. “Think of the sex – swinging on vines, over fallen logs, in native huts, and how cute you’d look in skimpy loin cloths!”
“Our faces would show,” said Charley.
”And everyone’d know!” Oscar yelled.
Clyde shook his finger, “We’re in school!”
Glad Alice wasn’t there to moderate my anger, I tore my shirt, flexed my muscles, and tossed Conroy out.
Then we fucked for the fun of it.
Being in shape’s great.