Date: Wed, 26 Jan 2011 01:09:43 -0500
From: goodtoeat@Safe-mail.net
Subject: Two French Boys on the Beach (Les Garcons Francaises)

	I hate the beach. The grit in and on everything, the burn of the
crust of seasalt on your skin after you've swam in the ocean, the labor and
pain of walking through the give of the sand-after my first day and my
token immersion in the Mediterranean (I mean, it is gorgeous, and I had to
do it at least once) I was not interested in returning. I'd rather wander
the streets of Barcelona, visit the museums, or just sit on the street
drinking coffees and admiring the only city in the world I was ever likely
to REALLY admire-however, my friends wanted to drag me there again with
three bottles of champagne because it was my birthday.
	"Your-how do you say-your color is not enough," Bernadette said,
gesturing to my pale white skin.
	"Tan," I supplied.
	"C'est ton anniversaire!" she scolded, "you need to get some sun
before we go out clubbing tonight!"
	"Il-y-a aussi beaucoup des garcons!" argued Claudine, but my French
girlfriends only knew I was gay, not that I was a pederast-most of the boys
on their particular beach were a little too hairy and a little too burly to
be of interest to me anymore, and that sort of revelation would take them
years to get out of me.
	The three of us along with Gustav, the Swedish guy, had met in the
youth hostel I was staying in while trying to find a more long-term
arrangement. Top choices included a squat in an abandoned hospital outside
the city, and several other radical locales in the grungier districts where
I was admittedly frightened but desperately eager to absorb. I was a writer
who probably belonged in Paris about a hundred years previous; I had the
ginger beard, thick spectacles, the pipe-everything. Some days I wondered
if I ought to throw in the towel and get a tweed jacket with suede elbow
patches.

Bitter Self description: Unlike many of the protagonists in Nifty
adult/youth stories, I am not a middle aged white man with a seven figure
salary, nor the twentysomething who always just happens to have some vague
trust fund, nor do I own a massive extravagant house all to myself wherein
I provide for that desperate runaway teenager I find drenched in a
rainstorm on I-80 in my Lamborghini, my friendly Golden Retriever in the
back seat along with my golf set and heap of 401 k's, whatever the hell
those are. I do not have a casually-mentioned nine inch penis or a body
that just accidentally looks like a porn star's because of a Gold's gym
membership. Nor do I think you should feel that, in order to enjoy yourself
or escape into a fantasy, you need such things. Nor do I think that, in
order to have love or get love, you need these things. Quite in fact, fuck
those things. People with those things are, by and large, the same
douchebags who perpetuate the oppressive sexual hierarchy that makes
straight married people healthy and the rest of us deviant, diseased, or
worse, Monsters. Figure out some new values, people. Adopt different ones
from the society that fucks you over.

Now let me show you, as I step off that soapbox (Who put that here on the
beach?! Haha) my modest six inch cock. Cut. I am 5.10" and a hundred fifty
pounds. I look like where's waldo and I am in shape, but not the kind of
"in shape" that gives you MMA champion abs. I'm the kind of "in shape" that
german bicyclists are, because that's what I do. I ride my bike. In this
speedo you can see my bulging calves and blinding white flesh. I have
rather a lot of body hair, too, and although I trim down there I'm not
about to get a brazilian. Hope this story still appeals!

When we arrived the beach the two French girls set themselves up for a
barebreasted bake and we popped the first bottle of champagne while they
sang happy birthday in English. After a glass of bubbly, I said I was going
for a walk.
	"You're taking the half finished bottle?" Claudine asked.
	"Why you want some more?"
	"No! Take a fresh one birthday boy!" I smiled off and grabbed one
of the fat fresh bottles of Champagne and the cheap glass from the hostel.
I left my French friends moaning (the French can moan whole conversations)
in their beautiful nasal voices, faces pressed into terrycloth, and began
to track along the beachside away from the hordes of people bronzing,
sporting in the surf, and otherwise enjoying the August sunshine that I hid
behind with a pair of gigantic sunglasses. From behind those tinted walls I
could devour anything I saw that caught my interest and nobody could
tell-but how often did I see something of interest? A sexy boy hadn't
crossed my path in a week, and although the last time one did my heart was
in my throat for an hour, I was severely disappointed with Europe, which I
had hoped would be a mecca of gorgeous male youths. God, I'm so picky.

I walked along the water for at least a half hour. A half hour became
longer. I was beginning to feel another depression coming on, the least
likely thing imaginable given the sunshine, the luster of the city, the
amazing gatherings I'd been to, and having looked forward to traveling here
for two years. Now obsessive thoughts about how dismal things were, how
what I really wanted was a boyfriend, and all the old demons began
recycling in my head. I barely noticed the wet sand inhaling my feet, or
the strange beadlike crustaceans squirming underneath my tread, or the wash
of the foam. Nor did I notice that I had gone very far beyond where anybody
was swimming or sunning themselves, and had wandered off to a remote area
where a bunch of rocks and a cliff face suddenly ran right into the
ocean. It looked like my walk was over. I turned to look at the azure swell
of the ocean. God it was so beautiful. Then I noticed movement out of the
corner of my eye and turned.
	Two lanky boys in speedos approached, both dripping wet. I felt my
cock lurch even though they were too far away for even a preliminary
appraisal-however, as they got closer I realized that, between their
sheepish grins, long hair, and brilliant black eyes they were more than
cute. They were fucking sexy. The one hung behind the other bashfully with
his interlaced fingers over his friend's shoulder, hiding his face; the
more confident one grinned with two perfect rows of teeth. The beads of
water stood like diamonds on his flat chest; his erect nipples were the
size of dimes.
	"Bonjour?" he tried tentatively, "parle Francais?"
	"Un petit petit petit peu," I grinned back, "Je suis Americain." I
said. They oohed and ahhed in understanding and I could tell they had been
speculating. They had apparently been following me up the beach for quite a
while, and I could only guess they just wanted Champagne. That was fine
with me. I'd use any excuse to dally around with these two, much less
furnish them with alcohol.
	I slowly drank in their image as we made the awkward but generally
merciful smalltalk people who cannot use language generally do, with a lot
of laughs and giggling from an obvious excitement of some kind-maybe it was
just on my end or maybe these boys were really trilled about Champagne but
I didn't think alcohol was an exhilarating taboo for youths in France. They
were fifteen and sixteen; the younger one, Marcel, was bleach blonde with a
red aura on his cheeks from the sun. He wore a hot pink speedo that hugged
his little apple asscheeks. He had a delicious teardrop of a navel, and
prominent "fuck me" lines running down into his disproportionately bulging
package, which I was trying to ignore the growing size of. And of course I
have to use the word "coltish" to describe those milky white legs and
knobby knees that ran down to delicate feet and ankles, and the almost
invisible white hairs standing on end through the sheen of saltwater.
	The other one, Andre, was very bold and much bolder to see. A dark
beauty, long lashes, full gorgeous features. His luscious pouty lips were
full of pink, he had thick black hair that whipped and hung in his face and
down the nape of his neck; he stood with one hip cocked outward and a hand
on his trim waist as he turned on one heel.
	"Pourquois tu as le champagne?" he asked.
	"Mon anniversaire," I responded, "J'ai vignt-six annes."
	"Aww!" exclaimed Marcel, smiling in earnest and incredibly girly
kindness, "Bonne anniversaire!"
	My god they were killing me.
	"Oui, oui, bon anniversaire," Andre repeated, looking me up and
down with a decidedly devilish expression.
	"Peut-etre nous t'accompaigne," the boy suggested.
	 "Avec plaisir!" I said, and what pleasure. "Mais-le tasse c'est
seul." I held up the solitary glass.
	"C'est O.K.!" the boys said in unison.
	As I was about to unscrew and pop the bottle, Andre grabbed my
hand. His wet, strong grip sent a shiver down my spine.
	"Not here," he said suddenly in English, "uh-follow me." He jerked
his head toward the rocks I thought had been the end of my walk. I shrugged
and gladly followed his bouncing buttocks along the beachside, down to the
water where the beach sloped down into the water. The boys immediately
began charging into the surf, gesturing that I should follow.
	"Where are we going?" I asked suddenly, but they did not respond.
Were they sirens sent to drown me at the moment I orgasmed?  Whatever I'd
consider it a great death and a wonderful birthday gift from God.
	I followed them awkwardly carrying the Champagne bottle and glass
as they led me into deeper and deeper water. Finally we were downright
swimming, and swimming right next to very jagged and steep rocks. The boys
just laughed and continued to lead me along the rock face until we came to
a giant amphitheater sort of formation hidden away from the main beaches. A
white bar of sand ran upward into the sunspotted nook and a single palm
tree basked in sunlight above us. Surrounded on three sides by razor sharp
igneous rock and blocked off from view of all the surrounding beaches, it
seemed my little sirens had found a perfect hideway. We slopped our feet
through and they led me to tidepools where the bloated orange shapes of
jellyfish lay motionless.
	"Mon dieu!" Marcel shouted, "une asterie!" we ran over to see the
starfish he was bending over. With him in that position, I couldn't help
thinking about his little starfish.
	"You're very cute," Andre suddenly said in English, grabbing my
hand.  "J'adore ton tatuage," he said gesturing to the labyrinth I had
tattooed on my upper arm and the line drawing of whistler's mother on my
back. I was floored and could only laugh in disbelief. "Merci," I replied.
I could only chalk it up to their bizarre sense of humor or teenage
adoration for now, but I couldn't help but wonder what exactly was going on
here...without further thought I went to uncork the champagne. As I was
untwisting the wires, Andre got a wicked glint in his eye and put one hand
around the neck of the bottle, began rubbing it up and down.
	"FasteR!" he cried, "fasteR!"  chewing his rs and jerking off the
bottle until I uncorked it and the foam went shooting away. I was already
blushing and baffled but then Andre with full eye contact sucked the foam
from the back of his hand and giggled before running off to fetch the glass
from where I first set it. I knew that teenagers could be innocently
flirtatious, even with the same sex (especially in Europe where gender and
sexual orientation mores seem to get more relaxed all the time), but it was
getting ridiculous. As is usual in these stories, I kept asking myself-what
the fuck is going on here? Is this real?
	The two boys planted their bubble butts down in the wet sand and I
poured the first glass of bubbly.
	"Marcel!" I toasted, and he grabbed the glass from me.
	"Donovan!" he toasted, and then handed the glass to Andre, who
toasted "Donovan!" again once more before handing me the glass. I then
toasted "Andre!" and everybody having been toasted once, drained it. We
poured another and began passing it in a little ring while watching the
brilliant clouds far away on the eastern horizon; somewhere over there was
Italy, and Sardinia, and Corsica. We kept drinking and passing the glass
and the two boys chattered in fast-racing French I could never follow;
Andre had a terse anger in his voice typical of an older brother, although
I knew these two weren't related.
	"Donovan!" Marcel asked after their apparent argument. "Tu as une
petite-amie?"
	Did I have a girlfriend. I chuckled. The conversation seemed to be
normalizing; these boys were just horny teenagers who admired an older guy
and probably just wanted to know about sex.
	"Non," I said.
	"Tu as un petit-ami?" Andre asked. At first I didn't hear the
difference but then I realized he hadn't just repeated Marcel's question-he
was asking did I have a boyfriend?
	Again I laughed. "Non, c'est dommage."
	"Tu prefer les garcons, n'est-ce-pas?" Andre said in his husky
French. It really wasn't a question, but a statement.
	"C'est vrais," I said. It's true.
	Andre shot Marcel a righteous look that said I-told-you-so. I was
waiting for the conversation to die after that in an awkward silent
death-and it did. None of us said a word for a long time, though we
continued to pass the champagne around in our little ring. I couldn't help
but drink in their tanned, taut visages, though. I knew this would be over
soon, and I had to enjoy this random bizarre encounter with the two most
magnificent creatures I had seen, much less talked to, in years.
	The champagne was done. It was probably four o'clock, and imagined
whoever was in charge of these boys was wondering where they were. I was
about to get up when Andre reached forward and tipped the champagne bottle
on its side. Then he spun it. For a second I thought it was just idle
fucking around, but then I realized he was watching intently to see where
it would end up. It pointed at Marcel.
	"Oh, merde," he said, but then I watched in total disbelief as he
crawled, the sweet rolls of his ass perked straight up behind him like Pepe
Le Pew's tail, the small of his back arched toward the ground, on all fours
over to Marcel. Marcel looked up from his crosslegged hunching and met
Andre in a full mouthed kiss. They licked and sucked each others lips and
Marcel put one dainty hand to the pulsing veins in Andre's brown throat.
	Oh my fucking god, I thought. I had died and been reincarnated in
one of those Buddhist heavens you're supposed to avoid because you'll never
want to attain enlightenment once you're drowning in all that boypussy.
	Andre turned to me with his electric black eyes; for a moment I was
almost terrified at the intensity of that look-it was like he wanted to
devour me. And I was ready to be devoured.
	It was now Marcel's turn, apparently, haha! How the fuck was this
real? The bottle spun, lost momentum, turned once more a lazy arc in the
wet sand and landed on me. Holy shit. This fourteen year old boy with
feathery blonde hair and a perfect button nose was now crawling over to me
through the sand for X's and O's. He climbed into my lap and wrapped his
lanky legs around my torso. The sheer lightning of that physical contact
and the brushing of his crotch bulge against my already stiffened cock
threatened to make me shoot the insides of my speedo full of cum before I
ever got a chance to properly get off!
	It only got worse. Marcel craned his neck up to me and I brushed
hair out of his face as our lips met. So soft. So pure. With my hands
wrapped around the slim, chilly flesh of his lower back, I tasted again the
dryness and sweet of the Champagne, sucked the boy's bottom lip. In turn he
licked mine, and sucked my lips with a vacuum seal that made me shiver with
the thought of what else he might do to me. With a few sensual kisses to
the corners of his deliciously smooth mouth, I let him go. It was my turn
to spin, but I did not reach for the bottle because Andre had been staring
with a mixture of jealousy and impatience the whole time.
	"It's only fair that I should just move on to you" I said, "I can
tell you don't want me to spin it anyway."
	"It's true I don't," Andre said coyly, smirking at me.
	"You speak perfect English, don't you?"
	"Maybe," he grinned.
	"Get over here," I said. He walked on his knees, his erect penis
bulging as it shifted back and forth with his movements.
	He leaned down and planted those voluptuous lips on my cheek first;
as if he were just an ordinary french boy giving an ordinary greeting, but
in slow motion and with the sensuousness of a succubus. Then he moved to my
lips, kissing them again and again as I trailed one finger down the center
of his chest and into his belly button. My fingers slid around to trace
circles in the small of his back as he nibbled the tip of my tongue. His
hot slick tongue then darted into my mouth and I sucked on it-- oh I never
wanted to let it go. His hands drifted up into my hair and then down to rub
my ears and the scruff of my beard.
	"J'adore-your beard," he grinned and broke our kiss. Our noses were
touching. Marcel was rubbing his stiff member through his shorts.
	"This is turning into more than spin-the-bottle, isn't it?" I
asked.
	"Pardon?" Andre asked.
	"You want more than kissing, don't you?" I asked.
	"I do. I want to kiss, and suck, and fuck. Marcel is more shy," he
said dismissively, "he just wants to, uh, 'toss off' while watching us."
	Is that why shy meant to these boys???
	"This is illegal," I said.
	"Probablement," Andre commented, "who cares? You see the police?
Tell them to come join in!" Andre laughed and began sucking on my neck. As
always that was the most sensitive of my erogenous zones. I felt every hair
on my body stand on end and waves of shivers go down my spine as he kissed,
sucked, licked my throat, the corner where my jaw met, and the space next
to my ear. Then he licked the inside of my ear, breathed one hot exhalation
that shot ecstacy through my whole body, then sucked my earlobe (gauge and
all) into his mouth. When he came back to look at me he smiled and I saw
the big jade earring caught between his teeth.
	"Bad boy," I said, taking it from his mouth.
	"Permitte-moi," he said and delicately replaced it. As he did so I
was staring right into his armpit; just a whispy lock of brown hair. Well,
I thought, I'm going for it. I kissed him under the arm and he squealed; I
continued to nibble and suck and he began to lean into me, his fingers
dangling over the crown of his head as I licked, my hands encircling and
grasping firmly the magnificent grapefruits of his buttocks. I started
kneading them through the slick fabric of his speedo and as I did so he
whimpered plaintively, especially when my fingers slid down between and
toward the root of his body. His back arched and he rose up on his
knees. For a moment I was worried I had startled him but then he put his
hands in my hair and pressed my face toward the washboard of silken
smoothness that was his tummy. I kissed every knobby ab muscle and he
grunted and thrust his pelvis forward. The tip of his uncut cock was
peeking pink at the band of his swimtrunks and for the first time I grasped
him between the legs; I didn't touch his cock, but rather his whole
pereneum, my fingers at his hole and my palm kneading his prodigiously
large balls. He shuddered and murmured French I didn't understand. With one
knuckle I ribbed the underside of his cock through his trunks. Precum
beaded and dribbled out. I leaned down and swept my tongue over his piss
slit to taste his first honey. Delicious. Clean as soap, sweet as candy.
	"Suck me," he moaned, his hands in my hair.
	"No," I said, smiling.
	"Please!" he begged, grasping the sides of my face and desperately
humping his cock toward me though he couldn't reach.
	I grabbed his wrists and stood, and then roughly lifted him up to
stand with me, his whole slick smooth body pressed against mine.
	"It's my birthday," I said, "are you going to give me what I want?"
	"Okay," Andre stammered, looking up at me with startled eyes. He
was alarmed; he had control before but now he didn't know where this was
going.
	"First, I want your cock," I said.
	"Take it!" Andre exclaimed, eyes widening.
	"It's all mine now," I said, "and that means you can't touch it
until I'm done with you."
	"Okay!" he said. He was still very startled looking, but I wasn't
going to make him feel secure just yet.
	"Second, I want you to do everything I tell you," I said.
	"Tres bien," Andre said, smirking a little again. "I was ready for
that from the beginning."
	"Good. Are you frightened?" I asked.
	"Pardon?"
	"Are you scared? Est tu peur?"
	"Oui un peu," the boy confessed, a little color flushing his
cheeks.
	"Don't be," I said, and folded him up in a tight embrace as I
kissed him again. He closed his eyes and I traced my hand down to his
speedo, peeling back the front of it and though the tip of his cock was
still restrained by one corner, the main meat of it curved outward
desperate to break free. I juggled his balls in one hand, they were so
smooth and white and egg-large-Fuck what a turn on! I love boys with huge
balls! Finally I popped his cock free and gave it one squeeze. Andre
shuddered and went body-stiff.
	"Dangerous," I said, "you can't cream yet! I better not touch you
anymore."
	"No! No! Please!" Andre said, and began begging in urgent French I
could not understand but which made my cock throb.
	"Make me dribble," I said, "and we'll negotiate."
	"Dreebel?" he asked frantically, "Je comprend pas."
	"Pleurer," I said, "make my cock weep."
	He began doing his best, licking my jaw and breathing heavily in my
ear. When his hand went stealthily toward his groin I would snatch it away
and redirect it to my nipples or my inner thigh. Andre kissed and sucked my
throat, swirled his hot little tongue around my nipples, dragged his
lucious lips over my hairy abs and all the way down to my inner thighs,
which he ministrated for long minutes in a desperate act, constantly
feeling at the tip of my penis for a steady flow. I did not precum much
unless I was very aroused, and for the first time in years I thought that
was definitely possible-I was going to milk it for all it was worth.
	Andre kissed behind my knees and into the small of my back while
massaging my inner thighs.
	"May I here?" he asked, sliding one finger along the back of my
waistband.
	"Je vous prie," I said.
	The boy peeled back the speedo to reveal my large, muscular
cheeks. I'm not sure how much experience he had, but he seemed familiar
enough to dig his nose in right away and take a huge inhalation of the
seasalt and my own smell. He shuddered.
	"Monsieur, give me a little, si'l te plaît, si'l te plaît!" he
begged as he dug his tongue into my crack.
	"Both hands where I can see them!" I ordered. He raised them up
from where he had been rubbing himself and I grabbed his wrists and
massaged my thumbs soothingly into his palms.
	"Breaking rule number one," I said, "just be patient. You'll get
the best you ever had very soon." He continued to eat out my ass and
whimper in overwrought arousal as I shuddered and moaned involuntarily at
the fireworks shooting from my asshole and balls to the crown of my
head. This gorgeous teenage French boy was eating my ass and begging for
release. I still held his hands up to my sides to keep him from touching
himself, and I dug my thumbs into his palms as he nibbled the inside of one
of my hairy cheeks and moaned as he jambed his tongue into my hole.
	"Okay!" I said, when finally I couldn't stand it any longer. I
turned around and lifted him to his feet. His five incher with its gorgeous
sword shape was painfully erect. I leaned down and ever so gently took it
between my thumb and forefingers; his hands were immediately in my hair as
I swirled my tongue around the tip of his cock. He shuddered and sighed and
I could see tears rolling down his cheeks as I finally sucked his whole
cock into my mouth and began working the shaft with my fingers making a
vice grip so strong as to be like a cock ring.
	"Ow! Ow! It shmertz--hurts!" he yelped. I sloppily sucked away from
him and gently jacked him off as I rose to kiss him again and embrace him
again.
	"I'm sorry baby," I said, "I'm just hungry. I haven't eaten in
years if you know what I mean," I said. He nodded and smiled.
	"This is so exciting," he confessed, kissing me in the center of my
chest. "Keep going. Just be gentle-I am a boy."
	"That's exactly what makes it so hard to be gentle," I said, but he
didn't understand. He just dropped to his knees and peeled my speedo from
my hard cock which was by now bathed in a sheen of precum. He rolled my
balls in one smooth hand and then licked along the underside of my cock.
	"That's it," I said. "You okay with a mouth full of cum?" I asked.
	He nodded, and by then already had my cockhead in his mouth. This
was where Andre stopped being so gentle and alarmed-it appeared he was
familiar with sucking cock. He rolled his tongue in such a way underneath
my head that I gasped and nearly shot off immediately; he just looked up at
me with those innocent black eyes and squeezed my sac. He worked his
velvety mouth back and forth over my cockhead and milked with a tight grip
the rest of my shaft. Slurp slurp. Suck suck. Moan.
	"That's it, baby, just like that," I said. I had decided this was
where I wanted to stay for a minute, and that this train stop was where I
wanted to get off. He jerked and sucked and slurped and I put my hands into
his lustrous long black hair. Meanwhile Marcel was beating off at typical
teenage velocity, clenching his teeth and grunting as squirts of hot cum
jetted toward his face and all over his chest and tummy. Andre he continued
to pump me and suck my member until my breathing got heavier. I was about
to say I was ready when he broke away.
	"Now its my turn," he said.
	"You're forgetting whose the boss here," I said, stroking his
cheek.
	"It may be your birthday," Andre said, "but this is my beach. I
want you to fuck me now."
	"Damn," I said, "if that's how it is-I surrender. But I don't have
any lube."
	"Haha!" Andre laughed, "That's what Marcel is for!" he summoned the
blonde boy over, who was all sticky with cum. As Andre got on all fours on
the beach, Marcel began taking globs of his semen and depositing them in
the tight pink hole that now winked up at me. Marcel ran his fingers into
the pucker, scooped more semen onto my cock, and jacked me off for a moment
with a smile.
	"C'est grand," he noted, making sure to leave an extra large bead
of his own juice on my helmet.  I was already precumming like crazy so I
figured we might as well go for it.
	"How many times have you done this?" I asked Andre.
	"Don't worry I'm clean," he said with the exhaustion of somebody
who had repeated it many times. Teenage cumslut, holy fuck.
	I got down on my knees and he hiked backward toward me, rotating
the perfect globes of his tight white buttocks. I leaned down first and
kissed him there; I couldn't resist darting my tongue out and tasting him,
too. It was delicious. I wanted to fuck him more than I wanted anything in
my whole life. His sculpted face looked back at me expectantly, those long
lashes batting in irritation.
	"You want me to stretch you out first?"
	"No! Just get inside me!"
	He gasped as I punched through and filled his hole with my girthy
cock. I let him adjust for a moment and then began sawing back and forth
the whole length of my dick in and out of him. I would rest for a second
just when the bulb of my head was at the threshold of his pucker, and then
force it back through that tightness and make him gasp. He was leaking
precum in buckets by now, and I decided to be nice and give him a reach
around.
	"Boy you are a natural born powerbottom," I said as he girated and
thrust down to get as much of me inside of him as possible, gasping all the
time.
	"Je comprend-pas," he moaned.
	"It's okay, baby. Just keep fucking me."
	He ground and ground against me and finally changed position so
that I was lying in the sand and he was just pumping himself up and down on
my cock while I beat him off. He gaped, his rippling habs tensing, his
those lucious full lips open and his eyes closed in ecstacy, and I
jackhammered into him as he spurted cum all over the my face and my
chest. If I looked down I could see his big pendulous balls jingling like
bells over his taint, and back further the crease of his two pert asscheeks
pressed together with my cock plunging between them over and over, in and
out of his tight teen boypussy. I let myself go then, and grabbed his
armpits as I rammed my cock deep inside his hot young ass, flooding it with
jet after jet of the most powerful cum I had ever had in my entire
life. Fuck. Yes. He yammered in french in my ear when I was done pounding
out the last of the veal and we lay collapsed in the grit, his soft lips
brushing my ear as he confessed or prayed or did whatever it is those sexy
French boys do when they've just been fucked rotten.

Amen.