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finding-freddie

Masturbation

Subject: FINDING FREDDIE – GAY – ADULT YOUTH by Jon Kent FINDING FREDDIE by Jon Kent DISCLAIMER Everyone should accept the laws of his country, reserving the right to strive democratically to change those he disagrees with. Therefore, if the laws where you live say that you should NOT be reading stories like these, you are legally obliged to leave now and read no further. It does not matter if these stories are fiction, made-up, only written to entertain, instruct, engage, and inform. If for any reason, the law where you live says you are NOT allowed to read them, you have to go. So off you go. Live a healthy and happy life, and come back, if you want to, when your laws say you can. And remember: these are only stories. They are made-up. They did not happen. And the writer does not believe they should happen. The first responsibility of adults is to protect children and their innocence. It doesn’t mean some adults won’t enjoy reading stories like this, but it doesn’t mean they should go out and do things like this. Who knows? maybe reading stories like this will actually stop them going out and doing these things. SUPPORT NIFTY Nothing comes free, so remember we wouldn’t have the massive treasure of Nifty if these good folk were not keeping it up and running year after year. So, dip into your wallet, find something for Nifty and send it to them. Every little bit helps. FINDING FREDDIE Freddie is ten years old. He is sitting on a swing in the park. He looks so small, so alone. It’s only 6 o’clock but already shadows are long, there’s a chill in the air. Who the fuck leaves an ten-year-old kid on their own in a public park? The toilets are only a few yards away, for Chrissake, and these toilets are not only used for the obvious. The scribbles, graffiti, invitations, descriptions and crude graphics on the walls might make a grown-up blanche, let alone the kids who wander in from the swings. I sit down on the next swing. “Hi, kid. You on your own? What you doing?” The boy raises his head, and for the first time those big hazel eyes look into mine. My heart skips a beat, no, it skips half a dozen beats. He looks at me brightly. “Waiting for mum. She’s in there.” He turns his head, and I realise he’s looking at the local clinic. “Oh, is she a nurse or something?” “Don’t think so,” he says. “She cleans the place in the afternoon. I come and play here till she comes out.” “Freddie! Freddie!” and a young woman comes clicking across the tarmac. “Hi, mum,” returns Freddie, leaping from the swing. I assume she is Freddie’s mum, though she’d easily pass for his big sister. Freddie’s mother stops in front of us. I see where he gets those big eyes from. “I’ve told you not to speak to strangers,” she begins to scold him. I intervene with “Freddie didn’t speak to me. I spoke to him. I’m a teacher. I guess that’s what we do when we see a little kid sitting on his own in the park at this time of night.” “Oh, a teacher… well, thanks. I know I shouldn’t have Freddie wait here for me. But it’s only for a couple of weeks. We’re new around here. I don’t know anybody. And I’ve got to keep this job. I’ve just got to.” Almost desperately. “You understand, don’t you?” “Coffee?” I say. “Pardon?” she says. “Coffee?” I repeat. “And juice for him. No Cola, no Pepsi… juice.” I turn and point to a high-rise behind us. “That’s mine. Way up there. Twentieth floor. Top flat. The lift’s working. At least it was this morning.” Uncertainty flits across her face. “Can we? Please, mum, can we?” Mum shrugs her shoulders. Sighs. “Oh, hell, why not? Anything to get off my feet.” Pauses. “You sure you’re a teacher.” I laugh “Well, at least I was at four this afternoon. And I’m pretty sure I will be again at 8.30 tomorrow morning. St. Stephen’s. Deputy Headteacher. Daniel Crowe. Call me Dan.” “Crow,” repeats Freddie. “Is it okay if I call you Birdie?” “Freddie!” I give the boy a withering teacher’s-look but before he can panic I add, “Of course you can… as long as I don’t hear you.” I’m laughing and Freddie laughs too: “Got it sir.” “Amy. Sorry,” and she takes Freddie’s hand. The boy takes my hand, or at least wraps his little fingers round mine. “Come on, let’s go,” he pipes, and off we go. *** I love boys. There. I’ve said it. I’ve learned to live with it. I’ve learned to accept it. I’ve spent most of my working life amongst boys. I am not a saint, but I like to think I’ve helped more boys than I’ve hurt. In fact, I like to think I haven’t hurt any boys, but as they say, you never can tell. I’ve certainly never forced myself on a boy, though I’ve seduced my share – or have they seduced me? When an 11-year-old boy is lying on the carpet, stripped to the waist, an obvious bulge in his jeans, and he looks seriously into your eyes and whispers, “I like having a hard-on,” it’s hard not to believe he has an agenda in mind. And if his agenda coincides with yours, well… Why me? Why boys? Honestly I don’t know. I imagine a Freudian would have a field day with me, but for the life of me I can’t recall wanting to murder my father and fuck my mother. And nobody seduced me, nobody molested me when I was ten years old – my rotten luck I guess – but I knew when I was 11 years old that it was boys I wanted. Even when my dad – and I love, respect and admire my dad – sat me down and gave me the ‘talk’, that was the one question I couldn’t ask: “Dad, why am I gay?” I know now Dad would have taken it in his stride. So would mum. I guess they’d have been disappointed but it wouldn’t have lessened the love and support they gave me, and have given me throughout my life. But what if I’d asked: “Dad, why do I love boys – not men, boys, young boys? Dad why am I a pedophile?” I prefer the word ‘boylover’ but that’s simply hiding the truth, though, officially, I couldn’t have been a pedophile legally until I was sixteen years old. I had a look at the possible ’causes’. I don’t have a low IQ. – I don’t have a poor memory. – I’m not left-handed. – I’m above not below average hten. – I never had a childhood head injury leading to unconsciousness. – I’ve no information about the structure of my brain so I can’t comment on that. – I’ve no deficit in response inhibition. – As far as I know, I’m the first and only pedophile in the family so no genetic factors. – As far as I know, I have adequate amounts of testosterone. – I wasn’t abused or molested as a child. – I’ve no record of substance abuse. – I occasionally felt anxious, but never despair about my sexual predisposition. – My mum’s never undergone psychiatric treatment – but I do have an older brother! Surely he can’t be responsible: LOL Have a go at the Wilson Sex Fantasy Questionnaire. It’s easy to find on line. Last time I looked it was a snip at $179. Frankly I’d rather have the real snip than chuck away nearly 180 dollars to learn nothing I didn’t already know. Anyway, as I grew older, the objects of my desire didn’t. Oh, to be fair, I graduated to 13 and 14 year olds, and I had a ‘go’ at 15, 16 and 17 years old, but to tell the truth the magic wasn’t there. Gone was the intense desire that drove me to skate on frozen ponds time after time – I’m nothing if not self-controlled – and even though the ice creaked and cracked under me a few times, I’d never plunged into the icy waters of disaster, despair and degradation. Now, those of you who have already pulled down your zip and fished yourself out in anticipation, just pop yourself back in. I’m the writer; I say what goes. Actually Freddie does, but since he’s not here at this moment, I’ll sneak in a few bits of the grown-up stuff. Of course, you can always use Ctrl+F (FIND), pop in whatever you fancy (dick, cock, hole, anus, and so on), skip the grown-up bits and head straight for the other stuff. I’m choosing to ‘share’ Freddie, so he is your oyster as much as he’s mine. Freddie… ah, Freddie… the little fucker who sneaked up on me when I wasn’t looking, who sneaked into my heart even before I sneaked into his little underpants. You’d think a man of my experience would be immune from ‘lust at first sight’, but no – for Freddie I fell head over heels like Jack-with-no-Jill right down that fucking hill. Actually, boy-lovers are permanently ‘in love at first’. See a cute boy passing in the street and a boy-lover immediately falls in love with him, even though he knows he will never see him again. Boy-lovers carry a huge gallery of boys in their hearts and review the portraits throughout their lives. I still see Freddie as a ten-year-old standing buck-naked in my shower, chanting out nursery rhymes, whilst I… You have to admire the boy’s powers of concentration. Not many ten-year-olds would remain word-perfect with an adult, naked man kneeling before them under a power shower. And where was the lovely Amy, mother of Freddie, when all of this was happening to her beautiful little boy? Out at a pub or club probably. And who could blame her? After all, the lovely Amy was only 26, having had Freddie when she was a mere 16, a kid herself. And where was Dad, father of Freddie, impregnator of Amy? You might as well ask ‘Who was Dad?’ And the answer you’d get wouldn’t be much better, though Amy, to her credit, could narrow it down to one of three, or was it four, who’d taken turns to fuck her on that bit of waste ground behind ‘The Red Lion’. Now before you go hollering ‘rape’ it was definitely not that. Amy herself will tell you that, though she was out of her mind on rum and blackcurrant – Do teenagers actually drink that stuff? – she really enjoyed that Big Night Out, or what she can remember of it, which, to be fair, isn’t very much. And, to her credit, instead of terminating the embryonic Freddie, she went through the whole messy business of pregnancy, birth, and raising Freddie as best she could, which was pretty good all things considered. Her family disowned her, of course, chucked her out, which is to be expected from strict, devout Plymouth Brethern. But like most single mothers, Amy was doing a great job on the proverbial shoestring and the last two-quid on a Thursday night. Then along came me. And when Amy’d checked me out: (a) I was indeed a deputy Headteacher, and therefore CRB-checked, (b) had a beautiful flat, (c) had a BMW, (d) and was obviously liked by Freddie, she saw her chance for a bit of freedom. And, to be honest, I saw my chance – to spend time with, support, and enjoy what I admit I’ve always been drawn to – a cute boy with high spirits. But ten years old? That gave me pause. I’d never spent much time with boys so young. And I’d certainly never fantasized doing with a ten-year-old what I’d done with… but he was so sweet, so cute, so funny, so precocious, that, when Amy asked me if I’d mind – “I know it’s an impossible favour, but we’ve no-one else… and Freddie really really likes you… and it would only be twice a week, and…” Oh. come on now, you’d need a heart of stone to refuse a request like that. So Tuesdays and Thursdays it was, from 3.30 to 6.15, Freddie was to be with me -and Freddie? – he loved it so much that, when he begged for weekend sleepovers, neither Amy nor I had the heart to refuse him. And everyone was happy. Amy was happy as she dolled herself up for The Roxy Club. I was happy as I showered, shaved and scented as I waited for Freddie to be delivered into my safe-keeping. And Freddie was delighted. What boy wouldn’t be in a three bed-roomed flat (one of the rooms equipped as a small gym), another room with not only bunk beds but with a host of toys from Hamley’s (all of them new!) – and with its own computer, and a master bedroom with a giant double bed, a wall-to-wall mirror, and a balcony on top of the world. Freddie wasn’t much interested in the bathroom at first – What ten-year-old is? – until he saw the Jacuzzi in action… ah, the Jacuzzi – every boy-lover should have one; they are irresistible to small boys. And did I mention the DVDs – a whole shelf of them from which Freddie could have his pick? Well, not those, not quite yet – “You have to be at least sixteen to watch those,” I told him. Could I have kept my hands off Freddie? Could you? When he was sprawled across me as we watched ‘Toy Story’, or ‘Transformers’, or ‘Gladiator’, or ‘The Terminator’ together. Could you keep your hands off a boy as he wriggled around in your lap making himself comfortable, his pajama top riding up past his tiny nipples. the pajama bottoms hanging from his bottom? If Freddie asked you, “Can I sleep with you tonight? Mummy lets me sometimes,” would you have the strength to say ‘Fuck off’. If Freddie climbed into the Jacuzzi with you and wanted to play at ducks with your… but I digress. Or rather I jump the gun. And I held out. Honestly, I held out for four weeks, but that Saturday night, yes, that one, was the beginning, and I guess you want to know what happened – with all the details, because it’s the small things that matter, isn’t it? Well, who am I to refuse you? So here goes. *** Freddie’s eyes are huge as he gazes directly up at the shark circling above his head. “Sharks don’t have any eyelids,” he whispers. “Did you know that?” he asks without turning towards me. “No, I didn’t,” I reply. “And did you know…” the boy continues giving me a potted history of the life of the shark with a confidence startling in a ten-year-old. But I’m not surprised when a yawn escapes his pretty pink lips. After all, he is only ten years old, and it has been a packed day. We’ve already spent four hours on the beach and Freddie has spent most the time in the water with me in close attendance since the boy can’t swim – something he is determined I will put right. “Mummy’s frightened of water,” he confides, “but don’t tell her I told you,” he instructs me. “Promise?” I promise. “Solemn promise?” he insists. “Solemn promise,” I assure him. “Believe me, Freddie, I know how to keep a secret,” adding, “Mums don’t have to know everything.” He smiles his agreement. The conversation takes place, as, with an oversize beach towel, I shield him from the eyes of passers-by, but not from own. I’m not surprised by the beauty of his body; that could hardly be otherwise. But I’m startled by the size of his penis. Nothing outlandish, but it wouldn’t look out of place on a boy slipping into puberty. A good four inches, it sticks out in the way that dicks on small boys do. Four inches, slender though not skinny; creamy, except for the little pink mushroom peeking out from the foreskin. As he wriggles into his satin Speedos – two shades of blue, electric and royal, I note his bum deserves the over-used description of ‘bubble butt’. It’s like a firm peach slashed through the middle by the crack between his buttocks. “These things make my bumhole itchy,” he announces, pulling a fold of fabric out of the crease. “That’s better,” he sighs, “but I wish my mum would get me baggies.” To myself I laugh, “I’ll fukin’ kill her if she does.” “Am I allowed to go in the water?” he politely asks. “Yes, but not above your waist. And you’ll stay near me all the time. Got it?” “Got it.” “Now hold the towel for me,” I instruct, “and turn your eyes away,” I add a bit primly. “What for?” Freddie laughs. “You’re a boy, too. Well, you’re a man, but you’re a teacher, so…” “Avert your eyes, you wretched creature!” I command. Freddie gets the message, laughs, and turns away as I slip into my baggy swim shorts. Two hours in the water, two hours of ‘sharks’, crabs, sting rays, turtles, and the good ol’ Pacific Octopus, and we’re both ready for home, stopping on the way to pick up a couple of ready-to-bake pizzas. I settle Freddie down in front of ‘Merlin’ on the TV and head into the shower since lots of sea and sand still cling to me. I’ve got a Walk In Shower Surround, silver-framed, toughened clear glass, a left or right hand opening, and built in speakers. I chuck my clothes onto the bathroom floor, turn on the music, and step under a welcome flow of warm water. I try to keep images of Freddie at the beach – his dick, his balls, his bubble butt out of my mind, but it’s hopeless, and within a minute my cock is tumescent and hoping for more. Nobly I resist – Thou shalt not touch! – and I might have made it if… I only realise Freddie is there when I feel him bump into me. The shower, the music, the soap, my own lewd thoughts… “What the fuck?!” “You said a bad word!” I turn to find Freddie standing in front of me, his head bumping against my chest, my semi-hard cock poking against his I’m-not-sure-what. I turn down the music. “Freddie! Get out of here. Get back to Merlin!” “But it’s all kissing stuff,” he protests. “I don’t care what it is,” I yell. “You can’t be in the shower with me. I’m naked,” I add superfluously. “So am I,” he says – superfluously – since I can’t keep my eyes from him. “Mummy lets me share a bath with her sometimes. We gotta protect the Planet,” she says. I’m about to correct his English but realise there are bigger issues at stake. I kneel down in front of him and take him by the shoulders – my fingers slide on the silk of his skin – and try to explain. “Listen, Freddie, there’s really nothing wrong with sharing a shower with me… but some people don’t like it. Some people think it’s wrong.” He gives me a frown. “They think it’s wrong because… because…” How do you explain to a ten-year-old boy that most people would not see the funny side, the sweet side, the reasonable side of man and boy sharing a shower of hot water after a sweaty day at the beach. “I can’t really explain why some people would think it is wrong. They just do. I’m not even sure your mum would like it.” Freddie brightens up immediately. “But remember,” he begins, “we don’t have to tell mums everything. ‘Cos we don’t want them to worry. But I know Mummy likes me to be clean. So… may I have the soap, please? And can you put the music back on? It’s really nice.” I sigh and hand Freddie the soap. I turn away. Fortunately, my erection has already collapsed – anxiety will do that – but my dick is still swinging like a small trunk between my legs. That Justin Bieber kid comes on the radio. I know it’s Justin Bieber because the younger kids in my school spend most of the day singing his songs – at least the girls do, while boys claim to hate him, say he is ‘gay’, and claim he takes pills to stop his voice breaking. Of course I should hate the stuff but something called ‘Eenie Meenie Minee Mo Lover’ comes on, and I have to admit it’s cheerful and catchy. Behind me, I hear Freddie piping along with Justin Beaver, word and pitch perfect. A tap on my back. “Yes?” “Can you do my back, please?” comes the request. “Mummy always does my back, and the soap is too big.” “Too big for what?” I think, but dutifully take the soap and begin to stroke the cream bar up and down Freddie’s back, satin on silk. The bar and my fingers slip lower and lower until they are caressing Freddie’s bum in unison. The ten-year-old stands there, legs apart, so that the crack in his buttocks is open to my caress. I drop to my knees and begin to soap him from the ankles upwards, my hand sliding up the front and back of his legs until I’m only centimetres from his ball sac and his four inches of wondrous flesh. It would be so easy to… “I’ll do you now,” Freddie pipes. “What?!” “Let me do you now,” the boy repeats. I glance down. I’m fully erect. In fact, I’ve started to ache. I risk a glance at Freddie. Fukin hell! The boy is erect, too, his cock stiffly upright against the lower part of his tummy. How the hell did this happen?! Flustered and frankly scared by my own lust, I step out of the shower and grab a towel, fling it round me and announce, “Thanks, Freddie, but I wanna get those pizzas in the oven. You finish off. Get to your bedroom and get your jammies on. You got 15 minutes exactly.” “Okay dokay,” chirps Freddie, and I can’t help pausing to observe how the head of his dick has forced its way out of its foreskin for a breath of fresh air. My cock leaps in response, and I beat the hell out of there, not caring whether MY English has collapsed this time. Pizza on the terrace as the sun goes down. An ten-year-old boy, cute as a button, sitting opposite me, his lips wet with a variety of flavours and juices, once again showing me how bright he is, though he clearly isn’t aware of it. Freddie, you’re one special kid. “May I choose the DVD?” he asks, not adding something like “You said I could,” because, above all, Freddie is being raised to be polite. “Of course you may,” I echo, “but nothing too long, and nothing too violent.” “Toy Story 3?” “‘Fraid I haven’t got that one,” I admit. “But I do,” he grins. “I got it with me. It’s in my bag. I wrapped it in my jammies. Case Mum said I couldn’t. Remember what we said about mums.” His grin is even wider. “What’s it about?” I stupidly ask. “Well, toys should get delivered to the attic the night before Andy goes to college. But there’s a mistake, and they get delivered to a day-care thingy instead. And Woody has to convince the other toys they should…” “Whoa Whoa, young man. How often have you seen this movie?” An Freddie frown of concentration. “I don’t know. I don’t count. But I got most of the words off by heart.” “Well, just stop there,” I admonish him. “I haven’t seen it even one time, and I definitely don’t want to know what happens.” “Sorry,” murmurs the penitent ten-year-old. I smile. “No probs. Now get to your room, get the DVD, and load it up pronto. We’ve got to get this show on the road.” Before I can get the plates and glasses into the kitchen, let alone the dishwasher, I hear, “Ready! Hurry up, you slow coach.” I abandon the dishwasher and head into the salon. The DVD is loaded, the TV switched on, and Freddie is standing, waiting. Waiting for what? “Where you watching from?” he asks. I point to the couch: it’s a four-seater. “Stretch out on it,” the ten-year-old instructs. “Please,” he insists. I humour him by stretching out full-length on the couch, which, I have to admit, is the only way to watch a DVD with a boy. Freddie leaps onto the couch, and onto me, and maneuvers me until I’m stretched against the back of the couch with him pinned full-length against me, his back to my front. “This is the way me and Mum always watch movies,” he explains and cuddles down against me. Don’t ask me how I survived Toy Story 3 – 98 minutes, and I couldn’t tell you a fukin’ thing about it if my life depended on it. But I remember every second of how Freddie’s hot little body pressed against me. How when he got excited – and he often got excited – he would squirm against me, his back, bum and hips pressing into me. How, when he got sad, – not often – he would turn to me and look up into my eyes as if he needed assurance to be sad. Can you imagine how difficult it was not to lean down and kiss him on those pretty pink lips, stained a darker pink by raspberry fruit juice? How, when he needed a cuddle, he reached for my hand and dragged my arm round him – my hand resting on his naked tummy, my fingers instinctively stroking his belly button, sliding up his chest, circling his tiny nipples until Freddie pushed them away only because they broke his concentration. If this wasn’t Paradise, it wasn’t far from it. And yet, and yet… (and I still smile) by the end of the movie, he is asleep. Sleeping, yes, but probably running the final part of the movie in his dreams. Gently I rise and gently I carry the boy through to my bedroom and deposit him gently on my double bed. Oh no, don’t get me wrong. I have no designs on Freddie’s virtue whatsoever; at least I have no conscious desire. I simply want to be sure he is sound asleep before I deposit him in his bunk bed. ‘Deposit’ rather than ‘tuck him up’ because although it’s September, we’re enjoying an Indian summer and a single cotton sheet will do. Freddie murmurs as I lay him down, and it’s a challenge to untangle his arms from round my neck without waking him as I lay him on the silk top cover. The dishes are done and tidied away. I’ve checked our plans for Sunday – the Toy and Model Museum – then beach sports for kids – I’ve tried to settle down to a book, to TV, to… but nothing works. I’m so conscious of Freddie stretched out on my bed. I must take a peek – to see he’s okay. Freddie is okay. He is stretched out on his back. His pajama top has ridden up his chest, his pajama bottoms have slid down to his hips. His pajamas have been chosen to last – two sizes too big. His thumb is in his mouth. Now that surprises me. But then I remember Freddie is only ten-years-old. Ten years old… but that’s quite a bulge under his pajamas. Gently I sit on the edge of the bed, and even more gently I grip his pajama bottoms and slowly lower them down to his knees. The boy’s penis is fully erect, the foreskin completely retracted, the little pink head wet and glistening. Surely not pre-cum? No, of course, it can’t be, but it makes it so delicious, so tempting. And it will do him no harm as I lean over, flick out my tongue and run it across, then round the naked glans. My fingers toy with his balls, tiny walnuts in a sac. Enough – enough – that’s enough. But of course it’s not. I lower my head and draw the full four inches into my mouth, let my lips slide up and down the shaft, as a free hand slides up the silk of his chest. All of Freddie is in my mouth. No, not all, and I lower my head further and let his balls slips inside my mouth along with the shaft. I can’t slide my lips up and down on his shaft like this, but it feels so good, so right. I set his balls free – the sac is wet with my saliva – and slide my lips up down the shaft, squeezing, easing, tightening, freeing. Freddie’s legs begin to twitch, his tummy seems to flutter, he seems to suck harder on his thumb. I let one finger slide into his crack, let a fingertip play across his tiny opening, then bring it to my nose to smell my Freddie as he is – all boy. Enough – enough. No – more – more. I rise, stand and slip off my robe. I am naked. I am so erect it hurts. Believe me, I am stripped to finish my interrupted shower. I had no intention of… I have no intention of… I see Freddie stretched below me, naked from nipples to knees, his thumb deep in his mouth. I climb onto the bed, not quite sure of my intentions. Gently I remove his thumb from his mouth. I place a knee on either side of his head, take my cock and rub the head along his pretty pink lips. My balls hang floppily on his neck below his chin. I ease my arse until the boy’s hard-on is snug between the cheeks. I begin to masturbate. At first I am slow and gentle, working my own foreskin until my precum drips onto the boy’s face, his cheeks, his lips. Then faster, working the foreskin over the head until my fingers are a blur. It’s going to be messy… and then… No, you can’t. Yes, you can! With my free fingers, I pinch Freddie’s nostrils. His head rolls slightly. I hold the pinch gently. His mouth opens. I slip my finger in his mouth and roll it in circles. His mouth widens in response. His mouth is almost a perfect pink circle. I can see his pretty little tongue. I can’t hold it any more. I squirt once, twice – that’s enough to fill his mouth. I free his nostrils. He coughs a little and the cum bubbles through his lips. I twist my body and squirt the rest of the semen into the palm of my hand. There’s so much of it I’m relieved I kept some control. I didn’t want Freddie waking up, choking. I lower my lips to his, lick away the cum on his lips, chin, neck and chest. I keep on licking till there’s nothing left to lick. I press the tip of my tongue against the boy’s lips and I’m rewarded when he opens them a little and I can slide the tip in. No semen. Where’s it gone? Down his throat, all the way to his tummy. It’s strange to think there are now millions of tiny me’s swimming around inside my very own little ten-year-old. I pull his pajama top down, the bottoms up. I get my arms under him, raise him – only the merest of protests – and carry him through to his own bed. I lay him down, kiss his nose, and leave him to sweet dreams. I hope they’ll be as sweet as mine. *** I play the same image over in my mind again and again. I, a fully-grown man, naked, kneeling, one knee on either side of a ten-year-old boy’s head, squirting semen into his open mouth and across his face. I see one drop of cum hanging from the long eyelashes of his right eye, another splashed across his blond fringe, his lips, cheeks and chin a mess of splattered cum. I see my buttocks clenching, my dick so stiff it hurts. And I can’t understand why the image is so intensely erotic, probably more erotic than the experience itself because I have time to replay the scene again and again from every possible angle. The detail amazes me. I see my thumb in close-up as it eases open the boy’s mouth, my finger circling inside his mouth, the way he gasps for breath when I pinch his nostrils, eyeballs fluttering beneath the thin skin of his eyelids. Why is this all so intense as I stand in the shower jerking myself furiously to orgasm as I take all the time in the world to replay the scene again and again before finally allowing myself to shudder to a climax that leaves me gasping like a goldfish out of water. I try to explain it to myself, but none of the explanations seems to fit. Power? Am I really enjoying my power over Freddie, his powerlessness when faced the relentlessness of my desire? I don’t believe so. Apart from the sex, I try not to exercise any power over the boy. In fact, if I’m guilty of anything, it is allowing the boy to have so much power over me. I present Freddie with the options – whether it is having mayonnaise on his chips, a sip at my lager (he loves it), going to the park or the Marina, choosing a movie, showering alone or with me – and he decides. If I’m guilty of anything, it is of spoiling the boy, the saving grace being that Freddie remains as polite and unspoilable as ever. So I dismiss power and consider other possibilities – the more difficult of which is… corruption and degradation. Do I enjoy corrupting an ten-year-old boy? It’s certainly not my intention, and to tell the truth I’m not even sure what corruption is? Oh come off it, I hear you say. How many ten-year-old boys regard having their arseholes kissed and sucked as not only fun but something quite normal, though not to be shared with Mummy? And how many grown men regard a ten-year-old’s rosebud as amongst the most beautiful things our Planet has to offer? And how many grown men would…..? But the focus of this story is not me. I’m not here for analysis, self or otherwise. I’m here to tell the story of Freddie, Freddie my love, and then at the end, if there is an end, and only at the end, try to figure out what it was all about. And ever at my back I hear your voices: O for fuck’s sake, get on with it. What happened next? Well, let me tell you what happened next didn’t happen next day, or even next weekend. I tried to keep myself under control, I really did. Even when Freddie was sprawled across my lap, more naked than clothed, even when my fingers were permitted to stroke, caress and tickle more or less where desire led me, I resisted the compulsion to… It was the showers that were most difficult. “My turn now,” pipes Freddie, reaching for the wash cloth. He giggles as he jumps to wipe my face, then solemnly reaches to do my shoulders and chest. “You’ve got big nipples,” he remarks, “but not as big as Mummy’s. Hers are like dinner plates. But ladies need them for carrying the milk and feeding their babies, don’t they?” Oh how I’d like to feed Freddie, have him suck the milk right out of me. Freddie doesn’t use childish terms for things such as pee-pee for penis though equally he doesn’t use words such as cock, dick and balls. Amy recognised early she has a remarkable boy on her hands; she doesn’t treat him as a baby, and she is never condescending or patronising towards him. So nipples they are as Freddie circles them with the wash cloth. Freddie is used to the little trunk swinging between my legs but I wonder what he makes of it as it stiffens and heads upwards towards my belly button. I soon find out as he steps back and says, “Wow! Look at your penis growing.” I’m surprised by his matter-of-fact statement until he adds, “Mine does that, too.” He points down to the evidence and for the first time I see Freddie getting a stiffy, a hard-on, an erection that stands vertical rather than horizontal. “But look at you,” he continues, “when does izmit rus escort it stop growing?” His hand keeps running the cloth across my belly. “And your balls…” (I guess gonads or testicles were too much even for a ten-year-old as bright as Freddie.) “…they’re huge, too. And hairy.” He pauses, then… “But you haven’t got any hair on your chest. Just this…” and he trails a finger in my pubic hair. “One of mum’s boyfriends was as hairy as a gorilla. Mum called him her ‘chimp’ – but not to his face, of course. That would be rude.” He pauses, then… “I better do your penis. Mum says you have to be clean everywhere – specially under, under… what’s this bit called again?” “Foreskin,” I manage to blurt. “Yes, that’s right. This is your foreskin, and this is how you should clean under it.” He lays the wash cloth aside, take the soap, make two handfuls of bubbles, and places his small hands round the swollen head of my penis. And Freddie begins to circle the glans again and again. Then he lets his cupped hands slide down the shaft into my bush before heading back to caress the head again. I’m going literally insane with desire. I see the top of his head, see his hands round my dick, watch his fingers slide up and down, and I can’t help myself. I feel like Alice falling down the rabbit hole, and like Alice I’ve no idea where this is taking me. Reaching down, I close my big hand round Freddie’s two little hands. “Oh, am I doing it wrong?” he pipes. “No, no, you’re doing great, but it’s even better like this.” I enfold both his hands in mine, and guide them up and down the shaft. Freddie catches on almost immediately, and I’m able to watch his small hands and tiny fingers work my cock. Now I’m not huge, but I might just squeeze into the category of big, about seven and half inches, and fat with it. I’m not huge except maybe to a ten-year-old boy whose fingers barely lap over each other. Freddie looks up at me, those big hazel eyes shining. “Am I doing it all right now?” This time I can’t speak. I grunt like a chimp in heat. Freddie, ever the scientist, is carrying out little experiments of his own, varying the speed of the stroke, and the pressure of his fingers against my straining flesh. I have a decision to make, but in truth the decision has already been made as I hit the point of no return. Huge spurts fire from the head of the shaft, splattering Freddie’s face, neck and hair. As if it were an electrical shock, Freddie hangs on tight watching each spurt from the little mouth on my cockhead. Only when I push him gently away does he react with, “What the fuck?!” I don’t know who is shocked more – Freddie or me. I look down. He is bright red except where creamy globules spatter his face. I shouldn’t burst out laughing but I do, which makes Freddie go even redder, and for the first time show a bit of temper. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. It flew out.” I realise he is on the verge of tears and scoop him up into my arms. I plant little kisses all over his face, at the same time licking away the cum. I give him a huge smile, and, relieved, he smiles right back. “Guess it slipped out of me, too,” I tell him, though I doubt whether he got the import of the remark right then. “Let’s get under the shower again,” I say, “and get the rest of this stuff off us. Remember we’re meeting your mum at seven, and we’re all going out for dinner.” The boy babbles on charmingly as we shower again, I dry him off, and send him to his room to dress in the jeans and shirt we bought in the afternoon. As we wait for Amy, he asks me again, “What was that stuff that came out of your penis? It didn’t hurt you, did it? You’re not sick, are you?” I briefly explain that it’s ‘man stuff’ and I’ll explain what it’s all about on Sunday. But, no, it’s good stuff. Only men and boys, when they’re bit older, can make it, and someday he’ll make just as much as me.” “But I’ll be careful where I shoot it,” he grins, still with little idea of what the stuff actually is. “Can I help you make some more?” he asks. “‘Course you can,” I tell him, “but remember it’s ‘man stuff’, tapping the side of my nose as I say it. Freddie smiles and taps his nose in response -“Man stuff. Just between us.” The doorbell rings, and Freddie rushes to the door. It’s heartening to see a boy love his mother as much as Freddie loves Amy, though Amy has less time for him now that she’s recovered some of the freedom she lost as a single mum. Now don’t get me wrong. Amy adores Freddie, and she has done a wonderful job of bringing up a wonderful boy single-handedly. But she is only in her early twenties, and if someone has come along, someone she can trust, who can take Freddie off her hands now and again, and who can actually benefit Freddie, she’d be stupid not to, wouldn’t she? As Amy remarked, “Freddie needs men in his life. There’s nothing but women in his school, and a boy needs role-models, doesn’t he?” She admits some of her past boyfriends had hardly been role-models for a small boy but she’d always dumped the worst ones as soon as she saw there were no good for Freddie. “You wouldn’t believe what pigs some men can be,” she told me as if it were a secret known only to women. “When you came along, it really was a bit of a God-send. I can tell you now I was struggling to make ends meet. And… well, Freddie adores you -he can be very choosy, you know – and you like Freddie, so…” There was no need for Amy to finish the sentence, and I was touched when she laid her hand on mine. “I know whatever you do,” she said, “it will always be what’s best for Freddie. And he knows it, too, because I’ve told him so.” Sunday afternoon and Freddie’s curiosity is far from satisfied. “So, you see, the stuff that comes out my penis is semen, and the semen carries the sperm, and the sperm is what makes the lady have a baby.” “I understand that,” says Freddie, but you weren’t making a baby, so why did it shoot out of you?” This is more delicate, but in for a penny… “The semen shot out of me because I got excited,” I tell him. “Excited?” he repeats. “What got you excited?” Deep breath. “Well, to be honest, it was your hands on my penis, and it was you rubbing my penis that got me excited. First the rubbing got me hard…” “You were hard before that,” he interrupts. “Okay… being in the shower with you got me excited. Your hands got me more excited. And in the end I got so excited I couldn’t help shooting the sperm.” “Being with me got you excited?” he questions. “You must like me lots and lots.” “I do.” “That’s good.” He thinks. “So if you rub my penis, I’ll get excited and I’ll shoot sperm just like you.” “No.” “Why not?” “Because you’re too young. Boys can’t make sperm until they reach puberty. Remember, I told you about that.” “Oh yes… pooberty… that’s when I get hair, and my balls get bigger, and my dick – May I say ‘dick’? – Thank you. – and my dick gets as big as yours.” “You got it.” “Good.” Freddie thinks some more. “But will I get them feelings you get? My dick gets hard, too.” “Yes, you’ll get those feelings, but you can’t cum until you reach puberty. Remember what ‘cum’ means?” Freddie gives me a look that says, I’m ten years old but I’m not a dummy. “I want to try it!” he announces firmly. “Try what?” I naively ask. “Rubbing my dick, of course. I know I can’t cum but I want to see if I get those feelings.” The ten-year-old twists round against my body, and looks up expectantly. Decision time. “Well, go into the bathroom and have a ‘go’,” I say as if I were sending him to try a new computer game. “No way,” he says. “You have to do it for me. I did it for you in the bathroom. Fair’s fair. You always tell me that.” “Freddie,” I protest, “this is man-stuff, real man-stuff. You’re an ten-year-old boy and I’m…” “My best friend!” he finishes for me. “But maybe you don’t want to do it coos you don’t really like me. Maybe you like my mum better than me. Maybe you’re just like her boyfriends.” His voice tails sadly away. “No, Freddie, that’s not it. I like your mum, but I like you better… better than anybody in the whole wide world, and you know I’d do anything for you, but…” But again Freddie finishes for me. Not by saying a word but by pushing his trackies and his underpants – psychedelic orange! where does Amy get them? – to his knees. His dick is in the small-boy position, somewhere round 45 degrees. As I hesitate, he struggles his way out of the bottoms and underpants. I say nothing but reach to help him off with his T-shirt. I shift positions so that I’m sitting on the couch with Freddie stretched across my lap, A naked ten-year-old boy is stretched across my lap, knees dangling on one side, head on the other, helpless to my gaze and touch. I reach to stroke his penis with one set of fingers while the others play with his body. I’m startled by how quickly he becomes fully erect. His erection remains just over four inches, but it has the hardness of a school milk bottle. With thumb and forefinger I draw his foreskin as far back as it can go. Close it over the head, draw it back, close it over… sometimes slow, sometimes faster. I feel the tension in the boy’s body as it rises from my knees, his back arching until the strain causes him to fall back, only for him to arch again a few seconds later. Freddie’s head, hair hanging back from his face, dangles over my right knee now, his legs hooked over my left. He is truly helpless in my grip, and in the excitement that is coursing through his body. He begins to whimper, to make tiny mewling sounds like a kitten. I want to lean over and take him in my mouth but that would be for my pleasure, not his, so I concentrate on the rhythms and pressures that seem to give the him the most pleasure. Whatever Freddie was having, there are no better words to describe it than having an orgasm. His bottom, hips, belly, chest and genital region buck out of control. Eyes tight shut, he finds the only words he can to express what is happening to him: Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Even before they subside, he pulls himself up, turns towards me, throws his arms round my neck, and buries his face in my chest. I’m growing sick with worry until I hear: Amazing! Fuckin’ Awesome! Then he pulls away, looks at me with glazed eyes, and whispers: “Did you feel that way when I made you… cum?” “Yes,” I nod. “Do it to me again. Do it again.” I laugh and bounce him from my knee, slapping his cute little arse before he hits the carpet. “Get your clothes on, you little minx. We’ve both got school tomorrow. It’s Sunday. Your mum’ll be here in half an hour.” “Oh,” he murmurs, standing naked before me. He puts a finger to the side of his nose and whispers, “Man-stuff. Don’t forget.” “Man-stuff,” I echo, as I stoop to help him step into his undies. I recognise the song on the radio. It’s the Carpenters. ‘We’ve only just begun.’ *** “Your son’s a very handsome boy. You must be proud of him.” “I’m not his Dad. I’m his Uncle.” “Yes,” piped up Freddie. “This is my Uncle Dan. I’m his nephew Freddie, and we’re very pleased to meet you.” He extended a small hand. The tailor took the proffered hand and shook it solemnly. “I see you’re also a very polite boy. Always a good thing in a young gentleman. Now let’s measure your inside leg.” We’d spent the morning at a Boot Fair where Freddie had bought a Moroccan cap for 50 pence. Brightly coloured, it fitted round his head pushing his blond hair behind his small ears and over his collar. The odd thing is that no matter what Freddie wears, he never looks girlish. Cute, yes, stunningly cute, but rarely did anyone take him for a girl. This, of course, was helped by his hten. In a group of boys his own age, Freddie always stood an inch or two above the tallest. And slender, yes, but skinny, no. His flat chest was taking shape, his hips more noticeable, his legs running on forever. Amy and I agreed I could buy him a new outfit. Like any good mum, she’d then left it to the ‘boys’, and though Freddie and I had decided on new jeans, shirt and light leather jacket, I’d decided to have the jeans tailored rather than store-bought. There’s not much point earning a deputy head’s salary and not being a little extravagant now and again. Later we’d meet Amy and off we’d go to the restaurant of Freddie’s choice. He didn’t mind which restaurant it was as long as he could have ‘mule’s mareenyer’, by which he meant moules marinieres. He’d tried them on our day out in France. Freddie could tell you they were mussels cooked in white wine with onions, herbs and a tiny splash of cream, and they were on the list of things he wanted to try and make at home. After dining, Amy would go on to her club, and we’d head ‘home’ to watch a DVD of Freddie’s choice, and… there was something very erotic about knowing Freddie would be lying naked over my knees as I stroked and pressed his tummy – full of ‘mule’s mareenyer – squeezed the cheeks of his buttocks, kissed his nipples, and worked his hot hard-on to orgasm as his whole body shook and trembled beneath me. Freddie would then climb into his terry-towel bath robe and snuggle into my body, naked within my bathrobe, as we watched whatever he had chosen for that Saturday night. I’d done well. You have to give me that. I insisted Freddie shower on his own. I insisted he sleep in his own bunk bed. I insisted he kept his hands off my dick, no matter how hard it pressed into his hot little body. Freddie accepted the rules gracefully, if not cheerfully. He loved me playing with his body but did not seem overly interested in mine. Perhaps that’s a characteristic of small boys; they are more interested in having their own bodies pleasured than pleasuring others. This made sense, and it also helped enormously not to give into the lust I felt for him, and every part of him. I hope I was protecting Freddie. I know I was protecting myself. Frankly, I was sometimes terrified, though far less often than I’d been only a few months before. I knew how ready children were to ‘tell tales’ – not with the intention of getting their ‘accomplice’ into trouble, but simply because ‘secrets’ aren’t real secrets unless they are shared. I also knew that Freddie might be under immense internal pressure to express his sexuality with others. But it seemed that when Freddie classified something as ‘man stuff’ that’s exactly what it was. To be shared with me, but with absolutely no one else. Still, despite this assurance, I didn’t want to take risks, especially since I didn’t know if I could limit myself if I gave into the desires that prowled my imagination. I couldn’t forget that image: my knees on either side of the sleeping boy’s head – my fingers prising open his mouth – the cum shooting from my cock into his open mouth. If I could do that, what else was I capable of. “That man was feeling my dick,” says Freddie, his fringe bouncing on his forehead in time with his skipping by my side. “Why didn’t you say anything?” I ask. “Because it felt nice,” he replies. “I’ve got a hard-on now,” he adds. “Well, don’t think about it,” say, though I can feel my own cock begin to twitch. “Don’t be silly,” he says. “You can’t just NOT think of a hard-on when you’ve got one. When you try NOT to think about it, you just think about it even more, and that makes it worse. Wait a minute.” He pauses, sticks his hand in his pocket, and angles his erection up his tummy. “Can we go for a Pepsi now, please?” “Half a glass,” I compromise. “We’ll share.” “Okay,” he agrees, “and we can sort out things for my party tomorrow.” “Agreed. Come on. And remember … no thinking about that hard-on. I’ll think about that for both of us.” Ten minutes later we’re sitting over a large glass of Pepsi – one glass, two straws. I’m not going to do well out of this arrangement. We’re sorting out Freddie’s official birthday party, the first that will be attended by other boys. The party will take place in my flat, but I won’t be there. Amy will do the honours. But I’m as thrilled as Freddie. He has invited five boys from his class – and I’ve arranged for a professional party person to organise the games and activities. It seems a weird sort of career: a PPP (professional party person) to make sure kids have a great time at their parties, but I guess if you are a BL or GL, it must be a sort of Nirvana. If I were writing a novel, rather than simply telling a tale, I would give some account of the dinner, the moules – gobbled by everyone – the slightly tipsy single-parent mother and the deputy headteacher, and the bright-eyed, rosy-cheeked, ivory-skinned, Moroccan-cap-betopped, golden-fringed little boy. I would describe Amy kissing the cheeks of her little boy, before bundling herself into a taxi with the words, “See you tomorrow, honey,” before she and the taxi disappeared into the night. I would recount Freddie and I catching our own taxi, negotiating the lift, and Freddie, rather than I, working the key into the door as we more or less fell into my apartment. “Right, boy, into the shower with you,” I say. “Properly dried. Sort out a DVD. Then onto the couch. I’ll be back in ten minutes. The boiler’s a bit wonky. I’m going down to see the caretaker. And remember, properly dry, and… no thinking about hard-ons!” The ten minutes take thirty minutes. The caretaker is a happy idiot, but a brilliant engineer, and after a bit of clanking, banging and dinging at assorted pipes, he convinces me the problem with the boiler is no more. I take the lift, my excitement rising, my cock hardening as I think of a damp Freddie, slippy as silk, stretched out naked on the couch, his hard-on stiff against his tummy. I’m humming as I open our front door. Freddie is naked. But he is not stretched out on the couch. He is sitting there, watching a DVD, eyes wide, mouth open, one hand holding the remote, the fingers of the other working his cock – it still looks outlandish on his ten-year-old body – he does not look towards me as I cross the room. He isn’t watching ‘Toy Story’. Familiar moaning and groaning tell me this is not ‘Toy Story’! I stand in front of the boy, reach out, take the remote control and flick off the DVD. Freddie looks up at me, smiles and says, “I know what to do now.” He reaches out and runs his little fingers down the front of my trousers. I know I should push his hand away, but an ten-year-old beautiful boy is sitting before me, his robe open to revealed his nakedness, his fingers moving the foreskin quickly up and down over the head of his sweet prick. I haven’t the strength to resist. I feel myself growing hard. He leans forward and places his mouth against the bulge and presses with his lips. With his free hand he undoes my belt, not easy for such a small hand. He flicks open the clasp. Slowly pulls down the zip. Begins to edge my trousers down and over my hips and arse. I throw the remote on the couch and help him push my trousers and boxers down together. I kick off my shoes, then with a slightly comic struggle kick off my pants and boxers. My prick, taut and hard, stretches from my bush up to my belly button. I feel Freddie’s fingers, so light, so feathery, run up and down the shaft. I feel him weigh my balls in his hands, one ball at a time in such small hands. Then I’m surprised and a little shocked to feel him kiss my belly, my pubic area, my thick curly hair, and at last the head of my cock which looks bigger than his tongue. Now he is running his little pink tongue up and down the shaft while his fingers explore my bush and the trail of hair that runs up my belly. “Am I doing okay?” I hear his voice below me ask. Somehow I get the words out: “Beautiful, just beautiful.” He is moving the skin of the shaft harder and faster now – Where the fuck did he learn this? – while he tries to fit the mushroom head of my cock in his little mouth. I hear him gag. He can’t do it. So he licks round the head, up and down, slow and fast. I feel the pre-cum ooze from he; Freddie licks it up as fast as it reaches my glans. Behind me I hear the soundtrack of the damned DVD. Did I really leave it where he could find it? The moans, the groans, the slapping sounds, the squeals, the muffled unbroken voice of a prepubescent boy being used and abused by two – or is it three grown men? I’m not going to last much longer. I push Freddie away from me. Once more his eyes are fixed on the screen. I flick a mechanism on the couch, and the back slides down, turning it into a double bed. I throw off my sweater and shirt. No time to get my socks off. I push Freddie onto the couch and go down on him, making sure he can still watch the screen. I take his four inches between my lips. He couldn’t be harder. Foreskin fully retracted. I lean back at marvel at the purity of his skin – not a hair, not a blemish, his ball sac almost completely round with only the hint of the two balls inside. The sac with the ‘seam’ that my tongue can follow to paradise. I feel a push on my head. Freddie is pushing me back down on him. I manage a little control, running my lips up and down the shaft. It is actually throbbing. He is pushing his hips up from the couch, sliding into my mouth, withdrawing, sliding in again. I feel the tension in his body rise. Like me, Freddie isn’t going to last long if I keep sucking like this. I release him, flip him over onto his tummy – small boys are so flexible -making sure he still has full view of the screen. His bum, bottom, arse, ass… is open to my gaze. He is unbelievably clean with the merest hint of an opening shaded in darker pink. I want to lick that opening, kiss it, suck it, so I do, though it’s practically impossible to suck something so tiny with my adult lips. For a moment, I expect surprise, shock, protest from the boy, but he simply pushes his bum into my face. I would like to work his hole with my tongue, my fingers, my dick, but that will have to wait. The last thing I want to do is take the boy in a moment of heat and risk injury to something so fragile, so beautiful, so perfect. I flip him onto his back. His head is hanging over the edge of the couch. He is watching the action on the screen upside down. I wonder if it makes any difference to Freddie. I glance at the screen – the boy, 10 or 11 years old, is being arse and face fucked simultaneously. I swallow Freddie’s dick and balls and slurp on them for a while. I slip my finger between his buttocks, find his tiny sphincter and stroke it. I release his balls and suck his four-incher as fast and as hard as I can. His body tightens, bucks, shivers, trembles. I hear squeals and yelps and realise they are coming from Freddie, not from the screen. His orgasm hits him like a silver bullet. He clutches me so hard I feel his nails nip into me. Pain and pleasure. For the moment there is no difference. He writhes below me, his cock throbbing in my mouth. Then with a whimper he subsides, collapses, and for a moment I think he has fainted. Sure that he hasn’t, I turn his body lengthways on the couch. I kneel over him, one knee on either side of his head. “Open your mouth. Open wide,” I whisper. Freddie opens wide. “Close your eyes,” I whisper. Freddie closes his eyes. I place the head of my cock against his open lips and jerk as fast as I can. It’s a matter of seconds. Spurts of warm cum fire into Freddie’s mouth, hitting him on the back of the throat. He tries to swallow. There’s a brave boy. But there’s too much. Reflexively, he closes his mouth. Cum escapes from the sides of his mouth, dribbles down his chin. He begins to cough – cum fires like snot from his nose. His pink tongue snakes out and tries to lick the cum from his lips. I pick him up. He has already lost the bath robe. I carry him into the shower. I hold him in my arms as the hot water beats down on us. The Jacuzzi filled, I climb into it, still holding him as the water fizzes and bubbles round us. In time, Freddie opens his big hazel eyes. I am worried how he will react. Then he speaks. “Can we watch the rest of that DVD, please, Uncle Dan? I want to see what else they do to that boy.” I laugh, relieved, and say, “Nope, we’re going to watch the DVD you chose. What is it by the way?” “It’s the one called ‘Braveheart’. I saw a bit of it on youtube. The battles look well wicked.” Oh, Freddie, my sweet Freddie. Oh, Freddie, my love. *** Corruption? Degradation? I’m not sure. Beauty? Oh, yes, beauty. I’m looking at a photograph of Freddie. He must be ten years old. Getting ready for bed. He isn’t wearing a top. He never does. The elastic on his white briefs is folded back on itself, low down below his hardly-existent hips, exposing the ivory of his pubic area. He has a slight tan, all over, since Freddie has no qualms about stretching out naked on the beach when he can get away with it. He is slim but not thin, slender but not skinny. His skin is flawless, immaculate. He is in mid-step, and even in a still photograph, one senses the fluid grace with which he moves. Freddie has flicked his fringe back from his eyes. It’s difficult to describe his hair; not blond, not gold, not chestnut, but a mixture of all three; straight but with soft waves that curl onto his shoulders. His eyes, hazel flecked with gold, are startling. His chest is perfectly formed, his nipples are pert brown cherries that set off the porcelain of his skin. His chest narrows towards a V as it reaches his hips – waist so small that I can wrap one hand round it. Tummy button, an innie, I’ve explored with my tongue so many times, and each time afresh. Yes, Freddie is beautiful, and yet there is nothing sissy about him. Freddie is a man’s boy. We continue to reach compromises. We can share a Jacuzzi but not a shower. We can lie in my bed while I’m reading a story to him, or him to me, but he can’t sleep overnight in my bed. I am to suck him off two times before a DVD but not three times – “My dick starts to get sore,” – the boy explains. He sucks me off but I’ve got to tell him when I’m going to cum -“I hate when it comes down my nose,” he explains. He can go around the flat naked when the central heating is running riot – the caretaker is not quite the genius I took him for. I’ve got to come and watch him in ‘Robin Hood’ -Freddie plays Robin – and any other school plays or pantomimes he is in (as if he could keep me away!) And I’ve got to come to Parents’ Evenings because “Mum doesn’t understand shit about education.” – for which remark Freddie forfeited a DVD session. And, finally. Freddie has the right to watch any of my DVDs – his demand not mine, and I resist nobly for a couple of weeks but then weakly give in. “I’m not a baby,” says Freddie – all of ten years old – “I know that boys and men have sex.” – he can name what is happening now – “and it’s educational.” My Freddie is a born politician. He also has his own key, hung on a string round his neck, because Amy doesn’t finish until ten, and I’ve got at least two meetings after school a week. What I do not know – until it is too late – that Freddie, in time, will invite boys round to watch DVDs with him, and charge them for the privilege. Not only a politician, but an entrepreneur – Dragons’ Den has a lot to answer for. We see less of Amy. She has a steady boyfriend, Nigel (!), and Nigel does not like children, in particular, he does not like Freddie because Freddie is as bright as Nigel is thick, and that takes some doing. But Nigel, to give him his due, (Nigel can have anything he wants except Freddie.) is genuinely fond of Amy. He is bourgeois middle-class, assistant bank manager, own flat, nice car, and his intentions towards Amy seem honourable. But like men young men he doesn’t have much time for kids, and certainly not for a precocious, gob-smacking little beauty like Freddie. So we see less of Amy, and very little of Amy and Nigel, and that suits me. It suits Freddie less, but as he has been spending most of his weekends with me, he shrugs his shoulders and comes to terms with the set-up. One night, as he is stretched out naked across my lap (second suck), I hear him ask, “Wonder if Mum is doing this to Nigel.” Minutes later, as his tremors subside, I turn him over and playfully smack his backside, though I make sure it hurts a bit. “Don’t you be rude about your mother,” I say. “I’m not being rude,” I hear from protest from beneath me. “I was just wondering. And – Ouch! – do boys suck girls? – Ouch! – They can’t, can they? – Ouch! – I mean girls don’t have anything to get sucked. – Ouch!” I realise I will have to extend the range of DVDs he is watching. Rarely does Freddie give me cause for anger, but I recall one occasion when he thoroughly deserved a good spanking – if I’d been able to bring myself to administer one. It’s Saturday evening. We’re going out to the cinema, but first I’ve got to get a few domestic chores out of the way. These include dumping Freddie’s school shirt, socks and trousers into the wash. I’m emptying his trouser pockets when I find a crumpled five pound. At first I assume Amy gave it to him after school on Friday. Then I remember I picked him up, and Amy hasn’t seen him since Friday morning. I walk into the salon where Freddie is completing a jigsaw. I hold out the five poundnote and ask: “And where did this come from?” As soon as I see Freddie’s reaction, I know that something is up. The boy’s lip trembles. There are tears in his eyes. His cheeks are on fire. Freddie has a problem. He is congenitally unable to lie, at least to his mother and me. He has the tiniest of speech impediments that only emerge when he is under stress. “A m-m-an gave it to me.” “A man?” I echo. I sit on the couch and pat a space next to me. Freddie pulls himself up off the floor and sits next to me. I turn his body to face me. I raise his chin so he is looking into my eyes. God, they are beautiful even when full of storms. “Who? Where? When? What? Why?” This is the formula I have taught Freddie to use when he is writing stories at school. He understands by asking and answering these questions, he’ll never be stuck on what to write about next.” “Take five deep breaths, and then tell me.” The boy follows instructions and… “After school on Friday. I didn’t come straight home.” He pauses, expecting a lecture. I say nothing. “I was coming straight home. But I stopped in the toilets, you known the ones in Albert Street. I really needed a piss – a wee,” he corrects himself. “I was having a wee. A man stood next to me. He pulled out his cock, his penis.” He pauses again. “I took a peek. I should’ve put mine away, I know, but his was so big. I kept on looking. It started getting bigger. And he wasn’t really peeing. Just sort of playing with it. I started playing with mine, not much, just squeezing and pulling a bit.” Freddie frowns and looks at me. “I was feeling, you know, horny.” This is not a word I’ve taught Freddie. Damn those DVDs. “He was a very nice man. Not dirty or smelly or anything. And there was only us two in the toilet. His penis was standing straight up. I could see the hair sticking out of his flies. Then he said, ‘Like what you see, young man?’ I nodded my head, I think.” I interrupt with, “And you went into a cubicle.” “No, no,” says Freddie, “we went in his car.” “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Freddie…” The boy can’t resist a giggle. “Watch your language,” he mimics me so accurately, sees my scowl, gulps, and goes on with his confession. “We went down to the harbour. Remember it was sunny on Friday? He parked so we could see the ships. He chatted really nice. He asked me lots of questions about school and stuff. He was really interested. Then…” “Then?” “Well, you know. He started playing with me – through my school pants. He was really scared. He kept looking out of the window. He kept asking me if I was okay. And okay with what he was doing. He said I was pretty. I didn’t like that, but I didn’t tell him. I got really hard, and he went down on me.” “Down on you?” (I’m going to confiscate those DVDs.) “Yeh, for ages. I started getting bored. So I wiggled my bum, and jumped up and down a bit, and went ‘oooh’, ‘aaah’, and stuff like that. Then I pushed his head away and said it was getting sore. He looked happy, but I stopped him when he started pulling my shirt out of my trousers and stuff like that. Then he had his cock out. It was huge, Uncle Dan. I mean humungous, like those cocks on some of your porno vids. I wasn’t putting my mouth on that! “So I put my fingers from both hands round it and started jerking the skin up and down. Wow! He only lasted ten seconds – that’s just a guess izmit escort – but it was about that. Then he came all over his trousers and shirt and right up on to his tie. I just held on ‘coos I didn’t want it to turn and squirt on me. I knew you’d be mad if I came home in a mess.” “So you didn’t let any of it in your mouth?” I ask. “Oh, no!” he protests. “I wouldn’t do that. I might catch Aids or something. I remember what you told me.” I resist the urge to laugh, but I’m sure Freddie catches my smile. “And then he dropped you back at Albert Street.” “Well, no actually,” Freddie begins. “He took me for a Big Mac. You know the place in Harbour Street.” Which explains why Freddie had such a poor appetite on Friday evening. “And then he dropped you at Albert Street?” I ask hopefully. “Yep,” the boy says confidently. “But he gave me that £5 note… and asked me what school I go to.” (pause) “But ha, ha, I told him a different school.” Freddie says this as if it answers everything. It doesn’t. We are quiet for a few moments, then… “Freddie, do you know WHY you went to the toilets? Why you let that man…? I know you were feeling ‘horny’, but…” and this is hard to say… “couldn’t you wait till you got home?” We are quiet for a few moments more, then… “‘Cos you won’t let me try stuff?” “‘Stuff?’ What kind of stuff?” It’s Freddie’s turn to find the right words. “You know… man-stuff, sex-stuff.” “Freddie… I didn’t know… I thought that… You can always ask me. You know that. What is it you want to…” Fifteen minutes later – and I find this incredible even as I write it – I am lying naked, stretched out, face down, on the double bed. Freddie is sitting, naked, half way down my body, pulling my legs ever wider apart. His fingers wiggle through the hair until he finds my anus. “It’s like a little door,” I hear him say. “You’ve got lots of hair. Where is it now?” I imagine I feel his breath on my arse hole. Surely not. Then I feel his middle finger stroking the length of the opening. “It’s like a little mouth,” he tells me. “Can I get my finger…?” I feel the pressure against sphincter, Tension keeps it tightly closed. But Freddie is relentless. He presses and probes, until ‘pop’ his middle finger is in to the first knuckle. Then unceremoniously out it pops. “I know what’s wrong,” he announces. I hear him clambering from the bed, pattering across the bedroom, clinks from my dressing table, and he’s back on the bed. “Here, this should help,” he tells me, and there’s the sudden shock of cold cream on my arse hole. I think I should say something, but for the life of me I can’t think what. I can imagine the look of solemn concentration on Freddie’s face as his fingers, first one, then two, twist and turn against my hole until the muscles give way, and his fingers are in as deep as they can go. I can feel the boy’s fingers – digit and middle -pushed into the knuckles twisting, turning, circling, stretching as I loosen up for him. That must be a third finger because for the first time there is some discomfort, but most of that is cancelled out by the sheer erotic intensity of the experience. An ten-year-old boy is finger-fucking me with ruthless intensity. My prick is so hard I think it might break. I realise if Freddie tries to jam his little fist right up my arse, I’ll do nothing to stop him. Damn it! His fingers are gone. I suddenly feel so empty. “Up, up, please, Uncle Dan,” I hear him whisper as he pulls my hips upwards. In response I get half on my knees, my face still burrowed in a pillow, lavender-scented. Once again I feel him probing at my entrance. I try and relax and will myself to open for him. It’s a shock when I realise it’s not Freddie’s fingers – it’s his hard little cock – not so little at just over four inches, but he’s fucking ten years old, for fuck’s sake! An ten-year-old boy is trying to fuck me, and I want to help him. I reach behind me, grab my cheeks and wrench them as wide apart as I can. I can hear Freddie grunt, but I’m not sure what the grunt signifies me. And suddenly he’s inside me! Really inside me! And he’s not finger-fucking me, he’s fucking me for real – and I can hear and feel his little belly bouncing off my buttocks. I try to help by pushing back but realise he’s not going to bottom out on four inches. I only wish I could see his face, see his fringe flopping onto his face, see his slim arms as they hang onto my shoulders, watch his belly bounce against my bum, and, above all, watch his four-inch shaft sliding in and out of my hairy hole. Although I can’t reach my own straining cock, I realise an orgasm is building. It’s hard to believe I’m going to cum without anyone touching my erection; it’s just as hard to believe I’m not going to cum if Freddie keeps this up. And he does. Holding on tight, he pushes in and pulls out faster and faster until I feel like a bitch in heat being fucked by a randy, unforgiving mutt. At last, with a yelp, Freddie gives one final push, holds himself inside me, then collapses onto my back. I collapse beneath him, feeling cum spit from me onto my freshly-laundered duvet cover. We both lie there, man and boy, still joined – satisfied, satiated, dead to the world… until… “Uncle Dan, Uncle Dan,” I feel him, or think I do, pulling out of me. “Are you okay? I didn’t hurt you, did I?” I grunt non-commitally. “Remember we’re going to the cinema. We’d better hurry up. Don’t want to miss the start of the show.” Half an hour later we’re sitting in the cinema. Freddie turns to me. “Please may I have a choc ice?” I reach in my pocket and pull out the five pound note. “Make that two choc ices,” I say. “Hey, that’s my five pounds,” he says. “No, young man. That’s MY five pounds. Unless, of course, you’d rather have that good spanking, you deserve?” There’s no answer. But as he squeezes past me, Freddie leans over, kisses me on the cheek, and whispers, “It was worth it.” *** If you’re thinking that Freddie and I were leading a life of unbridled lust and sexual activity, you’re rather wide of the mark. In fact, most of the time Freddie led the life of a fairly typical ten, then nine-year-old boy, though it might strike some as odd that Freddie spent as much time with me as he did with his mother. Amy went happily along with the fiction that I was Freddie’s uncle and hence her older brother. She took some pride in introducing me as “my elder brother, Dan, Freddie’s uncle, the deputy headteacher.” Do I think she knew about our ‘extra curricular’ activities? The answer is a categorical ‘no’. Amy loved her son, but accepted he was getting a better deal with me than he ever could if he’d continued to be raised by her alone. We did have several heart-to-hearts; she did worry whether or not she was spending enough time with Freddie, but he was ‘as happy as I’ve ever seen him’ and so the arrangement suited everyone, including Nigel, her beau, the assistant bank manager. And Freddie? He struck me as a very happy boy, especially as I’d widened the parameters of our relationship. Not only did Freddie have his own key, but he was permitted to bring friends home with him as long as (a) his friend’s parents knew where their son/s was/were, (b) I was home, and (c) the boy/s was/were collected by at least one parent. Surely some parents were suspicious? About what? They usually knew Freddie’s mother, they knew I was a senior teacher of some sort, and Freddie was on his most solemn word never, but never, to mention or allude to anything sexual. Which raises a very interesting question? To what extent did Freddie regard what we did as ‘sexual’? Did he have a genuine understanding of what ‘sex’ is? I’m inclined to think not. I’m inclined to believe that sex was something that gave him pleasure, gave me pleasure, and brought tangible rewards – usually more than a five pound note! But I’m pretty sure he put it on the level of his Playstation. In fact, I’m inclined to believe he got more lasting, and certainly longer pleasure from an hour on his Playstation, particularly when playing with school friends, than he did playing with me. Freddie, it is true, loved having an orgasm, but after a couple of them his dick got sore and he got bored, which to my mind is exactly as it should have been. I’m sure I got almost all the pleasure when Freddie was playing with me, though his natural curiosity made him more adventurous than most. As when… “Does it hurt now, Uncle Dan?” I grit my teeth and whisper, “No, not yet. Push harder… but go slow.” Of course it fucking hurt. I defy you to take a boy’s hand and wrist up your arse and not feel any pain. Of course it fucking hurt. At the same time it was so erotic that pain and pleasure became inseparable, indistinguishable, the one fading into the other until they became part of the same sensation coursing through my body. “Flex your fingers,” I grunt. “What’s ‘flex’ mean?” comes the unbroken voice. “It means open your fingers up, but slowly. Fuck it, Freddie. I said ‘slowly’. Yes, that’s it. Right there. Further. Push up further, far as you can go.” I’d fitted a mirror. I could see Freddie was in me up to his elbow. Thank God, for Vaseline. “Now fuck me… but not too hard… not at first… then, when I tell you, really hard.” You might legitimately ask what a Deputy Headteacher was doing, on the bed, on all fours, his arse jutting out, as the slender arm of a ten-year-old boy pumped in and out of his bowels. Fucked if you’ll get an answer from me. I saw it on a clip from a movie called ‘Mysterious Skin’, and I couldn’t relax until I’d tried it. I had an arsehole, I had a ten-year-boy, he had a small fist, long fingers, a slender wrist and arm. That was the mountain. It was there. I had to climb it. That’s a very imperfect analogy. In truth, I was an alcoholic, but it wasn’t alcohol that hooked me; it was sex – sex with Freddie. Don’t think I wasn’t ashamed – I was. But I was like the alcoholic who swears off liquor but stashes one last bottle, just in case. I loved watching Freddie play with his school friends, especially with Noah and Frankie, both long-haired, both cute, and both with happy, well-balanced personalities. Both were wary of me at first; after all I was a deputy head, I could silence a school assembly with a look, but as they realised I was just something in the background, just Freddie’s uncle, they let their hair down, so to speak, sprawled across the carpet, and squabbled like blackbirds over a worm. Me, I was just someone who supplied the cold pizza slices and plastic cups of cold juice, with ice! And I never asked about school, never asked about their hobbies, the movies they liked, or any of that stuff which may be of great interest to kids, but should be of no interest to adults. I became so accepted that occasionally, just occasionally, I was invited to make up a two-versus-two teams as we battled alongside Captain America, swept through Ultra Mini Golf in 3D, or blasted an unbelievable assortment of aliens into oblivion. Make no mistake. Freddie was not spoiled. He had three Playstation 3 games, but his friends had a seemingly inexhaustible supply and were at their happiest when Freddie allowed them on his set up. Freddie was a natural leader, but he didn’t need to assert himself, and often seemed happier when he was letting others take the lead. Me? I was content to sit on the couch, doing marking (not much), completing forms (endless), scanning the evening paper… and rejoicing in the pairs of bottoms presented before my uninterrupted gaze. God bless the Age of the Saggers, when boys of all ages are only content when their jeans or trousers are hanging halfway down their arses. And God bless mothers who do not cover up the beauty of their boys’ bums with those tedious boxers that so frustratingly conceal so many charms. Of course, in an ideal world, I’d be able to sit on the carpet between the legs of each boy in turn, slip down his trousers and underpants, part his buttocks and slide my tongue up and down the tiny, unblemished slit. No doubt each boy would wriggle a bit, but it’s amazing how much concentration a boy has when engaged on a Playstation. I’d masturbate happily, and as I felt myself coming, I’d prise open the tiny mouth to make sure I could squirt at least a spurt or two into his pink hole. There would be the problem of ejaculating three times within the time available, but I’m sure I could improvise if I had to. Dream on! Dreams came partly true when the central heating went wonky and the temperature soared. Frankie, the more aggressive of the boys, decided these were ideal conditions for a wrestling contest. My apartment leans towards minimalism in style. The salon, in particular, hasn’t much more than the couch, one armchair, bookcase, computer area, TV screen, and a huge biscuit-coloured carpet. Off came the school shirts, socks, and before I could stop them, school flannels, all flung haphazardly onto the couch. I, naturally, was designated referee, and as such was able to lay down pretty strict rules. I hardly wanted a parent to arrive and find a sweaty, semi-naked boy with a broken limb. It still amazes me how unself-conscious younger boys are about their bodies; it’s only when the teen years strike that embarrassment about shape, size and colour come into play. So there I sat observing three semi-naked ten-year-old boys, striking poses across the carpet. It was difficult to decide who I wanted to fuck most at that moment. Noah was slightly over-weight but his bum was so large, so round, so perfectly curved, the thin white fabric so tightly stretched across the cheeks, the crack so blatant, that it was all I could do not to grab him then and there, pull down his underpants, pull his buttocks apart and jam my already- throbbing seven inches into his guts. Down, boy, down! Then there was Frankie who gave the appearance of being frail but who turned out to be wiry, cunning and indefatigable in the clinch. The bulge in Frankie’s briefs also promised that his ‘frailty’ was more than balanced by a cock he’d already moved up his tummy. Or was this an incipient hard-on? The prospect of battle will do that to a boy. Then there was Freddie, my Freddie, so elegant, so serene, so untroubled you might have suspected the contest was fixed in his favour before it began. The contest was not fixed. Before I’d counted out the mandatory 1 – 2 – 3, Frankie was on Freddie like a ferret on a rabbit, both then flattened beneath Noah who straddled Frankie’s back pressing down his arse onto the boy’s spine. Freddie wriggles free and throws himself sideways at Noah, dislodging him onto the carpet. Down Freddie goes, determined to pin Noah in a quick fall, only to find Frankie is riding him, sitting across his back, careless that his underpants have ridden down his skinny hips to his knees. Frankie makes a desultory attempt to pull his underpants up, but almost immediately abandons the attempt in favour of flattening Freddie who… This could not go on long. Within ten minutes, all three boys were sprawled on their backs, sweaty, slippy, panting, trying to laugh but breathless. And yet everyone demanded Round 2, which I denied them. Quit while you’re ahead, I decided, and declared the contest an honourable draw, and silencing protests by mention of frozen lollipops in the freezer. A scamper of bare feet. Banging of the freezer drawers. Squabble over flavours. And joyful screams as each boy tried to push his lolly down the front of each other’s underpants. But soon I had them on their fronts again, arms on huge pillows, lapping up the great battle scenes in ‘Lord Of The Rings’, and licking their ice lollies with a lasciviousness that would put a Parisian whore to shame. I confess I had to retreat to the bathroom for a while where my imagination played riotously on what I’d like to do with these boys and their lollies. As I wiped the semen from the bathroom tiles, I reflected on how wonderful life was. O, dear reader, never tempt Fate. It is true that all was well in our world… until I discovered by chance that Freddie was breaking not one but several of our ‘man-stuff’ rules. God bless the boy. It is Friday around 5 o’clock when I get home from school. The meeting went more quickly than I’d anticipated, probably because it was a Friday and everyone wanted home and into the weekend rather than spend time on duties, schedules, time-tables, and the ever-present threat of an OFSTED inspection. I wound up the meeting early and hurried home, not because I’d any worries about Freddie. He was eleven now and perfectly capable of entertaining himself till I got home at the expected hour of ten o’clock. I turn the key in the lock and step inside. It’s the silence I notice first. It doesn’t surprise me. Freddie sometimes takes a nap after school. Quietly I slip off my jacket, tie, shoes, slip into slippers, and pad across the salon. Quietly I peek into Freddie’s room. Nothing. Nobody. Quietly I open my bedroom door and peek in. There are two boys on my double bed. Both are naked. Though I see him only from behind, I recognise Freddie immediately. How often have I kissed these shoulder blades, nuzzled the nape of his neck beneath the thick tumble of chestnut hair? The other boy I don’t recognise until Freddie half turns to me, puts a finger to his lips, and goes ‘Shhhh…’ The other boy is Noah. Noah is lying on his back, his hands folded on the pillow beneath his head. His eyes are closed. Freddie sits facing Noah. Freddie has placed his legs under Noah’s bottom and pulled himself forward so that his legs, one on each side, are stretched alongside his friend’s naked body so that his feet rest on the pillow, one white-socked foot on either side of his friend’s head. I step forward and with a shock see that Freddie’s penis is half-buried up Noah’s anus. Freddie beckons me, and, as if in a trance, I move forwards to sit on the edge of the bed. Freddie’s hard-on, at least two inches of it, is embedded inside Noah. Noah’s skin from the bottom of his ball sac is a creamy ivory, divided by the thin red seam that runs round to his anus. His out-stretched legs are the same creamy ivory, not a flaw, not a blemish, faultless. His ball sac, ever so slightly wrinkled, looks as if it’s planted as an after-thought, and above it, his little cock, still sheathed in its foreskin leans away at an angle. I look up Noah’s body, see his strong little chest, his slender arms, his armpits like freshly-polished chalices, his tiny lips red rather than pink, his cheeks blushed, and his thick eyelashes highlighting the curve of the lids. A small gold earring winks at me from his right earlobe. Freddie jerks his hips forward a little to drive a little more of his cock into Noah. “Ooof,” I hear; then, “Not so hard. That bit always hurts.” I can’t help myself. I reach out and stroke Noah’s tummy. It flutters under my fingers. Freddie jerks his hips again, and I see another inch disappear into Noah, stretching the gap on either side of his hole. The boy’s eyes fly open. “Fuck… that really hurts.” He sees me. I expect him to panic or at least show signs of distress, but Noah smiles weakly and says, “It really does hurt when he does that.” I make soothing noises and continue to stroke his tummy, his chest, his nipples, his lips. The boy open his mouth. I slip in a finger and he sucks on it. Freddie begins to fuck his friend, jerking his hips gently back and forward, penetrating just a little more each time until bottom meets bottom, and he can get no deeper unless he changes positions. I lower my face and begin to such Noah’s three-inch prick to full erection, pushing back his foreskin with my tightened lips. My nephew and I are a team. As Freddie speeds his fucking up, I speed up my sucking, matching my rhythms to his. Noah’s body begins to turn, twist and wriggle in time with Freddie’s thrusts and trembling body. The boys cum together; it is a dry cum but it shakes them just as hard as spurting semen would. Freddie collapses over Noah’s body, Noah thrashes from side to side, and I gently release his hot, hard, swollen penis. It collapses almost immediately. I look up to see Noah is shielding his eyes as if he is ashamed of the amount of pleasure he has given and taken. Freddie slides up alongside Noah and whispers in his ear. There’s an almost imperceptible nod and Noah rolls forward onto his front. No words are required. I slide onto the bed, part Noah’s gorgeous cheeks and inspect his freshly-fucked hole. There’s a distinct redness around it, but no real signs of bruising, and no signs of damage, though the rosebud of his hole is larger and browner than Freddie’s. I lower my face and lick the brownish skin tenderly. The skin is a deeper shade of brown immediately around this entrance to the boy’s body. I raise his legs onto my shoulders – ah, the flexibility! – part them as wide as is comfortable for the boy, and fasten my lips against his hole. The tip of my tongue pushes and probes, and I’m almost immediately awarded by its opening to admit a fairly large part of the tip. I can, for the first time, really tongue-fuck a prepubescent boy. The smells are intoxicating. Shit, yes, but it’s so mild it seems to be swallowed by the other smells. I could almost swear I can taste Freddie. He isn’t old enough to cum, but has he begun to produce pre-cum, or some such bodily fluid. I don’t really care what makes up these tastes. I want them whatever they are. Satisfied, but unsatisfied, I eventually stand up and consider ejaculating into Noah’s bowels. He is so open I’m sure he could take a considerable amount, but a glance at the bedroom clock brings me to reality. How can half an hour passed so quickly? Abruptly, I change from crazed boy lover to sensible teacher. “Right, boys,” I say, “into the Jacuzzi with you. You’ve got fifteen minutes in there. First out gets double ice-cream.” Squeals of delight from the boys. There are times when boys don’t need men, and this is one of them *** Three days later. Hurrah! I’ve got the afternoon off. I attended a conference on whole-school literacy. It broke up immediately after lunch and I scampered home for every teacher’s dream – a whole afternoon without kids! I settle down in front of our mega-screen tele, choose a DVD (one of the more extreme ones), click on. It’s one of my favourites. I begin a long, slow session of masturbation. There’s a rap at the door. Three little raps. Fuck it! I pull up my boxers, tug down my t-shirt, and step – bare-footed – to the door. It’s Frankie. “Frankie. What are you doing here? It’s two in the afternoon. Why aren’t you in school?” Frankie looks up at me with those puppy dog eyes. “I’ve got the sniffs, sir,” the boy says sniffing. “Mum went to work. She told me to stay in. She phoned the school… so I’m not bunking, sir. Honest, sir, I’m not bunking.” “But what are you doing here?” “It’s boring at home, sir. Really boring. I’ve not got anybody to play with.” I almost say: play with yourself like me. “Can I come in and wait for Freddie? Please, sir.” “Of course you can. Come on in. I’ll get you some juice.” I head for the kitchen. Frankie heads for the sofa. I’ve forgotten the DVD is playing. I return from the kitchen. Frankie is sitting wide-eyed, gazing at the screen, his stiff two-and-half penis between his fingers. On the screen, a boy not much older than Frankie is on a couch, naked, bent double his arse in the air. A man, naked is kneeling before him. The man is chewing at the boy’s arse hole. He takes his head away for a moment. The boy’s hole, open, red, raw is gaping like a fifty pence piece. The man picks up a rubber dildo and inserts into the gaping hole. Gently he pushes it all the way in and starts fucking the boy with the dildo. The boy is whimpering loudly. I put down the juice, pick up the remote, and clock off the DVD. “Aw, sir, don’t put it off. That’s a really good one.” “Here’s your juice, Frankie. Let’s choose a different movie. What about Toy Story 3?” “That’s boring. There’s no sex in it? Andy doesn’t even toss himself off!” Andy is six, for God’s sake. “Sir, can I ask you something? Don’t get angry. I’m only asking.” “You may ask. I won’t get angry.” “Well, do you fuck Freddie? Fuck him for real, I mean.” “That’s none of your business, young man.” “I’m only asking ‘coos I’d like you fuck me. Really fuck me, I mean.” “Why would you like that?” Frankie sipped his apple juice. “‘Cos I’d like to feel what it’s like – bring fucked by a real man, a grown-up, an adult. With a big cock – like yours.” I sigh. “Come on. Let’s go to the “Games’ Room.” I pick up a large pillow and duvet from the bedroom. I spread the duvet across the half-sized pool table and place the pillow at one end. Frankie begins to undress. I stop him and take of his clothes. Few things are as wonderful as undressing a young boy. I tug his pullover his head. Then his t-shirt. Smooth down his hair. Drop to my knees. Unbuckle his belt. Unzip him. Tug down his jeans this knees, his ankles, and Frankie steps out of them. I slide down his white underpants inch by inch. His penis boings straight up. Frankie’s penis is as hard and straight as a church candle, with the head hidden inside a generous foreskin. I unlace and tug off his shoes. I leave his white sports socks on. Frankie raises his arms. I pick him up and lay him on the table making sure his legs dangle off the end. In that position, a boy is utterly helpless. I raise his legs and push them all the way back till there’s a knee on either side of his head on the pillow. Boys are incredibly flexible. “Comfortable, Frankie?” “Yes, sir,” he grunts. A pull up a stool behind me, sit on it, and spread the ten-year-old’s legs wide apart. I’m surprised to see the boy’s anal opening is red and slightly bruised. Freddie? No. More likely the end of his mum’s hairbrush. I lower my face and begin to feed on the boy’s rosebud and anus, using my thumbs to gently prise it open. “Tell me if it hurts, Frankie.” “No, no, go on, I like it.” The smells from Frankie’s insides reach my nose. There’s nothing offensive about them. The deeper I probe, the more intense the smells become. I don’t tell Frankie but, as his rosebud blossoms outwards, I spit into his reddening, deepening hole, and think of the saliva dribbling into his rectum. It’s been easier to open up Frankie than I expected. I raise my face to take a breath and spot his glass of apple juice. I can just reach it and dribble some of the juice into his hole. Two inches of juice dribble into the ten-year-old’s rectum. Frankie giggles. “What’s that? It’s cold but it’s really nice. It tickles.” “It’s your apple juice,” I say. “Going in the wrong end.” The giggle becomes a laugh. “Well, you better suck it out.” And that’s what I do. I suck and squeeze and knead his belly and bowels until the apple and rectum juices are squirted into mouth. It’s in these moments I realise I don’t know what my limits are. “My legs are getting tired.” Where did that come from? “Sir, my legs are getting tired.” Frankie. I gently lower Frankie’s legs, kiss him, and feed him the apple juice – what’s left from the glass, not from his rectum! “Turn over, Frankie. Get yourself really comfortable.” “Is it time, sir?” “Yes, Frankie, it’s time.” “Don’t hurt me, sir.” “I won’t, Frankie. I promise you. I won’t.” But I will… and I do. But it’s a controlled hurt. Taking time. Responding to the boy’s reactions. Never too fast. Never too soon. Only when the pleasure is more than the pain. Only what Frankie wants when he wants it. The duvet is double-folded under his back, the pillow beneath his head, legs dangling, boy at exactly the right hten for my entry into him. I sit on the stool and get to work loosening his hole with my fingers first one then two – clasping them and roiling them around stretching the anal lips wider millimeter by millimeter. Stopping everyone now and then, pushing in deep and fingers-fucking the ten-year-old. Moans, grunts, whimpers. I suck my fingers and taste the insides of the boy. Then after ten minutes I clasp and use three fingers. This time there is resistance: his bum bucks on the table and there’s a little yelp from Frankie. I hold my fingers still and steady encouraging the sphincter to adapt and loosen. “It’s okay, it’s okay now,” I hear Frankie gasp. I slide my fingers out, place the head of my cock in the space and lean forward before the sphincter tightens and I’m in. I’m inside this little boy. The membranes of his anus grip my flesh. I see his little fists tighten as he grips the pillow. “Bite the pillow, Frankie,” I whisper. “Bite the pillow hard.” I grip him round his tiny waist and pull him onto me… and me into him. The stretched lips of his anus are like elastic round the shaft of my cock. I start fucking him: an inch, inch and half, two inches… the boy’s naked body convulses and shudder: ” ohhh… ohhhh shit…stop! No…no, don’t stop.” I lean forward and suddenly, without warning, I’m all the way in, my pubic hair trapped between his cheeks brushing the circle of flesh that now grips the bottom of my shaft. I fuck him full length. “Ohhhh… ohhhh shit!… Ohhhh!… Shit – it feels like it’s in my belly!.. You’re all the way in aren’t you? I can feel you in there. I’m gonna pee and I can’t stop… No! No don’t take it out yet.” I pull back all the way, then push forward hard, pull and push, thrust and withdraw, then thrust again, forcing the head of cock into his bladder. Frankie shudders, trembling, shaking, uncontrollably as I fuck him hard and fast. Later, I picture how the length of my cock must have looked as it thrust into him, as semen squirted and spewed from the head of my cock into his tiny rectum. I wonder if my cum covered his prostate gland. “Okay, Frankie?” “Yeh, yeh,” he gasps. “I think so. It’s hard to breathe. But don’t stop. I keep leaking pee. I can’t help it. And my belly hurts a bit, like I have to take a shit… but don’t stop. That’s better. Not so fast but don’t stop.” The possibility of my thick, ten inches fitting inside him had seemed improbable, inside a body so young so small, so immature, so fragile, and yet here was Frankie gasping: “Not so fast – but don’t stop,” and me bursting, spurting, squirting, cumming so deep so deep inside him. In time, I lean over and stay lightly, chest to back, on Frankie. I kiss his neck, his ears, smell his hair and whisper in his ear: “You’re a brave boy, Frankie a beautiful, brave, sexy boy. I could fuck you all afternoon, all night. I could fuck you forever.” “I’m sorry I’ve peed a bit on the duvet, sir. I tried to hold it, sir, but I couldn’t. I’m really sorry.” “Hey, the duvet doesn’t matter. We’ll just threw it in the washing machine – and you into the shower. But the bathroom first I think.” We’re in the shower. I make him squat so I can inspect for damage. I tell him to try to fart as hard as he can. He manages a little wet fart followed by another out of his distended anus. Tiny explosions expel the fluid and gasses out of him. My semen dribbles and oozes out of him, yellowish-brown in colour, tiny strands of mucus and debris in the mix. He stands up, bends over and I hold the shower head close to his bum hole. He laughs out loud. “Hey, sir, that’s great. Do it some more.” Fifteen minutes we are both dried and dressed. I throw the duvet cover and the pillow case in the washing machine. Then I’m in the kitchen making mini-pizzas with assorted topics. Frankie will be home soon. Frankie’s in the lounge watching a DVD: Toy Story 3 *** “Lift your bum, Noah. I want to see it going all the way in and all the way out.” I feel rather than see my cock sliding out of Noah’s anus because the only thing I can see is Frankie’s belly button, and only that for a moment as Frankie pushes himself back into my mouth, my throat, and continues to face-fuck me aggressively. Frankie may only have four inches but his cock is thicker than those of the other boys, and I can feel my lips slip and slide along his shaft. “Wow, Noah, doesn’t that hurt?” Freddie’s voice is enthusiastic rather than solicitous. “You’re sitting right down on Uncle Dan’s hairs when it’s all the way in.” “Yeh, it hurts,” says Noah, and his voice is so tiny I remember just how young he is. “But… ooof! – when you get used to it, it feels good. Is it really stretching me now?! “You bet,” says Freddie. “Your hole is like an elastic band stretched round a… a…” The boy struggles to find an apt comparison. “…stick of Brighton rock,” kocaeli escort he adds triumphantly. “Lift up again. I want a close-up of about ten inches so you can see the start of his knob.” It’s a little discomforting to hear Freddie discussing me in the third person, but he’s the director as well as camera boy so I guess he is being professional. To tell the truth, I haven’t much time for discomfort as sensations rush through me, I manoeuvre Frankie up and forward until my face is fixed between his wide-spread buttocks. Being on the skinny side, Frankie is easier to shift than the others, and he is co-operative though he could be cleaner down here. I feel his fingers wrapping my hair round his dick as he wanks happily away. I use my thumbs to loosen his sphincter muscles, prise open his hole before pushing my tongue inside as far as I can. I don’t care what these juices are; they are a boy’s juices and I want as much as I can get. Why do I enjoy licking – rimming – a boy’s hole so much? Not so long ago I would have thought the practice – analingus – pointless if not disgusting. Now I can’t get enough of it. Oddly enough, I’m not that keen on being rimmed, but offer me any reasonably attractive boy and I’ll happily rim him all night long – and all day, too, if he isn’t at school. Men? They don’t attract me, but then men have never attracted me, though there may be aesthetics involved here. A boy’s anus can reasonably be described as a rosebud… or a little mouth waiting to be kissed, licked, sucked, worshipped. And, of course, there is the pleasure of introducing a boy to sexual pleasure he’d never suspected existed. Analingus feels erotic for the same reason that anal play in general is arousing. The anus and surrounding tissue are richly endowed with nerves highly sensitive to erotic touch, which is grand for the receiver, perhaps less so for the giver. Rimming is a way, I guess, for the rimmer to say, “I love all of you. There’s no part of you that I don’t want to have. In turn, it’s a way for the boy being rimmed to say I trust you, you know what you’re doing, so there’s no part of me you can’t have. This is true for boy lovers. Boy lovers don’t simply love their boy-of-the-moment; they worship them; if they could, they would devour them, swallow them whole, and keep them forever. Of course, if the futile silliness of worship can give way to genuine love, the man will put the boy’s needs first, even if the boy’s gain involves the man’s loss. All of which wasn’t particularly relevant as Freddie directed Frankie to sit facing the other way while continuing to grind his hole against my lips, for which I was duly grateful. “Now, Frankie,” instructs Freddie, “start jerking Noah off… but don’t let him cum… and if you can, lean over and kiss his dick. No! Don’t suck it. Just kiss it lots and lots. I’m gonna walk round and take shots -they’re called ‘establishing’ shots, so that everyone can see exactly what’s going on.” (pause) “And, Uncle Dan, raise Frankie up and down a couple of times so we can see your tongue licking his actual hole.” (pause) “It’ll look like Frankie’s gonna take a shit,” (collective giggle) “but don’t worry, he’s not gonna do that… in this movie.” When had Freddie fallen in love with making movies? His interest had become an obsession. I’m inclined to think it’s when we watched ‘Wild Tigers I Have Known’ together. For the first time, Freddie realised you could tell people what to do, they would do it, you could record it, and what you did could be beautiful. In making his ‘porno’ movies, Freddie was not simply interested in the sex, nor the feelings of power it gave him. He was genuinely interested in the aesthetics of the images he captured, though he didn’t yet have the conceptual capacity to describe what he was doing in these terms. But he would capture trickles of sweat running down a boy’s back, the expressions on a boy’s face as he came, the blush that ran from my chest to my neck… even the whorls of hair that ran round my arsehole, for Chrissake! I’d bought a Sony HDRCX115EB High Definition Handycam Camcorder, and we’d agreed that, for the record, it belonged to me, though in reality Freddie was the proud owner. It wasn’t terrible expensive, but I’d made a point of not spoiling the boy, and as far as Amy was concerned I was encouraging her son in a new hobby. To tell the truth, Freddie quickly outstripped me in using the camera, and the 101 magical tricks it could perform. I’m not here to sell the CX115 to you (LOL) and will only mention if you connect your camcorder directly to an HD Ready TV you can view your video in spectacular HD on the big screen. Freddie’s bumhole, beautiful in real life, was positively ethereal in High Definition on a 42″ screen! What next – 3D?! “Turn round again,” instructs Freddie. Frankie duly obliges and sticks his hard-on back in my throat. “Noah, ride Uncle Dan faster… but, Uncle Dan, tell me when you’re gonna shoot. Then you pull it out… but don’t shoot till I take a shot of Noah’s hole wide open. Then, when I tell you, shoot your cum right on Noah’s hole.” (pause to plan) “Then suck Frankie faster and faster. But don’t cum in his mouth, Frankie. When you’re gonna cum, tell me, so I can get a big close-up of the cum shooting right out of your pee-hole and into his mouth. And fire some on his face as well. That should do it.” Freddie completes his movie by having the boys slide up my body to lick the cum off my face before snuggling down like contented kittens in my arms. His closing shot is Noah’s bumhole, breathing as my cum trickles from it. Plastered across the shot is: That’s All Folks. Was I insane? Not one, but three prepubescent boys performing sex acts that would make a bishop blush. Yes, I was insane – insane in the way that alcoholic or a junkie is insane. I knew that the dangers were; I knew the risks; I now the consequences of discovery would be catastrophic? Why then? Oh, why? Take the last drink, take the last fix, then run, run like Hell. But I couldn’t. Not quite yet. Not quite now. *** I’m not sure when Freddie discovered gay teen sites. I’m not sure when he set up MSN and Skype. And I have no idea when he began ‘performing’ for perverts around the world. I’m smiling at my use of the word ‘pervert’ because I know that I would happily sit in front of a screen watching a beautiful ten-year-old fuck himself with a home-made dildo as I tried to keep it going before my cum splashed its way messily over the keyboard. A beautiful, pre-pubescent boy pleasuring himself for your pleasure – would you sit and watch that? Like many modern computer-savvy kids, especially boys, Freddie knew more than I did about the magical mysteries of cyber space. I wasn’t even aware he could set up a separate account on my computer of which I was completely unaware. Later, when I mentioned this to him, he protested: “But, Uncle Dan, everyone has their own account. And it’s private. I wouldn’t look into your area without your permission. That’s invasion of privacy.” At the time, Freddie’s middle finger was trying to locate my prostate – with my full permission. I discovered what was going on by accident. When it comes to boys, parents find out most things by accident. It is not that boys try to keep secrets from their parents; it’s just that they feel much of their lives has nothing to do with adults in general and their parents in particular. From around the age of 11 onwards, the real lives of boys take place in their heads, in their bedrooms, and in the company of their peers. Watch a group of boys as they come out of school at 3.30. Watch them as they change into their street gear. Watch them as they meet up with their friends in pre-designated meeting places. Within half an hour, they are different creatures entirely, and, if one did not know better, one would imagine they were feral pack animals, set on carrying out as much mayhem as they can. Not true. Their aim is not mischief, though recklessness, can lead them into it; they are pack puppies, playing follow-my-leader, out to find excitement or create it when they cannot find it ready-made. I broke Freddie’s password by luck. I was fiddling around on the computer when I remembered Amy’s nickname for Freddie: sonny. I typed in ‘sonny’. Nothing. Then for fun I typed in ‘sonnysworld and an entirely new planet swam into my ken, and I sat silent, staring as Freddie’s private world – SONNYSWORLD – opened up to me. Folders neatly organised: 001PICS – 002VIDS – 003STORIES – 004CHATS. CHAT 31 ROY69: Hi, Sonny. You’re looking hot, Had a good day at school. SONNY: Hi, Roy. Yeh, not bad. U? ROY69: Pretty good. Some of the customers are dumb shits, but as long as they pay on time, I don’t give a fuck. SONNY: Sorry ’bout yesterday. Uncle came home a bit early. Just got off in time. ROY69: No worries. I saved it for this session. SONNY: You didn’t cum then? ROY69: Nope. No point cumming if I’m not looking at you. I like to see your sweet little mouth when I’m cumming Even better is when I’m gazing your cute little hole. SONNY: Wanna see it again? ROY69: No hurry. When’s your uncle getting home? SONNY: ‘Bout 5’clock. What you want me to do first? ROY69: That’s my boy. Stand up. Pull your school shirt out. Rub your fingers over the front of your trousers. I want to see that bulge. I want to see your stiffy outlined under those flannels. That’s it. Take your time. SONNY: Like that? ROY69: Yeh, just like that. Get closer to the cam. I want to kiss you right there. And tell me what you do to your Uncle again. That sounds really hot. (I leave this out. Frankly I’m too embarrassed to relate Freddie’s description of what we do in the privacy and intimacy of our love-making.) ROY69: Shit, your uncle’s a lucky bastard, Freddie. Now work your trousers and underpants down your stomach. But don’t let me see you dick, not yet. Yeh, that’s it. Down a bit more. Right there. Get closer to the cam again. My God, your skin is so beautiful. Stop giggling. I really mean it. SONNY: What would you like to do? ROY69: I wanna lick and kiss your tummy. Suck your belly button. Push down those undies with my tongue. Lick the head of your sweet little dick. For fuck’s sake, Freddie, push them down to your knees. SONNY: Look the way it jumps up! ROY69: Work your foreskin back. Yeh, like that. Shit, I want my lips round you. Get those fucking things off. SONNY: Give me a min. Got get my shoes off first. Hold on. I’m gonna sit on the couch and get this school shit off. ROY69: Fuck it. Every time I see you I can’t believe you’re for real. You’re so f-u-c-k-i-n-g gorgeous. SONNY: Dan… can you put your cam on, please? You can keep your clothes on. I just wanna see you. ROY69: Sorry, kid. No can do. I’m on my work laptop. No cam. SONNY: You’re always on your work laptop. How old are you really? I don’t care. Just want to know. ROY69: Turn round. Bend over. Lift your shirt. Pull your cheeks open. Finger that sweet little hole of yours. And when I tell you, go get a dildo. The big one. (If I don’t go any further, it’s pure embarrassment. And also because the scripts in the end became repetitive. There’s only so many things a boy can do with his body when limited to a camshow.) I learned later that the term for Freddie is ‘cam whore’. Freddie loved performing on cam. There were few things he wouldn’t do if asked politely or persistently enough. To his credit, he refused to take a shit on cam. I was surprised by the number of men – I’m assuming they were all men -desperate to a close-up of a ten-year-old boy’s anus as shit made its exit. Lots more wanted to see Freddie pee – he duly obliged – though only a minority expressed a desire for the boy to piss directly in their gulping mouths. I must admit reading the scripts opened up a whole new world of sexual possibilities, but many of them I wouldn’t touch with a barge pole; these were mainly of the sado-masochistic variety, which had limited appeal for me. (Oh yeh? And you with little Jack up to his elbow inside of you last Tuesday.) What did intrigue me was the offers of reciprocal sex-shows ‘starring’ men and little boys – a variation of ‘you show me yours, and I’ll show you mine’ I hadn’t thought of. When I tackled Freddie about this, he was his usual forthright self. “Would you do it, Uncle Dan? Would you? I would… but only with you?” There’s a note of excitement in the boy’s voice that takes me by surprise. Only fifteen minutes ago, I’d been giving him hell about the whole cam/chat business, and here he was trying to persuade me into taking part with him. First things first. “How many men have you been on cam with?” I ask. “Mmmm… do you mean one at a time or when there’s a crowd of them?” “A crowd of them?!” I’m horrified. “Do you mean more than one man can watch you at a time?” “Yeh, lots.” Freddie sighs. “You don’t know much, do you?” “Never mind how much I know. How many?” “Well, one afternoon on Tiny Chat I had 22 viewers.” “Tiny Chat? Viewers.” “Yeh.” He sounds a little exasperated. “Tiny Chat is one of them sites where anyone, everyone can just visit and open up their cam. We all do it. But I set up my room – chat room – and then invite viewers. Nobody can watch if they’re not invited.” The learning curve is steep but I’m getting there. “On Blog TV you can get hundreds of viewers.” “Hundreds!” “Yeh, but they’re very strict there. You get booted off if you try any rude stuff. The girls get most viewers ‘coos they show half their tits, and roll round on the carpet, and do handstands and stuff. Just think of all them boys – and pervs – sitting wanking, watching them.” He giggles, then goes on. “But things like Skype is much better for one-to-one. The picture quality is a lot better and it’s really private.” “And you know some guys – with boys, I mean – who would…?” I don’t know how to finish the sentence. I don’t try. “Oh, yeh, it’s easy.” He thinks. “What kinda boy you want? I mean, what age? Want a black boy?” I’m flustered. “Mmmm… I’ll leave all that to you.” “What day is it?” The question is addressed to himself. “Friday. Good. I’m staying here this weekend. That makes it easier. What’s time now. Five. Mum won’t be here for an hour. Let me show you some of the vids I collected. Some of them you won’t believe. Some of them are really… dirty.” Saturday evening, couch pulled up close to the computer and web cam, both of us in our bathrobes, mine silk, Freddie’s a fetching blue, both naked beneath, Freddie perched on my lap, adjusting himself to make room for my hard cock between his buttocks. He is absorbed in rapping the keys. Suddenly they are there on the screen, a man and a boy, gazing back at us. “Hi, there,” comes a voice. The accent is antipodean, Australia or New Zealand, I’m not certain. “I’m Ray, and this is Timmy.” A small boy raises his hand and waves back. They are both naked. Ray seated on a what looks like a high-seated green armchair, the boy Timmy seated on the man’s knees. “Hi, there,” smiles Freddie, waving back. “I’m Sonny, and this is my dad Adam.” “You new to this?” asks Ray. Freddie nods. “Well, we’d better show you. Here’s a little tour to get started. Ray lifts Timmy and balances him on his knees. The boy stands there precariously, his belly, hips, and genital region filling our screen. “As you can see,” says Ray, “Timmy is a well-built boy for his age. Look at that little pot belly. Look at his sweet little button. And look there, not a single pube, and not likely to be for some time.” Ray laughs while he speaks; already he sounds like some demented commentator at a dog show. “Watch how he gets hard, really quick.” Nicotined fingers that seem huge in comparison with Timmy’s small-boy penis begin to play with the child’s cock and balls. “Not much there yet,” says Ray, “but watch,” and we do as the blood pumps into the boy’s penis, and we watch it swell from all of two inches soft to three inches erect. “Not much in the way of balls yet,” (Timmy’s balls are little acorns in a slightly wrinkled sac.) “so don’t expect much in the way of cum. In fact, don’t expect any, but I’ll make up for that when I rub mine all over him.” That laugh again. “Really sweet on this side, too,” Ray continues as he turns the boy round to give us a full-screen view of his buttocks. The nicotined- fingers part the cheeks, and the boy is pushed forward so that the immediate area of his anus fills the screen. “Sweet ain’t it? And well broken in to.” The bruising round the boy’s hole is obvious, and the reason becomes clear as the tip of Ray’s middle finger brings to stroke the opening. “Look, guys, no lube needed. Timmy likes it this way – doncha, kiddo?” The finger tip corkscrews it way into the boy’s hole that opens up like a tiny flower. From the loudspeakers comes the unmistakable sound of whimpering. “Aw, for Chrissake, you’ve had a lot more than that up inside you, you little faggot.” That’s to Timmy. To us it’s, “Ain’t amazing how easy the stretch when you keep at it?” Suddenly there’s a flurry of flesh on the screens and… Timmy is being held upside down. Naked, he is facing a naked Ray. The boy’s face and mouth dangle above a belly thick with black hair, a huge pubic bush, and gnarled, veined shaft of flesh topped with a head that looks like a small peach. Hips are raised along with Ray’s voice, “Open wide for daddy,” and as Timmy makes a big oval with his lips, the huge head is pushed into his mouth, and the hips begin to rise and fall in piston-like movements. In the background we hear Justin Bieber – “one of Timmy’s favourites,” Ray tells us between breathy gasps. The cam pans upwards to find the man’s face jammed tightly between the child’s buttocks. “Fucking hell,” comes Ray again, “this beats a big Mac anytime”. The cam pans back down and focuses on the boy’s face – his eyes are teary, his mouth stretched to the limit by a cock that must be bouncing off the roof his throat. Something flashes on the screen for a moment, and Freddie whispers, “Lots of guys are filming it. They pay if you let them film you.” “Ooops a-daisy,” sings Ray. Timmy is upended and planted back on his lap facing the cam. “Let’s try this end now,” he croons. The cam gets in so close you can see the bulbous head of Ray’s penis pressing against Timmy’s hole. There isn’t much resistance, at least for the first two inches but it’s hardly credible that tiny bottom can take 8 or is it 9 inches of swollen, hardened flesh. Ray’s hips rise and fall as if he is screwing his flesh into the boy, which in truth he is. The silence from the boy is unsettling. The cam pans back to his face. The boy’s eyes are glassy, his big-eyed gaze unfocussed. The cam pans back down. Seven inches at least are bedded inside the boy. “Sometimes they need a little help,” laughs Ray, “but when they snap out of it… that’s when the real fun begins.” He pauses, then, “Don’t forget the big show on Saturday, guys. That’s what you might call ‘The Shit Show’. His guttural laugh is as ugly as he is. “What’s your specialty, Adam?” I reach out and close our end of the cam share. The last thing I see is Ray’s leering grin. “Get your clothes on,” I tell Freddie. I must be using my teacher-voice because Freddie clambers from me with no protest and disappears into his bedroom. I follow, but enter mine, where I change into comfortable, casual clothes. By the time Freddie emerges, I’ve returned the couch and placed the computer chair where it should be. Freddie, without being asked, takes the seat. “Delete all of your folders,” I instruct. “All of them?” he enquires. When there is no response, he carefully highlights each folder – 001PICS -002VIDS – 003STORIES – 004CHATS – and deletes each one of them with a stroke of the key. Then he goes to the Recycle Bin and deletes all of them. He looks at me. I nod. He selects the programme ERASER and sets it to write over the unused space on the C:drive seven times. By morning, it will be gone, all of it, forever. I sit on the couch, call him over and pat the space beside me. He looks full into my eyes. “Freddie,” I say, “do you want to stay here and do the things we’ve just seen? Or do you want to go and have fish and chips, and then go and see ‘The Karate Kid’? “‘The Karate Kid!'” he says, adding, “Who needs that perv shit?” As he skips off to get his jacket, I think, “You don’t.” And here’s hoping I never do. *** Every boy should have an obsession, and soon after his 12th birthday Freddie found his. But it was not the one I expected. His skill and devotion to his Sony CX115 made me suspect I had a young Quentin Tarentino on my hands, but that obsession was nothing compared to what Freddie found one sunny Saturday morning, though this obsession, too, could be summed up in a single four-letter word: golf. This is what happened. I was leading a Saturday morning seminar and expected Amy would look after Freddie until lunchtime. I was surprised and not a little upset when Freddie’s mother announced she couldn’t possibly change the plans she and Nigel had made to spend the weekend in Brighton. My upset was not having to change my own plans – it was the casual way in which Amy put her plans before Freddie’s needs. This was not the first time, and sadly it was not the last, as Amy had become less and less involved in her son’s needs. I was on the point of abandoning the seminar when my deputy – yes, deputies have deputies – stepped in. Though David carried the title Assistant Head, he was in effect my deputy. I had a lot of time for David; he was kind, considerate and damn good at his job. He also had two sons, twins, Sam and Eric, often addressed jointly for the obvious reason as Sam’nEric. They were 14, so Freddie was within their range of acceptability. Amongst the young, age hierarchies are strict. “Look, it’s no problem, Dan. We’ll look after Freddie,” he promised. “We’re going Morton Golf Club. Sam’nEric bash their way round the nine-holer while I’m making a full of myself on the 18th. If you’re finished around lunchtime, we could meet at the 19th and find something to celebrate.” Once David unravelled the mysteries of what he was talking about, I texted Freddie with the invitation. Back came one word: FINE. To say the seminar was tedious would be a useful short-cut but it would not be true. It was fascinating though I doubt you are much interested in the science, or is it voodoo?, of phonetics. I’ll spare you the details, only because of what happened at the 19th over a table groaning with pizzas and assorted drinks, including Irn Bru to which Freddie has taken an inexplicable fancy! “I’m telling you the boy’s a natural,” says David, taking a moment to cuff Sam’nEric who are squabbling over who’d taken the bigger slice of Pepperoni Feast, with double pepperoni and extra mozzarella cheese. I’m silently proud of Freddie who’s quietly carving up his Veggie Sizzler, with green chillies, , mixed peppers, and onions into mouth-sized portions. (Have I mentioned Freddie has become a vegetarian?) “I’m not joking,” continues David. “You sure Freddie hasn’t taken lessons?” I finish a mouthful of my Meat Machine, with pepperoni, ham, steak, spicy minced beef, spicy pork sausage, chicken. (Have I mentioned I think vegetarians are fucking nuts, present company excepted?) and repeat, “Freddie has never held a golf club in his life.” “Crazy golf.” “What?” say Dan and David simultaneously. “Mum let me play Crazy Golf when we were in Brighton.” “Fuck Brighton.” That’s me, but only in my head. “How did you do?” asks David eagerly. “Don’t remember,” says Freddie, swigging a mouthful of Irn Bru (so much for his manners). “I was only 5 at the time.” David turns to me again. I point at his Piri Piri, crust packed with piri piri, reputed to pack a fiery punch, and say. “Eat.” He does so but it doesn’t stop him talking. I glance at Sam’nEric, they, mouthfuls, are engaged in an intense, whispered conversation. At least there’s Freddie. I glance at Freddie, Freddie my love. He has three, or is it four?, mouthfuls jammed in his gob, and is trying to squirt in a topping of Irn Bru. (What the fuck’s in that stuff anyway?) “It was Sam’nEric who brought Freddie over to me. Said they didn’t want to play with him. Said he was taking three or four shots when they were taking ten or nine. They weren’t upset, just didn’t want to play with him.” (Munch, munch) “I took Freddie into my game. I thought, couple of holes and we’ll let him caddy. Don’t worry. We’d hired an electric golf trolley.” (Crunch crunch) “Well, bugger me…” (Not an invitation I’m likely to accept, but Sam’nEric… now there’s a thought: two 13-year-old identical twins. I began to wonder how identical they were. I felt a touch on my arm. “Pay attention, Dan. I’m being serious.” (Sam’nEric… so was I.) “We’re on the fourth tee. We take our shots. I shank. Donald hooks. We make way for Freddie. I know he’s a tall boy for his age, but you’ve told me he’s never played golf in his life. Donald and I stand a bit behind him. Don’t want our smiles to put him off. Up steps Freddie. he puts his ball down. Doesn’t even use a tee. Steps back, takes a swing, and…” “And?” “And belts it straight up the middle of the fairway. 250 yards! At least. Fuck me.” It’s Sam’nEric’s turn to cuff David. “Sorry,” he says, then, “I asked Freddie where he’d learned to do that. ‘Don’t know,’ is his answer. ‘Just did it.’ “Of course it’s a fluke Donald and I tell each other. We hit our balls -the golf ones – then stroll on to where Freddie’s ball is lying in the middle of the fairway. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t ask if he should use a different club. Steps up to the ball. Looks at the flag. Looks at the ball. Step backs and… swing. Up she goes, down the comes, tippy toe, tippy toe, and rolls… Well, we’re not quite sure, but when we get to the green. there it is – five feet from the hole. ‘Bet the little shit can’t putt,’ whispers Donald. He loses his bet. Up steps Freddie. Looks at the hole, looks at the ball, looks at the hole, gets his head over the ball, and… pings it into the hole, dead centre. Hey, your Freddie used a putter -he might be a freak but he’s not a magician.” I like the ‘your’ Freddie, but I’m not so sure about the freak. “So he played a hole really well,” I say, swigging Peroni straight from the bottle, thus reducing myself to that of the present company. “You don’t get it yet, do you?” I admit I don’t. “Your Freddie played all the holes like that. He made 10 pars, 4 bogeys, and double bogey.” “Dad makes lots of them. Double bogeys, I mean.” That’s from Sam, or it might be Eric. Same difference. David ignores him, or them. “What’s a bogey?” asks Freddie. “That’s a booger, only bigger,” says Eric. I know it’s Eric because David names him and cuffs him simultaneously. “A bogey is when you take one more shot than par,” explains David, “so a double bogey is…” “It flew right in the pond,” interrupts Freddie. “How am I supposed to play it out of a pond?” We both ignore Freddie. In fact, we both ignore all three boys. They don’t seem to mind in the least. Sam’nEric invite Freddie to come and watch people teeing off on the first hole. Freddie looks to me. I wave him permission. They disappear like meerkats down a burrow, “Go on,” I tell David. He has piqued my interest. “Well,” he continues, “I think you’re Freddie’s something special.” (Tell me about it.) “Would you mind if he comes with us next Saturday morning? I’d like the Morton golf pro to look him over. We wouldn’t any pressure on him. To Freddie, it’ll be just another game.” “It’s up to Freddie,” I tell him. “If he wants to play, it’s fine by me. If not…” A shrug of my shoulders completes the thought. David beams. “Freddie says it’s up to you. He’s really keen to play, but he says ‘it’s up to my Uncle Dan. He knows what’s best for me.'” If I weren’t a Deputy Headteacher, and David an Assistant Headteacher, I know there would have been tears in my eyes. “That’s that fixed then,” I say, “but remember – no pressure.” David reaches, takes my hand and shakes it: “No pressure. He’s only 11.” And that’s how one obsession began and one ended. The obsession is Freddie’s; the addiction was mine. To be blisteringly honest, I’d been working hard to end my addiction for months. I suppose I have to name my addiction, though you already know what it is. I was addicted to small boys, and only the shock of watching Ray and little Timmy had jolted me into accepting I was as addicted to small boys as alcoholics are to booze, as junkies are to junk. Those afternoons with Freddie, Frankie, Noah, little Jack, and the others showed me I was as far from the Yellow Brick Road as I could be. The first law is ‘Do No Harm’, but I’d convinced myself I was only giving these little boys what they wanted; that their pleasures, needs and desires were identical to my own. That was a lie, but I was prepared to live that lie. Remember, tell yourself a lie often enough and you’ll end up believing it’s the absolute truth. It wasn’t easy. Never let them tell you it’s easy. No addiction is easy, and the more harmful it is, the more difficult it is to give it up. But I had one thing that helped me through – Freddie. The boy simply stopped. He made it clear he was there for the taking, but when I didn’t take it, him, he smiled and got on with boystuff rather than manstuff. When he mentioned Frankie and Noah, I murmured, “Maybe next time…” which he interpreted as a no, and got on with more boystuff. When I asked him if he’d made or collected any more vids, he smiled and showed them to me – golf shots – everyone would easily have found a place on youtube. When I asked him if he still used Skype and MSN, he smiled and showed me his computer area. He no longer used a password. Everything was as available to me as it was to him. When all my porn DVDs went missing, Freddie explained he’d wiped them by mistake. They were damaged beyond repair, but not to worry, he’d used his pocket money and bought me 20 new ones from the Pound store. We no longer watched TV or DVDs naked under our bathrobes. We watched TV together, we cuddled, we wrestled… Freddie struggled as I tried to lift him, carry him, and dump him in his bed at bedtime, with never the suggestion he could sleep in mine. And then came the day that changed everything. It was time for Freddie to go to secondary school. “Freddie might as well go to secondary school in Brighton,” Amy tells me. “Nigel and I are moving to Brighton in August. He might as well come with us.” I am stunned. “But he sailed through the test,” I say. “He’ll sail through SATS. He’s already got his place at grammar school. He won’t have that chance if he goes to school in Brighton.” Amy shrugs her shoulders. “And what about his golf? He’s making terrific progress. He’s already winning competitions.” “It’s only a game,” says Amy. “He’ll get over it. We all have to get over stuff. That’s the way life is.” I play my last card. “And Nigel… what about Nigel? He doesn’t even like kids very much.” “Can’t stand them,” confirms Amy. Then adds, “But Nigel’s got this promotion in Brighton. He can’t pass it up. And I’m not leaving Nigel. I can’t pass him up.” I’m drowning, not waving. “Mind you,” says Amy. “Naw, you wouldn’t be interested?” “Interested? Interested in what?” I ask. I’m too miserable to be interested in anything. “Interested in taking Freddie on,” she says. “You’ve got him half the time anyway.” she continues. “Freddie lives with you. He’ll go to your precious grammar school. He’ll come to us, in Brighton, say one weekend a month. Maybe when he’s older Nigel will start to appreciate him… but I doubt it. What do you say?” I can’t say anything. I’m struck dumb, lost for words, literally speechless. “Aw, come on, you’re a teacher. Teachers are supposed to have all the answers. A simple ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ will do.” I can form the word in my head, but it’s caught on my tongue. “Shit, I’m going to take that as a ‘Yes’.” Amy turns and opens the door of the apartment. Freddie is standing there. He looks so young, so vulnerable. “I think it’s a ‘Yes’, kiddo,” says Amy. “Yes! Yes! Yes!” Freddie runs across the room. He throws his arms around me. He hugs me so tightly that I’m even more breathless. He is crying. Amy is crying. I am crying. Then we’re laughing. Then I’m whirling Freddie round in mid-air. His long legs make it look as if he’s flying. I’m flying, though my feet remain on the ground. That night, as I tuck Freddie in bed, I whisper, “Good night, sweet prince. Good night, Freddie. — Goodnight, son.” And I hear Freddie whisper back, “Goodnight – Dad.” ————————————————————- If you enjoyed ‘Finding Freddie’, you might like some of fty//gay/young-friends/sandhaven

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