Subject: The Choir Disclaimer If you are under the legal age of majority in your area or have objections to this type of fiction, man on boy sex, please stop reading now. If you don’t like reading erotic stories about boys, why are you here in the first place? This story is the complete and total product of the author’s imagination and a work of fantasy, thus it is completely fictitious, i.e. it never happened and it doesn’t mean to condone or endorse any of the acts that take place in it. It is just a story, ok? Note: I’m sure we’d all agree that Nifty provides a wonderful service to both writers and readers. And it’s free! But a free service incurs costs and if you’d like to show your appreciation for the pleasure you get from reading the many stories in Nifty’s archives, you might consider making a donation to help with the group’s operating costs: fty/ The Choir Brought up in a religious family, my life in all its aspects revolved around the Cathedral. I went to the choir school, was in the cathedral’s platoon of Cubs, was going to piano lessons given by the Cathedral organist… it was inevitable I would join the Cathedral Choir as a boy treble. It was an all male choir and, really, apart from my mother, I grew up in an all-male environment until I was eighteen. It can’t have been that which made me a boy lover as I was to all appearances entirely typical and conventional and my brothers went through exactly the same process. I was an angelic looking boy, though, and it is sure the cassock, surplice and starched ruff contributed to this. Well, to move on — as a boy, nothing happened to me! I retained my innocence throughout my boyhood, and no one laid a finger on me. Not quite true… the cub master did love his new intake and was very physical with us, so there was much in the way of chasing and tickling and riding on his shoulders. But no more than that. And we had a sharp lesson in the realities of life when a new cub year began and a new intake arrived. We were cruelly thrust aside as he turned his attention to the newbies. Maybe I do the man a disservice and his actions were wholly innocent; perhaps he really did want simply to put us at our ease. It did not make what seemed like rejection any less traumatic for an eight year old. The years passed. I sang my heart out, three times on Sundays, once on Wednesdays, year in and year out until the inevitable happened and my voice broke. I kept up my presence in the choir, however, by becoming a member of the Guild of Service, the Anglican equivalent of altar boys. And then, as my voice settled and I could sing without the danger of a squawk emerging, I became a bass in the men’s choir. Then I left home to go to university, and, freed from the stifling Puritanism of my home provincial city, I became an out gay man. However, I had grown up with secrecy an essential part of my nature and my day to day life and so it continued. I had always had romantic longings for boys who were younger, since the time I became aware of my sexuality at the age of twelve. And that lasted. Once puberty struck I wanted only eight or nine year olds. This saved me from predatory older men and they were definitely around, circling like sharks but curiously reluctant to attack. The cub master was replaced by the scoutmaster, by a member of the clergy, by my art teacher and I exploited all of them. I knew what their interest in me was all about. I was happy to accept all the presents and treats that came my way but I was not prepared to offer anything in return except companionship. And, to do them credit, they never attempted any further intimacies even though I marvel now at the time I spent with them, just an adolescent boy and a middle-aged man, on day outings, or sailing, or listening to music and, guiltiest of pleasures, being introduced to wine… I doubt I, as an adult pedo, could be so restrained, given the intimacy of these situations. My parents were alarmed but that’s a different story. My secret lives continued into young manhood because it was all too clear to myself that I was/am a pedo, and we don’t get the best of press at the best of times. Oh, I may have been an out gay man but I owned up only to an interest in males. And I tried repeatedly to go ‘straight’ by having a succession of lovers who were all of legal age. But my heart was not in it and, not surprisingly, none of these relationships lasted. Not that I resigned myself to celibacy but again, those are different stories to be told. My life was a restless one. I kept moving from country to country, from Spain, to France, from France to Germany and from city to city within each country until I reached, let me say, a certain age and I realised that I had few, genuine friends. I decided to return to my home city. One advantage was that, by selling a property in an expensive European city I had enough money to buy outright a huge luxury house in the countryside, not for from the city, which in addition to its size, boasted a ten metre indoor swimming pool. I came back determined to have a more active pedo life than in the past. I intended the swimming pool to be the bait. The city had changed a lot. But my family was no longer there and I had left childhood friends behind long ago. I needed a social life. Where better to turn then than to the world that had embraced me, educated me and protected me? Yes, the world of the cathedral and its choir. I went back as a bass. Amazingly, there were still members in the men’s choir who had been there in my time, all those years ago. But the boys were, of course, entirely new! They seemed to range in age from eight to an amazing fourteen. There were two boys who were taller than I am! Still with unbroken voices. Mine had gone when I was twelve. Anyway, they were all shapes and sizes and all with the beautiful bloom of boyhood on them. The eight year olds, the newbies, contributed little other than beauty. I soon discovered that, joining the choir, even as a man, was akin to be thrown in at the deep end. There was an hour’s rehearsal before the service for the boys, the men arriving after half an hour into it. Music was handed out and you read it and sang. No note banging — you were expected to read your part on sight. Really, it was the same for the boys. The youngest boys just joined in where they could. Otherwise they were simply absorbing the music until such time as they could open their mouths and sing with confidence. A boy’s choir is a marvellous thing and all boy lovers should grasp any opportunity to hear one live. Perhaps nothing captures so perfectly and poignantly the transitory nature of the beauty of boys than their voices raised in unsullied innocence. Even those boys who, outside the choir’s duties, might be brash and crass and vulgar, in that setting and with those sounds become angels. Angels that I planned to fuck and be sucked by. How many boring sermons passed with me sitting there imagining sex with each one in turn — or better still, an orgy at my pool, with me taking my pick like a depraved Roman Emperor. I thought longingly of Tiberius, with his ‘minnows’, trained to swim underwater and nibble and lick at his genitals as he swam. How fit a forty year old I could turn out to be! Facing across the divide of the chancel, Decani and Cantoris, I had a perfect sight of six of these ‘angels’. As the weeks passed I began to feel I knew them and characterise them, even if I had picked up few of their names. It passed the time in the more boring sermons to give them nicknames and to fantasise about which I would fuck if offered a choice. There was Emo boy, about twelve, just beginning to shoot up, with a new found vanity that led him to torture and tease his mop of black hair forward from his ears; Tich, the smallest boy, with freckles and definitely one of those boys who could not remain well presented how much his mother might try — the shoes would always be scuffed, the tie awry, the hair refusing to sit down; Boss, oldest, tallest, most mature, most experienced, whose days as head chorister were surely numbered; Blondie, most conventionally pretty with delicate, fine, almost feminine features; Spud, a thickset boy with a coarse, jovial face and an inability to rise to the solemnity of the occasion; and John, perhaps the most conventional looking boy in the choir. There was a kind of ordinariness about John which led me to overlook him at first. Boys traditionally joined the choir at the age of seven and he looked scarcely that. I was to learn that he was actually ten years old. He was small, and very slim; his hair was rather mousy, cut in the classic school boy cut, just neat and short; his face was very pale and serious with large grey eyes atop a surprisingly chiseled face. He looked vulnerable and underfed. Whereas the others all embraced the fashions of the day in some form or other with regard to hair and clothes, he had a timelessness about him which seemed like distilled boyhood. Little by little he began to draw my attention, more and more and I began to marvel that I should have ever been distracted by the flashy, vulgar charms of the others. They were a fidgety lot. They yawned and shifted about and giggled together when they were not singing. Mobile phones came out in the breaks between singing. We were much more strictly controlled when I was a boy. But John might have been beamed up from an earlier age. He behaved himself. He was focused, concentrated, prepared. As soon as one piece of music finished, he had the next on the music stand, ready to go. He sat motionless and expressionless, his eyes distant but curiously alert. He appeared to exist outside our dimension until the cue came to sing and he was there, on his feet, never missing an opening as most of the younger ones tended to do. So little by little, I began to pay less attention to the others. In fact, I seemed to be mesmerised by him. He, sadly, seemed unaware of my existence. Until one practice where, alarmingly, he reached for a high note, and missed it, by at least a tone. The rehearsal continued with only a glare from the choirmaster to indicate it had happened. Plus the blush that quickly spread over his face and his own look of horror. His eyes seemed to search our ranks on the other side to see if we had noticed. His eye caught mine, I winked, and made a rueful face. He smiled. The first smile I had seen from him as he seemed an unusually serious boy. And with that smile my obsession really began. Now, a smile is very little to build on but it was all I had so I determined çankaya escort I would build on it. I became every mother’s nightmare — a predatory pedo, obsessed with the idea of slipping my cock into her little boy’s hole whether he wanted it or not. I found that I was wanking three to four times a day and always with the same visions before my eyes — John’s little mouth stretched to the maximum to accommodate my thrusting cock, gagging on it but powerless to resist as I held his head firmly fixed on it until I exploded down his convulsing throat; or better, me spreading his arse cheeks and pushing relentlessly into his hole, which in some of my solo sessions he loved, and in other, even more exciting because of the sheer pedo perversity of it, he screamed at the relentless invasion but to no avail as I ploughed him to my desired conclusion of emptying my seed deep into his boy cunt. But all this was fantasy. It helped me get my rocks off but I could never imagine myself using force. I wanted him to want it and love it. As the result of a smile I had a plan. An obvious one, no doubt — befriend the boy. But it was not so easy. I saw him only once a week. I am an impatient man. Building his trust in me on once a week meetings could take months before I could proceed to the next level. And despite that winning smile, flashed once, I had precious little to build on. Besides, another boy forced himself into my consciousness. The head boy, Jack, and I knew his name because he introduced himself to me. I would say he was the oldest among the boys and he surprised me by introducing himself with a voice that had more than a trace of adult. “But hasn’t your voice broken?” I said to him, after he had said to me, “I’m Jack,” in something other than a childish treble. “It has and it hasn’t. I hit a top b yesterday. But yes, my days as a treble are numbered.” Jack was fourteen, good looking and assured and kind of knowing. Had he seen my looks at the boys? Also, without being effeminate, there was a hint of prissiness about him. I would say a gay boy in the making. A little bit arch, a little bit ingratiating. But more than anything else, self-conscious, aware of his precociousness, aware of his attractions. In an English public school like Eton, he would have been the school whore. And I was attracted too. But he was too easy. There was a sense in him of begging to be seduced. He was simply not innocent. However, he was a useful contact, and as he had predicted, his voice broke once and for all within a month of me joining the choir, and he immediately left the ranks of the boys and moved one row behind to take up a position as a very young, very tentative bass beside me. His new position meant he was a useful bridge between my world and the world of the boys. He knew everything about each of them and, as a result, I was able to gain a lot of knowledge about the object of my desires. I had set my sights on John, actually Michael. Yes, Jack was a mine of information and so I learned his true name and, by careful and cautious questioning — even with Jack it would not pay to be too obvious — his age. He was ten. More details entered the filing system of my mind, as the weeks passed. I began to notice a man in his thirties hanging around the church after services. He was handsome in a rough kind of way, generally unshaven. Sometimes I would see him in the cathedral during processions up and down the aisle. Always unobtrusively to the side. I began to suspect he was a fellow pedo, so you can judge of my amazement when I saw that he was waiting for my Michael and that Michael would go to him in a slightly sulky and tentative manner and leave with him. Jack confirmed that this was his father. A single father, unemployed and with a fondness for the bottle, his wife having abandoned him and the son. On one occasion, his and my eyes met and I knew I saw there anger, disappointment with life, and aggression towards the world at large. I really would need to be careful. However, my plans continued and chief among them was the winning of trust and friendship. The indoor swimming pool was the way forward. So I invited all the boys plus their parents. I hired a life guard from the local swimming pool so that I could appear indifferent to the boys running about with only tiny swimsuits and, while they frolicked downstairs, I went on a charm offensive with the parents upstairs. Marital status came up early on and in no time I had lied my way through two wives (one might have been a mistake, two showed genuine hetero interests); a loving girl friend, sadly based 200 miles away; a young adult son, safely away in Australia. The wine and beer flowed. A success. Michael’s father appeared to succumb to me, too. The house wowed him. Perhaps he hoped that ‘friendship’ with me might pave the way for greater worldly success for him — as if some of my good fortune might rub off on him. In any case, he appeared less aggressive and less suspicious than before. The biggest success, however, was with the boys in general. Suddenly, I was everyone’s best friend. No longer was I overlooked or not seen. Bright smiles all round, especially from young Michael. So I honed in on him once when getting into our robes in the vestry before a service. Had he enjoyed the pool? Well he had and then again he had not. And why? Because he couldn’t swim, never learned, and the pool was a uniform depth without a shallow end and so he had splashed around on the steps but not had the full experience. So, of course, I had to offer to teach him. His dad delivered him and left, promising to be back for the boy in ninety minutes. He appeared more handsome than I had thought him, maybe because I saw in his son a much more refined version of his looks. He was the kind of man I would have happily had sex with had there been no little boy pushing him aside. OK. An hour and a half… not bad to start with. Give me credit, I did genuinely work at teaching the boy — although of course it did give me loads of hands-on contact. And yes I did take advantage of his innocence by ‘supporting’ him in terms of physical support more than might usually be thought necessary. I think I am newly suspicious of swimming instructors of the young, and in retrospect I may have exposed those kids to as great a threat as the one from me by employing that life guard… Who knows what he might have got up to with no one to supervise him! But what a time I spent with Michael! Could you ever find a more vulnerable situation than a ten year old boy afraid of the water, afraid of letting go and with only a sympathetic adult to hold and support him and stand between him and an imagined death from drowning? Considering how long it was since I had touched a boy in anything other than the most superficial way, that time gave me a satisfaction that others might well have accepted as enough. He clung to me in fear and as firmly and desperately as any passionate lover. I felt and stroked and embraced and reassured and consoled to my heart’s desire. Not his tiny little packet, of course, but the lithe, hairless body, the slim buttocks, the flat stomach, the puny harms and legs. My pervy, pedo hands were everywhere. All seemingly entirely innocent and above board, and as I say, more than enough to satisfy many a pedophile. I was happy with this as a first session, it gave me loads of wank material. Just not enough for me. The boys became regular visitors. Every Saturday afternoon they would be dropped off by parents and picked up two hours later, having raised hell in the swimming pool and then been bribed into even more hero worship of me by fizzy drinks, chocolate and ice cream. I quickly became the ideal adult. Michael was part of these happy afternoons but he still clung to the steps. Wednesday afternoons were his regular visiting time alone, when his lessons continued. His trust in me was now total. And he could not have been more physically relaxed with me. And I began to exploit it… Now when he clung to me, my hands would stroke his little bottom in his tight swimming speedo. That started me off in ever more intimate touching. Hugging led to stroking which in turn led to kissing. And the boy loved it. I saw instantly that he received no affection from his thuggish father. When I stroked him, he clung to me harder; when I kissed him, he returned the kisses as ardently as any adult lover. They were chaste, innocent kisses at first, no more than a peck on the cheek. But then I started to kiss him on his closed lips and when that became the new norm, I started to let my tongue push slightly to get him to open his mouth. I never spoke or articulated a desire but so eager was he to endear himself to me that he acted on every new gesture or act that I prodded him towards. And thus, soon we were kissing like lovers. Which in my mind is what he was. I’m a pedo and I love boys and here was exactly what I wanted. A boy lover who was soon as eager as I was for kissing with tongues. Time to move things forward. This was all lovely and immensely satisfying but it did not address the problem of my throbbing, thrusting cock. Hitherto I had been careful in holding him to prevent any part of his body from coming into contact with my cock. Now I began to hold him in such ways that his foot or his leg would brush against it. Yet as usual nothing was said and if he was curious he certainly did not ask about it. The teaching session always ended with a shower. On his first visit I had let him shower alone, though I could not resist towelling him dry. But on his next visit I had showered with him, though we both continued to wear our speedos. Next visit, I went naked, and the next he copied me and went naked too. What a vision he was then, so small and slim, so perfect. He saw my cock in all its adult full aroused glory but again he said nothing. He stared in a kind of wonder or awe and then looked up at me and smiled. I was lost in his perfect beauty. His cock was so small and tight against his body, the balls hardly emerging. How I longed to take it in my mouth. I washed him now, lovingly handling his cock and balls, gently, with the softest of touches and the same with his perfect little ass, prising it open ever so gently and making sure he was soaped up. The tip of a finger next which made him squeal a little but laugh too. I like to believe that the whole experience was as much a sensual pleasure for him as it was for me. Drying him off was, as always, a total pleasure for me. But that çankırı escort day, having developed things so far I could no longer hold back and, still naked, I swung him up off his feet and carried him two floors above to my bedroom. I pulled back the covers as he clung to me and then laid him gently on the bed and jumped in beside him. Now I really began to make love to him. I licked his face as if I were an enthusiastic puppy, exploring all his little orifices. He was both astonished and giggly as my tongue flicked up his nostrils or into his ears but he never pulled away. Now I moved down his body, kissing and licking around his tiny nipples, into his hairless arm pits, in and around his navel until I reached his tiny cock and balls. I had done all this licking and kissing rapidly, with quick movements but now I slowed dramatically as I approached his private parts. He had giggled and laughed until now but he sensed the solemnity of the moment as I ever so gently licked the little penis which to my enormous delight and his amazement began to rise. Even infant boys can get an erection, of course, and it is generally not related to sex. I am sure Michael had seen his cock rise before but this was definitely the first time it had risen as a result of a direct action. I took his cock and his balls into my mouth and rolled my tongue around them. This almost drove me over the edge. Pulling back from him, I reached down to touch my pulsing cock. He, seeing this, lost no time in copying me. He turned and dived for it. Looking up at me for approval, he started to lick the shaft, as I moaned and got even harder. He opened his mouth as wide as he could and took the tip into his mouth. By now I was groaning and moaning and in real danger of shooting. But I was now in a fury of pedo lust and any rational decision of stopping with a blow job was blown away by my desperate desire to go further. I HAD to fuck this boy, I simply had to. I pulled him off me and turned him around. I prised his slim legs apart and let my cock take up position between his thighs. Oh God, I could have come just like that. But there really was no stopping me now. Any conventional morality I might at other times have clung to just simply disappeared as my pedo nature triumphed over all conditioning and all sense of right and wrong. My hand reached for the lube on the bedside cabinet and deftly I unscrewed the top with one hand as I held the boy against my chest with the other. I lubed the boy up as gently as possible but my finger was now going deeper and he was a little frightened. I whispered, “shush, shush” to him over and over again and he quietened and lay there passively though his heart was beating at three times its usual rate. I had never fucked a ten year old before. I think the youngest boy had been twelve. I was not so mad with pedo lust that I felt I could bury my cock to the hilt in this tightest and slimmest of bottoms but I was determined to get in to some extent. I positioned myself at the entry to his boy cunt and now, as gently as possible I began to press. Total resistance met me, of course, but I persevered as he began to cry out and, gratifyingly, he began to open to let the monster in. half an inch, an inch, another half inch. I had never felt so tightly enclosed by any arse I had ever fucked. Every gay fucker would be converted to being a pedo by feeling the tightness of a ten year old’s boy cunt. This was the tightest boyfuck of my life and, knowing that, realising that, in that moment I shot, convulsively into his tight little hole. The boy was a marvel. Not a tear, not a cry other than at the moment of initial entry. Nothing said between us as I withdrew and wiped the cum from around and inside his perfect arse. Just tender kisses on his brow and lips as he clung to me and regarded me with wonder. I knew then that should I never manage to fuck another boy for the rest of my life, the memory of this fuck would sustain me. But this was only the beginning of my education of the angelic boy chorister. Bliss is short-lived — or is it? The delightful routine continued. The choirboys continued to come to swim every Saturday afternoon and I got some innocent pleasure out of that. I had long ago dispensed with the services of the lifeguard and provided that service myself. And that basically consisted of me sitting in a comfortable poolside lounger and watching a dozen or so boys of different ages, splash around in skimpy bathing shorts. It was with difficulty that I refrained from wanking while I watched them. Michael was among them, of course, and so proud of his new abilities in the water. I worried about this, of course — what if he became too proficient, too quickly? I would have no excuse for the ongoing private Wednesday sessions. In any case, there was a limit to my teaching abilities. I was a strong enough swimmer in a way. I could do the basic strokes — breast stroke and freestyle — and go up and down the pool for hours. But I was not up to tumble turns or the butterfly and the like. Still, I am a great believer in the ‘happiness resides in the moment’ school of thought so I pushed aside that kind of worry and accepted that I was living a bliss I had only dreamed of before I met my perfect boy. Michael was indeed perfect. I had, of course, enjoined him to secrecy about the true nature of our meetings. I was afraid for a time that he would try to claim some kind of special privileges during the Saturday sessions, would try to show off to the others that he had a special relationship with me, but no, he was the soul of discretion. He knew he was special, knew that I cared for him and felt for him in ways quite unlike those I felt for the others. Perhaps, indeed, he failed to make the connection and that though I did love him above the others, that did not prevent me from having impure thoughts about them too. All of them. But I knew that this could only ever be a fantasy — the chances of grooming a dozen boys from the same choir excited me but I recognised the logistical unlikelihood of such a thing being possible. Meanwhile, the wonderful Wednesdays continued, though the swimming lessons got shorter and the lovemaking longer. Always exceptionally vigilant with regard to my behaviour, I made the terrible mistake of letting my guard down during these sessions. My house is built on a hill and though one enters from what appears to be the ground floor, the house continues down the hill with the floor containing the pool and sauna. It is a large, detached house set in an acre of grounds. It is a modern house with a large amount of massive glass windows. The nearest neighbour would be at least 500 metres away and her house could not even be seen from mine. As a result of being so secluded I seldom pulled the curtains at night and had become used to being naked when alone. There are electric gates with an intercom. I felt safe and away from prying eyes. But a routine had developed of Michael being dropped off by his father and picked up again ninety minutes later. And it had the inevitability of clockwork. So much so that I relaxed my guard and stopped closing the entrance gates, allowing Michael’s dad access to drop off and pick up. I was always conscious of the time I had and planned everything so that Michael would be ready to go as soon as his father rang the door bell. I had developed an easy, breezy casualness with the man, whose name was Jason. I was wary of him for all that.The surliness I had noticed when I first observed him might have diminished but I still felt there was underlying aggression. Then the Wednesday arrived when all this cosy, idyllic existence was turned on its head. It was not an unusual day by any means. He swam the little that he could, with me supporting him and encouraging him. I rewarded him for his first ever length by planting more kisses than usual on his face and lips. OK, I think my tongue did part his lips and sucked deeply on his little tongue. And yes, I did not only stroke his butt a lot but also lifted him clear of the water and licked his cock through his speedos and yes, pulled the speedos down with my teeth and took his tiny little cock into my mouth. That was kind of standard by now. All his swimming involved a lot of touching on my part. It was the norm. We had only just finished showering and I had scooped him up and carried him to the bedroom when the doorbell rang. I was a little alarmed but disposed to ignore it. After a few insistent rings, however, it was replaced by banging, hard and non-stop. There was no ignoring it. My first thought was “Police” though I had no idea how they would have discovered my behaviour. I have used every security measure known to man to be private and secure and discrete on the internet. I told Michael to get dressed while I threw on a dressing gown and rushed downstairs. Throwing open the door, I was confronted by a furious and VERY aggressive Jason. “What the fuck are you up to? What are you doing to my boy?” he shouted, while he clenched and unclenched both fists. “I have no idea what you mean,” I stammered. “You can drop all the lies and fancy stories. I saw you, you sick fuck.” He pushed past me and entered the house. “Saw me?” “Yes, saw what you get up to in that pool of yours. Some teaching going on there, that’s all I can say.” Damn. At one end of the pool there is a huge picture window from floor to ceiling, giving on to a terrace with BBQ and a view over the surrounding countryside. I was stupid enough to imagine I would not be spied on. “I fucking knew you were up to no good. I fucking knew it! And you,” he said to Michael as he came down the stairs, thankfully fully dressed and the picture of innocence, “outside, NOW! and wait for me in the car.” Michael took in the situation and I swear the colour drained from his face. He scuttled past me with not a backward look and I was left, standing with his irate father. “Let’s go and sit down in the kitchen and discuss this, ” I said, when the boy had gone and closed the door behind him. Without waiting for an answer, I walked toward the kitchen, fearing he would take this opportunity to attack me. I was petrified and I also knew that I would be no match for this thug if it came to a fist fight. But I had the advantage of being in my own home and assumed an air of reasonable and confident supremacy. I sat at the kitchen table and saw him approaching, thankfully in a docile kind of manner. I reckoned I had to be dominant in this situation. Undercut him and make it çayyolu escort seem I was rightfully in charge. Oddly, the anger looked as if it had dissipated somewhat, and instead there was a tiredness and sadness in his face. I motioned him to a chair and considered my options. A fight was out of the question as I said. I drew comfort from the fact that he had confronted me alone, rather than going straight to the police. It might be that I could lie and bluff my way out of the situation. But as soon as I thought this, I knew it was a long shot. I had no idea exactly what he had seen but to have worked up a rage like this he must have seen a fair amount of kissing and stroking and touching. But even so this was not the worst of it — and I knew that he had not seen the bedroom stuff, not just because it was on the first floor and he would have needed a ladder but because I could only imagine he would have been apoplectic had he seen my cock being embedded (fully these days) in his only son’s arse. Some form of the truth seemed like the only option. “I am very fond of your son,” I began. “Fond?” he sneered. “I think I’d use a stronger word. You are a fucking pedo, aren’t you? You molest little boys. You fiddle with them. ” And to my surprise he burst into tears. “He’s so young, so innocent and God knows what you have been up to with him. What do you do to him? Tell me. Tell me everything. Tell it all to me. Do you rape him? Do you suck him? Does he suck you? Do you fuck him?” I hardly knew what to reply. Initially, I thought of wild protestations but… Suddenly I felt a weariness of decades of lies and deceits and coverups. I sighed and replied, “No I don’t rape him. I know you will think I am just excusing myself when I say that he consents. I know, I know, a child cannot give consent in a case like this. The law says he is too young and is not sexual. But he doesn’t know the law. I know it and yes, I reject it. The law can say what it will but I like what I do and I honestly believe he likes what I do. I started it — but if I had had the slightest sign that he did not like it, I would have stopped. I think he loves it. And yes, I do all the things you imagine I do. I love it. I believe he does too or I would stop it immediately. Classic pedo defence but I know it is true for me.” He looked at me as if in wonder through blotchy eyes. Then he half rose, with clenched fists, and spitting and furious, he said “You fucking bastard, sick, fucking pervert, boy fucker, pedo, you shit, you total shit, you…’ I thought, He is going to kill me for what I just said. But the pace slowed from furious invective and he continued, brokenly, ” Pervert, pedo, sick fuck” and he just continued to stare at me. Tears still coursed down his face and to my immense surprise he looked not like a thug but a kind of lost boy-man. His eyes seemed to search my face, and then, still looking deeply at me, he whispered, “What’s it like?” “What do you mean, what’s it like?” “How does it feel? You must tell me. I must know. I would never lay a finger on Mikey, never, but others…” “You mean you are a pedo too?” I wished I could have taken the word back. He reacted as if he had been stung. I like the word pedo. It describes me. And I guess there is something to be said for appropriating what is usually considered a word of hate and contempt — rather like blacks have appropriated ‘nigger’ and gays ‘fag’ and ‘queer’. But it shocked him all the same. Still, he dropped his eyes and said, “Yes, I am. I think I am. I never did anything. Never. Just thoughts. Never touched a boy. Try to keep away from them. in fact. Don’t have dirty pictures of them or videos or anything like that. Too scared. Can I have a drink? A strong drink. I know it’s early and I know I drink too much but it’s my way of dealing with this.” “Sure, no problem,” I said and got up and poured him a very hefty Scotch with ice. He sipped it and continued, “I knew something was up between you. The boy’s… been different since he started coming to you on his own. And I know you have taught him to swim and that has made him more confident. He was always a quiet and shy boy. Well, with no mother to care for him and I am not the best of fathers… So he is different because of that I am sure. But I knew it wasn’t just that. He’s strange with me anyway — but he seemed to withdraw from me even more. He seemed happier — but not with me. So I knew something was going on. And so I came to see. I want to be angry with you and in a way I am because it was all done behind my back and, and you are a pedo and I — and I want to swing for you and fucking beat you up. But I know why you did it. You’re hiding too. You’re bolder than me but you are still afraid. I understand why you did that. Why you are afraid. And,” deep sigh, “I know I want the same, though not with Mikey. That’s a step too far for me.” I hardly knew what to say to him. I was craven enough to feel a wonderful sense of relief that I had escaped a potentially dire and awful situation. No police would be calling. If I played it right with Jason. God, I felt low then… My sole thought was self preservation. I sickened myself, really. I did not know how to proceed. Maybe I had been let off the hook but what was the future to be? And that was all I cared about at that point. I said to him, “Look you mustn’t rush into anything. This has been a shock for you but also a revelation I think. It will take time for you to come to terms with it or think of finding a way forward. If I can be bold enough to say this… we have more in common than we ever imagined we had. Maybe there’s a future in that. Maybe we can support one another and find a way forward. Maybe we can even be… friends. For now, I think we should get Michael in from the car. I think the two of you should stay here for dinner. For that matter, you should stay here tonight and don’t worry, I won’t attempt to do anything with Michael, I won’t sleep with him though I have to say that is something I would love to do! But no way will I push such an issue now. We are going to have to grope towards some way of moving forward. All of us.” “I’ll get Mikey from the car,” said Jason, “and I’ll tell him I know everything. I’ll explain somehow.” Two minutes later the boy rushed in and ran up to me and hugged me. “So it’s all going to be ok now?” he asked. Jason answered for me, “Everything is going to be fine.” And he looked at me and winked. I was still unsure. Years of vigilance as a pedo made me think that Jason’s optimism was mis-placed. I find him in this mood today — accepting he is a pedo. I find him tomorrow putting a boot in my mouth. There was awkwardness between the three of us at first. But as the evening progressed, we relaxed and I was so delighted to see that there was affection between father and son. Jason managed his alcohol intake very well for someone I suspected was all too used to getting drunk on a nightly basis. We packed Mikey off to a bed of his own and Jason and I settled down with a drink in front of the television. I stuck a USB stick into the port at the back of it and introduced him to the best of my boy porn. He was like a kid in a sweet shop. I was still wary, listening to his every remark or groan, looking for that confirmation that he really was a true, dyed in the wool pedo and not some fly by night looking for an extra pervy kick. But he did come across as an innocent — someone who did not know how many sexual perversions were played out totally happily on a daily basis. He was new to the world of alternative sexuality. New to being a pedophile. Saying it was one thing but how would he act on that? A huge step for him to acknowledge it and say it. But would it survive the night? Would he feel he was still a pedo tomorrow? and tomorrow and tomorrow. I wake to it every day. Dream of it. I am a pedo. That is my life. This is my reality. This is what I deal with everyday that dawns. Will he? Again I have to teach him, if he chooses to learn, to go down this path. Especially if, now that he knows what I do and want to do again and again — fuck his son — he has to accept that he wants to fuck a boy. He can’t have a drunken night with me and say “Christ was I drunk last night. I don’t remember a thing.” No, no choosing of backward steps. He must be like me — a total pervert and pedo. He must accept it. Live with it. Come to terms with it. And, depending on your morality, pursue it. With the videos, he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Little boys of eight and nine, up to twelve and thirteen but always boys, always with tiny smooth penises, sometimes erect and sometimes not. The horniness that is there in just about every man soon asserted itself and we wanked slowly as we watched. He got harder and harder as all the taboos of what is right to watch were stripped away and left as redundant in the face of the pedo’s desire for release. I experience this daily — but the more I do it the more I love the total rightness of it. My orgasm is the supreme law. Later I might rue the form it takes but at the time, my orgasm is totally RIGHT. It expresses my nature totally. I shoot, I cum, to the things that make me do this, so forcefully, so fully, so fervently. My orgasm is the total truth about me. Boys, tight little buns, tiny pencil penises, Michael, boys, smooth bodies, hairless bodies, boys, Michael, bottoms, smooth, so slim, so tight, hair, smiles, eyes, lips, hair, Michael, smiles, boys, cocks, hairless, butts, Michael, cocks, navels, boys, pits, balls, smiles, lips, boys, cocks, Michael, arses, cock, balls, smiles, that arse, that tiny little bottom, so tight, so small, oh Michael please take it, so unused, so needing a man’s cock, a fat cock, a hard cock, a big cock, pushing in, tight, so slim, pushing in, pushing into Michael, and there, yes there, all the way, there, there, boys, boys, boys, my Michael, Mikey, yes, I call you Mikey like you are MY son, my little boy, my baby boy, my boy, my boy, oh… fucking Jesus. I shot and shot and shot. Oh fuck, boys, Michael, boys, boys, Michael… . Never mind mine, Jason’s orgasm was explosive too, leaving him shaking. I probably shocked the hell out of him by articulating each and every word I write here. Fuck, I used his son’s name as an aid to shooting! But he too shot in spectacular fashion. And as he did, he grabbed me, and hugged me. I am sorry I called him a thug. He’s a mate. My pedo mate. My cunning and devious mind was turning over and over on itself, thinking that there might well be a new and very interesting future awaiting me. When we wiped up, I turned to him and said, “And now we have got to find you a boy.” He reached over to me and kissed me, and then said, ” I never kissed a man before, never in my life. But now I want to kiss a boy. And fuck him.”