Date: Sun, 15 Apr 2012 17:27:20 -0400
From: John Marshall <crackerjacker18@hotmail.com>
Subject: The Working Boys Chapter 21

In trying to avoid the most common plot scenarios featured on Nifty, this
story takes the form of a series of interviews with some beautiful young
Boy prostitutes and their parents. It's unorthodox but quite seductive, as
are the boys. Like my other story, Ecstasy Isle, this one is also written
in third person and proceeds in something close to real time with extensive
dialogue to carry the story along and intense character development.  Once
more, it is extremely orgasmic with all ejaculating dialogue written in
UPPER CASE. If you do not wish to be exposed to such material as described,
leave now.  If you are too young for this sort of thing, leave now.  If
reading this causes you to break the law where you live, leave now.

Otherwise, take the time now to get naked and get your cock hard, start
strokin' it. Jack yourself off and see if you can time your own blasts of
naked sexual pleasure with those of the people in the book. This one
averages about four to six orgasms per chapter.  For that reason, I don't
recommend reading more than one chapter at a time.  Any more than that
might be hazardous to your sexual health...especially your hard, throbbing
cock.


THE WORKING BOYS

CHAPTER 21

It was well past midnight when a totally drained, sex sated Derek Chandler
managed to extricate himself from the entangling naked arms, legs, lips,
and spurting hard cocks to dress and trudge off in dazed sexual euphoria,
across the quarter mile of moonlit beach to Horizon Road. He left behind
one naked man and three naked young boys still teasing, sucking and fucking
one another's drug-powered cocks.

Back on the street, Derek called a cab to take him to his car. It seemed
like an eternity since he'd locked the door Friday afternoon and zipped off
to meet the sweet naked little boy who had literally changed his life. Once
back at his apartment, Derek stripped, showered, then fell naked into his
unmade bed. Deep inside he ached from one--no, SEVERAL--too many
orgasms. He wondered if he'd ever cum again. He dreamed of Ronon Parker and
came again.

"BUZZZ BUZZZ BUZZZ BUZZZ BUZZZ BUZZZ BUZZZ BUZZZ," Derek didn't remember
setting his alarm but fortunately,the alarm remembered being set. Derek
whomped it a good one for it's obnoxious remarks, but nonetheless managed
to struggle into a more or less upright position, urged on by an urge to
urinate at least as persistent as his alarm clock. Despite his exotic,
erotic, weekend whirl in the world of maritime luxury, hot sex, high
finance, and decadent pedo-indulgence, Derek reminded himself that it was
now eight a.m. Monday morning, that he was a working man, and that he had a
deadline to meet. He had a column to write and an editor riding his ass for
a Pulitzer Prize winning story.

But it wasn't his editor riding his ass. His cell phone started chirping
just as he was heading out the door. It was a number he didn't
recognize. "Derek!" Oh, god, it was Doreen. "You fuckin' back in town yet?"

Derek was tempted to lie but knew she'd hound him the rest of the day if he
didn't placate the woman. "Yeah, just on my way to work."

"How's Ronon, he okay?"

"Hog heaven..." Derek sighed, smiling, recalling his final image of the boy
nestled in the loving arms of two groping men in the back of Zac's limo.

"What?"

"Hog heaven, lap of luxury, eatin' it up...hell, eatin' EVERYTHING
up...they're wondering if they can afford to feed the little glutton,"
Derek tried to keep it light.

"When do I get my money," Doreen cut to the chase, no longer concerned at
all with her son.

"How you like the new car?" Derek tried to change the subject.

"I like it fine, but I may have to SELL it to buy gas for it," Doreen
joked, "the fucker never met a gas pump it didn't like."

"Listen, Doreen, I can't talk now," Derek tried to put her off, "I gotta
stop at Micky's and get a sandwich then get to work, I'll call you later."

"When do I get my check, man, I'm flat our fuckin' BROKE!" Doreen insisted,
"the Beamer is running on fumes, I'll probably run out of gas just makin'
it to the next pump...you know how embarrassing it would be for a hot young
chick like me to be seen pushing a BMW down the street?"

Doreen probably wasn't joking but Derek couldn't help laughing at the image
she proposed.  "Okay, tell you what, meet me for lunch at Pablo's, we'll
talk, 11:30, okay?" At least if they were in public, she couldn't....okay,
probably WOULDN'T...make a scene when she saw a couple zeros missing on her
check from Barclay's.

"Great, great, just be sure to bring the armoured car!" Doreen cracked as
Derek turned her off without even a fond farewell. This wasn't going to be
a fun day.

At his cubicle, the stack of phone messages was literally tumbling onto the
floor. His e-mail would have done likewise had they not been bits and bytes
on a screen. Mostly, they could wait.  His column for tomorrow wouldn't. He
pulled up the Blade's word processor and began to type:


"When people think about prostitution, they typically picture scantily
clad, sleazy women loitering in the dim light of the night on a mostly
deserted street corner. Almost never do they picture, lively, wholesome
looking young boys, just home the seventh grade, sprawling naked across the
lap of some wealthy playboy paying up to seven-hundred dollars an hour for
their sexual services."  Whew! That oughta snag a reader or two.

"Such boys DO exist and the meat market for their slender, naked, little
boy-bodies is hotter and more prevalent than anyone OUTSIDE their world
could ever imagine. They don't hang out on street corners in front of
neon-lit bars. In fact, they seldom leave their own homes. Boys as young as
ten or eleven, usually home schooled, spend days on end, completely naked,
juxtaposing homework with home WORK. There's a word for them. They're
called "the working boys." Derek was starting to sweat just seeing the
words on the screen.

"Like all self-respecting prostitutes, they have pimps. No, they're not
flashy dudes in gaudy yellow suits and wide brimmed hats driving Cadillac
convertibles. Mostly they're middle-aged men (and a few women) holding
nine-to-five jobs, driving Fords, Chevys, an occassional Audi, and mostly
they're clad in chinos and sneakers. To look at them, cell phone to ear,
you'd think they were off to their son's soccer game. Except their lovely
young sons don't play soccer. When would they find the time?

"Time is money, even for pre-teen boys--especially pre-teen boys. Dorian
(not his real name) is eleven. He brings home to his divorced dad, who
handles his busy schedule, TEN GRAND a week. School work is considered a
nuisance, and a definite money loser, at least in the short term, though
the kid is smart as a whip and sharp as a tack." Derek stopped and deleted
the last ten words--too cliche. "...the kid is (street) smart as a Rhodes
scholar and sharp as a pain in the ass...which he sometimes literally IS."
Derek smiled...cute phrase.

"It pays to be young. Prime time is twelve years old. It pays to be cute,
androgenous, sweet-faced, pretty, some would say girlish. Charisma is a big
plus. So is sexual experience. Sexual experience? In a twelve-year-old?
Yes, often, sex begins at six. 'Home schooled' takes on a whole new meaning
as parents pamper, polish, and prime their beautiful, pre-pubescent jewels
to be sexually mollested for money. The first paycheck may come when the
boy is as young as nine. By eleven, credit cards are accepted. By age
twelve their daily schedule rivals that of the president. By age thirteen,
they're doing weekend orgies with a dozen other boys their age. If they're
really good, really cute, really 'hot', by age fourteen they have a long
term contract (usually a year) as a 'houseboy' or 'adopted son' or even
'grandson.' However, by age fifteen, only the strong have survived. The
rest are victims of PCP, VD, HIV, or some other flavor of lethal alphabet
soup. By sixteen, they're dead...or might as well be insofar as their
chosen profession is concerned. If not addicted to drugs, then certainly to
sex. By age seventeen or eighteen they become users themselves, petty
criminals, scrounging for loose change, their 'going rate' now down to a
'Jackson' or a 'Hamilton.' Even the more successful ones are reduced to
spending whatever they've managed to keep from their spendthrift parents on
yet another cadre of sweet, not-so-innocent young boys, lovely mirror
images of what they themselves USED to be."

"Though child prostitution is a national, even INTERNATIONAL business, one
particular town (which shall go namesless) right here in the good old red
and blue United States of America is a notable hotbed for this particular
brand of juvenile sexual pleasure. It's a pretty little gated enclave,
wealthy, pleasantly warm, secure, its population well over 50% gay, the
average age of its attractive, heavily male inhabitants in their mid to
upper 30s. Homes range from modest to 'omigod' lavish. There are no
factories, a few offices, but otherwise, little in the way of visible means
of support. It's a 'bedroom' community in more ways than one."

"It's hard, maybe impossible, to measure the size of this 'invisible'
industry, either here or elsewhere. Census figures reveal nothing, polls
would be...inappropriate, not to mention suspect. But 'industry' IS an
appropriate word. Industries manufacture things. The working boys
manufacture naked sexual pleasure, clocking in at eight a.m. often working
through dinner till the late hours of the evening. There are no
storefronts, no red light district, no obvious 'trade.' Yet families
actually take up residence with their attractive young sons to mine this
rich source of wealth.

"As in all industries, there are by-products. The working boys themselves
are a byproduct. They are street smart, often intellectually smart as well,
but seldom 'book smart.' Some do attend public schools--mostly the
amateurs--boys working on their own under the radar (gaydar) of even their
parents. The pros consider them dangerous interlopers as well as cheap
competitors. Surprisingly, despite their clientelle, many, perhaps even
MOST, working boys are NOT gay. They know boy-sex is not an exclusively
male enterprise. Women crave boys' naked young bodies too. Whether by
choice or necessity, working boys know bisexual is the way to go."

"Are there working GIRLS? Yes, of course, just not many in this particular
community, and in any case, their side of the business is much more
circumspect and limited by circumstances. Moreover, pre-teen girls seem not
well suited for such work, either physically or emoionally. Likewise, in
many respects, boys the same age aren't either. Anal sex is banned
completely by those who managed their young. Other forms of physical abuse
can get the perpetrator physically abused themselves. Such abuse is
carefully defined as anything that mars the 'merchandise' or reduces the
boy's cash potential. Sexual abuse, on the other hand, is not so well
defined, if at all. Sexual abuse is the boys' stock-in-trade. And lest you
think otherwise, virtually every working boy I've met in researching this
piece enjoy, even LOVE, their work. Of course, there are some aspects of
'the job' of which they aren't particularly fond. Eddie (again, not his
real name) refuses men over fifty. Timmy turns down all fat people of
either sex. Davy hates people who 'stink.' He also dislikes servicing
women, but seldom refuses their patronage. In nearly every case, incest is
present on a daily basis. Some boys love it, some hate it. In any case,
they're young boys, they love to have fun. Universally, routine sex bores
them. They tolerate it, strive to relieve or avoid it, sometimes even
reject boring clients, but, as they say, it goes with the territory."

Derek scrolled back, surveying his work.  Nine paragraphs. It was
good...HOT, even. It was also 11:30! Doreen would be shittin' her panties
(if she was wearing any), thinking she'd been stood up. He'd have to finish
later. His cell phone chirped as he was rushing out. Yep, this time he
recognized the number and turned it off. He made a mental note to stop on
the way and pick up a roll of toilet paper.

Pablo's was a cute little Mexican place a block from the Blade
office. Pablo was a cute little Mexican guy pushing thirty but looking
twenty, with whom Derek had once had a brief sexual fling--very brief...one
night. Doreen was tapping out a toneless tune on a Formica topped table in
the back. Not a good sign. Derek steeled himself for a lunch he wasn't sure
he could eat, much less keep down afterwards.

"There he is, thought maybe you'd stood me up!" Doreen rose, her voice loud
and grating as ever. She greeted him profusely with a kiss...and not on the
cheek, either.

"Doreen, please, people will talk, you'll ruin my gay image," Derek joked
holding her at arms-length.

"I hope you're picking up the tab," Doreen told him as they sat down across
from one another at the tiny table. "I've got exactly $1.23 on me right
now.

Might as well get it over with. He handed her the check from Barclays. "Now
you've got a lot more, YOU can pay for lunch."

Doreen looked at the check, her eyes narrowing in disbelief. Derek waited
for the explosion. To his surprise, a smile crossed the woman's lips. "This
is some kind of joke, right?"

"No, joke, Doreen," Derek broke the news, "you'll be getting a check like
that every month for the next year."

"WHAT?!" Doreen boomed.  Every head in the eatery turned their direction.

"Doreen, forgodsakes, lower your voice," Derek murmurred casting glances
nervously around the place. "Let me finish. The rest will go into a trust
account for Ronon."

"What the fuck's a trust account?" Doreen asked, maybe one decibel more
softly.

"Money for Ronon's education, money for a head start in life, money that
won't be spent on little boy whores, new clothes, jewelry, and...and lavish
places like this," Derek tried to joke.

"YOU FUCKIN' BASTARD!"

Titters of laughter could be heard in the background. "Shall we order?"
Derek eyed the teenaged waiter, probably one of Pablo's sexual conquests,
waiting nervously with pad in hand.

"This is YOUR fuckin' idea, isn't it?" Doreen accused, ignoring the
sweet-faced boy trying to suppress a nervous grin.

"I'll have the burrito special, mild sauce, side of refried beans," Derek
plunged ahead, knowing the sooner they ate the sooner it would all be over.

"You've SCREWED me!"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I have," Derek freely admitted, "more than once,
in fact. Now, what'll you have? This young man would like to take your
order."

"Fuck him!" Doreen mounted quite an entertaining spectacle for the unwary
lunch crowd. "I want my money, ALL of it, and I want it right NOW!"

"She'll have the same as I'm having, Diet Pepsi to drink," Derek ordered
for her, "one check."

"Yes, sir," the cute waiter replied, "will there be anything else?"

"You have any duct tape?"

"Uhhh...no...I...I don't think so," the boy smiled, eyeing Doreen. "But
I'll check."

"A thousand a month!" Doreen calmed a bit. "A thousand a MONTH?" she
repeated for emphasis.

"That's quite a lot, really, enough to help with your expenses, buy gas an
insurance for the Beamer..." Derek worked at molifying his lunch guest,
"not enough for you to retire, but..."

"But...Derek, I've got...like your said, expenses...certain expenses,
certain needs, I can't live on no thousand a month?" Doreen reasoned, her
voice almost back to normal amplitude.

"No one expects you to," Derek tried reasoning with her. "You have a job,
probably pays twice that, look at it as a 50% increase in your monthly
income."

"This wasn't Ronon's idea, was it?" Doreen eyed him shrewdly.

"Of course not, god, he's a twelve-year-old boy," Derek whispered as Doreen
mentioned her son for the first time. "But he understands."

"UNDER...stands..." Doreen consciously lowered her voice to something
approaching a whisper.

"Okay, look, if I have to spell it out for you," Derek was losing patience,
"Ronon understands...understands YOU...  far better than you realize. He's
one smart little boy, especially when it comes to...the...business." Derek
parsed his words carefully, his skill as a writer serving him well.

"I could have you arrested right here and now for..."

"Don't threaten me, Doreen," Derek's voice hardned instantly, "you're in no
position to pull a stunt like that...not morally, not legally, and not
financially. You might have to explain how you suddenly came into
such...great wealth," Derek sneered, eyeing the check Doreen still clutched
in here angry hot fist.

"But...but...I need more...I need more money," Doreen bleeted.

"Sell the fuckin' car," Derek told her as their teenaged waiter approached
with a tray.

Silence prevailed as the boy set before them their mostly appetizing
sustenance. Derek smiled as the kid slipped him a nearly empty roll of
celophane tape. "Sorry, it's the best I could do."

"Thanks, but we won't be needing this after all," Derek told the working
boy, "will we, Doreen?"

Embarrassed, pretending to study her food, Doreen nervously shook her
head. She tucked the check into her purse.

"Ronon sends his love," Derek told her as he too began to eat, reminding
her why they were there in the first place.

Wordlessly, Doreen nodded, seeming to regret the spectacle she'd made of
herself.  She took her first bite.

"He going to be alright? Doreen asked several long, silent moments later.

"I think so," Derek confided. "I wouldn't have left him there otherwise.
Not for a MILLION dollars."

"Speaking of which, how much did YOU pocket out of all this?" Doreen asked
coldly.

"Not one red cent...a first-class ticket back from Nassau..." he corrected
a second later.

"And lots of sex, I'm sure," Doreen eyed him suspiciously.

"Some," Derek admitted, omitting details, "probably less than you imagine
though."

"And who's in charge of this...this...account?" Doreen questioned.

"Actually, Ronon is," Derek insisted, "I just co-sign everything. It's HIS
money, remember."

"How do I get in touch with him?" Doreen asked, her simple mind now working
overtime.

"Don't bother," Derek advised. "Send him all the hearts and flowers you
like but let me assure you, anything more than that will end up littering
the azure waters of the Caribbean."

"What?" Doreen once more entered the realm of outrage, only in a more
modest tone of voice.

"Look, Ms. Doreen Parker, they OWN your son now," Derek quietly laid out
the facts of life for her. "You SOLD him, cock, jock, and barrel. They've
made a sizable investment in him. They're not going to let anyone, even the
kid's greedy old lady, jeopardize that investment. Believe me, your sweet
little boy is going to EARN every last cent they've put out. The car and
what you've got there is a token of their gratitude for birthing and
raising such a beautiful, sweet, little boy...nothing more, nothing
less. It's what you deserve...probably more than you deserve but..."

"But Derek, please, you can help me here," Doreen took to pleading, "I need
more...two thousand...two thousand a month, that's less than a FOURTH of
what they paid, I need..."

"Why, so you can lay it all on...on...Devon?" Derek went to the mat, naming
names and dates, "go from once a week molestation to TWICE a week, or THREE
TIMES a week?"

That shut her up. She finished eating. "Look, could you...could you let me
have...something till I get the check cashed, a few bucks..." Doreen
pleaded.

"There's a bank right around the corner, they're open till four, they'll
recognize the name on the check...open an account. Don't spend it all in
one place; pinch a few pennies; you'll be surprised how quickly your
newfound wealth will accumulate," Derek refused her pathetic request. "I
can even have future checks deposited electronically, if you'd like."

Doreen stood, silently wiping her lips with one of pablo's tastefully
off-white paper napkins. She glared at him one last time, "FUCK YOU, DEREK
CHANDLER...FUCK YOU!" Then stormed out.

Derek stood to leave himself, placing a twenty on the table to cover the
check and tip. Looking about he found everyone in the restaurant staring at
him. Most of them he knew by name. He smiled wistfully, "that's why I'm
gay."