Date: Wed, 06 Jul 2011 11:19:17 -0600
From: applesandpears@hushmail.com
Subject: A Little Revolution: Prevert

To communicate with me, let me know what you like, what you want to see,
and make any other comments or requests, to Adrian at:

applesandpears@hushmail.com

Editor's Note: Naturally, this is all fiction, don't take it seriously,
don't fuck your kids, etc., or anyone else`s. We don't live in this
world. If you have a hard time telling fantasy from reality, seek
professional help.


CHAPTER FOUR-PREVERT


Inspector First Class Henri Prevert of the Special Judiciary Investigations
section of the Paris Prefecture of the National Police was on his knees
fucking an Arab boy in the ass.

He'd had this piece of Belleville trash on his radar for a few years, a boy
hustler who had started peddling his ass for protection to neighborhood
toughs, big black Africans who stretched his hole well. Then the kid had
had the good sense to get out of his quartier, the legendary immigrant slum
on Paris's east side, and work his charms over in the Marais and the
wealthier western arondissements, picking up nasty old queens looking to
relive their youthful affairs and married respectable bourgeois who liked a
firm young piece on the side. And charms the boy did have. He looked about
two years younger then he was, with a slim, almost hairless, but incredibly
well defined build that he probably got from a youth spent running away
from the police. He had the sensuous lips so many Arab boys had, which
unfortunately would probably turn into a fat and ugly leer by the time he
was thirty. The boy excelled at offering a certain type, the young tough in
trainers and a gold chain and hoody who might mug you or might suck you
off. He kept his hair buzzed short except for a baroque pattern of
curl-i-ques shaved into the sides and a narrow strip of half inch long
mohawk, which the inspector twisted in his fingers and tugged to bring the
boy's head back and cause his lower back to arch more. His best asset was a
firm, luscious high ass that looked absolutely amazing encased in the nylon
Adidas training pants he usually wore.

Prevert had first busted the boy a year before. He had turned up in a
popular porn video floating around the pedo environs of the internet. In
it, the boy, Mohammed, had been paired up with a younger black tough, a kid
of maybe eleven, but with a hefty dangle hanging between his hairless
legs. The director of this little piece of cinema realiste was a pasty
skinny middle aged man whom the viewer only ever saw from the chest down as
he ordered the boys into an increasingly athletic routine of sexual
positions, before finally bending young Mohammed over and fucking him hard
while the Muslim slut sucked the little negre off. Because the boys both
spoke in a tough Parisian accent that betrayed their Belleville roots, the
video had landed on his desk. After all, that's what he did, he
investigated child sex crimes in the City of Paris and its adjoining
Ile-de-France prefectures.

Prevert had taken a good screen grab of little Mohammed and in fifteen
minutes had placed the boy. He'd started with his computer file of known
child hustlers, and soon stumbled across a booking photo. The boy had been
arrested six months before, after soliciting an off duty policeman who was
on vacation in Paris with his wife from their small town in the Massif. The
story was a bit fishy; the gendarme had been "taking a walk" in the Bois de
Bologne on a Saturday night while his wife rested back at the hotel. He had
been seen talking to the boy by a flic on patrol in the park, looking to
bust up the open peddling of drugs and sex. When the flic approached, the
gendarme had claimed he was about to arrest the boy, who had offered to
suck him off for forty euro. Little Mohammed, then thirteen, had been
arrested and processed, but the investigation had been dropped when the
policeman made noises about having to return all the way to Paris to
testify before the judge. In a city with thirty thousand prostitutes, even
a thirteen year old boy didn't elicit much effort. A social worker had been
assigned, and the boy's school councilor notified, but it didn't seem to
slow young Mohammed down much, given his new starring role on the net.

Prevert had collared the boy, by then fourteen, and put the squeeze on him,
threatening to charge him with sexual assault on the younger kid. The
little thug hadn't even blinked, but looked him in the eye and lied that
the other boy was his same age, just smaller. He knew the game. Eventually,
though, to make the whole thing go away, he had rolled on the kiddy-fucking
Fellini, who turned out to be a high school science teacher at one of the
jungle-like lycees in the suburbs north of Paris. Apparently the good
professor had decided to get back at the little black and brown toughs who
made his daily life such hell by fucking the shit out of a couple of them
and posting it for the world to see. Prevert had sent him to prison for the
next fifteen years. Mohammed's testimony had sealed the deal; the lad had
shown up for court scrubbed and neatly dressed, looking like the Muslim
version of a choir boy, and pointed out the dreaded monster with one
exquisite crocodile tear running down his downy beardless cheek. Prevert
had sat watching the whole fantastic performance with an incredible hard on
straining the material of his dress uniform, a condition he'd hidden well
by placing his overcoat in his lap.

Well, now it was a year later, and the good inspector had kept an eye on
Mohammad and his continuing gangbusters business. The week before, the boy
had finally turned fifteen, though he looked more like thirteen, which was
the best of both worlds. He could now bag clients who wanted to fuck young
boys but not run any risks of prosecution for sex with a child. He had the
identity card in his pocket to quell their fears, and he kept his arm pits
shaved and his small pubic bush neatly trimmed.

Prevert had kept that date marked on his own mental calendar, and this
afternoon he had picked up the kid from his favorite skateboarding spot on
the Canal St. Martin. The boy knew right away what was wanted of him, and
also knew that he would be providing his services for free. Prevert was not
a very handsome man, a paunchy, balding, hairy forty-two year old with the
face of a hound dog and a body that rarely saw the sun. But he had his
needs, and the boy knew exactly how to stroke his ego, feigning delight at
his body the same way he'd feigned innocence in the court room two years
before. It was just what Prevert needed. So now here he was, in the Holiday
Inn next to the Parc de la Villette, on his hands and knees, the boy's
trim, tight, firm cocoa body underneath him as he pounded hard, grabbing
the young hustler by the shoulders and ramming his uncut five inch dick
home with as much force as he could.

As he looked down at his cock sliding between the dark round cheeks, he
noticed that young Mohammed had just a few strands of black hair that had
grown in around his asshole. He probably didn't even know they were there;
even hustlers weren't in the habit of inspecting their back doors in the
mirror on a regular basis. That little bit of hair disgusted Prevert, and
he felt his cock start to wilt. So the inspector grabbed the boy tighter by
the neck and closed his eyes. In his imagination the forbidden fantasy
appeared, the one that so filled his Catholic soul with shame and disgust
and pure, unchecked passion. He thought of the fantasy and he rammed
Mohammad hard, finally feeling the release building up below his ample
stomach. He grunted loudly and leaned into his work, cumming as hard as he
could into the latex condom. When he opened his eyes he realized that
Mohammed had pushed away from him and was rubbing his neck. Red
finger-shaped welts were rising across the boy's collar bones, and the
young prostitute had a look of fear in his eyes.

"Woah. Easy inspector. I mean... it was good and all, but you need to not
squeeze so hard."

Prevert regarded the handsome Arab boy with the same look of disgust he
showed towards the used condom he yanked off his deflating cock. He leered
contemptuously at him. What had he ever seen in this piece of immigrant
trash? Yet deep down he knew that he would need to see him again, probably
in a few more weeks, after the evil had built back up within him. He
reached out and slapped the boy across the mouth, just hard enough to hurt
without leaving a mark.

"Wax your asshole, you little faggot. I want it smooth the next time."