Date: Tue, 25 Apr 2017 21:31:02 +0000 (UTC)
From: Peter Brown <badboi666@btinternet.com>
Subject: Fourteen again Chapter 27
Fourteen again by badboi666
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This story is - guess what! - fantasy. If sex with boys isn't your thing,
go away. If, as is much more likely, you've come to this site precisely to
get your rocks off reading about sex with a 14-year-old then make yourself
comfortable - you're in the right place. Remember the three things:
1 Cum
2 Wipe
3 Donate
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Chapter 27
Sitting in the train from Winchmore Hill to Kings Cross it was time to
think about everything that had happened since I came back to being 14
again. In 12 days I had had adventures on a scale I had never had in
reality before - such was the power of the fairy's gift of putting adult
wisdom into a child's body. I had had some kind of sex with seven men
(including one rape) and ten boys. Two of those boys had come close to my
heart, and whatever happened to me in the rest of my life - perhaps only 19
days - I would always remember them with affection. I doubted I would see
Zak again, but I was determined to keep my promise to Jack.
There were things I wanted to do. Although the principal reason I was here
was to find other boys my "own" age to fuck, and generally to mess around
with, part of the reason for being 14 was to have sex with adults who got
turned on by pubescent lads like "me". I liked the idea of being raped,
especially when I had managed to engineer it. I wondered whether a
gang-bang might be fun, again with me being in charge, as it were. I still
had ambitions in the area of boys, not least with Barry. He was at the top
of my list of priorities, and I decided to ring him when I got to Kings
Cross. It was 12 August: it was my twelfth day in 1957. So much still to
do.
It was interesting to notice the things I couldn't do at 14 which I hadn't
thought about - there was a downside. I badly needed to be able to buy
adults-only things, and at 14 I couldn't try to pass myself off as being
21. There had been times, and this morning was one of them, when a large
gin and tonic would have been most welcome. Yesterday I had wanted to buy
a butt plug for Jack. There would be opportunities for sexual contact out
of reach for me - seedy cinema clubs in Soho, for example. Maybe I could
latch onto an adult who would buy stuff for me. On the other hand, as far
as sexual opportunities were concerned, being 14 made many of them much
more likely to be successful. I promised myself that one evening soon I
would watch, and maybe join, the rent boys in Piccadilly Circus. The
balance between gin and tonic and unrestrained sexual hunting still came
down firmly on continuing to put up with Tizer. Mind you, if Barry's mum
was out all day there might be gin there!
Barry answered when I rang. "Where are you?" he asked. "Kings Cross. Can
I come and see you?" "You mean now?" "Yes. Is it a day your mum's
working?" "Yes. Come now, that would be great. I'll meet you at the bus
stop - you remember where it is?" "How could I forget, silly, it's only 10
days since I saw you."
Maybe this wasn't wise. I had lost count of the number of times I'd cum in
1957, but it was a helluva lot higher that I actually had cum in August
that year. Was I putting my balls under an intolerable strain? Who knew:
who cared, as I would be dead (or 101) in less that three weeks. And when
I was dead I was going to be dead for a very long time, so cramming in an
overdose of cums now maybe wasn't such a bad idea after all. These
thoughts occupied me as the bus trundled slowly south towards Barry's bus
stop in Croydon.
And there he was. His green eyes were dancing with excitement as I got off
the bus. He was like a puppy, bounding about and full of excitement.
"Nice to see you, Slave," I said quietly, "or are you someone else today?"
"No, Master, slave Barry. He will do Master's bidding at all times." "OK,
Barry, but we're not in your house yet, so let's leave Master and Slave
until we get into your room. There are things I want to talk about
seriously," I said.
As we walked to his house I told him a bit about Jack. "I met this boy - he
was 14 yesterday and I was at his party - who likes the kind of sex games
we like. I didn't tell him about you. I think it would be fun if we got
him here one day to play when your mum's out and the coast is clear. What
do you think?"
He didn't need to think about it. "Well, you're the only boy who's shown
up about my advert in the bog - I've been back with different dates, but no
luck. So meeting up with another boy would be great, yeah. Where does he
live?" "The other side of London, but that isn't a problem as he's a
train-spotter and he goes all over London and nobody bats an eyelid."
"What did you do with him? Does he do master and slave things?" "No, but
he might well be happy to if that's what you want him to do. He's a nice
gentle boy, but he can be red hot too, know what I mean. I've done most
things with him. I fucked him and he's fucked me. Sucking, rimming, most
things. You'd love it!"
"I think you should invite him. Mum's at work today, but she won't be
again for five days. Can you get in touch with him and tell him?" I
promised I would do just that. We reached his house. He said quietly to
me as we walked to the front door, "Thanks, Peter, I would love to have a
friend. Will you be Master when we're inside?" "Yes, Barry, I'll be
Master. Spaghetti again?" He grinned, "Yes, but I'm sure I won't need
it." "By the way," I said, "Jack is lonely too, so you'll both have
someone special."
"I need a drink before we start," I said, "have you got anything?" "I may
be your slave, but until we get upstairs I am your host," he said,
grinning, and led me into the kitchen. He poured us each out a coke and
brought out a tin of biscuits. We sat eating these. "Before we go
upstairs there's something I need to know, Barry. Once we're in there it's
Master and Slave, but I must know before then what things you want me to
force you to do. It's OK by me if I make you do all the things I want, but
Slave must want things too, and if I'm to make you do them I need to know
what they are. Does that make sense?" "Yes, Peter, it does, but I can't
think of anything off the top of my head. Can we have another magic word
for me to say if I want to stop being Slave for a moment while I tell you?"
This seemed a good idea, particularly as it was the slave who was
suggesting it. It could be that his sexual need for a particular activity
over-rode his apparent need to be dominated. I was fine with domination: I
could play that game without trouble. Barry had shown no sign that he
wanted humiliation, and I was glad of that. The line between
play-humiliation and real-humiliation was a fine one at his age, and damage
could easily be done. "Yes, OK. If you want to say something then you say
... "macaroni'. Nice and easy to remember." He topped up our cock glasses
and we each had another biscuit. "I'm sure you've been naughty," I said,
"so you'll probably deserve to be smacked?" "Yes, I have been naughty, and
a smacking is what I deserve," he said, with an appropriately contrite
look, spoiled rather by the large grin which accompanied it. Right, get
upstairs, Slave." Barry grinned and led me into his bedroom, or lair, as I
preferred to think of it.
We went into his room and shut the door. Apart from two horny boys the
house was empty. We had free rein, or rather, I had free rein to deal with
my slave.
"Strip off all your clothes, Slave, and stand in front of me," I ordered.
Within 15 seconds he was naked. I examined him closely. "Arms above your
head, Slave." I sniffed his pits and the heady aroma hit me instantly.
"When were you last washed, Slave?" "This morning, Master." "Good." I
turned him round. "Crouch on all fours, Slave," I knelt behind him and
inspected his rosebud which, as I'd hoped, wasn't 100% clean. "I see you
stink in the arsehole, Slave. Why? Tell me, boy, or there will be
trouble," "Please Master, I was clean after my shower, but I had a shit
afterwards." "Do you not wipe your arse, Slave, after your foul droppings
have fallen from it?" (It was hard not to lapse into olde-worlde
language.) "Yes, Master, but your Slave must have failed to wipe himself
properly. Slave will do better." "Indeed you will, Slave. Master will
instruct you in how to wipe properly." (Could be fun!) "Stand before me,
and let me examine your boyhood. It looks clean, but I must make sure."
And engulfing his hot urgent cock in my mouth I enjoyed the thorough
cleaning it then received. "Yes, Slave, I am satisfied with your body; it
is now fit to service me."
"Before I attend to my wants, Slave, I need you to prepare the bed upon
which I will carry out my desires upon your defenceless body. Go and find
cloths which may protect the bed from your tears and your blood." I was
glad to see that he interpreted this to mean protection against rather more
exciting bodily fluids. He went into a cupboard and returned with two
thick towels and a sheet. I doubted whether any fluid which was likely to
be produced would get through that lot. "Good, Slave, you have done well.
Spread them on the bed, make them thick enough to soak up your
outpourings." When everything was arranged to my satisfaction I told him
to bend over the end of the bed to be punished.
He bent over, his feet wide apart and his chest and head on the bed. His
gorgeous arse was there to be admired, and I spent a moment or two just
gazing at it, and thinking how lucky I was to be in a 13-year-old's bedroom
with several hours of fun before me - before us, I reminded myself. I gave
him a good hard smack on his left cheek, followed by another on the right.
"Oooh!, Sir!" "Slave, I make that two. I order you now to say exactly
three words. The first will be 'macaroni' the third will be 'Sir' and the
middle work will be the number of smacks you think you deserve. Two
already, don't forget. Speak, Slave." There was a pause while Barry
worked out what he was prepared to put up with. Then, "Macaroni, eight,
Sir." "Very well, Slave, your wickednesses must have been many in number
to merit such severity. However I shall not inflict them all at once.
Tell me, Slave, what the most serious of your wickednesses has been since
last I was here to punish you." This could be good, I thought. "Master,
my worst thing was that ... I lied to you when you were here before. I
told you I had never been fisted. I didn't want you to know that your
mighty hand wasn't the first to invade my weak and vulnerable arsehole." I
didn't expect that, but I have to say that when I fisted him the discomfort
he felt seemed pretty minimal. "Lying to Master is indeed very wicked," I
said, and without warning gave him a helluva hard smack right on top of the
red glow on his left buttock. "Owww!" "Raise your hips, Slave, I wish to
see whether your foul boyhood has taken my blows to heart." Just as I -
both of us probably - expected, his cock was now fully hard (as was mine,
still inside my trousers). "You are truly evil, boy, and when I have done
with you you must repent sincerely." "Yes, Master, I will do anything you
want." "You will do anything I want regardless, Slave, you have no say
over what tortures I may inflict on you," and without warning the fourth
hard blow landed on top of his red right buttock. "Owww!" Half way.
"Before the last four blows, Slave, I will instruct you in how to clean
your disgusting self. You will practise on me." I shucked off my clothes
and stood naked before him. I laid down on his bed on my back and put my
knees by my ears. "Look upon Master's holy place, Slave. Approach it.
Worship it with your unworthy tongue." I had rimmed him last time, but
this was the first time he'd got close to my arse. "Memorize Master's
scent," I commanded, "so that you may follow me like the dog you are." (I
was really getting into this.) Happily he got straight down to a thorough
rimming job, and I was content to let him have his head. When I felt he'd
spent enough time there (a good 5 minutes) I told him that Master's holy
place was now clean. Was his holy place clean? "Master, Slave doesn't
have a holy place," (clever, I thought, I give him marks for quick
thinking) "his sewage works are so near his pleasure garden that all are
contaminated with his filth." Promising, promising! "Master is pleased,
Slave. Your answer shows the beginning of wisdom. Master will reward
Slave with a precious gift. When the punishment is over and Slave's pain
has subsided Master will anoint Slave's body with his ointment, and salve
his bruises." Better and better!
But Slave still had punishment to endure, and I pushed him back down ready
to smack him again. Wallops five and six were duly administered, pretty
near as hard as I could make them. His arse cheeks were really red and I
hoped the marks would go undetected. "Oh, Master, I am on fire. The
punishment is intense, but I have deserved it. Perhaps the final blows
will be the most severe of all." (I could have added 'he said,
hopefully'.) I had every intention with these two smacks of hitting his
arse as hard as I could: he was encouraging me, after all, and I was
curious to see how much pain he could not only endure, but actively beg
for. But not yet. There had to be some mental torture first.
"You have confessed your biggest sin, and your arse has paid the price.
Tell me, Slave, what were your second and third most wicked failings." I
waited while he thought about it. Would it be something invented, or would
it, like the first confession, be true? "Master, I am ashamed," he said, "
my second sin took place in the bus station bogs. I wrote a message there
which was very wicked." "Indeed, Slave, I know you write messages there -
that was how I discovered you. What did you write this time?" "Master,
this is what I wrote. 'Cock-mad 15-year-old desperate to be fucked rigid
seeks boy 16 to 18 to oblige'." "What is wicked about that, Slave?" "I
put the name and phone number of the school bully." Now I really was
impressed, so much so that I had to come out of character. "Christ, Barry,
is that true?" "Yes." "What happened?" "I've no idea, and we'll probably
never know, but I love thinking about it. What will he say when he picks
the phone up?"
"Slave," I said, getting back into role, "I will forgive that sin, for you
committed it to right the wrongs of another. But your third, what was
that?" "My third sin, Master, was something I want to do, but have never
done." "How can that be a sin, Slave, unless it is something very
terrible. Speak, boy, confess to Master. What is this thing so depraved
that even thinking of it is wicked?"
He said nothing. I wondered whether his imagination had run away with him,
leading him to a place where he had no ready answer. I should have trusted
him. Barry, it was increasingly clear, had a vivid imagination. At 13 he
had been fisted; he had sucked me (and doubtless others) and swallowed my
cum; he had rimmed me. What might this unmentionable wickedness be? "Come
on, Slave, it can't be that bad!" "It is, it is," he wailed. Could this
be genuine? "I want to wank next door's dog," he said. That I did not
expect, I have to say, but as soon as I thought about I could see the
attraction to a randy teenager. I couldn't resist asking him what kind of
dog it was. "A Labrador. They've had it for about a year. When it was a
puppy it was forever trying to rub itself on my leg, and one time its cock
came out. I couldn't believe the colour of it - bright red and pointed.
So I was curious. Macaroni, by the way. Do you think that's disgusting?"
"No, I don't. If I'd had a dog do that to me I'd probably be curious too.
Does it still do it?" "Dunno, I've never given it a chance." "This
requires thought, Barry," "you can call me Slave again, Master," "and I
will think about your lusty thoughts."
There would be no better chance to administer the final round of
punishment, and I gave his tingling cheeks two slaps as hard as I could.
"Oh, fuck, Master, that's so fucking hot," he cried. I could see he was in
a high state of excitement when I turned him over. His cock, still rigid,
was pouring pre-cum. Too good to waste, I licked it up. He moved to the
bed and laid himself gingerly down, face up. When he had done so I slipped
the handcuffs I had bought yesterday onto his wrists. I tied his ankles
wide apart and his hands together above his head. He was completely
helpless. His arse was on fire, his cock was leaking, his balls were
doubtless ready to do what they were there for. But I was in charge, and
he was going to wait a long time for release. The towels and the sheet
would be put to good use soon.
I told him I'd be back in a moment, and went quickly down to the kitchen.
I'd seen some bananas in a fruit bowl, and I brought the straightest one I
could find back upstairs. It would do nicely. "Well now, Slave, the
outside of your arse has had its punishment. Now it's time for the inside
to be dealt with. Apart from the names of any kinds of pasta I don't want
to hear a single word from you. You may cry out, or moan, or sigh, or say
'ooh!', but you may not say a meaningful word. Nod if you agree."
Vigorous nodding, big grin, cock lurches. "I am going to insert things
into your dark disgusting place, and you are going to accept everything I
insert. If you behave well I shall reward you, Slave. Nod if you agree."
"Mmmmm!" "That wasn't a nod, but I will accept it."
Lubed up, I soon had two fingers up him; he wriggled as much as his
restraints would allow. The third finger soon joined them, and the
prostate trick started. "Ooooh!" After rummaging around in there I
withdrew without any warning ("aaah!") and inserted the banana. It still
had its skin on, and I got it about 5 inches up him ("oooh! fu-" but he
stopped himself just in time). I fucked him with the banana, but it didn't
have much effect, perhaps because it was smooth, unlike fingers. I won't
do that again, I thought. Fisting time. I out my three fingers back in
and told him that the whole hand would be next. His arse was so relaxed
that a hand quite a bit larger than mine would probably have fitted, but I
still went at it carefully. His greedy lips sucked my hand in, and once
there I got my fist in as far as my wrist. My knuckles rubbed his prostate
and "Aaaaaaa!" a fountain of cum poured into the air, and another, and a
third, smaller, and a series of small pulses coinciding with his
heart-beat. "Oh, Master!" I decided to forgive him, but I kept my fist in
there, and kept up the stimulation on his prostate. I reckoned that if his
cock hadn't been touched then it wasn't likely to suffer from the usual
post-cum tenderness. To my delight it stayed hard, hard as hell, and he
muttered "aaah!" as my fist kept up the action deep within him. "Oh
macaroni, no, fuck it, spaghetti, I'm going to piss, for God's sake, stop!"
This was what I'd been planning for. This was why we'd had refills of
coke; this was why towels and a sheet had been prepared. "I hear you,
Barry, but, Slave, I'm not going to listen. Your piss may well leak from
your cock, but the cloths will contain it. But restrain yourself - do not
piss until you cannot avoid it." It is hard to describe the expressions on
Barry's face at this point. There was panic certainly: he hadn't wet the
bed for a great many years, no doubt, and he was clearly going to wet the
bed in the next ten minutes or so. That realization caused another evil
grin, and his eyes lit up with the sheer wickedness of it all.
Needless to say my fist continued to punish (or to reward) his arse. His
juices were pouring down, lubricating my fist; his cock, dribbling cum
still, was pointing heavenward; his balls were tight up against his
perineum; his face was covered with sweat; his body gave off the most
aphrodisiac scent (it was a much as I could do to resist falling on top of
him and licking him all over. Then "Aaaaaaaaaaah!" and another fountain of
delicious cum poured out of his cock, still untouched. It was time to take
my hand out of his arse, which plopped shut with what was almost a sigh
(well, you could pretend it was). I could no longer resist his body. I
could no longer resist sucking up his cum. I could no longer resist taking
his exhausted cock into my mouth and kissing it better (and clean). I did
all these things, lying on top of him. Forbidden from speaking, he took
hold of my hips and turned me so that he could 69 me. My cock was deep in
his mouth and his in mine. My tongue and lips were coated with his cum,
and he could taste it. Our hands were all over each other, clasping,
squeezing, stroking, caressing when suddenly ("Oh no!") I could feel my
mouth filling with that most delightful of fluids - 13-year-old piss
straight from the tap. "I can't stop, sorry, sorry, sorry!" he wailed. I
pinched his cock hard to stop it temporarily ("ow!), long enough for me to
swallow and say, "don't fucking try, just fill me up, Slave!" and putting
his cock back in my mouth I let it go again. His bladder must have been
about the size of a football, because it went on emptying for over a
minute. I kept up as best I could, swallowing the nectar and trying not to
waste a drop, but inevitably some escaped into the towels. When he had
finished pissing, and I had finished swallowing we were both whacked.
"Fuck, that was good," he said, slavery being forgotten, as it had been
last time after his climax. "Yeah," I agreed. "I love piss. But I
promised to put ointment on your wounds." I undid his handcuffs and untied
his ankles. "I want to be your slave now for a bit. I want you to do what
you like to me, but finish up by making me cum, and rubbing my cum into
your poor sore arse. OK?" "OK. Can I do anything?" "Yes. If I want you
to stop I'll say spaghetti." This would be fun!
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<End of Chapter 27>
Keep your depraved ideas coming, guys. Do we want more on the dog-wanking,
or shall we just leave that as something Barry may or may not do, but we'll
never know. What do you think?
Ideas always welcome and, like a bog wall, make interesting reading.
badboi666@btinternet.com
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