Date: Fri, 28 Apr 2017 16:55:19 +0000 (UTC)
From: Peter Brown <badboi666@btinternet.com>
Subject: Fourteen again Chapter 29
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 29
We finished showering, and dressed. It was now about 3 o'clock, and Barry
would need to clear up his bedroom and the bathroom before his mum got home
two hours later. I gave him a hand and by half past three the house had no
evidence that a visitor had been. "Hang on a minute," I said. "Your mum
may notice something - fewer biscuits or something trivial. It would be
silly to have to lie. Why not say that you had a friend round to play and
you had coke and biscuits? Then if your bedroom's untidy it'll be because
that's where you were playing. As long as the bed's made it doesn't matter
if it's a bit rumpled because that's where you were sitting." "That's good
thinking, and it'll make it easier when Jack comes. Do you think he will?"
"Unless he's doing something else I think he'll be here like a shot. Will
I ask him today?" Barry's eyes lit up. 'Yes, that'd be great! Will you
ring me and tell me? Please?" "Course I will," I said, "I can tell you're
getting excited already," and I gave his cock a squeeze in his trousers.
Half hard and still five days to wait!
I promised to ring him as soon as I had heard from Jack, and kissed him
good-bye. "See you in five days," I said, "and that will be something
special." I left quickly and made my way back to Victoria. I wanted to
see the graffiti he had left. When I got to the bus station I had to hunt
about to find it, but eventually there it was. I decided to add to the
school bully's grief by writing under Barry's words 'This kid is a
fantastic fuck - you should try him'. I wondered if it would ever happen.
Perhaps Barry could keep an eye out at school for a dramatic change in the
bully's behaviour.
I went to the railway station. I had had fantastic sex with two boys my
age. The two things at the top of my list now were finding a man, and
joining the rent boys at Piccadilly. The obvious thing was to combine
these, and that is what I planned. First I had to phone Jack though.
I found a phone box that worked and dialled his number. He answered
quickly, "oh, it's you." "Did you ring Bob?" I asked. He told me he had,
and that Bob had asked him to come round to their house on Saturday (it was
Thursday today). Clearly there was action in the offing there. "Great," I
said, "I'm glad. And I've got news too." I told him about Barry and that
the three of us could have an extended session at Barry's house next
Tuesday. "Are you up for that?" "Too fucking right I'm up for it!" We
arranged to meet at Kings Cross at 10 on Tuesday morning. "Enjoy
Saturday," I said, "I'll want all the juicy details, remember." "You bet."
"Bye then." "Bye," accompanied by a big kissy noise. "See you Tuesday,"
and I was gone.
I phoned Barry. He was overjoyed. "We'll be there between half ten and
eleven," I said, "try not to cum after Saturday night." "Christ! that's
impossible," he said, "I've never not cum for that long since I started to
squirt." "Well, try anyway. It'll be worth it. Slave," I added. "OK."
With next week's social diary already taking shape I relaxed. I really
needed a drink. But in order to get one I'd need to get a man, and in
order to get the man I was after - whoever he was - I needed to be a rent
boy. There were probably dozens of places in London in 1957 where boys
could be found, but by far the most famous was Piccadilly Circus. I
thought a tourist might be the best target: he would be likely to have a
hotel room where comforts might be obtained (not least that gin).
It was getting on for half past five when I went down into Piccadilly
Circus tube station. I looked in at the Gents - a notorious pick-up spot
then, and (for all I knew: I haven't been there for years) maybe still now.
No action there - maybe it was too early. I walked slowly round the
circular ticket hall, which doubles as a pedestrian subway connecting
several entrances. There were a few boys hanging about. The second time
round the boys were pretty much in the same places. I didn't want to poach
someone else's territory, so I approached a boy about my age. "I'm new
round here, and I want to find some trade, but I don't want to piss off any
of the renters here already. Where should I go?" He looked at me, rather
startled to be asked. "Well, not here for sure. This is my bit, see. Go
and ask Bill, he's the boss down here. He'll tell you." I wondered
whether what Bill would tell me would be to piss off, but I had to try.
"Which one's Bill?" "Big lad, 16, wears a red hat. Round that way." "OK,
thanks," and I was off before any potential trade was missed by my
informant.
Bill was easily spotted. The red hat was a very visible advertisement for
his services. Had I been my real self, and had I been looking for trade he
would have been hard to avoid - tall, thin, pale, probably up for just
about anything. But to the 14-year-old me he looked intimidating:
doubtless that was why he was 'the boss down here'. I sidled up to him.
"A lad further round said you were Bill, and that you're the boss." "'S
right. What d'you want? You're too young to be a punter, so you must be a
renter. New 'ere?" "Yes," I said, "and I don't want to mess anybody
else's pitch. Where should I go to stand?" He thought about it. "What
d'you offer then?" he asked. "Gotta make sure you aint likely to be
competition," he grinned, "but then you look chicken, so there'll be plenty
of punters after your arse. D'you take it up the arse?" "Yes," I said, "I
do most things." He thought a bit more. "Tell you what. One of my mates
is away for a few days - some rich cunt's taken 'im off somewhere to fuck
'im senseless. You can 'ave 'is pitch - it's 20 feet that way," and he
pointed to a bit of wall where there was no-one loitering. "Stand there
and don't do anything stupid. If the rozzers come get the hell out of it.
Best to buy a ticket first then you can just disappear down the escalator."
And with that my induction to the underworld was complete.
I stood where I had been directed, and wondered what kind of punter I was
ideally after. A tourist, certainly, and preferably younger than say 35.
On his own too. The secret would be to ignore any man who didn't take my
fancy, and to make eye contact only with those I liked the look of. Maybe
I would smile - I hadn't worked it out fully. Trial and error then.
After 15 minutes there had been no-one even vaguely like my preferred
punter. During this time Bill had been approached twice, but whatever was
briefly discussed had been rejected, although whether by the punter or by
Bill wasn't clear to me. There was another boy about 30 feet the other way
- 16, 17 maybe - who had been approached and had gone off with his client.
Even now, perhaps, he was suffering a fate worse than death in some seedy
lair. Lucky him! Another 10 minutes passed. The stream of people coming
into the station was at its heaviest. I didn't think it likely that a
tourist would be coming into the station at rush hour: much more likely
would be a tourist returning to a West End hotel after a bust day's
sightseeing. And if the busy day had led to a thirst for a boy (and gin!)
then I would be his target. I noticed that the pitch I had was probably
one of the best - Bill's pal would enjoy such a privilege no doubt -
between the top of the bank of escalators and the Regent Street exit. I
continued to wait.
Eventually at about half past six a man, clearly a tourist from his clothes
and the fact that he had a map in his hand, came up to me. "Say, son, I'm
kinda lost. Can you show me something?" and while he was asking this
perfectly innocent question he looked me straight in the eye, grinned and
winked. Had he done this here yesterday, I wondered. "Sure, mister, what
do you want me to show you?" He showed me the map and pointed to the
margin where the words 'how much?' were printed. "Well, let's see," I
said, "it won't take long to get there from here, but it'll be much easier
if I show you rather than tell you." I lowered my voice, "Ten quid'll get
you anywhere you want to go."
"Say, kid, that's real kind of you. I get lost in this town, so if you
show me where to go that'll be swell." "Follow me," I said, and led him up
out of the tube station. "I need to go this way," he said when we were in
the street, "my hotel's up there. OK?" "Sure, mister," I said, "you're the
boss. Are we going to your hotel? I hope so." It was all so
straightforward. I imagined he must have done this many times before.
"Are you American?" I asked (stupid question, but I had to break the ice
somehow). "Yes, kid, I am." The taciturn type, then. Oh well, he wasn't
paying me for conversation. We reached a hotel and he went in. "Just keep
next to me and don't look around," he said. We went to the lift and got
in. There were just the two of us. "What's your name, kid?" "Randy," I
said, "I'm well named. What's yours?" "You can call me Cy." Thank God he
didn't me to call him Daddy. We arrived at his room. He unlocked it and I
followed him in. We had been seen by no-one.
"OK, Cy, what do you want? I do just about anything, but you only get what
you pay for." "How old are you, Randy?" "I'm 14, but that doesn't mean
I'm not professional. You'll be getting years of experience, believe me."
"Good. You can cum spooge?" Not a term I'd heard before as a 14-year-old,
so I said "I spunk when I cum, if that's what spooge is?" He grinned,
"yeah, guess I'd better speak British. Spunk. Interesting word."
There'll be plenty of it, I hoped. "What I want is this, Randy. I want
you to stay here with me for a few hours. I want to fuck you. I want you
to suck my cock. How much for that?"
I thought quickly. "Well, Cy, I'm happy with all that, but if I'm going to
stay for a few hours I'm gonna have to be fed. How about this. It's seven
o'clock now. We play about for a while then you ring Room Service and fix
dinner up here for us both, then we play about some more. I'll do all that
for £20 if you give me a decent meal. Tell you what," I paused
strategically, "if you make it £40 I'll stay the night, and you can play
as much as you like." Rarely has a dangled worm been so swiftly swallowed.
His grin said it all. "Done, kid!" "Good," I said, "let's have the money
up front, then we can forget about that side of it and just pretend that
you love me, and I'm doing all these things because I love you too." The
grin got even wider, and he forked out £40. I tucked it into my
faithful backpack.
"Before we start, there's favour I have to ask, and it's not a joke. I
want, no, I need, a gin and tonic from your bar. Don't ask why, just let
me have it. Liquor gets me going," I said. What man having coughed up
£40 for a night's unbridled action with a willing 14-year-old is going
to refuse to get him tiddly? The g&t arrived, and I was glad to see both
that it was a generous one, and that Cy had poured himself one as well.
"Why don't we order dinner now?" he suggested, "and tell them we want it at
8.30?" This seemed a sensible idea, not least because I could be safely
out of sight in the bathroom when Room Service appeared. We looked at the
menu and made our choices. Cy phoned down and placed the order. My gin
was half done by now, and its relaxing effect was most welcome.
Cy stood up. "Time to play." I decided I would start by taking the lead.
If that wasn't what he wanted he would tell me soon enough. "I like them
big and strong," I said, "let's see whether Cy's secret friend is big and
strong too," and I knelt in front of him and unzipped his trousers. I put
my hand in and felt a good-sized cock firming up nicely. "Mmm!" I said,
"that feels big," and I licked my lips. "Will it be tasty, I wonder." Cy
wasted no time in allowing my question to be answered. He undid his belt
and shucked his trousers to the floor. His boxers hid little and I eased
them over his erection. It was well worth admiring - cut, of course, seven
and a half inches rising from a trimmed black bush, with large low-hanging
balls gently swinging. "Fuck me," I whispered, "that's some cock, Cy. I
hope I can take it all." I knew perfectly well, of course, that I could,
but it seemed only reasonable for a 14-year-old rent boy to express a
degree of concern lest he be hurt. "I sure hope so, boy," he said, " and
we'll soon find out. Get your clothes off." Nice Cy was giving way to
hotted-up dominant Cy: OK, if that's how he wanted it I'd play along.
I took off my clothes, taking my time to fold them nicely. He was out of
his and waiting proud, naked and urgent by the time I had finished. My
last action before turning to face him was to bend over and put my folded
clothes in a neat pile. "Christ, kid, that's a cute ass you got there."
"Glad you like the look of it, Cy, would you like to get down and dirty
with it?" "Not yet, kid, I need my cock in your pretty little mouth. Get
those luscious lips of yours working." I bent to my task and tasted Yank
cock for the first time. (That's not strictly true: I had tasted Yank cock
- several, in fact - at a USAF base in about 1975, but in fairy-land this
was my first.) Cut cock, as you know, isn't my preference, but I gave it
as good a going-over as I could, and to judge by the groanings coming from
Cy he was happy enough. I removed my lips to ask if he wanted to get onto
the bed to 69. "No, later, maybe. Keep at it down there, Randy, I'm gonna
cum and you're gonna swallow it all." "Sure thing, massa," I said, and
resumed my submissive posture. "Cheeky little bugger," he chuckled. Again
I removed my lips. "Cheeky, yes, little, yes, bugger, yes, if you like,
but -" "Oh get on with it." And so I did. My lips and tongue were giving
his cock full attention. My right hand caressed his balls, still low in
his scrotum; my right hand went round his arse - or ass, I suppose, if he
was going to speak British I might as well be courteous and speak American
- and fondled the left cheek. "Ah yes, kid, my ass likes that." Both
hands were instantly deployed in kneading his ass cheeks, separating them
and squeezing them together in time with my mouth bobbing on his cock.
Each time I separated his cheeks I allowed my middle fingers to get nearer
and nearer to his ass hole. "Mmmm! More." Next time his ass was open to
my finger-tips, but without any lube I wasn't going any further. However I
was pleased to discover that his ass was well lubricated already. What
could this mean? Elucidation would have to wait because the action of my
finger-tips on the sensitive lining of his ass was all that was needed to
make him cum. He groaned loudly, "here, boy, take it!" and I could feel a
hot jet of transatlantic cum, spooge, whatever, flooding my mouth. I
sampled the taste before swallowing - not great, if I'm honest, but quite
acceptable. I think there a PhD thesis somewhere waiting to be written on
why spunk tastes so different from one cock to another. Is it age
(testosterone?) or diet or just random? If the fairy gave me a second wish
it might be to be 22 and a PhD student charged with such a research
project. Dream on, Peter!
Cy's dwindling cock was still in my mouth, still oozing spooge. It wasn't
only the taste that didn't satisfy - the word itself sounded oozy, and
unattractive. Spunk spurted, surely, and sounded more urgent, forceful,
masculine even. I decided I wouldn't use the word again. The cock was OK,
though, and it would fill up my ass - arse, sorry, it was English, after
all - nicely. I gave it a long farewell lick and let it slip from my mouth
with a distinct 'plop'. "That was nice, Cy," I said, "your cum tastes
great." I waited for my nose to get longer, but happily it didn't. No
Pinocchio I. While I was down here I decided I might as well delve
further. "Turn round," I said, "I want to explore your ass." Like putty
in my hands, this one, I thought.
He turned and bent, putting his hands on his knees. His crack was hairy -
not how I like it at all - but his ass hole itself looked inviting. I
touched the lips with my finger and he sighed and pushed. His ass lips
emerged like a flower - if you've seen a horse shitting you'll know how it
works. Well, it's the same with us pretty much. They were pink and red
and smelt heady. I wondered again what he'd been up to earlier that had
lubed him up. There was only one way to find out. I leaned forward and
gently licked his ass lips.
"Wow! Cy," I said," your ass tastes yummy, and not just yummy but unless
I'm mistaken it's cummy too. Who've you had up there?" "Nosy little
bugger, aren't you, kid? Well, I'll tell you. I've been doing the tourist
thing in London for a week and today I just felt like a rest. So I took me
off to one of your parks and sat me down in the sun. A sailor comes
walking by and we fall into conversation. Turns out I was sitting in a
queer cruising area and he thought I was looking for action. Well, until
that moment I wasn't, but he was such a dish I made my mind up right there
and then." "Lucky old Cy," I said, "what happened?"
He told me that the sailor (who called himself Arthur) was 22 and on leave
for 48 hours. They had come up to this very room and had engaged in
entirely satisfying sexual acts. Each had ejaculated copiously, Cy into
Arthur's mouth and Arthur into Cy's ass. It was Arthur's spunk I was
tasting - genuine seaman's semen. Not only was I getting £40 but I was
getting gin, a damn good meal and sloppy seconds. Were it not that I was
something like 82 now I might have thought I'd died and gone to heaven.
Knowing that it was Arthur, stalwart of the Royal Nany, whose spunk I was
tasting I went back to work with renewed vigour, and spent a good ten
minutes snuffling about Cy's arse (spelling courtesy the Senior Service).
"Can I put a finger up?" "Go for it, baby, the more the merrier." "Fist?"
"Yeah, why not. I aint been fisted by a Brit kid before." No, I thought,
nor by an old age pensioner. In went my trust right hand, straight past
his sphincter, straight into a hot wet tunnel still (had I a nose long
enough to get in there to smell) reeking of Arthur's spunk. Rotate the
knuckles ("Oh fuck, kid, where did you learn that whore's trick?"), rotate
again, make fucking movements with fist, stick it in as far as it'll go (a
surprisingly long way, a good two inches past my wrist), bring it back,
knuckles, knuckles, knuckles ... "Aaaaaaaaaaaaaah!" and a great spurt of
cum on the carpet. "Jeez, kid, you're a wonder." "All part of the
service, my lord," I murmured as I withdrew my fist, reeking itself now
form Cy's juices as much as Arthur's. It was 8.15. Time to clean up and
become invisible as the food arrived.
"See you when I'm all lovely and pure again," I said.
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<End of Chapter 29>
Keep your depraved ideas coming, guys. They're always welcome and, like a
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