Date: Thu, 23 Jun 2011 04:28:27 -0700 (PDT)
From: Ryan
Subject: Little Things

[The story and characters are the product of the author's imagination, with
no resemblance to anyone living or deceased.]

[Warning: This story has consensual sex between an underage boy and an
adult. If this offends you, then do not read on.]

Little Things

    My name's Kevin Barton, and I'm 9 years old. My lover is Marcel Laduc,
a balding, thickish-bellied, 44-year-old man. What's more to say?

    Despite what Marcel thinks, I'm not special. I have brown eyes, longish
brown hair, and I'm lean. In other words, ordinary. I'm about as tall as
most 9-year-old boys, or maybe a bit taller at nearly 4 and a half feet. My
hairless circumcised dick when it's hard, is a slender arrow-straight 3
inches. For the last month or so, it can now squirt cum. Not the watery
kind of cum, but real, cream-like sperm. I don't know if it means I can
actually make babies now, but seeing how Marcel and I are both gay and
guys, I kind of doubt it matters much.

    As every Friday after school, I returned to the city orphanage, but
didn't eat what they claim is food. I wish I could do that every night, as
do the other kids here. While waiting to leave again, I finished both my
Friday night homework, as well as my weekend assignments. The moment six
o'clock came, I was out of there, not even bothering to tell the staff I
was leaving. They know I disappear for the weekends. They don't know where
I go, and don't give a shit. So long as my naked corpse doesn't turn up in
some alley, which would cancel the fat government check they get for
"caring" for me. But that wouldn't be a big deal for them. There's plenty
more orphan boys on the streets, waiting to be "saved."

    Being pleasant for early-October, I went with casual blue jeans and
runners, with a black t-shirt. My schoolbag now held two changes of
clothes. Not that I'd need them, or the ones I'm wearing. Taking a city bus
to the rough downtown area, I cut through alleys, making sure I wasn't
followed. Newscasts often brags about another pedophile getting busted.
Marcel is the greatest thing in my life. I won't let him to be found out,
and taken away from me.

    Reaching the alley behind a used bookstore, I waited and watched the
store's solid metal rear door. Like each Friday after closing at six
o'clock, the balding middle-aged owner emerged, to toss a garbage bag in
the alley's dumpster. The moment he disappeared back inside, I followed
through the door, and locked the pair of deadbolts behind me.

    Then I turned into Marcel's waiting arms, and we kissed with desperate
passion.

    "Tabarnak!" Marcel panted with his French accent, in-between his tongue
sucking hungrily on my own. "Five days, it is too long, oui?"

    "A second is too long," I said back, my small hands undoing his
trousers. The thickish-bellied man didn't have time for a reply as I
dropped to my knees, pulling his pants and boxers with me to his ankles.

    And impaled my mouth on his shaved 6-inch boner.

    "Oh, Kev-on!" he gasped, rising up a bit in his old-time leather
shoes. I love how Marcel pronounces my name, along with everything about
him.

    I vigorously worked his boner with just my mouth and tongue. I could
swallow all of his cock, until my lips and nose were pressed tight to his
smooth groin. At the same time, my tongue would caress and curl around it,
like a boa constrictor in heat. To further stoke his passion, I ran my
hands up and down his legs and squeezed his ass cheeks. A playful stroke to
the sensitive spot between his legs, and a loving fondle of his shaved
balls, had his legs quaking.

    Marcel's cock was so rigid, it was surely hurting being so hard. It
throbbed in my sucking mouth, with its sweet pre-cum weeping like a tiny
river. The way its nice thickness was swelling a little thicker, said he
was getting close now. Cupping his tightening balls in one hand, and
holding the root by the other, I pulled my mouth off his cock with a wet
sucking-pop sound. Marcel gasped loudly, his whole body straining as the
cool air shocked his slippery boner. I took it in my bobbing hot mouth
again to lick and suck for a few more moments, before pulling off with
another wet sucking-pop sound. Twice more I did it, and had I looked up,
I'm sure to have seen Marcel's kindly hazel eyes rolling back in agonizing
ecstasy.

    With his boner so hard, strained to the very limits its flesh could
take, it seemed impossible any trace of cum could squeeze through it. But
when my middle-aged lover orgasmed, gasping a swearword in French, his hot
cum did flood out.

    As always with his first weekend burst of cum, the huge gushing torrent
of it made me gag and choke.

    I know Marcel has to masturbate during the long days we're apart, but
you'd never know it by the massiveness of his first loads. It's like five
built-up days of hot cum, plus a whole ocean's worth, exploding in my tiny
9-year-old mouth in four or five strong spurts. As huge as his other loads
are, I don't often choke on them. But I always choke on his first geyser of
slippery semen, and love it. What sperm isn't shot directly down my throat,
or I greedily swallow, I lick from my lips and his boner. I like teasing he
should open up a salad bar in his used book store, because his French
dressing's so awesome.

    Marcel stood panting as my tongue swabbed his cock clean, which
softened only enough for its foreskin to partly sheath the back ridge of
its thick head. He was looking down at me, those kind eyes of his shining
with love, and with that lopsided, after-orgasm smile of his. "Merci,
Kev-on."

    "I thought I just gave you mercy," I grinned up at him.

    Marcel chuckled, even though it was the longest running joke between
us. "Oh, you Anglos," he muttered with a smirk, his French accent
thickening with every syllable. "You and vos Anglais ancetres, un non bon
chien tabarnak." He lapsed for a few more sentences in his native
tongue. Helping me rise to my feet, he finished with, "Oui?"

    "I caught the first part about me and my English ancestors," I smiled,
"being no good, unholy dogs. I think it was meant as unholy, right? The
other stuff I didn't get, but I'm sure it was just as good."

    "Ah, Kev-on," Marcel hugged me, which he had to bend a little as he's a
foot and a half taller than my nearly 4 and a half feet. "I am not of the
Anglos' world, but no longer of la belle province." He kissed me
fondly. "But you sadly know of this, what it is not to feel of belonging,
yes?"

    I did know, far too well in my short life, but I knew something else,
too. "That's true, Marcel. But not when I'm with you."

    "Oh! You will make me cry, mon amour," he hugged and kissed me.

    For a little while longer we kissed passionately, standing in his used
book store's back room, with his trousers and boxers around his
ankles. Finally we parted, and he pulled up his pants to buckle them
again. He placed his thickish fingers, which were always so gentle and
loving, on the shoulder straps of my schoolbag. "May I?"

    "Oui, s'il vous plait," I answered softly, in about the only French I
truly know. That's only because Marcel is always saying it and "merci" so
often. I felt a thrill shiver through me as he eased my schoolbag from my
shoulders, then slowly lifted my t-shirt up and off of me. I love being
undressed. For Marcel, having someone else removing his clothes makes him
feel like a child again. I feel that way, too, even though as I'm 9 years
old, I'm still a kid. But it's more than that. When my 44-year-old lover
undresses me, I feel warm and special. And more so, loved.

    Marcel went down on a knee in front of me, and took off my runners and
socks. He loves my feet. I love that he loves my feet. Sometimes I'll make
him cum with a footjob. Twice now he's made me cum, just by only stroking
and rubbing my bare feet and lean calves. Next he eased down my jeans,
slipping them off one leg at a time. My black briefs were tenting out, like
my 3-inch hard dick was trying to reach out, to touch his face just inches
away. He teasingly tugged the briefs down and off my legs, keeping his face
level with my groin, so my dick could feel each puff of his hot excited
breath.

    It sounds silly, seeing I use to be briefly homeless, and now live in
an orphanage that's far worse than when I was on the streets. The thing is,
I feel uncomfortable with Marcel sucking my dick, until I've washed it. I
know he loves sucking it, even if it was covered in grime and sweat. But
like everything else with me, he respects my quirks, as I do his. It's yet
another of the never-ending reasons I love him so much.

    Even so, he couldn't resist lightly stroking my dick, as he might do
with a tiny kitten. That was okay, as was his other hand caressing up my
bare leg, to knead and pet my ass. Marcel loves my proud, round, bubble
butt. Just as he loves my dick, and my feet, and my eyes, and my legs, and
my everything. Even my nose. I had giggled, when he'd once said he loved my
pert little nose, before he had suddenly sucked on it playfully like a
dick.

    "Merde," he softly cursed, shaking his balding head at himself, and
reluctantly released my privates. "If I dos not stop now, we be here all
the night. Our time together, it is short enough, yes?"

    I nodded, just as aware of the precious seconds passing, before I had
to go back to the orphanage on Sunday night.

    Marcel gathered up my schoolbag and clothes, holding them like they
were treasure. I guess for him they are, as they're a part of me. I opened
a door next to the store's back door, and reached in to flick on the
light. Revealed was a narrow set of stairs, leading up to Marcel's
apartment. Like most stores in the old part of downtown, a three-bedroom
apartment was built above them for the owner's family. We're lucky in the
unit on one side of us was turned into storage, and the other one was too
run down to live in. No one lives in the store apartments across the
street, either. Looking out the back windows is a solid, three-story-tall
brick wall. It's like living in a forgotten desert with no one around, but
in the middle of the city. Still, we keep the thick curtains on all the
windows closed, because we can't be too careful.

    I waited naked, two steps up the stairs, as he double-checked the
locks, and switched off the last of the lights. Closing and locking the
stairwell door behind him, he turned on the store's alarm with a numbered
keypad. Still holding my clothes and schoolbag, he nodded at me with a
smile.

    As bare-assed naked as I was born 9 years ago, I climbed the long set
of narrow stairs, but with a slow casualness. Not far behind me, I could
almost hear Marcel's cock hardening again. He can't get enough of watching
my lean naked body when I'm walking. It doesn't matter where I'm doing it,
or why. However, watching me walk up a set of stairs, as he gets to ogle me
from below, is a special treat. Sometimes I'll walk up and down the stairs
over and over, while he sits at the bottom just as naked and masturbates so
hard, he nearly drools. Actually, he's drooled a few times, and it's so
cute!

    Midway up I stopped to half-turn back toward him, so Marcel could see
my ramrod-straight hard dick and small hairless balls. Only using little
shakes of my narrow hips, I wagged my 3-inch boner for him.

    "See what you do to me, Mar-Mar?" I purred in my silkiest boyish
voice. His lustful groan sent a spasm through my dick, causing it to twitch
and jerk several times up and down by itself. That just made him groan
again, seemingly in near-anguish.

    Slowly turning back around, I parted my legs a little. Gripping my
round buns, I spread and held my ass cheeks apart. It gave Marcel the
perfect view of my tight little asshole, and the smooth, small nutsack
dangling underneath it. I even made my asshole give him a tiny wink. He
moaned in pure ecstasy this time, sounding almost tortured.

    I'm not doing this to torture him, or to even tease him. Marcel has a
very vivid memory. He's actually recited whole pages of novels to me, that
he read years ago. His memory of the pages, and just about everything else,
is even better he says than looking at photos of them. He's never asked to
take photos of me, like Daddy had. It's not just the threat of someone
finding out about them, like they had with Daddy, although that had been
his own fault. It's that Marcel doesn't need a camera, because his mind's
better than any camera. That's why I like doing things like this, as it
gives him the stuff of dreams, both at night and during the day, for during
the week when we're not together.

   Releasing my cheeks, I gave my butt a playful little wiggle, before
walking up the rest of the stairs. He followed several moments later, after
no doubt shifting his straining cock so he could walk again.

    The stairs opened up into his apartment's kitchen. Next to the kitchen
in the apartment's rear was the bathroom, then the bedroom Marcel sleeps
in. He could've used one of the other two bedrooms, beyond the large
central living room. But those two bedrooms overlooked the street
below. His bedroom is quieter, the bathroom's next to it, and it's far more
private.

    Nothing in the cozy apartment is really that old, but not really that
new, either. Except for the plush, L-shaped sofa in the living room, and
his king-sized bed. One front bedroom also has a bed, made to look like
it's slept in when I'm here, with some of my clothes hanging in the
closet. It's in case, and hopefully it'll never happen, the cops come. It's
so it seems like all Marcel has done, is give a young orphaned boy, who the
surrounding neighborhood often sees coming to read books in his used book
shop, a safe place to stay if he wants it.

    It's not actually a lie. After all, everybody knows how rundown and
demeaning the city orphanage is. The cops especially do, as they show up at
least once a month for another case of food poisoning, or a stabbing. More
often it's because the neighbors think, and rightly so, that some of the
staff and kids are selling drugs to teens and little children. Even if the
cops weren't there so much, they already know me, or of me. Daddy getting
caught didn't just make the city papers, but the world news for a
while. Although the news blocked the photos of my face and didn't report my
name, the cops know, and it's barely been a year and a half since.

    Marcel put my clothes and schoolbag in "my" bedroom, while in the
bathroom I got my douche ready. It's really an enema, but that word sound
so harsh. I waited until I heard Marcel finishing ordering our pizza on the
phone. Saturdays and Sundays, he cooks awesome breakfasts and suppers. But
Friday nights we order pizza from the Greek ma-and-pa-run, pita and pizza
shop two blocks away. Their food's excellent, and not having to whip up a
supper, it gives Marcel and I more precious time to enjoy each other. I've
even willingly learned to like anchovies, although I've always got to have
a can of Pepsi ready.

    Once I douched, I jumped in the shower. The bathtub's an older one with
sort of wide ledges, but the two of us can take a bath in it together. A
rather snug bath, but that just makes it all the more enjoyable. I'd
finished rinsing my longish brown hair, and was soaping up my smooth upper
body and arms, when the shower curtain parted and a naked Marcel joined
me. I know he's already had a shower and douche after closing the store,
but before he had started cleaning the store for the night.

    "They were that quick?" I asked about the pizza, rather surprised.

    "Oui," he nodded his balding head, and soaped up a washcloth to start
scrubbing by back. I had to pause, for a moment lost in the pure pleasure
of it. No matter how often Marcel did it, every time I was nearly
cross-eyed with bliss. "It seems I am quite the predictable on Fridays. Our
pizza was made, and waited to put in the oven for when I calls."

    "Well, if you're quite the predictable," I grinned with my back to him,
"then I must be totally the predictable."

    As I said it, my hand reached behind me, and softly stroked my lover's
jutting boner. Even Marcel's chuckles have a French accent. I wasn't
jerking his cock, but more stroking and fondling it lovingly. I've learned
from him that sex doesn't have to be direct, hard, and heated all the
time. Making love can be as simple as a fond touch, or one of our
favorites, snuggling together naked with wandering tender stroking, and
soft unhurried kisses. In love, as with people I've found, sometimes the
best things are the little things.

    "You are not the predictable, Kev-on," Marcel kissed my ear. He'd
worked the soapy washcloth down my back to my ass. His scrubbing the smooth
curves of my bum, and along the inside of the crack, wasn't really intended
to be sexual. But it wasn't really intended to simply clean, either. "You
be in fact so the unpredictable, you make moi crazy, being so at a time
. . . . Is it combustible, I am thinking?"

    "You mean spontaneous? As in spontaneous combustion?"

    "Mais oui! Spontaneous. Plus you are hot like the combustion."

    "Takes one to know one, sexy," I kissed him over my shoulder, giving
his cock a loving squeeze.

    "Ah, I am but merely a warmed-over old Frenchman. But this is fine as
well, yes? Has you washed your legs and pey-pey yet, mon amour?"

    It had taken me months, not giggle when he called my dick a pee-pee. I
still couldn't help grinning, especially the way his accent makes "pee-pee"
sound like "pey-pey."

    "Not yet. Would you mind washing them for me?"

    "It would be my honor," he whispered over the shower, gently easing his
cock from my fingers. "And mon delight."

    He gently pulled me back against him, with his hard boner and thickish
middle-aged belly pressed between us. Like his groin and balls, Marcel
keeps his body shaved smooth. It felt so warm and comforting, I almost
forgot about my dick. Until both of his hands reached around, and began to
wash it. For somewhat thick fingers, they're very gentle and
light-touching. I use to think a washcloth, no matter how soapy, would feel
coarse on my hard 3-inch dick. Not so with Marcel. He was a true artist
with washing my dick, and a lot of other things with me. He gently circled
my sensitive head with the washcloth, and caressed the slender shaft and my
small balls. He wasn't fully trying to sexually arouse me, but that only
made it even more sensually erotic and exciting.

    With his cupping fingers, and tender scrubbing, I had to lean back into
him with both eyes closed. My soft, steady moaning surely sounded like a
purr. It definitely felt like a purr.

    "Mon belle garcon," he breathed, kissing my ear affectionately. I
shivered in both love and lust. As the washcloth moved to scrub my narrow
hips, then halfway down each thigh, Marcel kept whispering things in soft
French. I don't know what they meant, and I didn't have to. His loving
tone, his hot breath, his warm body pressed tight to mine. These things
said more than any words, spoken in any tongue, could say. They were the
universal language of shared love.

    After rinsing off my hips and groin, he lathered up the washcloth and
turned off the shower. Gently sitting me on the tub's far edge, being wide
enough to be comfortable for my bubble-butted ass, he went down on his
knees, just above my partly-outstretched feet. As he spread one of my lean
legs slightly to scrub from thigh to knee, I couldn't help myself. My other
small foot shifted between his kneeling thighs, so my toes could lightly
stroke along his hard cock. He didn't have to say anything, for me to know
how much he appreciated the returned affection.

    At my knee, Marcel switched to my other thigh, and I replaced my foot
with the other to keep rubbing. Then he continued to scrub down to my
foot. My hard dick, the same buttermilk cream color as the rest of my fair
skin, got even harder. Setting aside the washcloth, his fingers and palms
massaged and kneaded my soapy calf and foot. It was like a master musician
creating beautiful music on an instrument, and I was the instrument. I
couldn't even focus on my toes rubbing Marcel's cock, as my whole body
quivered and floated in indescribable pleasure. Along the toned length of
my calf and ankle, working the soft sole of my foot, to in-between my small
toes. My body wasn't flesh and blood, but a rippling mass of bliss.

    It didn't stop even when Marcel began soaping up my other calf and
foot, then working them so skillfully. I wasn't sure if I was moaning,
because I didn't know if I was still breathing. Part of me could sense my
boner. It felt as if molten steel had been injected into it, making it
bigger than its ruler-straight 3 inches, and so impossibly hard, it ached
from the strain.

    When I suddenly felt Marcel's lips softly kiss the head of my dick, I
would've screamed, if I wasn't panting and gasping so hard. Even though I
know it every weekend, I keep forgetting how sensitive my boner is when
it's this near-bursting hard. Everything is amplified, like a fluttering
butterfly becoming a roaring jet airplane. The intensity of Marcel's long,
slow lick up along my dick's very sensitive underside nearly killed
me. Then his mouth eased over my 9-year-old dick, effortlessly swallowing
it whole. Thankfully he didn't try sucking it, or the ecstasy would've
killed me. But even just forming his mouth and tongue on it like a hot
smothering blanket, had me all but out of my head. Both of them!

    Somehow, through it all, I felt Marcel shifting my feet together around
his own raging cock. I tightened my soles to his 6-inch cock, which he
slowly pumped back and forth in-between them. His hands glided up to knead
my ankles and calves with strong but loving fingers. The mouth and tongue
around my dick, now began to slowly massage it. Added with the feel of his
sawing cock, and his hands working my legs, had me squirming pitifully.

    I was torn between desperately wanting to cum, and desperately wanting
this to never end. But there was no choice. Not after blowing Marcel down
in the back room, the teasing on the stairs, and everything during the
shower. Then there's a week of counting down the seconds until I'd see him
again. And imagining all the things we've done, and would hope to do.

    My body wasn't mine anymore. Marcel held my feet around his boner by my
ankles, as my small fingers gripped the tub's edge like claws. My narrow
hips and bubble butt were jacking up and down, humping my middle-aged
lover's mouth with whimpering desperation. It was like being a ghost in my
own lean body, helpless to the instincts that controlled it, and feeling
every trace of the ecstasy raging through it. My hard dick pumped in and
out of his mouth, lost in the frenzy of lust. Then, with each new bucking
thrust, his strong tongue would slide down my boner's 3-inch length, and
along my tightened balls.

    It was too much.

    Arcing my back, filling Marcel's mouth with my dick and balls, I cried,
gasped, and sobbed. My cum burned like lava erupting from an erupting
volcano, as my newly adolescent sperm squirted into his eagerly sucking
mouth. All the while, his cock kept fucking my feet. It couldn't have been
more than two or three smallish spurts, but it felt like years of agonizing
rapture devouring me. Finally my trembling ass sank back to the bathtub's
edge, as I sat panting in chest-wrenching heaves.

    Suddenly Marcel rose in a half-stooped crouch, bracing against the tub
side and the tiled wall. His throbbing 6-inch cock was aimed directly at my
face. Clapping my palms together on his rock-hard shaft in a prayer-pose,
like the soles of my feet had been, I furiously jerked my hands back and
forth in a blur. I only managed to do it for not even five seconds.

    As Marcel cummed, he swore something in French so viciously, I'm sure
even the most foul-mouthed of Quebecers would've gasped in appalled
shock. His semen jetted from his straining cock like cannon blasts, again
and again. Strings and gobs of thick cream splattered my hair, face, smooth
chest, and even my dick. I kept my palms jacking, milking his spasming
boner, until he slowly slid to his knees in the tub, panting as hard as I
was.

    Easing myself from the tub's edge, I gently straddled Marcel to sit on
his kneeling lap, clinging to him with my arms around his neck. His own
arms came around my ribs to hold me tight, stroking my back soothingly. For
a while we were content to stay that way, recovering while we savored our
mutual afterglow.

    "Merde," Marcel said in an amused breath, fondly squeezing me. "I
thought for sure you would die, before you cummed. Has you cummed this week
so far, no?"

    "Yeah, once," I said softly, feeling almost guilty because it was only
the one time.

    "It is yes? And when this be?"

    "Monday night."

    Marcel laughed lightly with another squeeze. "Tabarnak, Kev-on. That
explain it. We will catch you up, and plus more this weekend, not you
worry, mon amour. And perhaps, we add more cums to top of that as well, for
the week ahead, yes?"

    I tilted my face to kiss his ear. "Only if that goes for you, too."

    He helped raise me to my feet, rising with me and chuckling looking at
my cum-splattered face and chest. "How dos we shower together, but get so
dirty?"

    Turning the shower back on, I washed his foreskin-sheathed cock and
balls, while he gave me a quick head-to-toe scrub. Although I toweled him
off first, it was nothing compared to what he did with me. There wasn't
speck of my skin he missed, and his two-handed toweling was far more like a
vigorous massage than drying. I use to feel more guilty than still I do,
with all the loving attention he constantly gives me. Worship is actually
the right term. The thing is, I've learned as special as it feels for me,
it's just as pleasurable for him. Maybe even more so. It's hard to truly
grasp for myself, but doing this stuff to and for me, is one of his big
things. More than just a turn on. I think more than a fetish, too, like my
feet, or watching me walk naked. But also part of it's because I'm a
9-year-old boy. Another part's because he loves me so much. And yet another
part's because that's the type of person Marcel is. Kind, gentle, loving,
devoted.

    As we left the bathroom, I playfully patted his bum. It was my silent
way to tell him to go to the sofa, while I brought the pizza and drinks. He
gave me an appreciative kiss on the cheek. I don't mind watching him walk
naked, either, from the front or the rear, and he knows it. He sat down
with spread legs, in the corner of the blanket-shrouded, L-shaped sofa. He
placed one of the sofa's large plush pillows behind his back to prop
himself up. Marcel had bought the sofa specifically for when I'm here with
him.

    I padded into the open kitchen. Removing the pizza box from the oven
that kept it warm, I grabbed a can of Pepsi for myself, and poured red wine
into a wine glass for him.

    I carried our drinks over first. I could've easily brought everything
over at the same time, but then Marcel would only get one walk from me out
of it. My soft circumcised dick wagged back and forth, and side to side as
I walked. As much as his hazel eyes adored the wriggly treat, he was also
admiring the rest of me.

    Some of his used book store's accounting books and forms were on the
large wood coffee table, along with a big yellow business envelope, French
to English dictionary, and printing calculator. Bending over at the waist,
with my round butt cheeks in direct line with Marcel's ogling eyes, I
carefully shifted the work stuff to the side to make room for our
supper. On several occasions, he's had to do some business during the
weekend. I've never minded, and have even taken an interest in it. At least
the stuff I can grasp, which understandably isn't anywhere as near as much
as I wish I could grasp. Although I'm definitely more mature-minded than
most other boys, I'm still only 9 years old.

    Walking back to the kitchen, I returned with the pizza box. Bending
over naked again laying it on the large coffee table, I giggled as Marcel
planted a kiss on my ass cheek. Unable to hide my smirk, I stood up and
turned to face him. My dick was level with his face. I tilted my chest to
the side, planted a fist on my narrow hip, and pretended to frown. And
failed miserably. "Marcel . . . ." I said mock-sternly.

    "I cannot help it," he smiled innocently. Then he gave my drooping dick
a playful little kiss. "You are the scrumptious moral. I wish I could ate
you for supper instead."

    "You remember we're having each other for dessert, right?"

    "Mais oui, mon amour. I be patient, as you be the sweetest of delicacy,
and worth any the hardship to wait."

    Marcel gently took me by my hips, and guided me to sit down with my
back to his middle-aged front. This was the reason he'd bought the L-shaped
sofa. The corner section we're on is actually large, and easily fits the
two of us cuddled together. I'm guessing it's why they call it a love
seat. I swung my bare legs up, curling them back under one of his spread
legs, so he could easily reach my feet. After he adjusted his cock's
positioning to be comfortable, he eased me back so I laid half-upright on
his chest, my head just under his. I could reach with one hand my pop and
the pizza box, to get slices for us, and eat with my other hand.

    Instantly, Marcel's free hand began roaming my body. That is, all of my
body that it could reach, and of that, it rarely missed an inch. He can't
get enough of my naked flesh, and is always commenting how soft and silky
it is. Sometimes his fingers would pause at one spot on my body, almost at
random, before meandering off again, seeming without any goal in mind. Even
being use to it, his absent touches and strokes could've been distracting,
if they weren't so soothing. It's no wonder cats purr while being petted in
their owner's laps.

    We ate without worry, as the blanket over the sofa protects it from any
spilled food or drinks. And other things, which at times gets "spilled" on
the sofa. As we ate, and I often reached for my Pepsi with the anchovies,
we watched a blooper show Marcel had recorded, without watching it himself
until we were together. Between snuggling naked so close and warmly, his
fond caresses across my body, and laughing together, this was heaven for
me. This is what my dreams are. Even if I only get to live it on the
weekends, at least I can. I never imagined I could feel, let alone have,
such happiness before I'd met Marcel.

    I stopped after four slices of pizza, as did Marcel. We know better
than to stuff ourselves, especially with our desserts to come. I slowly got
to my feet, enjoying the feel of his fingers trailing lazily down my back
and bum. Putting the pizza box in the fridge, next I grabbed the drained
Pepsi can and empty wine glass. A third trip was to place another Pepsi on
the coffee table, as a hand fondly brushed my thigh. After pouring more red
wine into Marcel's wine glass, I brought it to the sofa.

    Returning, one of the large plush pillows was placed on one wing of the
sofa. Exactly the distance for my head to lay, so my legs and feet would be
in my 44-year-old lover's lap.

    "Marcel," I whined, but only slightly. "You're spoiling me."

    "Moi? Spoiling tu? Non," he shook his balding head. "I am but selfish."

    "Sure, you enjoy it. But who's really the one, who's getting the most
pleasure out of it?"

    "Moi, of course."

    I sighed, knowing from experience I couldn't convince him
otherwise. Not when it came to him loving me. He really does believe he's
the one getting the most pleasure out of loving me. That's despite how
obvious the pleasure is for me.

    "Okay. But you do know, my love," I knelt with my knees on the sofa
between his legs, putting my hands around his neck to kiss him tenderly,
"you're the most selfless-selfish person ever?"

    Marcel ran his hands up and down my back, taking a few moments to
mentally translate my words. Then he laughed. "If this mean I am being
kind, and being selfish, I agree. But I am still the selfish, yes?"

    I shook my head, both in answer and surrender, and kissed him
again. How could've I ever met anyone so special like Marcel? I don't
deserve someone so special, yet I need him like a drug addict need a
fix. Like I need air. He's the only thing that makes my miserable life
bearable and worth living.

    As I laid on my back on the sofa wing, he lifted my naked legs up into
his lap, stroking the top of my feet like they were kittens. Marcel
massaged each of my feet and calves, one at a time. While he did one foot,
I kept my other foot so his soft foreskinned cock would lay on top of it. I
like the feeling of his cock draped on my foot, as much as he likes the
feeling, too.

    Unlike back in the shower, he kneaded and rubbed me in a solely
relaxing way. Although it felt awesome, and arousing, it was also
impossibly soothing. He'd said the soles of the feet had a direct
connection to the brain. There was literally nothing, he claimed, that
couldn't be done with a knowing press, touch, or specific caress on the
toes and soles. Naturally I though he was exaggerating, until he gave me my
first foot rub. I've never been proven so wrong in my life, and never so
grateful to be so, either.

    "Has you heard, Kev-on," Marcel asked taking a sip of wine, as his
other hand worked my toes, "of the carnival here next weekend? It is the
big deal, it is suppose to be. Dos you wish we go together, yes?"

    I felt my heart skip a beat, jumping so hard in joy, but just as
quickly squashed by reality. I tried to hide both reactions, and probably
failed worse than if I hadn't tried at all.

    "We can't do stuff like that, remember?" I said, sounding as crushed as
I felt. "People will think things, and . . . ."

    I trailed off, not needing to remind him how risky and dangerous being
seen together, outside of his book store, was to him. The cops knew me, and
what Daddy had done to me for most of my then-7 years. Naturally they'd be
watching anybody around me suspiciously. Especially a 44-year-old, balding
and thickish-bellied man, who lived alone, and was well-known for being
very kind to me. If that didn't scream "Pedophile!" to the cops and others,
then almost nothing could.

    Marcel set down his wine glass with a frown, then slashed his hand
through the air, spitting out something vile-sounding in French. It was
easy guessing it roughly meant, "they can go fuck themselves." But it was
said with the infused feeling, in this case disgusted venom, which his
native tongue can give to everyday words. After a moment, he seemed to
realize whatever it was he'd said, and his neck reddened a bit. I have to
learn French, as I'm surely missing out on some awesome swears.

    "It is no difference what any of they think," he resumed massaging my
foot again. "The whole neighborhood, they all know you come here so
much. Well, perhaps not our come, yes?" he kissed my toes as I
giggled. "Quite the few times in the week, many customer ask about tu. They
worry how you are, and if you be well. You are surprised, yes? It is not
all. The whole neighborhood, they know tu are with moi now tonight, and be
until Sunday, as we be each weekend."

    My 9-year-old body stiffened as fear shot through me, finding out one
of my worst nightmares was now real.

    "Non, non, non, Kev-on! This be good." He soothing rubbed my ankle,
which always made me feel calm when he did it. Almost against my will I
ease a little, but mostly because I trust Marcel. I trust him with my life,
as he trusts me with his.

    "Many customer has said to me such, about us," he explained. "I not
tell them, but they figure this alone. What more, they thank me for what I
dos for you. You see, they know you live in . . ." he searched for an
English word, but instead spit out one in French. The way he said it, I
don't think I want to know what it meant. But it probably described the
orphanage better than any English word could. "Some, they in fact ask why I
not have you live with moi for good. Oh, how I wish this as well. But I
must tells them, you to stay here all the time, as we are, it not be
proper. They understand."

    I smiled. That's one way to explain it to people. And it's as close to
the truth as we dare get.

    "But you see, mon amour? This not be the fear we think. Some will
wonder, but many more understand. They know we are the friends, and wish to
enjoy the carnival as they dos, yes?"

    Chewing my lip, I thought about what Marcel was saying. Maybe I
shouldn't be that surprised the neighborhood knows I stay here on the
weekends. After all, I'm at his used book store whenever I can be after
school, even if we have to act like different people during the week. And
come to think of it, a lot of the people browsing the store, and on the
street at times, have said hello to me, and asked how I was doing. I
figured they were simply being kind, despite how rough the downtown
neighborhood is. Maybe Marcel's right. Maybe it would be okay if we went to
the carnival together. I'd love to, as it's been years since I've been to
one. Not since . . . .

    Not since Daddy had brought me. But only to "rent" me to guys there,
behind the booths and in their cars. As if Daddy hadn't done that enough at
home. Every weekend. With strangers almost lined up around the block, so
they could . . . .

    "Kev-on?" Marcel was looking at me in concern. "Dos you has the bad
memories again?"

    I shrugged, as best I could laying on my back, and smiled at him. "It's
alright. No, I guess hitting the carnival would be okay, if you're okay
with it. I'd love it, in fact."

    "Tres bien!" he beamed, giving my toes a kiss again. Then his smile
became . . . almost sly? "Ah, but moi has one more surprise pour tu, mon
amour. One tu like as well, mon hope is. Perhaps even more the so?"

    My 9-year-old dick stirred and began to stiffen.

    Marcel chuckled, leaning forward to playfully stroke my awakened boner
with a finger. "Why you assume this I mean, is sexual? Can not it be
something else, yes?"

    I lost trying not to grin. Although not every weekend, but often
enough, Marcel has a "surprise" for me. And not only are they sexual, but
his new tricks always make me cum like a virgin does their first time. At
least I think that's what it's like, as I've never been a virgin, having
had sex for literally longer than I can remember. It wasn't just that
reason, though.

    "Well," my grin widened, as my dick firmed in length, "you do mix more
French with your English, when you're aroused or excited. And going by
this," I wiggled my toes on his now-hard cock, "I'd say you're aroused."

    "Mais oui, I guess I dos that often."

    He raised his ass enough to pull another of the sofa's plush pillows
under it, forming a sort of reclined chair for himself on top of the
sofa. Then he leaned forward to gently pull me between his legs and on top
of him. I laid on his shaved chest, with our boners pressed together. His
hands stroked my neck, back, and ass, arousing me as only he could. We
kissed tenderly, for the moment simply savoring our mutual love.

    Chuckling around my lips, he affectionately squeezed my bubble
butt. "Your pey-pey, it is hard as the rock, oui?"

    "It's your fault, Mar-Mar," I purred truthfully, rubbing my hard 3-inch
dick against his own, which was twice as big and thick as mine.

    "Perhaps then," he smiled, his hazel eyes gesturing down toward the
carpet below, "we dos something about it?"

    My dick got even harder. Carefully leaning to the side, I reached down
to the carpet and slipped my fingers under the sofa. Retrieving the hidden
small bottle of lube, I handing it to Marcel. As I brought my knees
forward, which raised my hips up just above his spread groin, he slicked up
the fingers of his right hand. Both of our breathing quickened in
anticipation.

    Marcel reached his lube-coated fingers in-between our boners, as we
began kissing hungrily. His wrist bent as his slippery thumb and index
finger closed around my hard dick, so the outside of them were pressed
against my hairless groin. He then spread his legs a bit wider, and eased
his ring and pinky fingers into his ass. Slowly working up a rhythm, his
hand jerked my boner and fingered his asshole as one, lubing both with the
same strokes. He only did it long enough to make our privates good and
slippery. Pulling his lower fingers out, he guided the circumcised head of
my boner to the opening of his lubed ass.

    I could've easily plunged my 3-inch boner into him in one thrust, but I
didn't. Although it took some willpower, I slowly entered him, taking about
three rolling-hip pushes until my smooth groin was pressed flush to his ass
cheeks. Our lips parted as Marcel began lustfully moaning in French. About
the only thing I caught was "mon amour," but I didn't need to learn his
language, to know what he was meaning. I would've replied, but I was in too
much ecstasy to even see straight.

    As I humped my 9-year-old boner in and out of him, Marcel's love-hole
seemed to milk me. Having always been on the other end, I'd only know the
bliss of cocks buried in my ass. Before my middle-aged lover, I'd never
imagined the awesome feeling of what it was like to fuck an ass. It was no
wonder why men had been so desperate to screw me all my life. Marcel had
also pointed my ass was special. Not only was it so tight, no matter how
often or hard it got pounded, but my child size made for a smaller hole to
squeeze a cock into. As much as I love being fucked, though, I can never
thank him in a billion lifetimes, for the gift of being able to fuck as
well.

    Even if the ecstasy of it, meant I could never last long.

    Marcel's hands grabbed my round ass cheeks, as the urge to cum screamed
for release within me. It's not just sometimes, that I swear he knows when
I'm close to cumming far better than I do. His thickish fingers clenched my
butt's silky firm half-globes. Any other time, it would've been
painful. Aroused as I was, it further heightened my bliss. But it also gave
me back a bit of focus. Just enough to rein in my orgasm, for the moment.

    Despite his help, I couldn't hold back for much longer, and he knew
it. With each of my thrusts, his hands pulled me harder against and into
him. We were sweating and panting, my hard dick feeling ten times bigger
than its slender 3-inches inside his ass. I whimpered as my orgasm kept
building up right behind my dick, threatening to go critical. I managed to
desperately hump Marcel's hot hole for a bit longer, but I was losing hold
my orgasm, like grasping water spilling through my fingers.

    One of Marcel's hand grabbed the back of my head, pulling it down to
almost savagely kissed me. Although I was already past the point of any
control, his lips and tongue were a match to the gas tank of my lust. His
mouth also contained my loud cry as my dick exploded, violently squirting
my adolescent cum. It seemed forever I was spasming in his arms kissing
him, feeling my seed shooting out of me and into him. Finally I collapsed
on his shaved sweaty chest, panting breathlessly, with my dick still inside
the gripping warmth of his bum.

    "Mon chocolate eclair," Marcel whispered, fondly brushing the damp
strands of my longish brown hair from my forehead. I smiled at his
occasional pet name for me. An eclair was a French pastry that was long and
slender, layered with chocolate on top, and filled with cream. Although
he's called me that since we'd first made love, it's especially fitting for
the last month, as I can now squirt actual creamy cum.

    When my dick slowly softened enough to slip from his ass, Marcel
shifted around and gently lifted me up, so I was curled in his
half-reclined lap. Like a naked baby in his naked father's tender, loving
arms. He planted little kisses on the top of my head, while his hands
soothingly caressed me in my afterglow. I could've told him how much I love
him, and how desperately I need him. Just as he could've said those very
things to me. But neither of us had to, because we could feel it, and to us
it was as just as obvious, as the sky was blue.

    "Oh, moi has almost forget to tells tu," Marcel kissed the top of my
nose. "Mon request to the city. They has sent moi the answer finally
today."

    "Really?" I perked up, feeling a swell of excitement.

    For nearly as long as I've known Marcel, he's been looking to expand
his used book store. As it is now, since just before our first weekend
together, he had hired an out-of-work single mother from the
neighborhood. She not only tends the store on Saturdays and Sundays, but
now the weekday mornings while her kids are at school. It gives her a job,
and him more free time to cover the other business stuff. The book store
was becoming more and more profitable, despite all the electronic books and
stuff lately. Marcel has had his eye on opening up another store on the
other side of the city. Not only was it a bigger store to add to this one,
but it had a connected house. A real house. As much as he thought he could
disguise it, I knew he was doing a lot of this for my sake.

    The only problem was the city's red tape. Marcel had put in an
application for a business license expansion months ago. It had seemed like
it was forgotten about at city hall. But by the barely-controlled
excitement in his voice, it meant he'd been approved to open the second
used book store. My excitement was sharing in his, as this was what he'd
been wanting for so long. It was his dream. And the house, which he hoped
to move into soon, was also easy for me to get to by bus.

    "Well, were you approved?" I nearly whined, like a kid wanting so badly
to tear open a Christmas present. Even though I already knew exactly what
the present was.

    "Tu tells moi," he reached over to grab the large yellow business
envelope from the coffee table, and handed it to me. "Tu much better
reading the English, oui?"

    It took me a lot not to rip open the envelope's top flap in my
eagerness. It was bulky, filled with the stapled stack of paperwork that
all official forms are made of. After two tries, I managed to pull out the
thick stack of forms. But the moment my eyes read one short sentence, my
throat violently seized.

    It was wrong. This had to be wrong!

    But the red ink of the short handwritten sentence, on a Post-It note
stuck to the top page, was as cutting sharp as the lurching pain tightening
my chest.

    "Kev-on?" Marcel's voice held a sudden note of worry now. "It dos says
I am the approved? Yes?"

    Trembling, I didn't even feel the forms falling from my hands. I tried
closing my brown eyes, but it didn't stop me seeing over and over the short
sentence, with its words as red as blood.

    'Your application has been approved to adopt Kevin Barton.'

    I looked in disbelief at Marcel, who was now wearing that lopsided
smile of his.

    Then I collapsed on his chest, my heart wrenching as I cried so hard. I
cried in happiness. In release. In love. For a long time Marcel held me
tight, as my whole body shook with sobbing wails. I hadn't even cried this
hard with joy finding out Daddy had been killed, shivved in the guts in
prison, because it had meant he could never hurt me again.

    Finally I managed to get control of myself. Mostly. With some after-sob
hiccups, I lifted my head from his shaved chest, to look at Marcel
again. He smiled and kissed my nose, which just about set off another
thousand lifetimes of tears. He tenderly brushed one of my tear-streaked
cheeks. When I could finally speak, my voice sounded raw from having bawled
so hard.

    "D-does this mean," I asked, "that I have to learn French?"

    He barked with laughter. "Tabarnak, mais non! La belle langue from the
Anglo's lips," he smirked playfully, "is like poetry from the donkey's
behind, oui?"

    We laughed and cuddled, sharing our warm glow like the heat of our
naked bodies. An hour or more passed as we talked, and fondly snuggled
tighter together. I learned he'd been approved for the new store over two
months ago. The new store and its connected house he'd already bought, and
were just waiting to be moved in. Which we'll start doing on Sunday. He
really did receive approval today from city hall, but it had been for my
adoption. How he managed to keep from telling me about trying to adopt me,
I can't begin to imagine. It had been killing him not to burst out with the
news, from the moment I'd stepped through the alley door earlier. On Monday
morning, we'll go to city hall to sign the adoption forms, and make me
officially and legally Marcel Laduc's son.

    Finally, Marcel kissed me, and patted my bum saying it was bedtime. I
have to be the only 9-year-old kid who's eager for bed, as my hardening
dick betrays. I did protest, very weakly, about him pampering me so much,
as he carried me to the bathroom held to his chest. For a balding,
thickish-bellied, 44-year-old man, he's quite strong. And yet so tender.

    Thanks to the Pepsi and wine, we both had to piss. We did so standing
in the bathtub before our shower, laughing as we aimed our hot streams like
machine-gun bursts on each other's bodies. He loves watching me pee, as
much as we love having silly fun like this together, not to mention the
sword fights with our boners.

    Quickly washing one another, with more than a few stolen strokes of
each other's boners and asses, we soon dried off. Turning on the bedroom
light, we grabbed the bottle of lube by the sofa and turned off the
apartment's lights. Walking to the bedroom, his fingers affectionately
traced up and down my spine, sending shivers through me. He knew little
things that could drive me wild with lust, while at the same time, make me
feel like the most special and dearly loved person in the world.

    Sitting together on the edge of the king-sized bed, which was like the
sofa in that he'd bought it for us, we kissed long and
passionately. Running our hands over each other, it wasn't as much sexual,
as expressing how deeply we loved each other.

    Soon I was squirming in his arms, and it wasn't just my hard dick that
quivered in eagerness.

    Marcel guided me to the center of the king-sized bed, being on my hands
and knees on the soft comforter facing the pile of firmly-plump
pillows. Not that we ever ended up falling asleep with that many pillows.

    Despite knowing what would likely come, with my eyes closed, my naked
body trembled slightly in anticipation. Between my slightly parted legs, my
3-inch, arrow-straight boner felt harder than steel, as no doubt my lover's
6-inch cock was, too.

    The bed shifted as Marcel climbed on it behind me. A pair of hands
began to gently caress both my bubble butt and thighs, as he murmured soft
loving things in French. I had to drop my head down to the pillows with my
ass still raised high, which spread my butt cheeks naturally by
themselves. I was now fully trembling with lustful eagerness. Each playful
kiss on my round ass cheeks caused me to gasp, and my boner to violently
twitch. If I was campfire, then Marcel was stoking me into a roaring
bonfire, which would soon become a raging wildfire.

    A soft kiss, planted on my exposed and now gaping asshole, making me
sob into the pillows. Again, then again, he ever so lovingly kissed my
opened pink hole. Added with his fingers tracing along my sensitive inner
thighs, my lean body quaked in desperation. A hand reached around my hip,
so a thumb and finger could ring the base of my straining boner tightly.

    Then his strong, wet tongue pushed deep into my gaping asshole.

    The pillows barely muffled my scream of ecstasy. I would've blown my
load right then, but the fingers clenching the base of my hard dick kept me
from releasing it. With each skillful stroke and thrust of the tongue
inside my ass, I cried harder and more lustfully. It wasn't just mouths
that Frenchmen so perfectly French kissed. Somehow through my ecstasy, I
vaguely heard the wettish sound of him lubing up his cock. Despite knowing
it would soon be in me, didn't lessen my need. If anything, it only made me
more desperate. My face still on the pillows, I reached my hands behind me
to spread my round ass as wide as possible. His mouth kept sucking my
wide-open hole, with his tongue plunging back and forth deep inside of me.

    "Marcel," I pleaded pitifully.

    The bed shifted again as Marcel now moved to crouch squatting behind my
upthrust ass. However, he kept his fingers holding tight the base of my
painfully-hard dick, trapping my ever-building orgasm. I gasped and
shuddered at the touch of his lubed cock's head against my hole. But it
didn't penetrate me. Instead, my lover rubbed his slick boner up and down
my spread ass crack, as well as directly on my gaping-wide asshole. With
each brushing touch, I thought it would pierce me. But it didn't, and that
only further drove me insane with lust and need.

    "Mar-Mar!" I sobbed, feeling like I'd die if I didn't have him inside
of me.

    My spit-and-lube-slick asshole was so open and eager, Marcel could've
easily plunged his nicely-thick, 6-inch cock fully in me with just a
thrust. He didn't. Rather, he slowly eased it in working back and forth, an
agonizing inch at a time. Had it been anyone else, it would've been cruel
teasing or torture. Not Marcel. As desperately as I had to have him in me,
he knew how to make my arousal rocket to higher and higher levels. Levels
that had me out of my mind with ecstasy. I would've cummed a hundred times,
a billion times, if his fingers weren't keeping my dick from doing it.

    He suddenly stopped penetrating me, with only two-thirds of his
half-foot-long cock inside of me. Even those 4 inches felt hugely thick,
stretching my squeezing insides. But I had to have more. I must have
more. I needed all of him. Then his cock began to pull back. I cried both
from the sensation of it, and the unfairness of it. With his fingers tight
on my throbbing dick, I couldn't push my ass back to recapture his
retreating boner. As frenziedly as my clenching ass tried to hold him in,
it wasn't enough. The thick head of his cock pulled out of my asshole, and
I nearly bawled in frustrated desperation and need.

    Feeling the rock-hard tip of Marcel's cock touching my hole again, I
tried begging, but only pitiful whimpers came out. Then, with one smooth
steady thrust, his whole cock sank fully and completely into my depths. Far
from the first time, his boner felt so massive, it was like a horse burying
its cock deep inside of me. Just as my 44-year-old lover's shaved groin and
balls pushed tight to my spread ass, his fingers released my 9-year-old
dick.

    I cummed so violently, with my adolescent sperm spraying the comforter
under me, I all but passed out from its intensity.

    Marcel kept his cock fully in me, his groin sealed tight to my bubble
butt, and didn't move it as I panted like a dog. He didn't need friction to
stay hard, as my spasming ass was better than any stroking hand gripping
it. While I recovered, he eased a firmly-plump pillow beneath my narrow
hips, then squeezed another pillow between it and the one my head laid
on. I gratefully sagged on them, which still left me raised up nearly as
much as if I were on my hands and knees. Marcel sank to his knees, with
them straddling my own knees. Having my legs pressed together tightened my
already tight ass, and made his boner feel less like a horse, than a
freight train somehow crammed into my whole insides.

    Leaning on top of me, Marcel's lips brushed aside the longish brown
hair on the back of my neck. He nuzzled my neck with little kisses, making
me sigh with soul-filling contentment. As much as I wanted his boner to
fuck my hole, which at the moment was still buried in me, being so
affectionately fawned on was its own perfect love-making.

    With the coming of my second wind, my ass wiggled just slightly by
itself. To Marcel, it probably felt like a dog's hind end being wagged, in
the want of his juicy bone. Slowly at first, his cock began sawing back and
forth, fanning the flames of my lust higher. It wasn't long before he was
rhythmically humping me, his boner pumping my tight ass like a fleshy
piston. My dick was again rock hard, being ground against the pillow with
each of his thrusts. We were both sweating and panting now. By his
increasingly throaty grunts, it wouldn't be long before his seed would
erupt in my eager depths.

    I suddenly cried out in surprise, as his cock unexpectedly pulled out
of me. Before I could say a word, Marcel flipped me over on my back on top
of the pillows. My protest died in mid-groan, as his mouth swallowed my
jutting boner whole. Staring down my lean body, at his balding head
furiously bobbing on my ruler-straight dick, I could only mewl in
ecstasy. Even as his lips hungrily sucked my boner, his tongue lashed and
stroked it. The combination had my eyes seeing four Marcels working my
dick. That was about the right amount of Marcels, for how much pleasure I
was in.

    No sooner was I nearing another orgasm, than Marcel pulled from my
dick. Moving up to brace himself over me, he kissed me passionately on the
mouth. I returned his kissing with just as much desperate, lustful
passion. As his boner penetrated my ass again, I gripped my arms around his
neck, while lifting and wrapping my legs around his thickish middle. He
wasn't going to get away again. Not until my insides were gushing full with
his cum.

    He tried to keep his pace slow, but between his own need, and my
rocking back against it, that lasted not even a minute. The whole
king-sized bed was soon shaking, as he raised higher up on me, and fucked
me with frenzied, pounding thrusts. As I clung to him, with my face buried
in his throat, his thickish belly sawed against my smooth 3-inch boner. My
insides getting hammered so blissfully, and my hard dick rubbed with each
furious thrust, was too much. I cried out as my cum squirted in-between
us. As like my arms and legs, my spasming ass clutched him tighter in my
orgasm.

    Swearing something in French, Marcel kept humping inside of me as his
cock exploded, spewing his semen like cannon blasts in my depths. The feel
of his cock throbbing, as its hot cum flooded me, made me cry out again in
ecstasy. For what seemed forever, he pumped his seed into me, and with it
his love.

    Finally, Marcel eased down on his bracing forearms and knees, and
tenderly kissed me. Although I lowered my legs, I kept my arms wrapped
around his neck, kissing him back just as meaningfully. After a little
while, his softening cock quietly slipped from my content ass, and I
immediately missed its filling warmth. However, it would be back, first
thing in the morning. I could reluctantly wait that long, so long as I have
my love to hold, and be held by, through the night.

    Slipping an arm beneath me to hold me to him, Marcel gently rolled us
to our sides, so I half-laid on him with the pillows against my sweaty
back. I throatily purred as he fondly caressed the length of me, his
touches soothing and loving.

    It's these little things, done so selflessly, which truly make
love. Although love might be the biggest thing of all, its vast hugeness is
built up, and made whole, by all its little things.

    I kissed Marcel. "Merci, mon amour," I breathed in dreamy contentment.

    He kissed my nose back, and chuckled. "And moi thought, I just dos give
you the mercy, yes?"

    "You Francophones," I giggled playfully. "It's true what they say about
you French."

    "Oh?" He gave my bum an affectionate squeeze. "And what is that be?"

    "That you've never been raped and plundered, until you've been invaded
by the French Foreign Legion."

    Laughing, we snuggled our bodies tighter together, a naked 44-year-old
man, and 9-year-old boy, in love.

    "Bonne nuit, mon amour," Marcel wished me softly.

    "Goodnight," I whispered with all my heart, "Dad."

                                                 Fin
                                            (The End)