Date: Mon, 13 Mar 2017 07:41:19 +0100 (CET)
From: z.blake@tutanota.com
Subject: El Sweet Tight Culo de Johnny

TALES FROM THE MALE BAG:
EL SWEET TIGHT CULO DE JOHNNY
By John as told to Zachyboy
And by Zachyboy as told to John
M/b, oral, anal, virgin I hope!

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My dear old friend John wrote to me after the last steaming "Male Bag"
entry about me looking at Scuba Steve's boyhood pictures and theoretically,
retroactively, thanks to Doc Brown's DeLorean time machine, going back in
time and fucking the shit out of his cock-happy kidself.

John asked me if I wouldn't mind doing the same to him. (Good God, I've
created a monster here, haven't I? I hope to sweet Jesus I haven't hatched
a trend).

Anyhoo, I checked with my office manager Betty, who minds my schedule, and
she said, "Sure, go ahead, Zachy. You've got three hours free on Monday
morning, sunshine." (She always calls me "sunshine," bless her). "That
should be just enough time to rip him a new one."

And if Betty says "go," then by-God, it's a go.

It's purely insane. It's purely just fantasy, but by God, it's
liberating. You should try it sometime. I shit you not, friends and
neighbors, it's cock-addicting, this wacky-ass time machine."

So, fuck it, like it or not, this story is another work of fiction. If
you're not supposed to read it where you live, then blah-blah-blah,
G.T.F.out, but for the rest of us who like a good flight of fancy, here's
what John wrote to me after he caught me banging Stevie in the Male Bag
story immediately preceding this one.

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Hey Zachy,

My God, that was a hot story. Your cock-raising, nut-emptying, boy-defiling
writing skills are nothing short of miraculous. And I don't mean the type
of miraculous where the skies open and choirs of angels sing, and rays of
sunlight bathe the earth. I mean the type of miraculous where you break out
into a sweat, your eyeballs roll into the back of your head and your body
quakes all over like you have epilepsy, all because a small boy with snot
dripping from his button nose is making snuffling, gagging, retching noises
on your Sunday-go-to-meetin' hard-on as you spray down his tonsils with
your hot nut tonic. Do I make myself clear?

(Editor's Note: Oh yes. He does. Full attention. Carry on, John).

The concept of the story intrigued me, so I decided to send you some
(legal) (clothed) photos of the young me to see if I would have met your
standards of quality, thereby rendering myself eligible to be man-raped.

I already knew I was different when I was kid, already trying to get my
cousin to show me his cock, and I promised him I'd put it in my mouth. See,
even then I was a pervert. I knew I liked cocks; I knew I wanted to touch
them, and possibly suck them.

At the tender age of 9, I worshipped some of the older boys in my block,
and fantasized about what they would do to me if they caught me naked. When
I was 11 or so I had a clubhouse in my backyard where some of the boys
would hang out.

One of them, a hot half-Mexican, half-Anglo boy like me named Marco got to
talking about sex with me one day. We got horny, and I told him to "whip it
out". I jerked him, and he jerked me.

These sessions went on for a while, and one day he told me he wanted to
French kiss me. This sounded disgusting, but he said if I didn't, he
wouldn't sex me up anymore.

I hesitatingly kissed him and opened my mouth to his probing tongue. His
hot tongue entered my mouth and I touched it with mine. He danced his
tongue over mine, and zingo, I discovered a love of deep kissing that
follows me to this day.

We became regular spit-swapping hounds, and professed our love for each
other. I can't remember how it stopped, but one day a group of boys showed
up at my house when my sister was visiting. I talked to them in the front
yard.

One of the boys said they had heard I was licking Marco's balls. I looked
at Marco, who was cowering behind them with a desperate look on his face. I
denied it, but they didn't believe me.

They were talking loud and I asked them to quiet down because my sister was
visiting. The ringleader shouted "John, you better stop licking Marco's
balls." Then they left. Marco later told me he told his best friend about
it, expecting secrecy, but his friend told the others. It was the
consequence I paid for trying to see the cock of every boy in our
neighborhood.

Then there was David. David was a couple of years younger than me, but had
a tough straight boy attitude that turned me on.

I persuaded him to show me his cock, and I fondled it. Soon I was sucking
his cock regularly. He couldn't cum, but he loved the feeling. I fell in
love with him and I tried to get him to love me. Our typical conversation
went like this:

Me, in a cloyingly sweet voice: "Do you love me?"

David: "Yes. Now suck my dick."

Unbeknownst to me, this would be the relationship that set the tone of the
rest of my life, looking for men who would dominate me and make me their
pussy cocksucker. I was dominant myself with some guys too, but to this
day, I love to be humiliated and dominated when I suck cock.

So now that you've had a rundown of my history, I've attached a couple of
(legal) (fully-clothed) pics of the young boy I was between the ages of 7
and 16. I know 16 is too old for you, but I would have raped myself behind
the gas station at 16, so I'm sending it to you too as part of the
collection.

Tell me your opinion. If I'm not your type, that's okay.; I've seen plenty
of boys who wouldn't have been my type. Go ahead, regale me with your love
and praise or with your criticism and degradation. I'm already handling my
cock.

Love, John

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Well, of course, being the gentleman and the consummate pen-pal I am, I
immediately wrote back to John and said (in my usual subtle tone of deep
respect and sensitivity)...

Oh my sweet Jesus Christ, John! You are SO getting ass-fucked!!

I hope your 10/yo self and your 12/yo self are ready to clear their throats
and wipe their asses because they're about to get a full load of Zachycock
down each available orifice. ((SHUDDER))!!

Holy SHIT, you're getting fucked!! Please stand by. I may need to wait
until the weekend to do this one justice, but it's on my fucking radar,
pal.

Oh HELL yes, you're getting time-machine fucked. Throat-fucked,
skull-fucked, then ass-fucked good and proper. Say your fuckin' prayers,
sunshine. This will be an all-out pleasure. WHOOF. I love it when people
play along with my games.

Fucked, fucked, fucked, and double-diddly-doo-da fucked. God DAMN.

Little John is getting properly FUCKED. ((shudder)) WHOOF! Bring it on!

What can I say? I speak the poetry of a gentleman.

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John wrote back in the spirit of gamesmanship:

Hi, Mister. What? Oh, my bike chain broke and I don't know how to fix it.

Really? you can? That's nice, but I am not supposed to get in a car with a
stranger.

Well, uh-huh, sure. I guess if I know your name you're not really a
stranger, right?

Okay, Mister Zachy. Pleased to meet you.

What? Mine's John, but everyone calls me Johnny.

My bike? Huh? Will it fit in the trunk? I guess so, sir. I mean, Mister
Zachy.

The door's unlocked? Okay, I'll get in, thanks.

Cool car, Mister Zachy. Can we go for a ride before you take me home? No
one's there till 5:30 anyhow. Um...what are you doing Mister Zachy? Is that
your hand on my knee? On my thigh? On my – HEY! What are you doing with
it??

John concluded, "I'm glad you liked the (legal) (fully-clothed) pics. I'm
looking forward to having your man cock inside my boy bottom. Will it hurt
much? My little throat is gonna be awfully stretched on that
Zachycock...But go ahead, do your worst. After all, I'm only a little
boy..."

Lust, Johnny.

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Well Christ, John. If you're going to challenge a guy like that, damn it.

What else am I supposed to do?

Ahem. ((cracks knuckles, places fingers on the home keys of ASDF and
JKL-semi-colon))...

On with the show.

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So, the first safe-for-work pic John sends me is himself at 7.

Now, as I tell my readers ALL the time, we have to be darn careful and
tread lightly when it comes to dallying with the little Lucky Sevens.

If you people would just go and read the Nifty author's guidelines (and I
wish-the-fuck you finally would):

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/submission.html

You'll see right there in black and white (scroll down the page to
"Author's Checklist," number 7), it orders us bumbling author wannabees to
make sure our "story does not involve adults with infants, toddlers, or
children younger than 9."

Now, for Christ's sake John, that's not my rule. I'd be happy to doink you
as soon as you're feeling brave enough and experimentally pliant, but
buddy, when it comes to online posting regulations, you gotta dance with
the one that brought you.

And if Nifty says you've gotta be 9 in a M/b story, well then by God,
you've got to be 9. I already got in trouble for sniffing a couple of
kindergarteners' butts in "Smell This" a couple of times, so nine times out
of ten, I'm on thin ice as it is.

I don't own the playground here, so I have to respectfully nod to the rules
of the road and alternate my foot between the brake and the gas.

And I know, I know. You guys tell me this all the time: "Well, what about
THIS story? And what about THAT story? And what about Whatsit? And what
about Whoozis? That kid was 7! That kid was 6! How come they got to sneak
by and you can't do it??"

And well, I just don't know how to answer that, my friends. I'm just not
privy to the algorithmic screening process. Some of the younger ones have
managed to sneak by over the years, my friends. That's all I can tell
you. Count your blessings and shut your yaps. Some of the younger ones
sneak in here and there, and they're lost in the shuffle, and gloriously
so. I'm sure as fuck not turning them in. Pipe down and whistle a happy
tune. Look up at the sky and hum and smile and back away from the topic
slowly and quietly.

Anyhoo, back to you and your Lucky 7 pic, John.

I see you there with your white and blue birthday cake, clown made out of
frosting. Seven candles and pretty as a picture. White short-sleeved little
boy-shirt. Button quite sweetly open at the top.

Tiny, clenching fingers resting gently on the table. Proud as punch to be a
big boy. Suckable, too-big ears with eyes and a smile that would light up
the room, and I want to do things to you that have never been done, and
kiss you in places that have never been kissed.

But the sign on the roadside of my storytelling highway says "Slow down,
Zachy, to 35 mph around the 7-year-old curves," so I'm afraid I'm going to
have to save this one for a private session between you and me,
kiddo. Happy birthday, sweet 7-year-old. I've got a hell of a nice birthday
present for you, papi, and it's filling up my pants. But I can't do it
here. We'll have to table it for later.

But off the record, Happy Birthday to You and the things I would do. There
are several of them I could think of.

Whoof. Let's do lunch.

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The next safe-for-work pic John sent me was himself at 9.

Well NOW we're talking. Now you're Of Age.

Whoof and Sweet Jesus, Johnny. What are you doing in that cute little
sailor's cap? Standing on the beach up there with your skinny little
long-pants leg extended, no socks, little tennies, hip jutted out, leg
flared, hand on your own upper thigh, posing like Little Gay Gayerson from
Gaystown, Cape Cod? Mother of Mercy, you are deliciously edible in this
one.

You're on the beach in this kid pic, with some readily-apparent crashing
waves behind you, so I may have to take you by the hand and lead you back
to my conveniently-available coastal beach house where we can get you
disrobed ASAFP and The Proceedings can begin in earnest.

Or better yet, let's go sailing, little skipper! How about that? Oh! Fuck!
My own private yacht, that's what we need! We'll sail it way past the cove,
drop anchor with no one around for nautical miles, and after watching you
on deck, all shirtless and brown in your little boy speedo, I'll lead you
down to the kitchenette and sleeper cabin below for a little light lunch
and your quite-necessary deflowering.

Once inside the confines of my comfortable captain's cabin, I do believe
I'll towel you off to rid you of any remaining grains of sand from earlier
on the beach. I'd pop you in the my cabin's handy mini-shower, but I hate
to rinse away the natural scent and flavor of a boy. You know I like mine
spicy.

Still, you've been out on the beach in your handsome little sailor suit,
and I fear if I don't brush your tiny little boy body, you might have some
annoying specks of sand that might sneak up and chafe my cock when I start
rubbing it where it doesn't necessarily belong.

I do hate grit. It's a major hindrance to the unavoidable penetration
that's about to follow as soon as I strip you thoroughly with my shaking,
eager hands, pick you up by your skinny little frame and chuck you down,
bare-ass naked on the cabin's king-sized bed, ready for Maritime Sodomy
School.

I believe by this age, you were already fantasizing what the boys on your
block would do to you if they caught you naked, correct? Well. Let me
demonstrate the grown-up version.

For starters, I'm going to lick every inch of your body and give it the 3rd
grade tongue bath it so richly deserves. We're way out here, anchored in
the cove, and nobody can hear you if you want to giggle, gasp or squeal, so
make all the noise you need.

A tongue on your tummy for the first time might make you giggle. A tongue
lapping under your armpits and nibbling at your nipples might make you
chatter like a ticklish monkey, but a great big man tongue swirling around
your balls, licking the zest off your taint and then prodding up your sweet
virgin asshole will elicit peals of boy laughter at first and make you say
"HEY! You're licking where my poop comes out!" but the preliminary giggles
will only last as long as it takes me to add a spit-lubed finger or two up
your little back door, at which time I'm sure you'll fall silent in a new
level of respectful reverence both you and your rectum have never
experienced before. Nothing pipes a boy down like a firm deuce of fingers
up the pooper.

Before I get too carried away with your asshole, because trust me, I could
play around with your backdoor for ages, even if nothing else was offered
on the Schedule of Events, I better get busy on the other parts of your boy
bits, or we'll lose the readers who get fidgety until the cocks come
out. For those who insist on their boy sausage first, I think hoist your
legs over my shoulders and feast on that matching set of dickie and baby
balls your neighborhood playmates are so fond of already. Or soon will be,
if I remember your backstory correctly.

By your own reports, you were a circumcised lad, so I'll take my time
num-num-numming on your 9-year-old nut sack, before I move up your
mini-shaft and softly suck your juicy little boy bone like the tasty little
swizzle stick it was always meant to be.

And then, my little matey, since every story is eventually about me, we're
going to lay you on your back and bend you pretty little head backwards
over the bed, while I unzip my pants, step out of my clothes, unleash the
Zeej and aim his surprisingly scary bigness toward your pretty little
mouth. I'm sort of hoping you'll open up and audibly gasp at this point,
because that'll be my cue to aim forward and jab the fat mother in.

I doubt at 9 your fellating skills were up to the challenge of a thick
six-point-fiver, but we're going to give you a whirl anyway and see if you
can take the tip and the first half of shaft without too much
teeth-scraping, and if that works out well, I'll coax a little bit more of
the old heave-ho-main-mast toward the back of your tonsils and test your
prepubescent gag reflex. Again, we're anchored in the cove with not a soul
around, so go ahead and wretch as loud as you need to.

Whoof. Glorious. I'm tempted to blow that first load down your gulping
little gullet, but truth be told, I've always been an ass man, so as
tempting as it is to relax, unwind and let nature take its slimy course
down the back of your throat, I'm afraid I want that first one up your
reluctantly accommodating, never-been-fucked boy bowels.

It's a feat of persistence that might take a while, but believe me, Johnny,
it'll be well worth the effort. In other words, spread your legs, take a
deep breath, count to ten and think your happy thoughts. Bite the pillow
and whimper if you have to, cause from where I'm standing with six inches
of man cock in my fist, it's all hands to the poop deck. And yours is
getting swabbed, cupcake.

I think I'll start you with your rump up in the air, bare and peachy, for
some repeat analingis, a little more aggressively this time with at least
two fingers stretching you open with some prodding and poking, and then
some liberal amounts of slippery lube. Oh look! I thought ahead enough to
buy the jumbo bottle at your local Rite Aid pharmacy, and I uncap it now
with trembling gusto.

Once we've got you all pried open and slimy inside, I'll step up to bat
with the business end of the Zeej, line it up with your nervous, quivery,
twitching little rosebud and push forward slowly, popping through your
first sphincter like the ineffective mall cop riding a Segue it truly is,
and then onto the more difficult, cramp-piercing second one. The second
one's the guard at the Federal Reserve. Getting past that fella smarts a
damn bit.

But being a gentleman, and unflaggingly persistent, I'll just keep nudging
my bone forward until you wince and yelp and blink back tears, until we
poke it through your interior ring, breech Fort Knox, and glory Jesus, a
bottom boy is born. Your ass. Made for this. Today is the first day of the
rest of your life.

Once the Zeej is firmly embedded and your jaw drops open as he rocks your
innards back and forth, you'll realize you're a natural, sunshine. You may
get three inches, you may get four. We'll see what you're up for. But rest
assured whatever fits is going in and out of your 9-year-old stinker until
my legs start shaking, my nuts clench up and I blow a load of Peg-Leg
Peter's Boy Pussy Fish Sauce up your sore, distended sloppy little
captain's cove.

That's what I think of when I see the picture of adorable little 9-year-old
you, posing on the beach looking gay as the breeze already, in your sweet
little sailor's cap, leg extended, hand on your thigh, your revealing baby
gaybee pose already precognitively leading the way, clairvoyantly pegging
you as a recipient of man cock from the very beginning, assuring us all
that your mouth and your ass were a shoe-in for dick for the rest of your
days. Your swaggering, swishy-hipped, sea-sailing days.

Fucks Ahoy. Hop in the sailboat, little Johnny. Uncle Zachy's about to make
you his first mate. Yo-ho-ho and a bottom of cum.

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The next safe-for-work pics John sent me were two (legal) (fully-clothed)
pictures of himself at 13 and 16.  Now, I hate to relegate these utterly
fine photos to a sidebar here in the middle, because he really was handsome
as he grew up and older.

But wiring is wiring, and I dearly prefer boys over teens. Once the pubes
sprout too thickly, I wander off and look at the pictures on the walls and
comment on your furnishings. When it comes to M/b beejays and bee-effs, I
much prefer a Younger Participant, so as we head for the inevitable Big
Finish, I'd prefer to go out with a bang, and butt fuck Johnny when his
pucker was the purest, in the gloriously beeeee-yooootiful
10-and-12-year-old (legal) (fully-clothed) shots he also provided.

And to be clear once again, there was absolutely nothing wrong with our
Johnny at 13 and 16. Heavens no. At 13, he was a handsome little package of
fuckable hormones, and I'm sure his balls were producing a reciprocal taste
by that age too. I would have been happy to play switchies with him if no
younger lads were out in the neighborhood. He could swallow my load. I
could swallow his. Give him a gobble and send him on his way.

And by 16, he was a handsome teen, but well past my AoA. Get me drunk
enough (one wine cooler and a sip of Aunt Tillie's brandy old-fashioned)
and I probably would have laid down myself, spread my ass cheeks and let
16/yo John fuck ME if he could muster up a toppage.

But for purposes of keeping this story on track, with apologies to you
hebephiles and ephebophiles, (you know who you are, and Christ, there's a
ton of you), I'm going to pass on the older Johns for now and mount up and
ride the young ones, because after all, they're my faves.

What can I say? We all have our comfort zones.

Mine don't have pubes yet.

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The next safe-for-work pic John sent me was himself at 10.

Jesus, Lord. John at 10.

He's standing in front of another birthday cake. Sure enough, 10
candles. His name, John, is written on the cake in cursive
frosting. (Whoof, do I have some cursive frosting for you, kid).

John, you were a beautiful 10-year-old. Beautiful. Heart wrenching. I'd
slow down and write some sonnets for you here, but then half the audience
would go away and put their dicks back in their pants, and well, let's face
it, I have a hard enough time keeping an audience as it is.

But whoof. Looking at your picture at 10, you're the kind of boy we
boywriters get all literate and gushy over. One guy just called one of my
romantic stories "overwrought" and "over-the-top." How's that for
unsolicited opinion? Harumph. But looking at the boy you were in this
10-year-old birthday pic, I'm afraid I'd get all gushy all over again. You
know what I mean, right? At 10, you'd bring out the overwrought in any of
us wordies.

You know, here's the thing about boywriters and boyreaders, gang. A whole
lot of them are legitimately good WRITERS, for fuck's sake. These aren't
cretins living in caves fucking the nearest caveboy who grunts in a loin
cloth with his ass up in the air like a boy who's in heat and ready for a
breeding. (Hang on a sec. I need a minute with that
imagery. Okay. Whoof. Better. Whew).

Boylovers aren't grunting cretins. These are genuinely intelligent,
skilled, talented, smart people who write well. It's relieving in a way,
and normalizing, that so many articulate, intelligent writery people also
feel this way about boys. They'd feel that way if they saw you at 10,
that's for fucking sure. There'd be enough of them eloquently and
romantically piping up in overwrought fashion, that it would almost
certainly become a common denominator. Write really well and you might just
love boys. At least you'd love Johnny at Birthday Boy 10.

And why not? when you think about it. Walt Whitman loved boys, and he wrote
"Leaves of Grass." J.M. Barrie loved boys and he wrote "Peter Pan." William
Shakespeare loved boys and he wrote the Complete fucking works of William
fucking Shakespeare.

So, John, World, the next time you're pleasantly surprised by a boywriter
who excels at his craft, don't raise a curious eyebrow like it's something
we should be stunned by. I've read a ton of great boywriters. They're out
there in droves. And they'd all be drooling, merrily, over-the-top, for
10-year-old John.

Whoof. Enough said. That was cathartic.

And now that I've cleared those rambling pipes, let's get vulgar and fuck
your pretty ass.

Whoof, what a boy. Short-sleeved shirt. Black and white picture. I wonder
what color the stripes were on that shirt. I like to know the color of a
boy's stripes before we do the nastydeed. Over in "Smell This," his stripes
are part of the landscape! Oh well. Not essential. That shirt's coming off
anyway, three seconds into it.

Your hair is perfect. The model of boyhood. You talked earlier of being
half-and-half; a boy of half-Mexican, half-Anglo parentage. My compliments
to your mom and your dad. However their sperm and ovum mixed, the boy that
popped out was a treasure to behold. You're not too light, not too dark,
but just that perfect, in-between hybrid of beauty. Wholesome, sweetly
charming. The boy next door, with just a touch of exotic, erotic fire
inside. My little creamy baby-pepper. Juanito, muy guapo. Bonita, tambien.

I've got a soft spot in my heart for the Mexi Minxes. Or rather a hard spot
growing in my culinary wiener. The Zeej wants to sample the whole
international buffet. A nip at the backdoor of a half-Latino dish such as
yourself. Perhaps a little pre-cum smeared around the lips of, oh, say, a
curious Russian minx from the land of Minsk? Maybe a sheer beginner's boy
beej in some back alley in Copenhagen? A clumsy middle school handjob in
Frankfurt? Zeej wants to go where the boys are varied, and preferably new
at it. He'd be right at home at the First International Boy Bottom Summit,
that's for sure. (Most likely held in Switzerland, where all the decent boy
bottom summits happen).

Did you speak Spanish, Johnny? I'd like to think you could teach me some
new words while I'm pleasuring your 10-year-old pene y culo. I've written a
couple Spanish-speaking characters myself, and a couple of them spoke
absolutely filthy to me while I was banging their tight little sweet
agujeros. I'd like to think you might whimper and whisper in a couple
different languages for me. Always a turn-on.

Despite your young age in your photo at 10, my mind is going to imagine you
have a long, thin, slender snipped cock anyway, with a healthy pair of
freshly-dropped babymakers underneath. Just at that age where your little
pouch starts swinging and the world knows there's nuts inside.

I look at this boy and I want you naked and smeared with my cum. Sticky and
wet, or a little bit later, dry, shiny and glazed, like a donut in the
bakery case. I bet I could absolutely glaze that sweet face with semen,
Johnny. I bet it would dry and tighten your pores overnight. Jesus, you're
pretty.

I'll slide my face up between your thighs and into your boy butt. I'll bury
my face in your crack and commence tonguing you on autopilot. Some things I
don't even have to think about before I'm already doing them, and my tongue
is exactly that kind of activity leader.

I'd love to listen to you whine softly as I twist and drill my finger into
your ass. Within seconds of sticking a finger inside you, I'm betting my
brick-hard cock will literally be aching to meet your intestines.

Step into Doc Brown's DeLorean time machine, Adult John. Come back in time
and join me in your boyhood bedroom and watch me service Little
Johnny. Come on back in time and watch me give it to Little You, first in
the mouth and then in the ass. Hell, you can even join in if you want to,
Big John. We can tag-team Little Johnny.

What's that he said? I think Johnny was opening his mouth to potentially
object, and we might have heard the words come out if we weren't so busy
sperming in it.

Watch me smear it around Johnny's mouth with my cocktip. Pre-cum shiny lip
gloss for Johnny at 10. Then coax you to open wide. Coax you to take
it. Coax you to suck it all like a big boy knows in his heart he already
can.

Would you have swallowed a full man load at 10-years-old, Johnny Boy? Would
you have gobbled it down, or turned your head and demurely spit it out on
the sheets when you thought I wasn't looking?

When a big boy like you sucks a dong for the first time and the cum is
impending, you're never quite sure if he'll have butterflies in his stomach
or tadpoles when it's over. Will he swallow? Will he spit? You never really
know until you see his Adam's apple go gulp, gulp, gulp, and his face
scrunch up so you know he's really eating it.

Shhh, that's okay, Johnny. We know it tastes funny at first. We could ALL
tell you back then, every single one of us, it's an acquired taste,
baby. Definitely a practiced, wince it down, you'll get better, acquired
taste.

I'd really like to pee-fuck your ass a little Johnny, at least a drop or
two, but my dick is too hard and my bladder is empty. Plus, that'll land
this story into that more golden-focused category, where such impromptu
natural injections are the norm, and I think we'd like to keep you in here
among the mainstream minxes.

I can imagine the quiet, little "grin and bear it" noises you'll make when
you suddenly realize a big fat cock in your ass is nothing to sneeze
at. Being a sweet little butt-virgin at this age, you might try to scoot
away with the usual "ow, it hurts" excuse, but that's just a time-waster.

Grab a fistful of bed sheets Johnny, take a deep breath, and I'll gently
help you work through the pain. It'll be a gentle one, Johnny. The Lord
loves a challenge given and a challenge met.

I'll smear my cockhead several times with spit during The Process itself,
but that'll be in addition to the thick coat of petroleum jelly we already
generously slathered on both of us, baby, before The Proceedings began. A
lot on my cock and a lot up your ass.

So, yep. No more debating it. Down on your hands and knees, sunshine. A
little Vaseline, a little patience, a few initial tears on your part, we'll
find the proper rhythm and you'll be good to go.

And hold on tight, kiddo, because you're getting it all. Unlike last year's
Sailboat Johnny, this year's Bedroom Johnny is getting the full man-bush to
boy-skin rub-a-dub cheek-kiss when I fuck him. I hope you're ready to learn
what the grown-up term "balls deep" means, Johnny, because that's the way I
intend to finish up in you.

I'll pull my sticky cock from your ass, watch my own cum bubble out. Maybe
say a little "yay!" under my breath, then feed you the first steaming
fingerful when you toot a little after-gurgle and my slimy load drips back
out of your butt.

Chances are I'd want to be a nice guy and wipe you off and clean you up and
tuck you in with a kiss on your forehead, but then again, stealing another
glance at this boy you were in the 10-year-old picture, I might just change
my mind.

You might just look so sweaty and freshly-fucked and panting and tempting,
I might just nod at the Grown-Up Version of You, still watching from the
doorway, stroking his Doc Brown man cock, shrug my shoulders, stick it back
in you, and fuck you again.

Because, by God, these time travel opportunities don't come around often.

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # #

And the final safe-for-work pic Johnny sent me was himself at a glorious
12.

Oh Jesus. Johnny at 12-years-old. This one was my favorite of the whole
damn bunch.

Pardon me if your screen goes blank, because I may need to sit here for a
moment and collect my thoughts. Talk amongst yourselves. I'll be back in a
jiffy after I slam my cock in the silverware drawer.

Johnny at 12. Whoof, my friends. Be still my heart.

Jesus Christ, Johnny Boy. Where was this picture taken? It's a studio
picture (is it a school picture maybe)? It's a classic head and shoulders
shot, but your arm is draped over an acoustic guitar. What a prop,
man. Beautiful. You're holding your guitar.

You were a music boy, Johnny. A pretty little music boy. Now I love you
even more. Jose Feliciano is singing the theme song to "Chico and the Man"
in my head as I imagine deeply French kissing you at this age. Your
12-year-old tongue all caught up and wrestling with mine, so much larger
than yours. By your own admission, you were already Frenching and sucking
off boys in the neighborhood for a year or more when this picture was
taken. Hallelujah, child. Let's give you an upgrade. Let's move you up to
the First Class cabin.

By 12, I'm going to pretend you can already squirt a little. Not a full
copious sack load yet. Good God, let's not be silly. But let's just say
you're already squirting those first precious drops of honey-sweet boy
nectar from that cut little cock of yours. That glossy, sugary,
finger-sticky clear stuff that cums before white wads.

Because, whoof, Johnny. I'm going to suck your little cock and finger your
little ass until you're begging me to let you cum, papi.

You're not getting a quick blow job, kid. I'm going to edge you out with
oral and anal stim until your little 12-year-old balls are crawling with
fire ants, desperate with your newly-discovered need to cum.

Every time my fingertip grazes your inner nut, I want you twisting with
whimpering, angry, pleading, "please let me finish!" frustration.

I want to hear your squirming, tearful, plaintive cries of need. I want you
so fucking horned-up that one final press-plunge of your prostate or one
little lick at the base of your clipped-boy missile tip will cause you to
buck and shudder and cry out like a blubbering, grateful baby,
involuntarily detonating your pent-up, glossy babynut on my lips, making me
suck so fiercely to catch every molecule, you'll swear your dick slipped
into the test-lab at a vacuum cleaner factory, I'll be sucking you so hard,
trying to get more honey-gloss out.

And then we'll switch positions and you'll do the same for me. In fact,
I'll insist on it. If you were sucking boys already by this age, you'll
definitely know exactly what to do when my cockhead hits your lips. You
might not know how to handle a big one quiet yet, but the same general
principle applies, and you took to that shit like a duck takes to water if
I recall correctly.

You know how to do it already, that much is certain, so open wide and show
a man what you're made of, sunshine. Did you fellate at this age or just
give the basics? Were you simply a novice, going up and down and back and
forth (which is also kinda hot because it marks a true beginner), or did
you already have some wicked cocksucking skills by then? Were you hungry
enough for it? Did you take your time to swirl your tongue around and pull
off from The Main Course to remember to give the nuts and the sack a little
love? It sure as fuck would have been fun to find out which kind of beejay
boy you were at age 12. The newbie or the artist.

And again, I don't know how much your little 12-year-old nuts would have
produced when they shot their beginner's joy into the eagerness of my man
mouth, but I can tell you exactly how much cum you're going to swallow when
the Zeej fires off down your throat. I believe it's referred to in the
business as a fuck load.

Swallow what you can and cough up the rest, but if neighbor boys are all
you've tasted up until now, it'll be your first eye-opening experience with
((cough, sputter)), "Wow. I didn't know there could BE that much." Bon
appetit, sweet pea. There's more where that came from.

And the next load is going straight up your butt. (Gay up your butt)?
"Straight" seems like such the wrong word in this context.

First of all, even though you're sweet as a peach in your picture, I want
you to be the kind of boy who anally-speaking, already kinda knows he wants
it there. If a bigger boy in the neighborhood has already paved the way for
me and planted a flag in your once-virgin soil, so much the better. Virgins
exasperate me. If not, I'll improvise.

But I would like you to be the kind of a boy who has a certain itch inside,
and already understands the deeper its scratched with available man cock,
the better. I'd like it to make it a healthy combination of "ouch" and
"ahhhh" for you.

I take a look at your picture here, and I know you're a natural-born bottom
boy even before we shake hands and introduce ourselves. One look at those
gorgeous eyes, and again, those marvelous, grabbable handlebar ears
(whoof!), and that perfect little pinky finger that plays the last string
of a G chord (look at the shiny perfect fingernail you have...so clean...so
little)...

Shit, John. Just on general tidiness and good grooming alone, I want to
drag you into the last bathroom stall of your middle school, stick my hog
up your butt and spend our very first chit-chat fertilizing your transverse
colon.

I already know my cock will fit in you with some patience and effort, but
I'm hoping you're the type of boy who's already crossing his fingers our
after-school friendship will end with me deep-spraying my seed in your
guts. Because it damn-sure will, skippy. Repeatedly and deeply.

I'd love for you to shoot your own smaller load the first time I bend you
over my bed and go balls-deep in your Special Place. I'd look at that
winking starfish, so pink, so tight, so impossibly boy-tiny, then pry it
straight open and prod my way through it, rudely or politely, (go ahead,
you pick), then listen to you fuck-grunt and puppy-whimper in your
12-year-old boy-treble as I stir up the prostate you didn't even know you
had yet.

Some boys you want to hear whimper. Some boys you want to hear grunt. I
look at your picture, Johnny, and I want you to do a little bit of both for
me, baby. Whimper for me first, then follow it up with enthusiastic fuck
grunts and growls and curses. And then give me those sweet little staccato
expulsions of air you can't hold in as I thrust my cock into you, knocking
the breath out of you and making your bed squeak with the force of each
instroke.

I want you to lay there and get fucked like a good boy, Johnny. But I also
want you to be the kind of a boy who already LIKES to lay there and get
fucked. I'm hoping that's you, and that you already know it.

"Aw fuck, Mister Zachy," I want you to say. "Plow my little boy hole. Give
it to me, Daddy. I want you up my tight asshole, Mister Zachy. Ven papi,
cogeme en mi culo, dame tu verga duro. Fuck me, Daddy. Fuck your little
middle school boyhole, I want it so fucking bad..."

And over and over. Repeat until I breed you, in whichever sweet language
you prefer at the moment.

Maybe you can make little rhythmic eee! eee! eee! sounds for me with the
rhythm of my fuck pushes, the strained and sexy vowel sounds of too much
cock inside a too-little-boy-butt. I know in the Midst of Things, I'll be
too focused on getting my nut off to hear them, but as an old man later
(and face it, I am), I'll remember that sweet virgin ear music until my
dying day), which is coming soon if I keep staring at this picture of
you). Jesus Christ, kid, curse me in Spanish and pass me the cardio
paddles.

I'm gonna fuck you senseless, Johnny my boy. Then I'll pull it out of you,
wipe it on your bed sheets and teach you how to play an F chord. Let's see
how strong your forefinger is.

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # #

And that, my friends, is what happens when John, my friend, sent me a batch
of his (legal, fully-clothed, safe-for-work) boy pics. John was born in
1899, and I was born a few years later in 1902, so rest assured that none
of this ever really happened and never really will.

But if any of you readers out there remember back to your own sexy boyhoods
all those decades ago, and perhaps remember waking up one morning, oh 11 or
12, with a really sore ass and no way to explain it, don't look at me. I
had nothing to do with it. ((So says Zach with an innocent smile, knowing
the DeLorean is still in his barn, hidden under a tarp with the date set to
You)).

Love you, Johnny Boy, and your sweet, tight culo.

Kiss kiss kiss, and thanks for the history lesson.

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