Date: Tue, 7 Mar 2017 07:30:05 +0100 (CET)
From: z.blake@tutanota.com
Subject: Whoof Times Ten

TALES FROM THE MAIL BAG (FLIGHTS OF FANCY):
WHOOF TIMES TEN
By Zachyboy, as told to Scuba Steve
M/b, oral, anal

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The following story is such a complete work of fiction, it's
ridiculous. But it's also ridiculously fun, because ohhhhh, the deliciously
filthy things we gaysters can say to our gayster friends, especially if
they too have the hankering (in fantasy) for The Boyparts. We'll even go so
far as to perv on ourselves. You know. As boys. Back THEN.

Scuba Steve, who turns up with frightening regularity in "Tales from the
Male Bag" and shares this crazy circus tent with me from time to time, also
plays this wacky-ass game with me where he sends me an old (practically
yellowing and brittle) picture of his childhood self (because face it, he's
not getting any younger), and I just go to town, picture perving and
foto-fucking him like Bob and Freddy in "Talking Trash About the Team" (who
actually sprang from such perving). It's truly vulgar and liberating. All
in good fun, of course. All with comically-debaucherized intent. Is it so
funny it's sexy? Or so filthy it's laughable? Who fucking knows. But it's
sure fun to do.

In said picture of kid-Stevie, I should be quick to point out, kid-Stevie
is FULLY clothed, blockheads, because believe me, nobody DARES send naked
pictures to anyone anymore. Nuh-uh. No sir. That shit stopped a dozen years
ago. If you're still trying to clutter up your favorite Nifty writer's
inbox with unsolicited kp photo nonsense, eeek, stop it. We are NOT amused.

However, no man is an island, and really, a fully-clothed picture of my
buddy back in his boyhood? What the fuck. All bets are off.

Being the filthy wordsmith and good friend that I am, I look at Stevie's
sweet little kidself, circa he's-not-telling-anybody, and talk about all
the things I'd like to go back in time and do to him. Luckily, we have Doc
Brown's old first-model DeLorean parked in the garage for just such filthy
occasions.

This is a harmless activity and a great instant stress-reliever, and Scuba
Steve gets off because it's really just him in a much earlier era we're
talking about, albeit disgustingly-so. The depths of my vulgarity soar to
astonishing new heights whenever I perv on kid-Stevie.

As Tom Lehrer once said, I happen to have a modest example here.

Here's a spicy lil Stevie-perv I popped off when he sent me a peek at his
10-year-old boyself wearing a Little League uniform. One of my lustiest
flights of fancy indeed.

"Zeej" is my somewhat infantile nickname for my own penis. You know. Zachy
Junior. ZJ. The Zeej.  Silly, but textually effective.

On with the show.

Christ, my intros are wordy sometimes.

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Dear Stevie,

Whoof, what a glorious treasure this photo is. Whoof times 10, since you're
10 in the picture.

While 9/yo Wrestling Singlet Stevie (sent earlier) would almost certainly
have been a good, obedient boy and put up with a grown-up mancock in his
mouth and at least partially up his butt, with or without his approval or
struggle (his choice, but it's still happening) – 10/yo Baseball Bat
Stevie is full-out gettin' LAID.

This version of hot lil you would almost certainly be a more willing and
eager Loved Boy partner for the the full-fledged gaggification and
sodomization that I assure you is about to insistently follow.

Ironic that the smiling minx in this photograph has The Big "O" on his
baseball cap, because I can guarantee you The Proceedings won't be over
until you have at least two of the big-O's and I have at least four of my
own.

My thundercrashers will be at least twice as important to me as your silly
nut tingles. I'm glad you're participating and feeling good, but let's be
sure to teach you your place in the orgasm pecking order straight off the
bat. It'll save you so much confusion when you get a little older and dare
start calling in your own plays from the sidelines. Nuh-uh, cupcake. Me,
alpha. You, repository.

First of all, let me reiterate how much I need to fuck the everloving, Josh
Terrence-level, who gives a fuck if it's firmly impacted or
loose-as-a-goose shit out of the hottie you were in this picture. Make no
mistake. Zeej and I don't care if you crap all over your Star Wars sheets
or Mommy's clean carpets.

Whether I lay you flat out on the couch at my house, or bend you over the
bench in the dugout, when my 6.5 burrows up the tight clench of your 10/yo
pooper, I don't care if the end result is a tidy-glazed cunt sheen on my
shaft or an ungodly mess clumping down to my pubes. Whether you clench and
control it like a boy so much bigger, or lose all bodily function like the
tiny child you are, I could care less. Rectal evidence fearful or fancy,
you're still getting ass-raped. Consider it romance.

Jesus Christ, you're heartachingly beautiful in this
picture. Heartachingly, cockbreakingly, ballblastingly, nutclenchingly
beautiful. In fact, that word "beautiful" alone, when pronounced the
regular way, doesn't even nearly do you justice. A man needs to quietly
wolf whistle under his breath and pronounce it this way:
beeeee-fucking-yooootiful, Stevie. Teeeee-fucking-riffic, Stevie. You're
fuckable times 10 in this picture. Fuckable times 10.

First, you have the Bobby Brady hair and eyes and freckles and teeth in
this picture. The real Bobby-B can kiss my fucking ass, that loser. As much
as I once wanted to fuck him in after-school reruns, you're 10 times hotter
than he ever was. 10 times, my friend.

One quick glance at this near Bobby-baby lookalike, nay...fuckalike, and I
know I'll be anally sodomizing you to the tune of The Breedy Bunch by
Sherwin Fucking Schwartz.

Here's a story, of boy named Stevie, who was ready for some very grown-up
cock. His little boy hole was all a-tingle, but he was in for shock.

Here's a story, of a man name Zachy, who was busy with mancock of his
own. It was more cock than kids could handle. His bone was made of stone!

Till the one day when the minx he met this fellow. And they knew that it
was much more than a hunch. That this dick would somehow breech his
pussy. That's the way young Stevie joined the Breedy Bunch.

The Breedy Bunch. The Breedy Bunch. Zachy came; Stevie joined the Breedy
Bunch!

Ba-da-da-da-bump-bump, baaaaaa-dump! Nine months later, you're pregnant and
popping out my sperm babies, with Ann B. Davis as Motherfuckin' Alice.

Jesus Christ, look at your utter deliciousness.

Almost-certainly sweaty hair swirling out from underneath that baseball cap
and over those ears, nearly begging me, taunting me, to remove said cap and
burrow my nose into it and smell it and snuffle it, making snorting noises
like a pig until you giggled in your high treble voice and begged me to
stop because it tickles too much.

Foreshadowing: keep begging, bitch boy. Lots of things are going to tickle
too much before I'm done with you (with a lowercase "d") and you've been
full and properly Done (with an uppercase one).

Those beautifully crinkly eyes and freckles and cheeks and nose. Jesus,
you're like a pretty little bunny rabbit. I want to cream that pretty
little scrunchy babyface with a facial so copious they can see it from the
International Space Station like the Great Wad of China.

And that mouth and those teeth. Jesus Fucking Christ, let us stop to admire
that beautiful mouth and those beautiful fucking big boy teeth. Fuck baby
teeth right here and right now. Baby teeth can go elsewhere and kiss my
disinterested ass. Boybottumzup can put `em in a sack and leave 'em under
Digger's pillow for a hopefully-pending sequel.

That right there folks is the mouth I want wrapped around the Zeej. Oooh,
delicious, Oooh, delightful. Oooh, de-lolly. Open up, you pretty
gap-toothed, just-the-right-sized, Chiclet-nibbly sweet motherfucker and
meet the drooling, syrup-weeping business end of a 6.5-inch munchable
monster this world calls the Zeej.

You'll have bleach-stinking Zeej breath for the next three weekdays and
you'll be burping cum in the lunch line at school after The Oral Gifting is
finished, let me assure you.

That chin is so perfect it needs to be fellated simply on the strength of
its own merits.

After I French kiss that pretty little mouth with our tongues intertwined
more haphazardly than the entire populations of Paris, Marseille, Lyon,
Montpellier and Bordeaux in a five-way wrestling match for the keys to
their respective cities, I think I'll stop and suck on that perfect chin
like an old-style popsicle before they built them to snap in half.

That beautiful neck needs to be absolutely slathered with man
saliva. There'll be so many hickeys on that beautiful boy neck by the time
I'm through, StevieMama will think you came home with the titular role in
"Jesus and the Lepers" in the Sunday School play, only you ain't playin'
Jesus.

Holy fuck, I would pepper that neck with suck, nibble and bite marks,
stretching all the way down from your still-not-prominent Adam's apple to
each of the glorious hidden Stevietitties that are most certainly
nip-erecting under the confines of that baseball jersey which is coming
off, post, Fucking, HASTE.

On to those marvelous fingers, which at 10, may have not fully been
embedded up your rump quite yet (but trust me, I'll train you quickly to
correct that digital oversight).  In this photo, I believe you mentioned
you were still in the era of shucking off your outer and undergarments and
scampering naked through the woods, hoping a mosquito might bite you on
your cut little peckertip so you could spend the full next week scratching
it.

I'll see you on that mosquito bite and raise you a pair of grown-man
canines and incisors. I'll nip and nibble on that pretty little Stevietip
like my own little miniature corn on the cob. Num-num-num,
nibble-nibble-nibble. When I go down between your legs and start The Lunch
Hour, you'll swear there's a gopher loose in your Fruit of the Looms.

While I'm fellating your babyknob, your salty-tasty babystalk, and
lip-blubbering your teensy little ball sack like the sweet little candy
dish it was destined to be, pay no attention to the long, lubed fuck finger
that's clandestinely sneaking up between the clench of your heavenly butt
cheeks and straight into the Holy of Holies, your cunt.

Let's repeat those two words because I like how they sound. First word?
"Your." Second word? "Cunt."

It's certainly going to be red and puffy by the time I get through with
it. First, I'm going to turn it absolutely inside-out with sucking and
tonguing. It'll be like sticking your hand inside a fresh warm sock out of
the dryer to turn it rightside-up before you toss it in the clothes basket.

Only in this case, the wrong way is the right way, and the inside-out sock
is the clenching length of your 10-year-old rectal tube. I will absolutely
suck you backwards and inside-out, you hot little cunt-feast.

After you're raw and numb from my aggressive analingis, (no Anal Ease
needed), I'll heft those glorious babygams over my shoulders – (forgive
me, I'll have to do a whole subsection on de-cleating, de-socking and
de-virginizing your feet in an addendum, because right now I'm in too much
of a god damn hurry to fuck you).

With a soft murmur of encouragement to tell you how pretty you are –
"That's a good boy Stevie. Open your legs and relax all your muscles
inside, baby, and it won't hurt so much, because here it comes. No,
baby. Don't close your eyes. I want your eyes looking right into mine when
I push my big stiff cock inside you and make you my Loved Boy
forever. That's a good boy. Shhhhh. Keep looking in my eyes, Stevie. We're
almost there now. Wipe away the tears, baby. Here comes the rest of
me. Nnnnnghhh."

Balls-deep in your clenching little rectum. It'll be a gaping, sloppy mess
by the time we get through with it, and you'll thank Almighty God for the
rest of your life I made it that way.

Jesus please-us, look at the smile on that still-virgin boy in the
picture. Little did he know while he was still dreaming of mosquito bites
on the tip of his cocklet, grown men like me were already staring at him,
wondering how we could get him alone and unguarded and lightly sedated
enough to fuck him up the asshole and impregnate his pretty little boyguts.

I assure you more than one man was looking at you that way already. You
know damn well how the two of us look at boys this age. And you know damn
well we've both read 235,000 stories apiece here by another 10,000 guys who
share The Curse.

Which means at a typical baseball game with the stands full of daddies, at
least a good solid half-dozen of them were already staring at the cup
between your legs and the sweet skinny fuck-booty in your Little League
pants, actively fantasizing about sticking their dicks in you. You were the
lustfuck fantasy of more than one man when you sauntered down the street
wearing that fuckhot little baseball uniform, believe me.

>From "The Secret World of the Little League Boy," right here in "Tales
from the Male Bag:"

"So, I'd suck him off at night, but my Little League uniform must have got
him the hottest of all. He definitely wanted me to suck him off when he
picked me up after practice and games. Sometimes right there in the damn
park! He'd pull off somewhere a bit more secluded and make me lean over,
pull out his dong and push me down to suck him. He'd hump upwards into my
mouth when he was ready to shoot."

"A few times, he'd take me out to a wooded area where he could really get
me down on my knees so he could fuck himself in and out of my mouth. If he
made a mess on my shirt, he'd tell my mom that I was pretty sloppy with an
ice cream cone. If she suspected it was anything other than ice cream, she
never said a word."

What a glorious thought. Picking you up after practice. Driving off to a
secluded corner of the ballpark. Making sure no one is around or watching,
then taking my dick out, pushing your little head down and watching the
smiling little face of that boy in the picture open wide and say a prayer
to Zeejus.

I'd hump upwards into your mouth when I was ready to shoot.

I'd take you out to a wooded area where I could really get you down on your
knees so I could fuck myself in and out of your mouth.

And then if you were a really good little baseball boy, I'd take you by the
hand, walk you back over to the secluded area where we parked, tug down
your pants and your underwear, spit on my cock head for emergency lube, and
bend you over the trunk of my car and fuck you.

Would it be a pretty fuck with a courtesy reach-around toward the end?
Maybe. Would it hurt? Almost certainly. Would you become a dedicated bottom
boy on the spot, growing up to provide a lifetime of cock-home to your
adoring man-fans in boycunt-hungry fuck-you-up-the-fantasyland? Bingo.

I'd fuck your sweet little 10/yo hole so full of satisfying man dick it
wouldn't even occur to you to be a top. Ever. You wouldn't even be able to
spit the word out. The very thought of topping would appall you.

God, you were fuckable at 10. Gettable, sure. But that's just a polite word
for spread-eagled, feet-slobbered, legs-hoisted, cunt-lubed,
sweaty-panting-out-of-breath-boy fuckable while I repeatedly nailed you on
your childhood bed.

I'm not even going to spend preliminary time trying to get to first, second
and third base with you in a picture like this. What a wasted year of
choreography and grooming. Fuck unnecessary complications.

I'll just quietly take you by your pretty little hand, take your cap off
and kiss the top of your sweaty little 10/yo head, walk you out into the
woods so you can show me how you get naked and wait for mosquito bites.

Then when your show is over, I'll lay you down on a blanket, gently make
love to you the first two times, then when the third one rolls around and
it's harder for me to cum, I'll simply, quite frankly, fuck the whimpering,
ass-numbing shit out of you.

Third time's a charm, Stevie. Thanks for knowing what your hole is for. The
Lord loves a boy who Understands early.

So does the Zeej.

Whoof.

Whoof times 10.

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Your pal,
Zachy