Date: Mon, 7 Dec 2015 23:58:56 +0100
From: Zachyboy <z.blake@mail.com>
Subject: Smell This 14

SMELL THIS 14
By Brad, Mark & Zachyboy
M/b, b/b, oral, anal, sniffing, buttplay

Complete fantasy. Never happened and we don't encourage it. Read, sniff,
enjoy, then go home and keep your hands and your noses to yourself.

What's that you say? You've never donated to Nifty? Here's your chance to
correct that oversight.

http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html

On with the show.

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PAJAMAS: BRIAN

My morning boy Brian. In another half hour, he'll be climbing out of bed,
his 10-year-old eyes sparkling in the Saturday sunshine through his open
blue window blinds.

His smile will light up the day as he bounds down the stairs to nestle on
the couch with his Cocoa Pebbles and the Roku remote. A little stinker with
a big old blanket, burrowing in with Slugterra, Johnny Test, Clone Wars and
Kickin' It. The streaming joys of a 10-year-old boy.

But before we wakes up, before I know he's just about jump out of bed and
call dibs on the television, in my mind, from my vantage point standing in
his doorway, I see myself climbing in to cozy up and cuddle-spoon him, so I
can smell those magical boy smells in the morning.

In my fantasy, I slide one arm under his tickly little ribs and drape the
other arm over his smooth warm chest, covered in his favorite gray pajamas,
hugging him to me as he giggles and stirs.

"Morning, Daddy," he yawns in his happy, sleepy voice. "You feel scratchy."

My stubble is tickling his neck.

I smell his mop of brown hair. It was a warm night and his morning hair is
full of all sorts of good smells. Tousled, messy and a little bit
sweaty. It smells good and damp and full of his sweet, sweaty dreams. I
lift his pajama shirt up and rub and scratch his tummy and chest.

He sighs and melts back into me.

"Feels good, Daddy," he purrs, holding his hand over mine and helping me
rub him.

I bring my face closer to his skin and I nuzzle him with my lips. I spend
lazy, full minutes softly licking the night flavor off his neck.

He turns around and faces me, smiling. Gives me little kisses. Little
love-you-daddy morning smiles. I suck his lower lip until he's breathing
deeply and pressing his boy spike up against my leg. He wraps his legs
around one of mine and slowly begins dry humping me with his boner.

"Naughty," I whisper.

And he giggles, "I know."

I crawl down under the coves I pull his gray pajama pants down and he's not
even wearing any undies under them. Just his gray pajama sleep pants
because he knows I'll be in here. He wanted to be ready.

His little pink penis is as hard as a nail, jutting out proudly.

"Suck me, Daddy," he giggles, and I grab him by the butt cheeks and I do.

I smell his little boy cock. It smells like maple and corn nuts.

His peener is bursting with flavor as I take it in my mouth, little balls
and all, and suck him slowly to a sliding, then grinding, then
thrashy-bumpy, squealy-jerky little boy cum. Dry but special. Empty-balled
but giggly-quivery.

"I got my feelings really big that time, Daddy," he sighs contentedly. "I
like to get my feelings."

I run my finger up and down his crack. It's warm and moist from the night
before, from whatever was left from the previous day's missed wipes and the
natural secretions of his puckered little button.

"Daddy wants to smell you, baby."

He giggles and grinds his butt back on my finger.

I drag my finger all the way up his little wet crack, and I bring it up to
my nose and smell his sweet, sour boy-stink on the side of it. Blue cheese
dressing. Apple cider vinegar. Sweet stinky morning butt.

I bring my finger to my mouth and slowly suck the salty, bitter flavor of
his morningness. Dark chocolate, grapefruit, dandelion stems.

"Smell yourself, baby," I whisper to him, giving him a sniff.

"Ick," he giggles. "It smells like my butthole!"

Turning him around from me, scooting him up and facing the wall, he brings
his hand down to cup his own little erection which has never gone down, as
I press my face into his crack and slowly, excitedly, I peel it apart. His
cheeks want to stick together, but I just peel them apart, as simple as
pulling the paper from a band-aid.

And there's my breakfast right there. His hot little hole. Butternut
squash. Blueberry yogurt. A hundred different smells, all sour and sweet as
I feast on my morning boy's ass, and I can smell hisscent pungent and vivid
and sticking to my face, as I lap up the precious night-stink of him, all
rich and earthy under the covers.

And after I eat him, I just slide back up and pull him back to me and spoon
him again, nestling my cock in his wet little ass crack like a hot dog in a
bun, and I just lay there with my eyes closed, the scent of him all over my
lips and nose, lingering behind him like a lover's souvenir, as I feel his
hot, young crack-warmth surround and envelope my cock. He takes care of me
this way as I burrow into his special home for me.

I don't even know if I'll slide up and down and jack off with his buns
right now.

I just want to be trapped inside his cheeks, my cock covered with his ass
smell, so if I jack off later when he's down on the couch watching Saturday
morning cartoons, I can still smell his sweet little ass on my cock. Smell
it as I bring my hand to my mouth so I can lick my own fingers for lube.

It's a moment in time. I'm holding him back against me and kissing him
gently on the back of his neck, saying "Good morning, Brian. I love you."

I stand in the doorway and smile at the thought of him. Brian's away at
summer camp and his bed is still empty and it's still neatly made. His
rumpled pajamas are in a pile on the floor.

I pick up a pair of his sweetly-soiled undies and I hold them to my
nose. Pissy little sniff-pouch. Tan little racing stripes.

I breathe in his essence and I sigh in the morning.

I take out my penis and masturbate slowly, cumming on his carpet with a
grunt and a smile.

"Good morning, Brian," I say to his empty room.

"I love you."

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HOOKED: PETER

Captain Hook is going to have a field day with little Peter Pan tonight.

Look at all that hair. He has a head full of hair and just look at that
smile.

He's so pretty, he could be a girl in that costume. Girls often play Peter
Pan too.

But nope. He's a boy. You can see his willy bump in his costume when he
changes.

J.M. Barrie would have loved a bump like that on one of the Llewelyn Davies
boys. He would have. I know it.

Look at that smile. Look at those too-big, crowing, glowing teeth.

I love the tight leggings he wears every night, and the top of the costume
that barely covers his crotch.

When he walks by and I'm sitting down, I can see his little peenie bulge
and the beautiful, round curve of his ass.

He catches me looking at him and giggles.

"Bad Captain Hook," he smiles.

He's a 12-years-old that year, and he knows what I need him for. He knows I
like the smells he makes.

He can fly over the top of my head any day, and instead of leaving fairy
dust on me, he can leave piss sprinkles all over my face and I'd be
perfectly happy.

He's wearing moccasins which make his feet too sweaty. They itch and make
him slippery. Sweaty little Pan feet.

I love to sniff this boy THROUGH his leggings. I don't know why I need him
so badly, but all I want to do is put my head under that little felt top
he's wearing, every night. Every night he lets me, because there's nothing
else to stop me under there.

He's not wearing shorts. I put my nose in his cloth covered crack and I
smell everything so clearly, as if his butthole is stuck to my nostrils
completely, skin to skin, bad pirate to lost boy.

At rehearsal, I took him into the bathroom of the community theatre
practice hall. With the director giving notes and all the grown-ups talking
in the room, distracted, I took him into the other room, bent him over the
sink and smelled his tights-clad asshole.

The material was so thin, I could smell his ass through the flimsy green,
and I huffed and I huffed and I euphorically elevated at the smell of his
musky, stinky neverland.

Hopscotch? Candy? Christmas?

I'm flying! Smelling his ass and I'm sailing over the rooftops of London!

Backstage after the fight scene, particularly intense tonight, he hit all
his marks, he's all sweaty and sticky and we go back into the dressing
room, and I take the hook off my hand because, well, the hook certainly
can't go up his ass, and oh my God, I want to finger my Peter. I can't fuck
him. He's too small.

But I put him on the makeup table and I push his legs up, so he's sitting
with his knees up near his ears, and I take the little pair of scissors I
always keep in my makeup kit, and I cut a slit in the crotch of his
leggings, just wide enough for my tongue to enter, and I just dive in and
eat that stinky, sweet little Peter Pan pussy. I put my finger inside him
and he gasps.

He's all creamy and smooth, like Peter Pan peanut butter.

Creamy and tan and bitter-sweet-sour.

I pull his plastic dagger out of his belt and pull down his tights and make
him bend over, place it flatly between his cheeks, hot dog in a bun, and
press his cheeks together, to savor his butt-stink for later. To sniff-lick
it clean, Peter, after the show.

"Two minutes, Captain Hook!" the stage manager calls. "Places, Peter!"

We look at each other and smile.

"That's it," I tell him softly. "Clench it between your butt cheeks so I
can smell it all later."

I stare at him, ravenous, and I know that I'll have him some day. As sure
as there are Lost Boys. As sure as there are hungry, ticking crocodiles.

We head for the wings and we wait for our cue. Tiger Lily is almost off
stage.

He bounds to the stage with a crow and a flourish.

He's a hot little boy, and I sure want his peter.

The spotlight bursts onto him, so pretty, so 12.

I look at him there and I'm flying.

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SONIC: ZACK

He's in his track suit and he's holding a soccer ball which immediately
tells me he's been at practice.

I spot him across the parking lot, ordering at the window at Sonic. He's
tall. 15-years-old.

I can tell by the strands of his sweat-hair hanging down, he's hot and
gamey – stinky teen boy heat in all the right places.

He has just the faintest bit of dark fuzz on his upper lip, so I know he
has some pubes above his cock to trap those teen musk smells in that dark
patch of pube hair.

I reach down into my loose sweat pants right there in my car, and I slowly
start to stroke my cock, smell my own cock smell, spit in my hand, stroke
it some more, looking at him.

Why not? He's moved to a picnic table now. Just sitting there. On
display. Nobody's parked by me. Nobody can see me. I stroke my cock as I
look at his stinky hot soccer bod.

Get this boy out of that track suit.

I want him naked and lying flat on my bed so I can crawl up between his
legs and just bury my face in his sweaty wet crotch. God, he's going to
smell good. Sweat and pheromones just percolating off that big boy cock
nest.

Get my nose down in that peppery bush and take a big hit. It smells so
musky, so vivid and strong. It almost gags me, the smell of that kid's hot
crotch. It's like a punch in the face, only the punch is made out of cock
stink.

I want to lick and suck on his dirty-hot ball sack. It's smelly and dank,
but it's still almost hairless. There's barely any stubble on those nut
holders at all as I take those big balls in my mouth and lick the nasty
soccer practice gunk off his stinky sack and taint.

I'm going to watch his hot cock get hard. He's got five, maybe
five-point-five inches. It's still nice and slender, but it's getting
longer by the second.

It's going to taste so good and so salty, with just a hint of dried piss.

And he's going to start leaking just a little bit of pre in my mouth, and
it's going to taste so sweet. Pre, mixed with sweat, mixed with heat, mixed
with stink. That's what I'm tasting down there. That's what I'm tasting and
smelling on him.

And once I get him all good and ready, where he's wiggling around and just
can't stand the wait anymore, I'm going to push those long legs back, those
long athletic legs of his, and feast on his stinky teen pussy. I'm gonna
bury my face in that thing and I'm not coming out.

It'll be robust to say the least. It'll make my nostrils flare when I got
the first heady whiff of his stink.

I'm going to fuck this boy. I'm going to put my babies up inside his box.

This boy is getting fucked. This 15-year-old is about to be stretched open
by a man for the first time, and he's going to be surprised.

He didn't know it could be like this.

He didn't know, as he sat there at Sonic and I came in my sweat pants
watching him, how stunningly, easily, he could take his first fuck.

Zack's a good boy, everybody. Everybody fuck Zack.

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BOWTIE: BEEDY

Beedy is short for his initials.

B.D.

Bobby Daryl Day.

Back in 1984 when I knew him, he was the son of my friends.

Every day was a Bobby Day.

Now looking back at pictures of him, I realize what perfection he was. What
simplicity.

I want to bring him forward in time, in a time machine. So I can be with
him now at my age, with his same age back then.

Bowtie and little vest. So prim and proper.

Pretty blonde hair with the bangs. Lovely big ears.

I'm not feeling necessarily sexual toward him.

I want to love on him more than I want to perv on him.

I want to take him to Disneyland.

I want to just walk all over the park, holding his hand.

I want Space Mountain and Tea Cups with him.

I want Indiana Jones.

I want to give him kisses, but I want them to be sweet kisses.

Smell him, sure. But mostly just love him.

I want to kiss all over his face and his ears, and the tip of his nose, and
his pretty little chin, and give him butterfly kisses, and hug him and hold
him.

This boy reminds me of Ben. I have a picture of Ben when he was four years
old, dressed just like this boy.

It wasn't a striped bowtie and striped vest like Beedy's. It was a solid
vest instead.

But I want to love on Beedy like I loved on Ben, all those sweet lost
mornings ago, when we hugged and giggled and played kissy face when I woke
him.

Beedy's a good boy, everybody. But everybody love Ben.

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TOOTHPICKS: LEGGY

Big Bob Rumple and Fast Freddy Footman were doing what they always did on a
Sunday morning about 11 o'clock. After a good night's sleep and a good hard
rutting the night before – and honest to God, it's a wonder they didn't
wake the neighbors – they did a little mall-walking from 11 to 11:30,
just to work out the kinks, and then they sat their fat asses down in the
food court to eat some chili cheese fries and look at the boys.

"Holy mothera God, take a look at that one," said Big Bob, dipping his fry
in some of the gooey cheese sauce that had spilled over the top of his cup
and onto the tray. "That kid's got a set of buns you could set a couple-a
Coke cans on."

"Lord have mercy, he sure does," Fast Freddy nodded respectfully. "Go up
and give him a 12-ouncer, Bobber. See if he can take it."

"Oh, he'll take it, all right," Bob leered. "I'll give him 12 ounces
straight up his little pooper."

"Settle down, big fella," Freddy reminded him. "You didn't bring your heart
pills."

Bob and Freddy were what we call for lack of a better word, mall pervs.

You can spot mall pervs at almost any food court you go to. Oh, sure, I
suppose there's an odd chance they could be business partners stopping off
for a quick lunch, or two old college chums catching up over a snack and a
soda, but come on. Really? Nobody does that kind of catch-up at Hot Dog on
a Stick. You go to a real restaurant for shit like that.

If you see two 50-year-old men sitting in a food court, leisurely munching
on a Sunday afternoon, you can bet your bottom dollar they're looking at
girls. Or they're looking at boys. And whatever they're talking about as
they quietly wink at each other and murmur under their breath, it's
probably not printable.

"ABC-SAT," Bob said to Freddy, "AY-BEE-CEE, ESS-AY-TEE," and the two men
did indeed wink at each other as they took another quick look at the boy's
well-rounded rumple bumps. He was about 12-years-old and right in the old
AoA wheelhouse for both of them.

"ABC-SAT," agreed Freddy. "Whoof. Look at that sweet thing."

In BFS (Bob and Freddy Shorthand), ABC-SAT stood for "All Boys Cracks are
Stinky All the Time," a universal constant they liked to mutter out loud
when they saw a particularly sexy or sweaty or alluring set of cans.

They'd made a fine art of hanging out at the mall, or maybe just going to a
movie matinee on a Saturday afternoon, or a Little League game, or wherever
boys congregate, just to stare at the sniffable treasures, the bountiful
booty, and mutter the magic letters, "ABC-SAT." Because truly, all boys
cracks ARE stinky all the time.

Oh sure, one boy might be a little stinkier than another if you lined them
up side-by-side, backsides bared, and got down in there for a nasal-fine
vote. A 9-year-old fresh out of the shower isn't going to have the same
blast of onions you'll get from a 16-year-old playing nine innings of
baseball, but guaranteed, showers or not, you put them both in undies,
throw on a pair of jeans to trap the heat, and let them go about their
day-to-day business for oh, about 5-10 minutes, you'll have an instant
pleasure-huff brewing in the backseat, and deliciously so, according to Bob
and Freddy.

"Look at any boy you ever see, any day, any time, any situation, and as
sure as the sun's gonna shine and the moon's gonna rise, his butt's gonna
stink," Bob told Freddy. "Often to the point of an uncontrollable boner and
the urge to pry him open and huff him on the spot. ABC-SAT, God bless `em."

He put his hand over his heart, and took a moment of silence, as if
silently saluting the flag. If he'd had a cap on, he probably would have
removed it.

But Freddy had already moved on to the next boy. A little tiger of
all-about 7.

"Ohhh, Bobber," Freddy growled deep in his throat. "Get a load of that
hottie over there."

"Hottie?" Bob snorted. "He's still got his baby teeth!"

Freddy just shrugged. He'd already declared 2015 the Year of the Disposable
AoA, so he wasn't taking no for an answer until Bob distracted him quickly
with the catch of the day.

"Oh geez, oh geez! Will you look at that one! Look at him! Look at him!"
Bob blurted out.

"Where?" asked Freddy, all a-twitter.

"Over there," Bob drooled. "Over by the Sushi Mon!"

You did not want to eat sushi in the food court, incidentally. Freddy did
that once and spent the next two days on the throne. Ruined a perfectly
good weekend of coitus for Bob.

Holy cow, the kid was beautiful. Gorgeous. Striking. Desirable.

But his clothes were a Technicolor mess.

"Good Lord," gasped Freddy. "What in the world is he wearing?"

"Beats me," said Bob, "That's the gayest outfit I ever saw."

Freddy was vexed. "Who on God's green earth would be caught dead in that?"

And truly, it was a preposterous combo. The kid had a blue cap on, a yellow
t-shirt, and then some sort of overshirt and matching shorts on top of that
that looked like something Matt Groening barfed up all over the animating
table where they ink out the Simpsons.

"Holy cow, that's offensive." Bob muttered. "That kid's mom should be
ashamed, letting him walk around the mall in that."

"Looks like she got a bad Simplicity pattern on her last trip to the sewing
store," Freddy agreed. "Holy crap."

And it was true. The fabric of the boys shorts and overshirt were a
matching mess of red, yellow and blue, in frighteningly scattered
mélange of designs that seemed to make no sense at all.

"What in the world are those pictures on his shorts?" Freddy asked,
squinting and blinking his eyes. "Palm trees? Surfboards?"

"Looks like a sub sandwich with lettuce down by the right leg there," Bob
said, taking a stab in the dark.

"Wow," Freddy whistled. "That kid is gayer than you are, Bobber."

"Gay as the breeze," Bob agreed. "He's gonna have the older boys sniffing
away at that little hinder of his in no time."

Freddy closed his eyes and sniffed the air, imagining it, a look of pure
bliss on his face.

"But I like his hair," Bob continued, and Freddy woke up and nodded
admiringly. "Kind of that part-in-the-middle, 1980's hair, isn't it?  Damn,
I got laid a lot in the 80's."

"You never got laid a lot in your life," Freddy muttered.

"Oh no?," Bob argued, rubbing his cock through his pants, not worried who
might see him. "I turned 20 in the 80's, buddy boy. I was banging little
gay sweeties like that one every other day. Twice on Sundays."

Freddy ate another chili cheese fry, nonplussed. He was used to Bob's
endless storytelling and bullshit bravado.

"Look at him," Bob said, "all decked out and ordering sushi. Some lucky
older boy's gonna wrap his big old tuna slice in a big old wad of seaweed
paper, and tap that smelly starfish straight to the moon and back one of
these days, you mark my words."

Freddy couldn't disagree.

Bob ticked off the checklist.

"Nice-size ears. Pretty teeth. Skinny as a rail. Take it from me, buddy,
you ever get lucky enough to bounce one of those skinny little cuties on
your cock on a Friday night, you'll still smell the magic come Saturday
morning."

Freddy wasn't buying it.  It might be true, but Bob never did it.

"Dream on, Steven Tyler," he told him. "Dream on."

They stopped talking to admire the boy, who was probably 10 if he was
lucky, and way too young for the racy thoughts going through the two men's
minds, but that never stopped Bob and Freddy from admiring a view, hideous
shorts be damned.

"Look at his legs," Big Bob whistled. "Holy smokes, what a set of gams."

Freddy nodded. "He's got a fine pair on him, Bobber. That's a big
ten-four."

Bob whistled softly under his breath again. "Man, those babies start at the
floor and go all the way to the top of the Empire State building. And
they're a skinny pair of toothpicks too. Hell, Freddy. I'm gonna call this
boy Toothpicks."

"I'm gonna call him Leggy," Freddy said. "Wrap those fuckers around my neck
and give him a sniff."

The two men shivered at the thought.

"I love his feathery hair," Bob said. "Can you see it there, how it's
tucked underneath his cap? Man, I bet that hair smells good."

"I do love a boy with some smell in his hair," Freddy agreed.

"And Lord, he's got some big ears," Bob sighed dreamily. "I could suck and
nibble on those earlobes all day long."

"He'd likely kick you in the nuts if you tried," Freddy warned him, but Bob
wasn't listening.

"Nice smile. I can see his teeth. And even though the pattern's a godawful
mess, there's still something sexy about the shape of those shorts. Those
are short-shorts, my friend. Bona fide short-shorts. In fact, I'm starting
to like those shorts, old buddy. Yes sir, I most certainly am."

"Are you kidding?" balked Freddy. "You'd need a pair of Ray Charles
sunglasses just to stand up next to those shorts. They'd blast your eyes
out."

"Yeah, but look at how they're cut," Bob maintained. "They're short, but
they're not tight. You could just reach up that pant leg and feel all his
goodies. You could slip a finger up there, right past the old underoos, pop
it right past the gates of a sphincter or two, and finger that little shit
stink..."

"Mmm, greasy," said Freddy, and he drawled it out, "greeeeezy..."

"And then take it back out, make a run for the parking lot and just sit in
your car with the radio on and smell that cheesy old stink finger till the
cows came home."

"Hallelujah," Freddy hollered. "AY-BEE-CEE, ESS-AY-TEE!"

Bob wasn't done yet.

"I want to sit down on the ground between his legs, have him kick those
technicolor shorts off, then just turn my face up toward the sky and let
him squat down and tea bag me."

Freddy was getting a boner, and Bob's lump in his pants was already openly
visible to everybody at Orange Julius.

"Yes sir," Bob growled down deep in his throat. "We're gonna slide those
funny shorts down, run my hands up those skinny legs, then he's gonna squat
straight over my face and we're going to let that little ball sack dangle
over my nose and into my mouth, and we're going to sniff and lick that
tight little sack and see what he smells like right under his taint."

"Oh fuck yes!" whispered Freddy. "Give that taint the old Hufflepuff,
Bobber!" Now he did have a boner.

"Sweet, stinky-good boy smells," growled Bobber, "Bready, yeasty, and a
little like pee."

"Ohhhh, please," Freddy moaned, "Let him smell a little like pee."

"Then I want to smell those feet," Bob continued. "He's wearing those
tennis shoes and white socks. Mmmm, I want to smell those socks and see
what they smell like, still on his feet. See how sweaty they are."

Bob reached down under the table and started inconspicuously rubbing his
cock tent through his khakis. He worse loose ones to the mall for occasions
like this.

"He's still just a leggy little shaver," Bob said, "so he's not producing
any foot stank yet. He's gonna still have that good, young, boy-foot
odor. Not that cheesy, rancid stink of an older boy. Just that good, clean
sweat-smell of a boy's hot sock. I'm gonna peel that sock off and lick his
toes, my friend. I'm gonna fellate those little fuckers. I'm gonna eat
those little piggies."

"Oh Lord," Freddy groaned. "Give it to him, Bobber. Suck his little toes."

"Then I want to stand him up and I want to tippy-toe this boy," Bob
continued. "Stick my finger up his tight little hinder and watch him arch
up on his tippy-toes when I do."

"Oh mercy," Freddy said quietly, and he needed a fan and some smelling
salts.

"I'm gonna stand up and just sort of pull him into my hip and hold him with
my left arm," said Bob, "and then take my pinky and just wet it with spit,
and just slide it into his crack, and push it up against his stinky little
starfish..."

"ABC-SAT," gasped Freddy breathlessly...

"And he's gonna rise up on his tippy-toes for sure," said Bob, "because I'm
sure he's never had anything in his little hole before. And if I can get my
pinky all the way in him, then I'm going to go ahead with my forefinger
next. All the way up, before he settles down on his leggy little heels and
starts to grind that little 3-and-a-half inch peener up against my hip."

"Good Lord," Freddy muttered. "We need to find a bathroom stall,
Bobber. You need to drain a load out of my balls. I'm about to burst."

The two men stood up, pushed their trays aside and headed toward the food
court men's room to take care of some business. On the way over they passed
little Toothpicks. They passed that sweet leggy boy just a little too
closely, so they stopped in general awe of him.

Mother-a God, that kid looked gay as the breeze in that outfit. As gay as
they come. They both breathed in deeply, hoping they could smell him.

Not a single hint of butt stink in the air. Just clean, summer boy. A hint
of strawberry body wash.

"Hi there," said Bob.

"Hello, sir," said Leggy, and Lord, he even sounded gay. A little
lisp. Deliciously queer.

Holy cow, thought Freddy with a satisfied grin. Who says "hello, sir" like
that? Only a gay kid. This kid was gonna get the old sniff-and-fiddle from
an older boy for certain.

Bob inhaled again. Nothing but strawberries and sushi, damn it. But that's
okay, he thought. He knew the kid was stinky, good and proper, right
downstairs for anyone lucky enough to get in there.

He smiled at the kid and the kid smiled back. Freddy was going to get the
blowjob of his life in that bathroom stall, thanks to the boner this kid
had put in Bob's pants.

Underneath those hideous, colored shorts that were way too short and too
loose in the leggings, Bob already knew there was a universal constant.

"ABC-SAT," he said to the boy, and the boy just smiled, confused but
polite. A quizzical look followed by a wide, honest smile.

"Yes sir," said the boy, with a sweet little lisp, walking off with his
sushi container in his hand, hips sort of swaying, smiling back puzzled
over his shoulder at the two strange men who watched his pretty little rump
flit all the way to Game Stop.

"Lord," Bob whispered. "Look at it go."

And Freddy just stood there, too enthralled to move.

With a nudge and a wake-up, Bob and Freddy made their way to the stall in
the men's room, where Freddy dropped his pants to the floor and Bob got
down on his knees, opened his mouth wide and went straight to work.

A blowjob for Freddy and a reciprocal bendover for Bob right after, they
zipped up, Bob's spit and cum still drizzling down Freddy's ass and balls,
and they headed back to the food court for another fresh round, content in
the knowledge that all boys cracks are stinky all the time.

Sooner or later, as sure as the sun's gonna rise and moon's gonna shine,
little Leggy Toothpicks would be getting some close-up sniffing from an
older boy of his own. Right up the back door. Real soon. Real stinky.

He'd be bent over with his buns up in the air in some older boy's bedroom,
and that older boy would be going straight to heaven when he got his face
trapped between the fragrant buns of that sushi boy's stinky tuna crack.
Straight to heaven, my friends.

ABC-SAT. Live it, love it, learn it, sniff it.

Especially in the food court, sniffers.

Especially in the food court.

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Authors' Note:

Those two mall-walking, trash-talking pervs, Big Bob Rumple and Fast Freddy
Footman also appear in their own pair of standalone stories here on Nifty,
where they get more than a little horned-up flipping through their old
middle school yearbook and reminiscing about the boys they claimed to pop.

http://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/talking-trash-about-the-team
http://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/screwed-glued-and-tattooed

Until next time, enjoy!
BM & Z
Your Partners in Sniff

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