Date: Thu, 11 Feb 2016 22:23:45 +0000 (UTC)
From: z.blake@tutanota.com
Subject: Smell This 16

SMELL THIS 16
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.

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

YESTERYEAR: KENNETH

I have a penchant for old photographs.

When I'm not here writing about sniffing boys' bumholes, more often than
not, you'll find me perusing the wonderfully vast and perfectly legal
collection of old-fashioned snapshots that Google has to offer.

Simply typing "1940's boy" and tabbing-up "images," brings a veritable
treasure trove of young smellyboys to dream of and sigh over. Fully
clothed. Innocent as everything. All there, all safe, all fully preserved,
to admire and fall in love with, these boys from decades before my
birth. Mine to love. "To adore and explore," says a friend of the same ilk.

"I can't do it," said another friend once. "I can't look at old black and
white boypics and get aroused or excited. I keep getting the feeling I
might accidentally be perving over my grandfather."

Ah, but my first friend is more willing to suspend disbelief. He and I have
often wandered the annals of history together, cocks in hand. A high school
boy's basketball team from 1957. An Oklahoma dust bowl waif from
1936. Abraham Lincoln's sons Willie and Tad, who were beautiful boys, in
every single photo. Willie who died at 11 years old. Tad at 18. Preserved
forever in black and white. And both were simply beautiful.

I have a penchant for old photographs.

Tonight I'm looking at a boy from December 1943. I know the year, because
the person who posted was kind enough to add "dec43" to the otherwise
nonsensical file name.

I'm already halfway in love with this boy.

I've already given this boy a name.

So much do I love him and want my experience with him to be authentic, this
10-year-old boy in the old-fashioned photo, I've backdated to his birth
year and looked up "most popular boy names of 1933," and here they are, in
order:

Robert, James, John, William.

Richard, Charles, Donald, George.

Joseph, Thomas, Edward, Ronald.

David, Paul, and then his name:

Kenneth.

Not Kenny, but Kenneth.

For a beautiful boy from 1943, Kenneth is imperfectly perfect. Ears too big
and smile too wide, but rosy-cheeked and grinning at the day, Kenneth
stands outside his grandmother's house, her bushes unkempt and vines
growing wild since granddad died, and he's just not here to prune them back
anymore.

Look at how you're dressed, Kenneth. Good Lord. Shirt and tie and vest and
jacket. Knicker shorts and thick wool socks pulled up to your knee. Hard
black shoes a size too small. And these are your play clothes,
Kenneth. This is what you wear when you're casual. Your daily fare.

I dream of kissing your lips and that sweet goofy smile. Smelling your boy
breath as you kiss me back. Licorice whips? Milk from the cow? Are you
sweet or sour, Kenneth? Will your breath be curdled cream or butterscotch
candy?

God, how my cock grows as I kiss your too-warm lips and touch your
too-cherubic cheeks. You're a blond boy, Kenneth. Tousled but tidy. Proper
but free. I feel my erection grow harder because you're a contradiction in
terms.

"Do it in my dirty place again," you whisper quietly so grandma can't
hear. "Lick my thingie and do it in my dirty place."

It takes forever to take your clothes off, Kenneth. First the shoes, and
then your socks. Sour, sweaty boy feet stand naked in the grass. Then I
take your jacket off. Your vest, your tie, your button down shirt. And good
God, an undershirt too, adding insult to injury. How many layers does your
mother make you wear, Kenneth? It's August, for Christ's sake.

And then your knickers, your holy of holies. I hold my breath as I unfasten
buttons. Unzip zips. My heart beats wildly in my chest as I slowly slide
them down. Grungy underwear underneath. Stinky and stained with tiny piss
and shit spots. The history of your boyhood.

I turn you around and lean you against the wall of grandma's house, you
sweet, pretty boy. I'm going to fuck you, Kenneth, but I'm going to smell
you first.

I slide your undies down and marvel at your ass. It's as creamy as your
cheeks are. Cheeks up top, and cheeks down below. Only these smell better,
down here, as I kneel in the grass and part them wide and stick my face in.

I moan out loud because boys don't bathe very often in your day,
Kenneth. Boys in your year barely bathe at all.

My mind is reeling, my lungs are on happyfire. I want to take you inside
Grandma's house, and since Grandma's not home, I want to lie down naked on
her bed with you and slather tiny smears of lard between us.

We can slide around naked and writhing together with your hard little cock
sliding all over my slippery tummy, and my hard, much-bigger cock sliding
all over yours. You're unwashed and perfect and you smell like a boy. And
after you get your first baby-squirt shivers, shaky and scared but caught
up in the moment, I'll just clench you and hold you, and grab both your
butt cheeks, and then I'll explode, Kenneth, generations of man cum all
over your smallness, a half century of semen all over your belly.

And then we'll just lay there wiggling and kissing with my sperm and the
melted lard getting slipperier and sticker between us. And I may have one
or two fingers up your sweet, sweaty ass, Kenneth, memory fails, but yes,
sweet yesterday-child. By the time I'm done, you'll know exactly where
babies come from. That's a rare, golden knowledge for a child your age in
the 1940's.

"It's not the stork who brings babies, Kenneth," I say lovingly, gently, as
I coax you down firmly to suck my hard cock. You don't know what to do, but
I'll teach you with patience. "It's not the stork at all."

But now in my mind, we're still outside in the lawn, and I'm pressing you
up against siding and vines, I huff you and huff you, pushed up against the
house, your legs spread apart, your ass as fragrant and as pretty as
flowers. I smell you madly, glady, lost in the history of your sweet, dirty
boystink.

You're lost to the ages, but preserved here perfectly anytime I type the
simple words "1940's boy" into a search engine, Kenneth, something your
mind could not begin to understand.

I'd be H.G. Wells to you, Kenneth. I'd be Doc Brown's DeLorean.

I stick my finger in my ass, and I moan out loud. I pretend it's your hole
I'm fingering. I pretend you're still real.

I have a penchant for old photographs.

And tonight as I masturbate to Kenneth, December 1943, I touch my finger to
my own sticky anus, inhale its scent and pretend that it's him. My cum
floods out of me and pools on the towel on the floor by my feet, and I
shake in my soul, so deep in my heart that it feels like an aching. It
feels just like bliss.

History's pictures, those sweet black and white boys.

They're old and they're buried in search engines and earth, but they still
make me cum like they were just loved at Grandma's.

My sweet, unwashed Kenneth.

He's grown-up and gone now, eternally ten.

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

WELCOME: COLTON

13-year-old Colton goes to Montgomery Middle School, whose spacious grounds
back almost immediately onto the state line welcome center just off the
interstate.  Aside from the summer months, the welcome center is mostly
absent of any visitors.

You met Colton having visited the restroom and saw a simple Sharpie-written
note on the back of the stall door: "young teen wants older" and then a
local cell number. You took a photo of it and kept in on your phone for
three weeks, deliberating about whether or not you'll pluck up the courage
to call.

After three too many vodkas one night, you called it and Colton
answered. It turns out your three weeks of procrastination were unnecessary
and Colton was, in fact, legit.

That was a Friday evening.

"How about tomorrow?" you asked him.

"Weekends are too risky," he said. "Too busy. Too much traffic. Can you
meet me after school on Monday, at 4 pm? No one's around at that time."

The welcome center was like a ghost town. You arrived early to check it
out. The doors were open, brochures all over the place, but no one anywhere
to be seen. A brochure entitled, "Black Cavern Chasm," caught your eye as
it showed, on the front side, a boy of around 12 or 13 strapped to a zip
line with his cute jeans showing off his young bottom.

You were checking out the one and only can of Coke in the vending machine
that had an out of order sign taped to the front of it and looked like it
hadn't been stocked since last summer, when you heard the door open behind
you, taking you by surprise. You turned and saw a boy matching the
description Colton had given you on the phone. You were immediately struck
by his casual, ruffled beauty. Short, graded brown hair, lean body, nice
round bottom in his red sports shorts.

Checking your watch, it was bang on 4 pm.

"I'm not going to suck you, but you can give me a blow job if you pay me,"
he told you in the restroom, digging his thumbs into the front of his red
shorts and boxers, tugging them down under his balls to show you the
suckage he had on offer. While you didn't ask him about it, you got the
impression this wasn't his first fleecing of an older guy.

"Gotta pay for those Calvin Kleins somehow, right?" you said to him.

"Twenty-five," he replied confidently, shuffling his three-inch uncut teen
softie up and down with his thumb.

Less than two seconds later, you were on your knees, in the state welcome
center restroom, sucking the almost-entirely-hairless three inch uncut cock
of a thirteen-year-old boy you had only just met... and you were going to
be paying for the privilege.

Within seconds, his three inches swelled to, you guessed, around four and a
half inches, and was rock, fucking hard.

"I'm gonna cum," he uttered through a heavy breath less than forty-five
seconds later.

And he did.

While he was relatively quiet about it (perhaps in fear that you would pull
away from him), there was no mistaking the salty, semi-chlorinic taste of
teen spermjuice as it flooded across your tastebuds and into the back of
your throat. You felt the stickiness of it as you tried to swallow it down
while your inner monologue was screaming at you at 100 decibels, "fuckkkk
yeah...a thirteen-year-old boy just shot cum in my mouth!"

Colton quickly pulled up his boxers and jeans and started to do his zip up.

"That was quick," you said to him rising to your feet again - and Colton
knew you weren't wrong. Nevertheless, he chose not to answer you and you
watched on as he began tucking in his t-shirt in a hurry.

"Wait," don't go yet," you said softly.

"Twenty-five," Colton said, extending his long, skinny arm.

Dipping into your back pocket, you pulled out a fifty.

"Split a fifty?"

"I don't have any cash on me," Colton replied, looking a little worried he
may have just given away his teenjizz for free.

"Well, how about I make you an offer?"

"I'm listening," Colton replied, temporarily stopping his t-shirt tucking.

Having spent three weeks deciding whether or not to call him on his cell,
you're not quite sure where you got the courage to make a very direct
proposition, but that's exactly what you did.

"Let me sniff your asshole."

Colton looked at you. He didn't know if you were being serious... until he
saw your dead pan expression. He squinted for a second as though he was
working something out and then no sooner said than done, he was undoing his
zip again while turning around at the same time, tugging down on his jeans
until they were around his knees, his beautiful, milky white split peach
right in front of you.

Oh fuck, was he really gonna let you sniff it?

"Shuffle over there to the sink," you told him, "and lean on it. It'll
easier."

"I can't believe you wanna sniff my ass, you dirty cunt," he told you as
his feet shuffled across the six-inch tiled floor.

"Oh, you better believe I wanna sniff your smelly little ass more than
anything," you told him as he leaned over the sink, putting his hands on
the rim of it to steady himself.

The pain of the tiled floor shot through your knees and all the way up your
legs but you ignored it. All that mattered now was pressing your nose
between Colton's ass cheeks and finding out what a thirteen-year-old boy's
sticky little anus smelled like after a long day at Montgomery Middle
School.

Good. It smelled good.

"Snifffffffffffffff...mmmmoooohhhhhhhhawwwwwww"

"Dirty cunt," you heard Colton utter under his breath.

"Snifffffffffffffff...mmmmoooohhhhhhhhawwwwwww"

Colton's ass smelled like a sweaty mix of extra sharp artisan cheddar and
camembert that had been out of the refrigerator for two hours. On top of
that, it just simply smelled like "ass" in an indescribable way. Colton's
ass. A Montgomery Middle Schooler's ass. A thirteen-year-old boy's ass and
you had your nose pressed right into it.

"Snifffffffffffffff...mmmmoooohhhhhhhhawwwwwww"

"Ohhhh I fucking love the smell of your ass, Colton," you blurted out.

"Just hurry up and cum, you dirty cunt," Colton said over his shoulder.

"Snifffffffffffffff...mmmmoooohhhhhhhhawwwwwww"

On the eighth sniff, your cock was begging to come out; but you knew your
cock. You knew that as soon as it came out it would be game over.

And it was.

Your zip popped open, you pulled your underwear away from your body with a
curled up thumb and out came your pre-oozing, boy-hungry, bulging-bone.

"Snifffffffffffffff...mmmmoooohhhhhhhhawwwwwww"

A tenth longgggg, deeeeeep sniff was all it took for your cock to take
over. Without touching it, it erupted like Mount-fucking-Vesuvius.

"Ohhhh fuck, I'm smelling his ass," you muttered out throughout your orgasm
before finally pulling out of his smooth, stink-glazed boy globes.

"Dirty cunt," Colton said again as he pulled up his jeans. You looked at
his ass shape-out his jeans as he got dressed and you could still smell it
on your upper lip. When his zip was up, Colton turned around and extended
his hand into which you deposited a fifty dollar bill.

"I'll pay you fifty for that every time," you told him.

Colton looked at you, looked at the money, and looked back at you.

"Every time?"

"Every time."

"Tomorrow, same time?" Colton asked.

Every day, same time if you like.

Awkwardness lingered for a moment.

"K...but not weekends or the summer holidays."

"So, just Monday through Friday then?"

"I can't do Fridays either."

"Okay, so Monday through Thursday?"

"Yeah," Colton said nodding his head to confirm.

You did the math. Were you really gonna get to sniff a thirteen-year-old
boy's ass, three times a week for only $150? And suck him off and have him
cum in your mouth? Fuck!

"See you tomorrow then?"

"Yeah, same time," he said walking toward the door. You started to follow
him.

"Wait," he said turning back to you. "Give it five minutes before you come
out."

"Okay, will do," you said, knowing exactly why.

Colton turned to walk away again.

"Hey, wait," you said calling after him.

"What?"

"Think you could bring a friend?"

Tension was palpable. You could feel it flood your body as he looked at you
and frowned.

"And you'll pay him to let you smell his ass?"

"Yeah."

A few more tense moments followed.

"I'll see what I can do," Colton replied.

Little did you know where that conversation would lead. Less than 24 hours
you were back at the state welcome center with Colton and his blond haired
blue eyed same-aged boygod friend, Brady. Seeing them both side-by-side at
the sink with their boxers pulled down at the back, waiting for you to
sniff their middle school bumholes was a sight for sore eyes.

I guess money talks.

And it was 5 weeks until the summer.

After the double up on Colton's and Brady's asses, you waited the
obligatory five minutes before leaving the restroom, picking up the Black
Cavern Chasm brochure on your way past. Something to look at when you
jacked off later.

The sound of your fist banging the glass on the front of the vending
machine echoed through the empty welcome center as the lonely can of Coke
dropped into the hopper.

"Sniffing boys' assholes is thirsty work," you told yourself as you chugged
on Coke, fished your car keys out of your pocket and strode away.

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

MIDWAY: DAVID

Out of all the beautiful boys you feel like sitting down and writing a love
sonnet to, how about David who is eleven this year? Eleven and still
hairless, presented for your heartfelt and erectory enjoyment.

He just finished his cotton candy, and now he wants more.

"Daddy!" he shouts to the man by his side. "Win me a goldfish!"

Daddy tries and fails. We watch him from across the midway.

He tries again and wins. Anything for David. Anything at all.

Look at the perfect roundness of those shoulders. God, I want to smell his
arms. Does that sound crazy? Not his armpits. His arms. I just want to wrap
all up in the warmness of him and press my nose gently against the warmth
of his arms and just inhale the soft heat of him. Like a need, not a
wish. I need that smell.

"What should we name him, Daddy?"

"Midway," grins Daddy. "Let's call him Midway."

He clutches his fish in a little plastic baggie as we watch his every
move. His lips, his neck, his chest, the size of his legs, his beautiful
fingers, his perfectly trimmed fingernails, the treasure palace underneath
those perfectly-fitting shorts. Revealing nothing but a phantom crease, a
trick of light and shadow and fabric that may be his tiny cocklet, or may
be just an illusion. Just enough to wonder. Just enough to light us up in a
million sparkles of attention and curiosity.

I love coming to the fair with you. I love watching boys like this.

"Can we have ice cream?" he asks, excited.

"Later," says Daddy. "Let's see the tractors first."

David mopes sweetly. A beautiful facial expression, caught in
mid-thought. A combination of pondering and disappointment, as if he'd been
gently chastised and had to look down...but with underlying innocence,
downward cast eyes and soft swoop of the neck that almost brings to mind
paintings of the Virgin Mary looking down at the babe. Angelically gentle
in his dairy delay.

He reaches behind himself and scratches his butt. He giggles.

"Got ants in your pants, kiddo?" his daddy grins.

"Ten today," David grins. "Ten big ants marching one by one!"

Daddy smiles and swats his butt. Oh, lucky Daddy, to even touch that
masterpiece.

His ass is absolutely perfect. Look at the perfect, pronounced curve of his
bottom. Just a sweet, unassuming, beautiful boy bottom. It's not showing
off, but there it is in spades, making its presence known, sweet and snug
and summertime hot, with just the faintest trace of sweetcream honey in the
middle, just the faintest nasal swipes of pure ambrosia to be sniffed and
cherished.

"Do it," commands David, in our husky-voiced fantasy. "You know you want
to, so do it."

Naked in our dream, he spreads his ass apart and lets us have his sheen. He
lets us know his most intimate grease.

Let it rub off on the tips of our noses and rub against the skin above our
upper lip. Boy sweetness and Downy. Fabric softener and pink cotton
candyhole. Like inhaling dessert when the cake comes out, detecting magic
in the air, pronouncing it fit to quench the sniffthirst in our soul.

"You hold the fish," he says to his daddy. "You hold Midway. He's getting
heavy."

His daddy grabs the fish, and David catches us looking.

He watches us from a distance. No idea what we need. No idea what part of
him we want so badly. No idea that our eyes dart desperately from his
pretty face, pretty hair, to his perfectly formed body, to the treasure
behind him. The Lost City of Atlantis. To lower his shorts and smell him
bare would be discovery. Mythology. Conquest and fulfillment. Ponce de
Leon. Aqua de vida. The fountain of youth. We'd be young again, just from
one deep pull into our old, aching lungs. Made children again from the
smell of his hole. Revitalized. Reborn.

He scratches his butt again, still looking at us.

Move your hands, baby. That's it. Good boy. Put your hands down and let me
lower your shorts. Shhh. It won't hurt at all. It'll just tickle. I know, I
know. It's weird. I can't help it. But your bottom is so pretty, I just
have to smell it.

Pull your undies down. Good boy. Oh, so pretty. Now spread your cheeks
apart for me. Spread as wide as you can. Ohhhhh, good boy. So good, so
sweet. You smell so good down here. So good. Thank you so much for letting
me do this to you.

It's not dirty at all, David. It's perfect. It's clean. It smells just like
it should smell down here. I could smell you and smell you forever and
ever.

That's it, baby. Push back and giggle if you have to. I don't care. Just
let me stay here and smell you until time disappears from the world. Being
here smelling you is like inhaling eternity.

"Daddy? Will you lift me up? he giggles as he looks away and the spell is
broken. County fair. Tired boy. Full swing swoop from his big strong
daddy. The sun's starting to wane and Daddy hoists him aloft.

"Don't fart on my shoulders," Daddy grins, and averts his head in pee-yoo
pretend.

"Gonna do it right up your nose," giggles David. And Daddy wrinkles his
nose and turns his head again.

"God, I love him," I whisper to you.

"I love him, too," you whisper back softly, in a way that makes me think
you really want to cry.

We watch them both from across the midway, and I don't think Daddy realizes
how lucky he is and what a fleeting moment of perfection is right in front
of his nose. My face would not be averted. My head would not be turned
away. I'd find a way to lift him so my nose was directly in his perfect,
beautiful crack, if only for a second. If only for a fraction of a moment,
my nose would touch his perfect, radiating, crackheaven boyheat as I lifted
him gracefully to my shoulders.

"You're a comfortable horse, Daddy," he chatters. "Giddy-up for ice cream!"

Daddy sighs, and we can tell his will is weakening. He adjusts his son with
a hitch and a hoist, making them both more comfortable. We stare,
unbreathing at the way the shorts ride into David's crease. His shorts, his
precious undies, now tucked firmly into his crack, cloth fibers picking up
the traces of his sweet, ripe magic place. His hole. His anus. His
boyhood. His midway. It's being fingerprinted for later. Leaving evidence
behind in his perfect, scented undies. To be worshipped quietly. Moaned
over later. Masturbated to behind locked doors after he sweetly falls
asleep at night. Leaving a scented shadow for me. A moment caught in
time. A gift.

Beautiful, exquisite boy. Confident and fulfilling. Lean and warm and
pretty and presented. Graceful and gentle, beyond crude thought. Soft like
an angel. A boy to be loved and greatly appreciated. To be treated with
kindness even as you desire him in ways he'll never know. As every tiny
atom of tacky skin on his perfect damp anus feels the happytickle
giggleflinch of your nose and your fantasies. Beautiful, beautiful boy.

"I love you, Daddy," he says to his father. "This is the best fair ever."

Daddy hands him Midway again, and David clutches his fish in a baggie tight
hand, and a sweet, sticky, cotton-candy grip.

And they walk off together, daddy and son, as the sun slowly sets over the
Macon County Fair.

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

DIRTY: CLAY

Right place, right time. Sometimes it happens.

His name is Clayton and he's 13 years old. He doesn't like to be called
Clayton, so to his friends, he's just Clay.

All his friends said his big brother fucks him, and I was inclined to
agree. Clay was gorgeous and if his brother was of the ilk, or of the mind,
I can't think of a better bulls eye. The brother's in college, so if Clay
takes a 19-year-old dong up his ass, I tip my hat with respect toward Clay
and envy toward the brother.

Clay plays soccer on my boys league with my nephew Drew this year – I'm
one of the four coaches – and Clay is a couple years older than Drew
which makes the age and size dynamic interesting, if you know what I
mean. If you imagine the coupling. Imagine the math. You know, imagine how
many times 13 goes into 11.

It wasn't uncommon for me and the other coaches to take the kids out for
pizza and soda after the Saturday afternoon games, so Clay and I knew each
other well. We hung out comfortably. Played foosball and air hockey after
the pizza was finished. Bonded. Got comfortable.

The thing you should know is, without a doubt, Clay is a filthy, raunchy
boy. He has the dirtiest mouth of any boy I've ever met and libido to
match.

He's clever though. He knows how to dial it back when he's around adults or
his parents or kids he doesn't know. But when he's with his inner circle,
he really lets loose and cusses. He talks about any dirty, pervy thing he
can think of. And he feels absolutely free to talk that way in front of me,
because I flat-out told him I don't give a shit what he says.

"What if I said fuck in front of you, Coach?" he asked me once. And then
with a smile. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

"Words are words," I shrugged. "I'll let you know when you shock me."

He raised an eyebrow and smiled. To Clay, hell, that's just a challenge.

"You wanna fuck my butt, Coach?" he flat-out asked me one day when he
caught me looking at it. "You can go ahead and say-so, you know. I ain't no
virgin in there."

I shrugged. Tried to look unimpressed but I wanted him bad. I could taste
my need for him in the back of my throat like euphoric bile.

"Now why would I do that, Clay?" I smiled gently. "I'd get in all sorts of
trouble."

"You can't get in trouble if the boy don't tell," he shrugged, and he had a
point there. But safety is safety, and I tried to put it out of my
mind. But I think I knew even then it was a freight train bearing down on
us, our inevitable coupling. He was just too dirty to let it go.

"Fucker," he grinned. "You want to put your cock in me, sure as shit."

I gulped and tried not to let him have the pleasure of seeing how unnerved
he had me, weak-kneed with desire for him.

He pissed for me once. We were in the bathroom next to each other, just the
two of us, and I don't mean he pissed in front of me, I mean he pissed for
me. Stood back from the urinal. Pulled his pants fully down. Jutted his
fair-sized cock out. Looked me right in the eye and pissed. Hot, yellow,
pungent piss. I could smell it from where I stood.

And when he was done, turned his back toward me, bent over to the floor,
spread his ass cheeks apart, and showed me his hole.

"Right here's where you want to fuck me," he said. "It only hurts for a
minute."

He left me standing there, breathless and gasping, drive by mooning,
counting in my mind the dirty flecks and specks, burned into my retinas
like sun blindness. Like staring stupidly into an eclipse.

I knew it was bound to happen with that filthy boy, but by the time I got
back out to the group table, the pizza was out and Clay was on his best
behavior.

When Clay's mom or dad were around, he was everybody's angel, squeaky-clean
and shiny as a Catholic schoolboy, but man, as soon as they were ten paces
out of ear shot and it was just me, Clay and the rest of the boys, every
other word out of his mouth was "fuck this" and "fuck that," and "suck my
dick" and "fuck my ass, Coach" and "eat my load," and he always called
everybody cocksuckers and shitheads and everything else, and I could barely
contain my lust for him.

He liked me to know he was sexual too.

Once after a game, he took Drew into the bathroom stall at the Pizza Place
and they didn't come out for a full fifteen minutes. And when they did,
Clay was grinning and grabbing his crotch and Drew had a dazed look on his
face and was walking with a visible limp in his step. Clay whispered as he
walked by me, "I fucked him good. You should try him, Coach."

Drew blushed. Smiled and blushed deeply. Who am I to stand in the way of
young love.

Clay also liked playing Butt Finger with boys. You know the game, where you
stick your finger down your own crack and you smear it under a boy's nose
when he's not expecting it? Raucous choruses of disgust and giggles follow,
with plenty of payback. Butt Finger's the game that keeps on giving, and
Clay was a champ. He got Drew about three times a month and the other boys
who-knows-how-many times. I kept wishing he'd give me one. Hell, I would
have paid him for one. But no such luck, I guess. He'd hold one up and
tease me with it, but he never gave me a taste.

The third-to-the-last soccer game of the season, Clay fell and pulled a
hamstring and one of the bigger boys helped him off the field, limping.

"He's hurt, coach," Rudy said.

"Fucker," Clay said. "Leave me alone. I'll kick that kid's ass for knocking
me down."

"Thanks, kiddo," I said to Rudy. "I've got him from here. Come on, potty
mouth."

"Fuck you," he grumbled. "I'm in pain here."

I stooped down a little so Clay could wrap his arm around me and I hobbled
him off to the sidelines and into the clubhouse, which was completely
empty, as it always was during a game. I took him into the player's aid
station and had him scoot up on the med table.

"Lay down on your back," I told him.

"I bet you'd like me to lay down on my back," he grumbled. "With my fuckin'
legs up in the air so you can finally stick it right in me, you fuck."

I got out a bottle of mineral oil. "Careful what you wish for, kid, or I'll
fuck you right here."

"Too bad you're too fucking chicken," he said. "Drew says you always have
been."

"Yeah, well it's a fuck for you and Drew, but it's jail time for me," I
shrugged.

"Life's full of chances," he shrugged back.

I put some oil on my hands and started massaging his calf muscle slowly,
the way they taught us in pre-league first aid. We're all certified for
minor injuries. Technically, I needed to see if he sprained anything or
just had a charley horse. But truth be told, who gave a fuck about his game
injuries. I was just horny for him past the point of all common sense, and
I wasn't going to pass up any chance I had to finally get my hands on this
filthy little fuck.

I rubbed his calves and watched him close his eyes in blissful response.

"Oh fuck," he grunted. "That feels good. You can be my bitch any day
coach. Let's get married so you can rub me all night long then suck my cock
and fuck me. Drew can lick your old ass while we do it."

"Like I said, Clay. Careful what you wish for. You'll have six inches in
your tummy you keep that up."

I moved my hands further up his legs. Testing the waters. Seeing how far
he'd let me go. My hands glided softly, aided by the oil, up his slender
legs. Not skinny chicken legs. Just tight. Well-toned.

I kneaded those muscles. I could tell he was enjoying it.

"Fuck, man. You make my dick hard. Wanna see it?" he muttered.

"You take it out whenever you want," I shrugged. "Nobody down here to
watch. Door's locked up top."

He grinned at that and grabbed his own crotch.

"Bet you'd like to suck it, huh? Bet you locked that door up there so you
could suck my dick."

He wasn't far from the truth. I'd wanted him forever.

I worked my way up to the hem of his blue soccer shorts. I don't know if
his mom didn't pay attention to his clothes or what, but his shorts were a
year too tight. They set off his beautiful ass, mounded and rounded like
you wouldn't believe. And the further up I went toward the leg openings of
those shorts, I'll be damned if Clay didn't spread his legs for me.

I looked him straight in the eye and he looked back at me, unflinching.

"If you're gonna do it, do it," he said simply. "Don't be a chicken. Just
do something to me."

So, I took that as my invitation to let my fingers creep up to the band of
his tighty whities, rubbing my thumbs up and down into his taint. He moaned
hard.

Up to the curve of his ass, the edge of my thumbs begin to penetrate his
tight sweaty crack. I'm not sure what I expected to happen, but didn't
expect him to say in a low growly voice, "Go ahead, you fuckin' perv. Go
ahead and touch my fucking shit hole. I know that's what you want to do."

I sure as hell wasn't going to be called off by a challenge from this
13-year-old punk, so I called his bluff.  Both thumbs all the way up his
underwear and slid into his hot moist crack and pushed my thumbs right
across his little pucker. It was so greasy and sticky in there, it felt
like he'd smeared it with Crisco. Dirty. Brown. Greasy. Wet.

I let my thumbs strum the little folds of his pucker back and forth and
asked, "Is that what you want, pussy boy? You want me playing with your
little cunt?"

And it was like flipping a switch. The next sound that came out of him was
between a grunt and a whimper, low in his throat.

"Don't stop please. Please keep doing that."

I pressed into him harder.

"Tell me what you want to do to me," he whimpered. "Tell it to me dirty."

"I want my cum inside you," I growled at him. "In your mouth or in your
butt. I don't care where I put it, but I want it inside
you. Now. Today. Here."

He moaned and pushed back against my invading fingers. The scent of his
dirty stink was in the air.

"Fucker," he growled. "You make me want to suck cock, you dirty fucking
fucker. Take it out. Let me suck it. Please, Coach. I'll suck it real good
for you."

I unzipped my shorts, incredibly dangerous here in this situation, and
pulled out my cock, over the top of my underwear band, and grabbing his
head, moved his face right into it.

"Awwwwwww," he groaned. "Oh fuck, that's big."

"Smell it," I ordered him. "Get your face in it."

"God, it smells strong," he moaned. "Smells like man cock. Like my
brother's, first time he fucked me. God that fuckin' hurt."

"Open up," I told him, "Make an 'mmmm' sound for me, you pretty little
bitch."

Clay knew just what to do. Sucking cock was nothing new to this boy. He
opened up. Sucked me good. Gobbled me raw. Bit my cock. Nibbled on
it. Moaned. Made me hurt and made me feel good. And then knowing I had no
time at all for niceties, I pulled out and started jacking off on his face.

Jesus, I ached to facial the hell out of that dirty little face. All sweaty
with half a hard soccer game showing on it. My legs were shaking, knowing I
was seconds away from fire-hosing the shit out of him, target zone, making
him my own. Then I'd french kiss it off him. Suck it off his face and feed
it to him like a baby bird in the nest. Like a Mommy spitting worms in his
peeping, begging beak.

"Do it," he moaned. His lips were puffy from sucking me so hard. "I can
smell your cock. Cum on my face, you big fucker. Shoot it on me!"

I grit my teeth and threw back my head and opened my mouth in a silent
Klingon battle cry, not daring to make a sound, as I blew my copious
fuckwad all over Clay's pretty, rapturous face.

"Yeah," he whispered. "That's it, you sick fuck. You needed that for a long
time, din'cha? Oh fuck, that feels hot. That fucking burns."

I scooped it off his face and fed a thick pudding wad into his smart-mouth
yap. That shut him up for a second as he grimaced and swallowed. Bitter, I
hoped. Teach him a lesson.

"More," he dared me, defiance in his eye. "Feed it to me. All of it."

I scooped and fed him. Scooped and fed him.

"Everything okay down there?" I heard another one of the coaches holler
from the outside entrance down the hall, tapping on the locked door.

"Pulled muscle," I hollered back, quickly zipping up. "He'll be
fine. Coming out now."

Clay smiled at me, reached down and slowly, without losing eye contact,
rubbed his finger on the outside of his asshole, held it up in the air, and
when I leaned down to sniff, smeared it all over the underside of my
nostrils. Butt Finger from Clay. Finally. Classic. Just for me. It was
heavenly.

"I love that ass stink," I told him gruffly "I'm gonna fuck that ass
someday, Clay. You think your brother's first time up your ass hurt?
Wait'll I get up in there."

"Suck my cock, asshole," he said, nodding down at his hard little dick. "I
gotta cum like crazy, Coach. Do it fast."

I leaned over him and gobbled him instantly. He tasted like salt and shit
and maple and piss, but I ate him greedily.

"That's it, you cocksucker. Suck it like you mean it, fucker. Eat my cock."

He grabbed my head hard. Grunted up. Yanked and pulled on me. Gyrated and
gagged me with his little hard rock stick. In fifteen pumps, he was
shooting in my mouth, three sweet little drops of nectar I'd remember for
the next thirty years.

There was so much I wanted to do. Finger his asshole. Stick my cock in
him. Make him cry out in ecstasy, head rolled back, screaming my name as I
planted my load. There just wasn't time.

"Get up," I told him, licking my lips. "We've been in here way too long."

He smiled. He still had cum on his cheek. I bent down, licked it off his
cheek and french kissed him. His mouth opened up for me. I stuck my tongue
in and he tongued me back.

I did reach down. I fingered his butthole. I had to. I brought it up
between our noses as we kissed. Smeared it on us. Thick, rich kid
stink. Like French pussy pastry. Vagin du bon garcon.

"My ass," he said. "Mmm, I love that smell. I smell it all the time. I
stick my finger in it, and I smell it and jack off."

"We're gonna smell it a lot," I promised him. "After school. My house. Stay
for supper. Make up a lie."

"I'll tell `em I'm at Drew's house," he said with a smile. "They have no
idea I'm fuckin' him. Other guys do too. Other boys on the team."

"My nephew's a natural, huh?"

"Hell, he's the team mascot."

He grinned at me. Hitched up his shorts and hobbled back up the hallway and
up the stairs onto the field. I stared at his ass the whole way. I smelled
my finger and planned the next night in my head. How far I would go.

Far.

I considered my options. Smiled to myself and came up with a game plan.

You need to do that with a boy like Clay.

He was dirty and ready. There was no reason not to.

Right place, right time.

Sometimes it happens.

# # # # # # # # # # #

CHIVALRY: STEVEN

Steven was a Chorister at St. Peter's Cathedral in Adelaide, South
Australia.

St. Peter's Cathedral is a splendid example of "French" Victorian Gothic
architecture, with the finest and heaviest peal of bells in the Southern
Hemisphere. Look for it on YouTube, if you're interested in architecture -
which in my experience, discerning boylovers often tend to be.

Steven was nine years old, arguably the perfect age for a boy. And he had
the perfect looks of a "picture postcard" choirboy - a mop of tousled blond
hair, a cute little button nose, a peaches-and-cream complexion and big
innocent questioning eyes.

I was an eighteen year old Choral Scholar, singing alto in the back row on
the other side of the choir. However, I lost my place in the music and made
mistakes far too often because my eyes, again and again during the course
of Evensong, would be irresistibly drawn towards Steven.

I don't know why it is, but whenever I see a choirboy in his liturgical
robes, I find myself musing upon the conjectured contrast between the
glowing whiteness of his surplice without, and the more - than - likely
dirtiness of his underpants within. There's something fascinating and
alluring about this contrast between the inner and the outer, the public
and the private, the known and the merely guessed-at, the obvious and the
clandestine - the angelic purity admired and drooled over by all the
sentimental old ladies who made up most of the Evensong congregation, and
the inevitable boy-dirtiness in the seat of the underpants which is seen
and known by Mummy alone.

And there was something about Steven's innocent carefree eyes which seemed
to shout, "This cutie is a CHAMPION Skid Kid."

For just a moment I find myself trying to imagine what Steven's underpants
might look like and smell like. I mean to say, heck, they're just there,
beneath his surplice and his cassock and his shorts, only three layers
down, almost within reach, so close yet so unattainable. For a moment my
brain swoons and the music on the desk in front of me swims - and then -
whoops! - I've sung another wrong note, and the choirmaster is glaring at
me once again. If I can't control myself better than this I'll end up
losing my choral scholarship.

Most of the young men in the choir were boylovers, or at least boy-admirers
- it seems to go with the job - and there was a little Latin aphorism we
frequently uttered, "Ad filium per matrem", which means, roughly
translated, "if you want access to the kid, your best ploy is to befriend
his mum." Which is precisely what I set out to do.

Steven's mother was an academic from Texas, and a little too loud and
assertive for my taste, but heck, an Ardent Lover must be willing to endure
a bit of unpleasantness if he wishes to gain his Prize. The father of the
family was an aussie, but somewhere along the way he had fallen off the
radar, and was never mentioned.

Well, to cut a long story short, Steven's mother warmed to me, and soon
enough I was offered board and lodging in the spare room of their home,
rent free, in exchange for collecting Steven from choir practice when
necessary, and minding him when Mother had to stay late at the university
or go away on a conference. A win-win-win situation!

Probably Mother hoped that I would be like a father-figure for Steven, but
I was still a teenager, and more a big kid at heart than a young adult, so
Steven related to me more as an adored big brother. He invited me into his
games and his interests and hobbies, and he introduced me proudly to his
circle of young friends.

Those were the days when boys were still REAL BOYS - carefree uninhibited
tribal outdoor creatures. After school, if it wasn't a choir practice
afternoon, Steven would hurriedly change into his play clothes, and sink
down a glass of fruit juice and a couple of biscuits, and then he and I
would scurry off to join his friends in the bushland behind the
neighbourhood houses.

("Bush" and "bushland" are Australian terms, referring to lightly wooded
eucalyptus forest, ideal for boys to play in).

Sometimes we climbed trees. Sometimes we played hide-&-seek or chasing
games. Sometimes we played a game of our own invention with no particular
rules called "Piling On", which began with fun non-aggressive tackles and
ended in a big group hug. Often we just sat around in the hot sleepy
Adelaide afternoon talking "Boy stuff."

If a boy needed to pee, he'd just do it where he was. Usually others would
gather around to watch, and sometimes others would join in, playing "sword
fights" with their streams of urine. And for more substantial needs - well
some distance down a bushland track there was an abandoned bombed-out car,
which the boys used as their communal Poo Toilet.

If a boy needed to poo - or perhaps just wanted the fun and freedom of
pooping outdoors with his mates - he'd go along to the wrecked car, taking
with him a friend or a group of friends for company and audience, and he'd
do his business squatting on the floor or the upholstery, or perhaps in the
boot or on the bonnet.

I need to stress that there was nothing overtly sexual about any of this
shared toileting activity. This was simply boyhood mateship, boyhood
tribalism. Anyone who has seen the magnificent movie "Stand by Me" will
understand.

For all that, though, there were deep levels of intimacy and trust
involved, and I felt privileged to be included. Not that I ever "went to
the toilet" with the younger boys myself, and I was careful not to reveal
too much of my fascination and excitement. But their unquestioning
inclusion of me felt like an unspoken initiation. After all, I'm sure the
boys would not have invited their parents or their sisters to go with them
to the bombed out car that was their communal Poo Toilet.

Needless to say, there was no toilet paper in that bombed out car down the
bushland track. Any boy with a Big Need would just ease down his pants,
push out his poop (probably with a friend or two squatting behind to watch
and relish the opening of the anus and the egress of the poop), and then he
would immediately hoist up his pants again and run back to whatever game
had been in progress.

Not only was toilet paper not used - it was never mentioned, and probably
never even thought of. Out there, it just didn't come within the horizon of
possibilities. Chances are that some of these kids had more responsible
hygiene habits at home, but once they were out in the bush with their mates
a quite different "modus operandi" clicked into place, a quite different
"mind set," altogether more primitive and tribal, almost indigenous.

I loved to imagine the boy-graffiti that would inevitably be forming inside
their underwear - always white cotton underwear in those days - although of
course I never said anything about it because I felt so respectful of their
innocence and lack of awareness.

If the non-use of toilet paper had been pointed out and remarked upon, as
something odd or illicit or exciting, suddenly there would have been
self-consciousness, and the innocence and the boy-tribalism would have been
shattered, like the lost innocence of natives who now perform for tourists
and tourist-dollars their ancestral dances and rituals which, only a few
decades ago were unselfconscious and filled with cultic significance.

Steven, however, as I soon discovered, was definitely not amongst those who
had more responsible hygiene habits when at home. He always asked me
accompany him to the toilet, whether it was for "number one" or "number
two", and so I soon realised that in the bathroom at home, just as on the
floor of the old car in the bush, his method was to lower his pants, do his
business, quickly hoist his pants back into position, and then hurry back
to whatever activity had been oh-so-briefly interrupted.

Not so much as the tiniest dab or swipe. Often he didn't even pause to
flush. My Steven, my new little brother, my Beloved, my perfect choirboy,
turned out to be not merely a Poor-Wiper, but a total NON-Wiper. YAY! I
felt so proud of him! He was indeed, as I had accurately conjectured months
before, a Champion Skid Kid.

I have to say again that there was nothing sexual about Steven asking me to
accompany him to the toilet - at least, not for him, even if for me there
might have been a slight tingling in the groin. Steven wanted me there with
him at every occasion, to share every activity. He asked me to come to his
room when he changed into his play clothes, to listen appreciatively when
he practised his singing, to come and chat with him while he had his bath,
to sit on his bed and tell him a goodnight story at bedtime, to sing to him
as he drifted off to sleep.

Asking me to come to the toilet with him was no different. A boy naturally
and unquestioningly shares everything with his adored big brother, when
he's only nine years old, when he hasn't yet been taught shyness and
self-consciousness.

Any reader of "Smell This," however, won't be surprised to read that, once
Steven had drifted off to sleep each night, I eagerly gathered up the
Undies de jour from his bedroom floor and carried them off triumphantly to
the privacy of my own bedroom, where I communed with them deeply and
reverently. My prize! The best and most treasured prize an ardent boylover
could wish for!

First I would open them up the waistband and peek in for my first glimpse
of Steven's amazing artwork, more beautiful to my eyes than anything in the
Art Gallery of South Australia.

Steven's bowel motions were usually fairly firm, or at least well-formed,
so usually there would be Tiger Stripes of varying size and intensity. But
on evenings when he had passed a somewhat messy motion, the entire seat
area and beyond of his underpants would be fairly caked in the stuff.

My routine or ritual was to gaze and admire with something close to
religious adoration. Then I would touch and pat, checking the
texture. Sometimes there was merely some staining of the cotton, but other
times there was an actual accumulation of faecal matter on the fabric,
sometimes creamy, sometimes grainy, occasionally as I recall even
containing recognizable deposits of tomato seeds or berries - which,
amazing to consider, had actually passed through his loved body, close to
his heart.

Then I would bring the loved little garment to my face, in order to nuzzle
and smooch and sniff and kiss. And finally - blush! - I would nibble or
lick, at least a little, because any true boylover needs to know the taste
of his Boy, not just his aroma.

When you're living in someone else's home, you get to know their "family
secrets", and so I soon learned that Steven was an occasional bedwetter.

Actually, I became aware of his "problem" at 7.00 o'clock precisely on the
third morning after my arrival, when I was rudely awakened by the sound of
Steven's mother shouting aggressively, in her strident southern accent,
"You're meant to be NINE YEARS OLD.. Are you still a BABY? ....  Do you
need a DIAPER?"

My heart almost bled when I heard my Boy replying, meekly and tearfully,
"I'm sorry Mommy...it happened while I was asleep...I couldn't help it.."

A perfectly reasonable explanation, it seemed to me, and no doubt true, but
it only led to a further angry tirade.

So much fuss about nothing! What do a few wet sheets matter, in an era of
efficient washing machines? Although I'm not an expert in child psychology,
I do rather suspect that Mother's over-reaction may actually have
exacerbated the "problem."

And there's a puzzle that perplexes me to this day - why was it that the
Mother accepted Steven's dirty-pants without comment or complaint, for
which he presumably could have taken some responsibility if pressed, and
then went berserk about the occasional wet bed, over which he had no
control at all? Strange irrational creatures, women. I don't think I'll
ever understand them.

How I wish I could have taken over responsibility for Steven's morning
routine. I would have assured him that wetting the bed was no "big deal."
Perhaps I would have suggested that it was even permissible for him to
enjoy the free flow, and then to wallow with delight in the lovely warm
boy-puddle. "Reverse Psychology." It's a well-known and respected
technique. Don't strive initially to alter the behaviour. Rather, focus, at
least for a while, on changing the client's attitude to the behaviour.

Perhaps we could go one step further, and gradually programme Steven to
take pride in his wetting. Encourage him to drink gallons of water and
juice during the course of the evening because an active growing boy
mustn't risk dehydration.

No fussy reminders about visiting the toilet before going off to bed
because constant harassment can be psychologically damaging for a young
boy. And at bye-byes time, after the goodnight story and just before the
final goodnight kiss, "See if you can drench the bed real good tonight,
Sport. Make your big bro proud of you! Show him what a Champion Wetter you
can be."

And in the wee small hours, Steven's sweet voice calling out proudly,
"James, I've done it! "Come to his room, get into bed with him, say to him
"Good Boy - I'm so proud of you"- lie beside him and silently share the
Love-puddle. Feel the lovely warm Boy-water soaking into my pyjamas and
drenching my skin.

And if an hour or two later the bed becomes a bit cold and clammy, invite
Steven to "warm the bed up again." "Don't just do it lying there, Steven -
wrap yourself around your big bro like a koala bear, and do it against
him."

Oh golly, my imagination is spinning out of control again! Just as at
Evensong, I find my brain swooning and the page before me swimming.  Time
to return to reality.

And the harsh reality is, that Steven's Mother usually presides over his
morning routine, and for reasons beyond my understanding she becomes a fire
breathing dragon when he wets the bed.

One of the rules of Chivalry is that the True Knight of Love must protect
his Beloved from dragons. So that afternoon, on the way home from choir
practice, Steven and I discuss his "little problem", frankly and candidly,
as brother with brother.

It turns out that the wetting always occurs in the morning, during the last
hour or so before getting-up time. Usually Steven surfaces from sleep about
5.30, gets up and goes to the toilet, returns to bed and goes straight back
to sleep. But once or twice a week, instead of getting up and going to the
toilet, he dreams that he is getting up and going to the toilet.

As millions of nine-year-old kids the world over know from personal
experience, those going-to-the-toilet dreams can be incredibly realistic
and vivid and convincing. So on these mornings Steven wakes up suddenly,
just as the flow is dying down, and at once realises with alarm that indeed
he has gone to the toilet, but not actually IN the toilet! And then the
poor boy has to lie there for an hour in wetness and terror, waiting for
the inevitable tirade.

The solution is obvious and simple. Each evening I set my alarm for 5.30
am. If Steven wakes up and goes to the toilet, he then comes to my bedroom
rather than his own, so I know that all is well. If the alarm sounds before
he has appeared, then I go to his room and gently wake him. At this point
he is always still dry.

And after he has been to the toilet, regardless of whether he woke up on
his own or needed me to prompt him, he comes into my room, gets into my
bed, snuggles up close, and falls asleep in my arms. So it is another
"win-win-win" situation. No more wet sheets for Mother - no more angry
tirades for Steven - and, for me, the bliss of this warm little body
snuggling up so trustingly and falling asleep in my loving protective arms.

Steven wears a nightshirt rather than pyjamas, and as he gets into bed his
nightshirt naturally slides up, so that usually as he lies in my arms he is
naked below the waist.

I never "touched him inappropriately," as they would now say. I was so
pious as a teenager, so pure in my mind and heart, that the possibility
never even occurred to me. Which is just as well, since in these present
strange days it is fashionable for adults to dredge up memories of the most
innocent and tender encounters of childhood, to re-classify them as
"abuse", and then to go fell-pelt for litigation.

However, even then, in my age of innocence, I was aware that there was an
extra dimension of tenderness and intimacy and trust in Steven's partial
nakedness.

Now, all these years later, I can give my imagination free flight. How
beautiful, how unbearably sweet it would be, to hold Steven's perfect
little mounds in the palm of my hand. Just patting them, exploring the
perfection of their form.

And then allowing my finger to sink into the warm moist valley between
those lovely mounds. That secret valley, that sacred grove that is the very
centre and heart of a boy's being.

To feel the moist substance which tends to accumulate there, which, for any
boy-lover, is the stuff of heaven.

Anyone who reads "Smell This" knows what we're talking about. That steamy
tropical boy-substance that isn't straight boy-poop, but rather remnants or
hints of yesterday's poop which, through the hours of sleep or play, have
blended with boy-perspiration to create Boy Magic, Boy Sacrament, the very
Essence of Boyhood and Boyishness and Boy.

To burrow down beneath the blankets - to touch, to sniff, perchance to
lick.

And now the imagination spins even further out of control. If I can help
Steven to please his Mother by keeping his bed dry, perhaps I can help him
to impress her even further by keeping his underpants clean.

In imagination I'm in the toilet with Steven. He's done what he needs to
do, and he's about to haul up his pants, as is his established custom, and
run from the room. But I invite him to linger for just a moment, so that I
can clean him up.

"It'll only take a few seconds, Steven. Turn around, and put your hands on
the toilet seat, and bend over a bit so I can lick you clean."

Steven squeals and giggles with delight, because it feels good and it seems
so special and secret and clandestine, and my brain swoons as I lap
lovingly.

Such a beautiful trusting intimacy.

Then can be no deeper intimacy between two boys. And no nine year boy old
would entrust anyone with such a personal and private task and intimacy,
apart his own adored big brother.

None of these delectable possibilities ever happened, folks, and it's just
as well that they didn't.

And anyway, the friendship I enjoyed with Steven all those years ago, all
of it perfectly legal and appropriate, was beautiful enough.

What a blessing and a boon, however, is that marvelous human faculty called
"fantasy" and "imagination," through which we can experience, often with a
vividness and a realism almost as convincing as Steven's "going to the
toilet" dreams, those transcendent, beyond-blissful, over-the-top trysts
and encounters which we know we must never seek in "real life."

-JCC Sidney, Australia February 2016

# # # # # # # # # #

STINKHUNT: MARK

I totally get off on other people's spy cam ass-hunts. Stink hunt
safari. And by "other people's," of course I mean Brad and Mark, because
nobody else goes out into public places and photographs boys' totally-clad
asses the same way I do, with the pure, unadulterated, stinklust of
smartphone-toting lions chasing freshly-pubescent zebras.

Case in point, Mark goes to Rosebud Furniture this morning to look for a
new bedroom set, and he immediately sees this lovely 2002 model Chevy
Suburban Fumewafter standing in wait at the service counter with Dad.

Mark's immediately drawn to that ass like a moth to a flame and moves in
closer to spy-cam it in its entirety.

He says later as he's sending the pics, "Stunning ass on this cutie at
Rosebud Furniture...I got so close to it if I'd dropped to my knees I could
have smelled it in the air!!!" The triple exclamation points at the end of
that outpouring of stinkneed are his, not mine. But fuck, I concur.

Target acquired, but wait! The boy spins around on his pretty little heels,
packed into surely-stinky Nikes, size 7. Perhaps feels a tingle on his
crack where Mark is visually hungering for his smellbutton, and he turns
quickly to find the source of the burn. Mark steps back.

Seeing no direct threat, the boy turns back around, his attention wanders
back to a sign on the counter, naively unaware of the dangerous sniff
predator behind him. Naively unaware that his tight, stinky asshole has
already become sniffprey for this hungry king of the stinkjungle.

That dirtysweet boyass looms inviting, full and round and ready for its
heavenly parting.

Our predator eyes the bed he's about to buy, and again, he eyes the boy's
ass not two feet away from him, dreaming of bending him over the side of
that new bed, yanking down those crackstuck too-big shorts, dropping to his
knees of worship, pressing his grateful face-forward, and inhaling the
sweet heaven of the boy's grimy wetcrack to his heart's euphoric content.

Predator and prey at Rosebud Furniture.

A holy moment of huff.

A safari.

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