Date: Tue, 3 May 2016 05:56:52 +0100 (BST)
From: z.blake@tutanota.com
Subject: Smell This 17

SMELL THIS 17
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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NOTEPAPER: ARNIE

When I was a kid I used to sneak my dad's underwear into the bathroom and
jack off sniffing the smell out of them.

There was the smell of his big dick. Heady, musky, big dick man smell. It
was a smell so unfamiliar and rare to me. I sucked my little friends'
cocks, but they smelled nothing like that. This cock smelled like Man.

Then there was the smell of his ass. Strong, overpowering, sweet-sweaty man
ass. Again. Nothing I smelled on my barely-pubescent friends had anything
to do with the smell of my dad's BVD's.

I'd stand on my tiptoes and jack off in the sink, shooting my two clear
drops over the rim, my dad's underwear bunched around my nose, huffing and
moaning and cumming.

Sometimes I stuck my finger in my ass. Sometimes I pretended my dad was
fucking me.

Huffed him. Fingered me. Came in a puzzling, twisted aroma of bliss.

My dad's name was Donald. His best friend was Arnie. And they were ass
sniffers too. And I only know this because later in life as a grown-up, I
found out back in the mid-1970's when I was a kid, my dad gave Arnie
Polaroids of my butt and dick and balls. And Arnie gave my dad Polaroids of
my friend Scotty's butt and dick and balls. And they swapped our dirty
underwear. Scotty and I were probably around 10 at the time.

I remember my dad taking the pictures one day when I was up in my bedroom
getting changed out of my pajamas and into my weekend shorts and
t-shirt. He stood there in the room with me, my bedroom door closed and
locked, with the old family Polaroid camera dangling from a strap in his
hand, telling me we were going to take some naked pictures of me "just for
fun."

I was dubious. Dad was insistent.

"Come on, Sport," he said. "It'll be funny. We'll just goof around. We
won't tell Mom."

So, what the heck. I let him take pictures. It was funny because it was
kind of naughty and wrong and I knew it. I got a boner and I showed it to
him. I showed him my butt too. He especially wanted to see my butt.

"Now one with your balls, Sport."

I grinned and showed him my balls. Why not? He was my dad.

Click. Flash. He took a whole roll of Polaroid film. 10 shots. The camera
whirred and spit them out and we watched them develop. We looked at them
and laughed. My dick and butt looked so small.

"Whatcha gonna do with 'em?" I asked.

"Aw, just throw `em out," he smiled. "No sense letting your mom find
these!"

"No kidding," I said.

"She'd shit a brick," he grinned.

We both laughed 'cause he swore. Me and my good old Dad.

I soon forgot all about it. Childhood is a soaring thing and life goes on
quickly. I barely remembered we did it.

After my dad died when I was 30, I was going through a stack of old record
albums of his. He had some great ones. Merle Haggard. Conway Twitty when he
still looked young. Johnny Cash. I pulled out a Johnny Horton album and a
yellowed piece of notepaper fell out of the record sleeve. It was almost
brittle.

I opened it up and read the following note from Arnie to my dad. Boy, what
an eye-opener. It changed my whole world that day.

The note said this:

Hey Donny!

I don't know where to start! Oh Lord, thank you for the Polaroids. "Good
things come in small packages!" WOWWWW-IEEEEEEE!!!!!!

How beautiful – HOW STUNNING – is Roger's little boner? My friend, it
is perfect! Off the charts! I'm all horny now!

These have got to be the greatest Polaroid pictures ever shot by man. I am
so honored you'd send these to me and I promise you an equal stack of
little Scotty's dick and ass and balls as soon as Barb goes off to her
aunt's next month. Fair is fair! And he's got a beeee-yootie, just like
Roger, only a little bit bigger.

These are amazing, Don. Jesus! That first one, before he takes it out of
his little Fruit of the Looms, his little thumbs dug into the waitsband of
them, his legs splayed out like a frog revealing his smooth little
thighs. Damn it, Don. Fuck my mother if that's not the prettiest thing I
ever saw!

And the shape of his ass cheeks inside them! And his balls are so small
there's no bulge to see! Jesus. It's enough to make me go running for the
smelling salts! Christ! I'm going to fuck Barb so hard tonight after
looking at these pictures of your son. She better guard her pussy with a
layer of steel, because I'm going to pound her wet cunt like a mallet, I'm
so horny looking at your son, Donald, I swear to Jesus Christ!

Jesus, Donny, that first photo alone was enough to make me want to dive
between his legs and deep-sniff his balls hoping that they smell like
basketball sweat and dribbled boy piss. Is he still playing league this
year? Damn it, I want to smell his stinky boy ass and boy-piss basketball
squirts! God damn it!

Then, next up, he takes his little dick out and it's accompanied by those
two perfect balls, and his cute skivvies just tucked underneath the ball
sack, pushing them up, jutting them up like that! DAMN! And if that isn't
sexy enough by itself, he's playing with it, Donny! He's playing with his
cock with his thumb! He's actually stroking that under-carriage! So young!
SO SEXY! Damn it, Donald, did you teach him to stroke it like that? Go on,
Roger! Stroke it, boy!

And then the next one, with his hand completely out of the way... would you
just LOOOOOOOK at that ROCK HARD little Rogercock!? And those balls!
OHHGEEZZE...the shape of them in that picture! BEGGING to be sucked! Not
tlicked, Donny! SUCKED!

They are shaped for sucking, pulling into my mouth, sucking them until they
make raspberry noises and slip back out, before sucking them back in, my
lips locked around them, my nose pressed against the bottom of his boner,
as it keeps flinching and twitching to either side of my nose and swelling
out into my face as he enjoys me sucking his little boy balls. Damn it,
man. How did a beautiful boy like that ever shoot out of a pair of wrinkly
old balls like yours?? JESUS!

And then I'm reading your note here Don, where you say, "I have not yet
literally held a ruler to it to measure it 100% accurately, but... I would
say with almost 95% certainty and a margin of error of a half centimeter at
best, his erect penis is now 2.75 inches."

OHHHGAWWWWWWWSHHH YESSS! Roger's cute lil bone! His ROCK HARD erection is
only 2 and 3/4 inches! His BULGING aroused penis is not even 3 inches yet!
Ohhhh, fuck me Donald, how beautiful is that??? I would suck that bone in a
New York minute, my friend. Guaran-fucking-TEE you!

AND THEN THE NEXT SHOT!! OHHHHH FUCK!!! Just when you think it couldn't
possibly get any better, it does!  He lifts up his leg and pull his undies
over his right ass cheek. All I can do when I look at that pic is hear him
saying is, "You can smell my butt now, Mr. Gainor, if you want to," and
fuckkkkk, do I want to smell that sweet little ass crack!!!!!

Look at that position! Like a quick, "come on do it quick before Mom comes
back," I'm actually right now sniffing out loud here, Don. I literally just
noticed. I didn't plan it, I'm just finding myself sniffing the fucking
Polaroid! Oh fuckity fuck fuck fuckness!

And then....ohhhhhhhhfuckity-fuck of all fuckity-fucks. The snapshots of
his little ass, the last ones in the stack. OH FUCK. Ohhh Donald, at this
point, everything is just spinning around. I can't think. I'm unable to
control my lower jaw. I'm fucking drooling, Donald. I am in awe, complete
awe of his shitty little stink-ass bottom. God I want to fuck that bottom.

Ohhhhmannn...I NEVER thought I would see a little boy's bottom that I loved
as much as Scotty's, but there it is. I was wrong! Would you just LOOK at
that perfect little hinder on those long, smooth legs.

And just barely being able to make out his little balls between his leg
rounds this off to one of the most beautiful pictures every taken in the
history of Assville.  Fucking hind-end that won't QUIT my friend. How do
you stand looking at it all day and all night. I am going to fuck Barb SO
HARD tonight. I am going to fuck her SILLY.

Ohhh man, look at it! Look at that little 10 year old boy ass!  Ohhh and
the way he is leaning to his left and his jammie shirt is pulled up...

I just jacked off, my friend. There were five minutes between that last
paragraph and this one. I went running into the bathroom, pictures in one
hand, boner in the other hand and I held up that picture of Roger's ass and
imagined I was sitting behind him, my legs underneath him and his stinky
bottom right in my face.

Oh mannnn, I just shot buckets just thinking about putting my nose right
into his cheeks, right in that part right where his greasy stinky boyhole
is, pressing my nostrils right up to his sticky crack and sniffing it
hard...smelling your beautiful, cute, SEXY son's SEXY little bottom! And I
just CAME all over the fucking toilet bowl! FUCKING WONDERFUL!

I dream about just sniffing it and sniffing it and sniffing it, knowing
he's just a little boy and knowing he's only 10 years old. I can't believe
I am getting to see his little ASS and I GET TO TELL YOU how excited it's
making me, and how much I want to SNIFF it! I'm actually able to tell you
that I want to SMELL your son's bottom and you're letting me! I'm SO GLAD
we know this about each other. SO GLAD!

Even though I just came, I'm still looking at Roger's ass. I just can't get
enough of it right now. He doesn't even know that I am looking at his ass
and thinking about sniffing it and telling you all about it, and that makes
it even sexier.  Geeezzz....I'm gonna have to put my head in the freezer in
a minute or slam my cock in the silverware drawer. Barb, move the pork
chops and the forks, God damn it, Roger, she is going to get FUCKED HARD
tonight!!

I just don't want this moment to end. I don't want to take my eyes away
from his ass, not even for a second.  Even though I just came a gallon,
Donny, I'm boned again, staring at Roger's creamy little peach ass and
thinking about small and smelly and nasty it is. Oh fuck I'd like to finger
that ass and smell my finger! I just can't fathom how anyone could look at
his ass and not be aroused by how stinky and sexy it is. Ohhh mannnnnnnnnn,
I am so grateful you gave me these Polaroids. I will treasure these
forever, my friend!

Scotty's pictures are coming soon. I swear my friend, I won't let you
down. As soon as Barb leaves for her aunt, I'll get that camera out and
tell him he needs them for his basketball physical. I'll tell him that the
doctor needs them for his file, to chart his development. He'll believe me.

Also, let's do what we said we'd do, and let's swap their stinky underwear
too. SOON!!! God I want to smell that little boy's ass of yours. And I know
you want to smell Scotty's. Let's do it soon my friend!! DO IT TO IT !!!!!!
FUCK!!!!

Your grateful pal, Arnie Soaked in CUM!

I stood there with the folded, brittle, yellow notebook paper in my hand
with my jaw hanging open. I read it a second time. I massaged my own hard
dick in my pants. I read it a third before I shuddered, orgasmed right
there in my pants, and closed my eyes, lost in bliss and memory.

All those years ago, my dad and his best friend were talking about smelling
boy ass. Smelling MY ass. Smelling SCOTTY'S ass. Swapping Polaroids of us
kids after our school basketball league. Swapping naked pictures. Swapping
dirty undies. Jacking off over us. Looking at us. Smelling us.

I looked all through my dad's stuff, but none of the Polaroid pictures
existed anymore. Not of me, not of Scotty. Gone with the wind. Fuck, I
would have loved to have had them pop out of Johnny Cash album liner. A
peek at my best friend's naked hard dick, bottom and balls, back when we
were 10. Or, shit, a pair of his old Fruit of the Looms, saved in an old
sandwich bag somewhere, scent molecules daring to survive the ravages of
time?

Would I still be able to smell his piss? Still be able to smell his ass?
Probably not. But I damn-sure would have tried. Just having Scotty's undies
up to my nose would have been enough for me.

But nope. Just like the Polaroids, Dad must have destroyed any trace of
swapped undies long ago for safety. I looked through every album sleeve in
the record box, and all my dad's old hiding places, but
nothing. Nada. Which is all for the best, because Mom would have shit.

"No sense letting your mom find these!" he said.

"No kidding," I said.

"She'd shit a brick," he grinned.

Whoof. Dad and Arnie. Who would have thought they lusted after our
boystink?

I never knew. They never touched us.

Never tried to suck, feel, tickle or fuck us.

But they sure did look. And they sure did smell. And they sure did take
pictures. And they sure did trade.

Whoof. Eye-opening. I wiped my cummy hand on my shirt and put the letter
back where I found it. Safe again for another twenty years.

Dad and Arnie. Who would have thought?

Both of them are dead now, but damn if they didn't sniff and jack off over
us, rest in peace. I don't know if Scotty grew up a sniffer, but
man-oh-man, I sure did.

When I was a kid I used to sneak my dad's underwear into the bathroom with
me and jack off sniffing the smell out of them.

I thought I was unique. I thought I was a freak.

But twenty years and a dead dad later, it turns out Arnie and my dear old
Dad were sniffing us too. The apple didn't fall far from that tree, huh?

I love you, Dad. I love you and miss you.

I understand us a whole lot better now.

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

ANALYSIS: KIT

I've always liked the word "analysis," because it has the word "anal" in
it. And well, a rose by any other name.

I was talking to Kit Rudo the other day. Sweet boy, fellow Nifty
author. Read his story "Please Uncle A." I liked it a lot and so will you.

Anyhoo, I was teling Kit, you know, Nifty's afforded me the chance to talk
to a lot of readers and writers out there, and what I've learned is, no
matter what I write on here about boys and my butt sniffing, by the time
they write me their second email, they clearly want to talk about anything
about ass scent. They want to talk about their own fetishes, not mine.

I mean, I get it. People have strong sexual wiring. They want a pen pal who
shares their interests and lets them talk about what excites them
personally. And since I can normally string a sentence together with
above-average kindness and proficiency, they all want to make pen pal
babies with me. And the more I talk about their particular sex wiring, the
better. So, as a result of doing this for a while, I've got a bunch of guys
who pop up regularly.

There's my tickle guy, my snowsuit guy, my armpit guy, my foot guy, my poop
guy, my take-out-your-penis-at-Walmart-guy, and believe me, if there's a
fetish to be had, eventually some guy out there's going to write me about
it in hopes that I'll be his friend, or even better, write a story for him.

"Hey, wouldn't it be cool if you smelled the kids butt for a little while,
BUT THEN you pushed him down in the snow, pulled off his boots and tickled
and licked his feet for a while, then peed in a cup and made him drink some
of it while you jacked off and shot cum on his eyelids?" I mean, I'm not
exaggerating. The request line gets pretty specific.

But that's cool. I'm flattered people like my writing enough to want me to
tackle their wiring too. And why not? Life's a banquet. I get way too many
requests for humiliation stories and degredation and name-calling and rough
stuff, and frankly guys, you can leave that humiliation shit at the curb
when you write me, but otherwise, as fetishes go, WTF, I'm an open book and
I like to learn.

But when I flip it in reverse and bring up cautiously, "Hey, real glad you
like eyelid cumshots and drinking pee out of a Solo cup, but (ahem, polite
reminder), I am after all the butt sniff guy of Planet Nifty, so hey Dali
Lama, how's about a little something for the effort, you know?

I'm the butt sniff writer. That's what I like to talk about. So, you know,
if you ever want to throw me a conversational bone here, feel free. This
is, after all, my bread and butter."

But ehhh, no takers. They all dismiss my fetish with a wave and an
ewww. "Great! You like to sniff boy butts! But enough about you. Let's get
back to talking about me. Now about those eylids and that pee in the Solo
cup..."

Kit Rudo, sweet boy, bless him, apologized to me right off the bat. When I
told him all this, guilt not intended, he thought perhaps he'd been waxing
too poetic about his own personal wiring, which is...(nah, no spoilers,
keep reading his story)...and not enough on what floats Uncle Zachy's weird
boat.

Nah, I assured him. To be fair, smelling a boy's cheesy little butthole is
not really anybody's go-to from a pen-pal standpoint. "Yay, let's talk
about smelling boy snatch!" never really occurs to anybody as a hoo-boy,
can't-wait-to-write-about that-one-all-night type of subtopic in the
back-and-forth.

There aren't too many guys willing to indulge me on a one-on-one level,
which is probably why I don't have very many pen pals after 17 installments
of "Smell This.

Well, it may not be my go-to, Kit said kindly, and I may not have even
considered it before reading your stuff, but I'm definitely a step past
intrigued.

Kit said, I think it was in "Banging the Boys of Camp Starlander" that I
first encountered your unadulterated butt smell content, unless there's
another index-type story where every boy's stink level is discussed, and I
remember actually being sort-of put off by it at first, as in an "ahhh I
don't wanna like this but.... damn, do I like this?" Like turning your head
away because you're afraid of what might happen if you look.

Anyway, Kit said, it took a little time before I came out of denial and
embraced the fact that it actually turned me on. The default "gross" factor
went away.

Well, that's a start anyway, right? Good boy, Kit. We'll have you sniffing
11-year-old underpants in no time.

I told Kit when guys do write to me, I mostly don't even bring up my fetish
at all anymore to folks outside Brad and Mark, my cowriters here on "Smell
This," only because it usually winds up getting mocked more than
recognized, and that's never a good thing, having your number one fetish
joked about.

I mean, you don't have to like it, but you don't have to be mean about it
either. I never make fun of guys for drinking their red Solo cups of piss
and cumming on eyelids. It's a great big world out there. There's room on
the playground for all of us.

Kit was kind. That's really shitty, he said. To have your "main thing"
mocked. Fuck those guys. You don't have to censor yourself with me, he
said. The more you tell me about people being put off by it, the more I
want to hear about it. The more it becomes something that I can more or
less call a fetish of mine in the making, perhaps.

I think you're doing to me what Scuba Steve did to you with boy feet, he
said. I may not be able to keep up with you or reciprocate quite fully, but
I'm willing and ready to learn from the master.

Random musing, he said, moving on from my whiny writer moment. I was just
thinking about sniffing, he said to me. The actual act of sniffing.

If you recall, Kit said, I once mused and ranted to you about foot play and
how subjecting someone to your feet is generally thought of, or done, as an
act of domination, and that pisses me off. I feel very strongly that
certain acts and roles should strictly be assigned as dominant or
submissive and never meddled with.

For example, Kit said, if I were with a dominant partner, and if I were the
submissive one, I would absolutely never go anywhere near his butt or
feet. Never ever ever. Never.

Well, I feel similarly about sniffing, he said. Like "vanilla" BDSM'ers
would probably think of sniffing as something you do to your master, like
it's humiliating to subject yourself to someone's stink.

Uhh, let's flip that one around and break it down, shall we? (This kid is
wise, by the way. Very wise, Kit-Kat).

Proper sniffing, he said -- not just sniffing the air around someone –
is by its very definition an invasion. Whether it's welcome or not. It
invades someone's space or privacy. It's extremely intimate.

Pressing your face into a boy's bottom, with barely a pair of undies as a
barrier, pulling the waistband away, getting your face in there really
close, *sniff sniff*, baring that bottom completely, parting the cheeks and
getting your nose right up in there, right up against that pucker –
you're seeking and claiming something from him that he has no control
over. It's not like he can hold back his smell particles. It's more of a
"you asked for it, you got it" situation.

Plus, maybe he's shy about his stink. Maybe he's comfortable subjecting
himself to it, but where someone else is concerned, maybe he's scared
you'll be offended by his smell.

It's all so new to him he doesn't realize if you didn't want to smell his
stink, you wouldn't be sniffing him. Or at least if you were sniffing in
search of something more palatable, well, too bad for you.

It's not his fault for being stinkier than you wanted when you shoved your
nose in his butt. All you had to do was not sniff him. But he doesn't
understand that. He can't think beyond being afraid that he'll be too
stinky for you.

No? Am I way off?

Oh Kit-Kat, you hit the nail right on the head, you beautiful little
stinker. In fact, I think I'm going to pull your pants down and give you a
little sniff one of these days, one of these stories, right here in front
of everybody. Careful when you wind up the brass monkey, Kit. He bangs the
tambourines.

Anyway, thanks for talking about my sniff stuff a little, kiddo. You're one
of the few, and it feels good to be gotten.

Go read his story, folks.

Kit Rudo. An upcoming Nifty author to look out for.

http://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/please-uncle-a

A decade ago when he was still a lad in middle school, I bet he smelled
divine. And because turnabout's fair play, I think I can help him out with
some of his intimate issues too.

One hand washes the other.

Or sniffs it. Or spanks it.

A sturdy hard swat, a lick and promise to Kit until we get there.

Watch for that story soon, my friends, because believe me, it's coming.

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

WETTER: MURPHY

I did a story just recently called "Murphy in the Middle," which dealt with
a fairly dirty 12-year-old Alabama boy being sexed-up by his super-filthy
uncle. Plenty of sniffs in that story, trust me.

However, when I first wrote the initial rimjob and cumshot scene, I had a
brief, extended continuation where after the uncle cums, the boy pisses in
the uncle's face and the uncle drinks a little of his piss.

Well, long story short, it didn't make my final version. I left the
piss-drinking on the cutting room floor. It was only an extra 450 words,
but I wanted to post the finished story in Gay>Incest, and with good ol'
Uncle Rusty smacking his piss lips and drinking little Murphy's bladder
blend, it would have taken me from one category header to another, and got
me booted over here to Urinology, or Scientology, or whatever this piss-poo
category is called, and that's not where I wanted to post it.

So, not one to give up without an addendum, and hating to leave good,
filthy material unused, I'm just going to tuck it in here. It's the
original scene as first written and published, followed by the subsequent
piss scene, which didn't make the final cut.

We'll stick it here in "Smell This" for those of you who like a hot cup of
yellow before turning in for the night. Consider it the Director's
Cut...and on with the show!

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

Murphy is a boy who's built Ford tough, off road and highway. I think we'll
get good mileage in him.

A firm and rock-hard meaty boy.

A rigid, solidified, concrete boy.

The second time I tried to fuck him, he let me eat his ass and suck his
little prick, but he still wouldn't put my dick in his mouth or eat my
sperm.

He let me cum on his face though, and that was plenty welcome.

"You gonna shoot it on me?" he asked me in bed that next weekend after we
made out again and I slapped his hand away from his own little hard-on and
reached for my own. He wasn't going to jack himself off two weekends in a
row and leave Uncle Rusty in the dust. Uh-uh. Not again. Not in my bed.

"Soon," I told him. "First I'm gonna lift your legs up and eat the hell out
of your pussy."

"Really??" he asked, his eyes bugging out with delight and
embarrassment. "Right where I shit from?"

"Yep," I told him. "Right where you shit from."

"Even if it ain't quite clean?"

"Especially if it ain't quite clean."

"Wow," he muttered, and I could feel him getting squiggly, excited at the
prospect. I guess a leisurely rim job wasn't on his older brother's menu
yet.

"Yep," I told him. "I'm gonna stick my face right down in there your
boyhole, sniff up your molecules and slurp up all your flavor. Then I'm
gonna jam my tongue up your honey hole and listen to you squeal."

"You're one sick fucker, Uncle Rusty," he giggled. "Nasty, nasty uncle
fucker."

"Nasty nasty nephew fucker," I corrected him, and flipped his legs up in
back of his head so fast you could hear the whoosh sound fly off his
thighs.

"Nnnngh," he mumbled through muffled grunts and he bit his lower lip as my
big old mouth made contact with his squeaky little starfish. Fucking
Alabama heaven. The South shall rise again!

The burst of flavor that assaulted my taste buds when my tongue first
touched, then lapped, then feasted at his backdoor was like a Sunday picnic
on the church grounds, fried chicken and cole slaw, right in front of the
Pastor.

"That's it, Murph," I coached him. "Wiggle it around. Grind that honey spot
in my face some more."

He did as he was told. I ate him until he was panting, then came up for
air, took his salty little dick in my mouth and sucked him off quickly to
the jerkiest little cum pump he ever had in his life.

"MANNNNNNNNNN," he hollered, "You're a nasty Uncle Rusty!" as he grabbed my
head and pressed it hard into his sausage-twitcher. I swallowed his meager
boy drops with astounding satisfaction.

I scooted up with my own leaker in my hand and pointed it straight at his
face, still flushed from his boycum.

"Put it in your mouth," I ordered him. "Do it right now."

"No," he grunted. "You just jack yourself."

I slapped him in the cheek with it.

"Open your mouth and suck my cock, damn it."

"No," he repeated. "You dirty old fucker."

"Fine," I told him, then aimed it straight at him. "If you're not gonna
suck it, I'm gonna paint your face white with it."

He grinned and he giggled. "Dare you, old-timer."

I stroked it fast and in no more than ten, let loose with a gusher all over
his face.

"FUCCCCCCCKKKK," I grunted as it splashed on his eyelids. He squinted his
eyes shut and giggled. It dripped down his nose.

"It's hot," he whispered. "All gooey. That's sick."

"Eat some," I growled.

I scooped some up with my mushroom and fed it toward his lips.

"Got some in my eye," he grunted, rubbing his lid. "It burns, you fucker."

"Eat some," I repeated.

"Nope," he growled at me, shaking his head. "I ain't puttin' that slime in
my mouth."

"Next time you are," I assured him. "You stay here next weekend and you're
eating every drop. Come here or don't. But next weekend you eat it."

He blushed bright red and reached down to stroke his hard pecker, which was
ready for round two.

"You think you're so smart, Uncle Rusty. How'd you like it if I shoot MY
babies all over YOUR dumb face?"

"You ain't got no babies to shoot, Squirt."

"How `bout I squirt you full of piss then? PLUM full of PISS?"

"Go ahead," I grinned at him, opening my mouth. "I was thirsty anyway."

For the life of me, damn it, I didn't think he'd actually do it!

Murphy was a mean little fucker, but I didn't think he'd actually piss in
my face! I thought he'd giggle and scoot off the bed and go watch TV and
eat a few more Pizza Hut breadsticks, Jesus Christ!

Shows you how far off the money I was!

That little fucker gave me the dirtiest grin, aimed his pecker straight at
my face and before you could say Boo, let loose with a hot yellow stream
like I'd never seen before!

"God damn it, Murph!" I hollered as the first of his giggling firehose hit
me. I sputtered and struggled to get up under the weight of him, but like I
said, Murphy's a solid boy, and I wasn't moving an inch until he was done
with me. Don't get me wrong. It smelled great, but God damn it, he was
shooting it all over me!

I reached up and pushed his little piss nozzle away from my face, but that
only served to shoot it all over my pillows and wall. He just giggled and
laughed the whole time, the little shit.

"You said you wanted to drink it, Uncle Rusty! Well, grab a big ol' taste!"

Truth be told, messy as it was, my cock was about to burst at the seams
smelling that heady-sweet load of maple boy piss going everywhere. Damn,
that stuff is nectar. Hot, perfect boy juice. He shot it on my face, on my
neck, on my chest, all around me.

And when it started drizzling off, I took that nasty little fuck stick
between my lips, in for a penny, in for a pound, and let him unleash the
last three squirts right into my mouth and down into my salt-sucking
gizzard.

"I knew you'd drink it," he giggled. "You're a good old sport, Uncle Rusty,
you piss-drinking ol' perv!"

I swatted his ass hard.

"Ow!" he hollered at the crack.

"You be careful with your manners, boy. Some day a man's gonna give it back
to you as good as you squirt it out. And then you won't be smilin',
Murph. You'll be gulpin' down regrets."

"HA!" Murphy just grinned. "I'll cross that bridge when it gets here,
old-timer."

Oh, he'd cross it all right.

On the business end of six inches up his ass.

"Just you wait, Murphy," I said, shaking my head. "You'll get yours."

He giggled again, shrugged his shoulders and flicked a piss drop in my eye.

"Keep it up, little smart-ass," I warned him. "You'll get yours."

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SLIDESHOW: BRANDON

>From the family Easter gathering this year, dinner with Grandma, the sibs
and all of their kids.

Let's take a gander at my nephew Brandon, a scrumptious little piece of
stink-ass, and now a freshly-minted 12-year-old to boot.

I can't imagine what Brandon's ripe little sweetspot smells like, but I've
been lusting after it since we threw away his last diaper in 2006. Seeing
his perfect boy bottom all these long years at every family gathering has
been the kind of sweet torture that turns my nose and balls into a weeping,
grateful mass of quivering jelly. Smuckers Quivering Noseballs. 100% Fresh
Non-GMO Stinkboy.

I have been known to actually get weak-in-the-knees around Brandon,
particularly if he's been playing soccer all day and I know his little
stinkslit smells like sweet and sour chicken day at the school cafeteria on
the island of Crack-a-toa. When the lunch lady's had all the windows
closed. And the school ventilation system is down.

Lord, I've dreamed of sniffing that muff at more family gatherings than I
can count. I have actually lost track of all grown-up conversation in the
room because I'm staring at little Brandy's butt and jewels.

And it was bad enough when he was 7. It was damn-near heart attack inducing
when he was 9 and 10. But fuck me man, now he's 12. FUCKING 12 and it's
killing me! I need to excuse myself thrice a night to slam my cock in the
silverware drawer when I see him now.

Let's go to the PowerPoint slides and see what Brandon's luscious little
crack is brewing up for us in the stink department.

Click. First slide.

He runs past me in the living room on his way outside, opening his
magnificent maw in the process. One can't look at a picture like this
without estimating one's own penis length, its girth and circumference, and
planning how it might just slip inside Brandon's pried-open oral cavity if
the mood is right and we sneak enough rohipnol into his fruit snacks.

Click. Next slide.

Fucking adorable. "Totes Adorbs" as his sister Jeri's t-shirt says. Brandon
was sitting on the back patio, cracking rocks with other rocks, turning
them into littler rocks.

I'd love to help him with his crack work. I've got a different, particular
crack in mind, and mine requires him to stand up, turn around and squeeze
his eyes shut, but I'm just saying. I could help with at least one
crack. I'm almost sure of it.

Click. Next slide.

He's explaining something to me with obvious seriousness and intensity, but
I'm not hearing a word of it because there's a buzzing in my ears as I look
at his grubby little fingers wondering whether or not we're going to have
to wash those off under the garden hose before I ask him to rub one up and
down his stinky little butt crack and let me sniff it.

And I'm also staring right at his crotch, trying to see if I can spot a
peenie bump in this position, and I can't, which is starting to annoy
me. But if he'd finger his own little stinkcrack and let me sniff his
fingers, I'd be less annoyed, and I feel like telling him this out
loud. Actually have to stop myself.

Click. Next slide.

He scampers away, giving me a fast-moving glimpse of the stink-crack
gloryland. It is so tight and pretty and scruffably fuckable in those
jeans, I choke back a sob of joy as it flashdances out of sigh. What a
feeling. Whoof. I want to apply his almost-certainly prolific butt paste to
the length and underside of my nostrils like lip balm.

Click. Next slide.

Once again, he's telling me something important, and once again, I'm not
hearing a god damn thing.

All I can keep thinking is, "He's sitting down on the patio ground, and I'm
up here with my crotch at face level. His current mouth height is right
about here, and my current dick height is right about here."

"Nahhh, it couldn't possibly be at the perfect height for a blowjob, could
it?"

I mean, there he is, chattering away at me, and I can't hear a thing,
because all I can keep thinking is, "Blowjob? Tiptoes? Do I need to scoot
up a little? Tell him to tilt his chin up another inch? Would it fit all
inside him? Is the angle right? Could I? Should I? Nahhhhh."

Click. Next slide.

Annnnd, there's the peener bump. You can see it in the jeans. He definitely
dresses to his right. Now I can see it. Yep. There it is. Just a little
niblet down there. That little bump in his pants is perfect. Just the size
a 12-year-old boy SHOULD be when he's soft.

I want to smell it. I want him to pull down his pants and piss all over me
with it. Piss all over my face and neck and chest and everything. Piss on
me Brandon, and let me sniff your hot, smelly boy dick. Piss all over me
and then cram your sticky ass stink in my face. I'll say please. I'll give
you twenty dollars. I'll take you to McDonalds when we're done.

Click. Next ten slides.

Then, as I'm sitting there in a patio chair, miracle of totally unsolicited
miracles, he walks right up to me, lifts his shirt up and says, "Wanna see
my tummy?"

UM...YES!!!! In fact, FUCK YES!!!

And immediately, spy-cam snapping, I say anything...ANYTHING...to extend
the moment and keep it visible longer.

"Is it a skinny tummy or a pudgy tummy?" I smile innocently, snapping away
with the spy-cam.

He looks down to check it out. "Skinny," he smiles. "It's a good one."

Oh, baby, it sure is. A magical one. A perfect one. The kind that makes
Jesus jump up and down and clap.

I tell you man, it was a moment of serendipitous spy-cam photography if
ever there was one. Wouldn't happen again in a million years. Magical,
unexpected and totally caught on camera. OH, SNAP!

Click. Next slide.

Back in the house, Brandon decided it would be funny if he kept running his
head under the kitchen sink, getting it wet, then coming up to rub his wet
head on my shirt. I was perfectly content letting him do this for, oh, the
next 150 years, until his dad (party pooper) told him to knock it off.

That's okay, Brandon. Don't do your head anymore. Get your ass wet
instead. Get your ass all good and dripping and wet and rub it all over my
face. Let's play THAT game next.

Click. Next slide.

Brandon on his tummy, legs up, bottom showing, watching TV.

As a fellow connoisseur of the crack-a-doodle-doodie hole, I'm sure you
concur that a boy in this pose is sheer torture. Sheer, blissful
torture. It's like seeing an apple pie cooling on Aunt Muriel's window sill
and knowing you can't walk up and give it a sniff.

I see a boy in this pose and I have to bite my knuckles like Curly, Larry,
Shemp and Moe.

Whoof. I see a boy with his scent-maker in the air like that, and I want to
dive in like Andy Jones winning the Red Bull Classic cliff diving
championships.

Anyway, click. Screen goes black.

There you go. I tried like a cruel-editing motherfucker to pick my favorite
3 pictures, then my favorite 6, and leave the rest on the cutting room
floor, but fuck it. I couldn't do it. So you're stuck looking at all
fucking 18 pictures of this marvelous little stinkminx.

Anyway, if I ever get ahold of a pair of his dirty undies, you will not
hear from me for a month. I will be locked in a room with them, sniffing
and masturbating until I whittle my penis down to the size of a
toothpick. My penis will literally have no skin on it anymore. It'll be
that bad.

Easter comes but once a year, so God bless Brandon, my hot and fluffy
little 12-year-old stinkboy. Brandon the Great, who's perfect little tail
is always on fire. Always hopping down the bunny trail in my book, pal.

Bon appétit and carry on, sniffers.

I can't fucking wait for Thanksgiving.

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Kit Rudo was kind enough to mention my very first, highly scented "boy index" story:
http://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/banging-the-boys-of-camp-starlander

And to see "Wetter: Murphy" get his cum-uppence, read the rest of his story here:
http://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/incest/murphy-in-the-middle

Two juicy stink-treats for your nose and your taste-buds.

Bet you can't eat just one!

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