Perverts ‘R’ Us

THE SCROLLS 01

By DannyR

(MMM/b, probably extremely offensive blasphemy

besides all the pedo, oral, anal, incest, ws)

THE K.I.S.S. PRINCIPLE COMES TO JERKFIC: READ THE STORY CODES BEFORE YOU READ THE STORY! If you don’t, it’s your own damned fault if you’re furious, outraged, offended, indignant, in urgent need of a rabies shot since you’re foaming at the mouth...or whatever.

VERY IMPORTANT NOTE (READ ME NOW!): Some folks apparently have trouble distinguishing between fantasy and reality. This story is a fantasy. It didn't happen. Couldn’t have happened. It takes place in an alternate universe (second star from the right and straight on to morning) where the rules of reality and the standards of the morality police are different from ours. But in our reality, our here-and-now, anyone who is stupid enough, selfish enough, criminal enough, to do or attempt to do any of the things depicted in the story needs to be hanged, then drawn and quartered, and then turned over to the local cops for the harshest penalties the law allows. Part of the raison d’être for the story is so you can keep your hand on your cock in your home and off a real child.

VERY IMPORTANT NOTE 2 (READ ME NEXT!) Anyone who gets hung up on the subject matter below needs to pause for a minute or three and remember a few things. First, you chose to be here at this particular moment in your life, i.e., at a Web site that offers written pedo porn fantasies for you: (a) to read online while you’re jacking (wanking for the Brits <s>) or (b) to download so you can read and jack/wank later. You picked this story, and I doubt there was a gun to your head when you did. Nothing prevents you from stopping now, or five words or five thousand words from now. So with all this warning, if, somewhere down below this note, you find you’re hurt, offended, upset, pissed, outraged, furious, ready to call in the smart missiles for an air strike, or whatever-the-fuck, just remember: you chose to put yourself in a position to get your feelings fucked, not me. Live with it. Now that we're clear on what's what, and what's not, read on. Or not. Your choice. And oh, yes—exercise a little patience. The good stuff, the reason you’re reading and your hand is anticipating a lot of movement, is here...in abundance.

VERY IMPORTANT NOTE 3: I begged, I pleaded, I groveled, I promised to do unspeakable things (well, of course they’re unspeakable when your mouth is occupied), if Dragon would just this once...or maybe three times for three parts...grant a papal dispensation and post a story that wasn’t in his standard HTML format. Sure enough, when I was able to speak again, Dragon said “yes.” Good Dragon. Nice Dragon. mmmph! <snicker>

THE SCROLLS 01

PRIMUS

The text below was discovered in an archaeological dig in the Baptist Confederacy on a remarkably preserved compact disc. It took a great deal of effort to translate that text into modern Latin so that this historical find could be disseminated to the worlds. It took even more effort to retrieve the data in the first place. CDs as they were called so long ago are such a primitive method of storing data that my scientists virtually had to recreate the technology in order to access the information. The translation of the scrolls is indeed accurate. I would perhaps quibble with some word choices, but then I have the leisure to consider the actual scrolls at length.

The CD, however, offers us a brief look into the weeks that eventually led to the present world order. The original CD, plus this translation, which contains my own brief commentaries as well as those of the original translator, are to be placed in a stasis container, together with the equivalent of a Rosetta Stone so that you who read this, whoever you may be, if indeed you ever exist, can translate the words. Although mankind has spread to the stars we have never encountered another intelligent race, though there are those who question whether we qualify for that description.

The translations begin.

TRANSLATOR [17 December 2008]

Only the Pope is infallible, so when the Vatican makes a mistake, the Pope never flies into a rage, certainly not in public, nor even, they say, in private. He is, after all, God’s voice on earth. He must set an example. But I have heard, through a friend of a friend of an acquaintance of a passer-by, that on the occasion of his being informed that the translation of the scrolls had first been posted on the Web, he made an exception of truly papal proportions. If he could have found the cardinal, bishop, priest, or lowly clerical worker who allowed me access to the scrolls, he might well have issued a papal bull declaring that a pope could kill once, just once, during his reign. Perhaps he would have merely gathered a flail from the vaults and scourged the guilty one (me) until he died. Or perhaps reinstituted the auto da fé, watching as the man (I) was tied to a stake in St. Peter’s Square, and then striking the match and lighting the fire himself.

Hearing that made me decide to add this message to the original text. This and the note which follows the translation.

There is no one to blame. If I believed in God, I would say it was His will that the scrolls were there. Or Her will, or its will, or the will of the unknown intelligent designer of all things, if I must be politically correct. As I neither believe nor disbelieve, with my personal jury still being out, deliberating a verdict on the issue, I prefer to believe in chance, a random act, or a series of falling-domino acts, that led to that room, that time, my presence.

Nor was there a plot. No shadow-hidden conspiracy to toss a Molotov cocktail into millennia of writings. Just a scholar, dispassionate, neutral, of no particular political or religious beliefs. An old man with no agenda, with no obsessions other than to translate the ancient words accurately, to find the right way to express both literal meaning and spirit as well, as if the writer were speaking now. I was only there to translate some Renaissance documents which the Vatican had preserved and given me permission to examine. And if you will permit me, so it came to pass that an old scholar was left alone in a room deep inside the Vatican, seated at a large, ornately carved mahogany table. On his left hand, dry texts on the Middle East and trade during a certain period, the documents he had come to study, and on the scholar’s right, scrolls written in a language so dead that he was one of only two in the world who could read what was faintly written there.

The translation below was first posted 11 December 2008 at Nifty, Mr. Double, ASSGM, Perverts ‘R Us, and a renewed Pauliecum.com, as merely a story, a masturbatory fantasy, since I could not bring myself to publish it as the truth it was. I called it “O Holy Fuck,” a title I found amusing. My pseudonym was jes@pedosexmail.prn, one of the exclusively pornographic sites that sprang up when the masters of the Internet, in their infinite wisdom, added “prn” as a domain category, joining dotcom and all the rest. The change was heralded by much screaming and wailing from those who wish to tightly restrict what I and you may read. And no, that account no longer exists so don’t bother. You’ll only feel stupid when the email bounces.

How odd...how stupid, actually, with all the benefits of hindsight...but I truly believed I had been careful enough that no one would realize that I had touched anything in that vault other than the texts I was there to examine. Truly believed no one would ever know. Truly believed my “little story” would only be read by those who wanted to stroke themselves to a written pedophile fantasy.

I should have remembered history.

The translation was reposted by others to various Web sites on 13 December 2008, after an Italian cardinal publicly denounced the story as a falsehood, an abomination in the sight of God that condoned unnatural and depraved wickedness. All, of course, without explaining how he came to know of a pedophile sex story posted on various sites devoted for the most part to written homosexual pornographic fantasies. He did not call for retractions or apologies or repentance by the then unknown author, and in my innocence, in my stupidity, I merely chuckled when I read the news story on the CNN site. I laughed out loud when the cardinal expressed his regrets, with profound piety, that Grand Inquisitor Torquemada was not alive today to handle this matter in the way it deserved.

On 15 December 2008, several tabloid news organizations around the world, citing a highly-placed but anonymous Vatican source, identified me, by name, as the author. Though my family and I are American Jews, I came out of the concentration camps, and I had vowed that never again would I, or mine, be unprepared for a pogrom. So when the media wolves came snarling and howling, we were already gone from our homes, intending to ride out the storm until sane voices could prevail and a rational discussion could ensue.

The translation is accurate. Make of it what you will.

TRANSLATION OF THE SCROLLS

The words below are not my words. I am using one ink for what I may say, another for what he told me during those hot summer days. I never thought to be involved, thought only to merely to sit before him, beside him, after the years spent in locating him, praying he had not yet died, so that I might preserve his story for all the world to read. But I am involved. Still. Despite the passage of years.

These are his words.

When did my hands get old?

When did I?

No. I know when I got old. My hands, my body, just took a lot longer. They’re still good hands. Rough and scarred, the joints swollen and aching almost always, no longer able to bend and move the way my hands would move when I built, when I carved. But still able to grip my cock firmly when it gets hard, and only my hand is available. Still able to hold the waist of a little boy as I did a short while ago, my arms still muscled, though not as they once were, but strong enough to raise and lower the boy on my hard staff until he squealed in his dry cum not just once, but twice before I filled him with my seed.

Your eyes are horrified. Your face reflects that shock. But you are excited, I see. And your flush says you do not wish it to be so. I warn you, that may well happen again as you write. Your cock getting hard. Especially if those few words just now were enough to make you rise. You will not like what you hear, I think, but if you are here to hear the truth, you will stay. If you cannot bear the truth, walk away. I did not seek you out, did not beg you to find me so I could speak.

Write, young man. Write about a time long, long ago when I also looked at my hands and found them good. Long-fingered. Strong. Rough and scarred even then. Callused. The hands of a man who works hard and fights only when he has to. The hands of a builder, a creator.

Even the Romans sought me out, sneering all the while at the peasant with the thick arms and big chest, sweat-stained, dirt and wood dust under his nails, but wanting to buy what I made. Not the homes I built for those as poor as me and mine, but the small things, the things I carved. I set an honest price for what I did, but the Romans thought I was cheating them if they paid that price. I learned quickly, as we all did, to raise the price we first asked, so that they could feel they had beaten us yet again by paying us less than what we said we wanted. And still they paid us more than if they had not started this foolish game. But then, they were mostly fools. Powerful, but fools.

Except, perhaps, one. A centurion with a very good idea. A good idea best kept secret, though, from the rest of his soldiers. Though I am sure the ban on sharing his idea with his men had some exceptions. He came alone one day, as it was nearing dark. An odd thing for a Roman to do, as not all of us were as gentle as me, and...accidents had happened to a lone soldier before. He was nervous, too. I had never seen a nervous soldier before. I liked it.

He even managed to speak my language. Stumbling, to be sure. But when he finally managed to tell me what he wanted, after much badly phrased praise of my work, the smoothness of the wood, the cleverness of the carving, I knew why he had not brought a translator along, as he had done the two times before that he had bought from me. He wanted me to carve him a wooden cock. With balls.

I am not stupid. I knew why. But still, I asked him. Made him say it aloud. He tried to avoid it by merely saying it was to pleasure someone. But I was only an ignorant peasant, though one with rough and talented hands, who did not understand those things, and so questioned him more. Until he admitted it was for his own ass, and threatened me then with death if I told anyone. I let the light of amazement, and understanding at last, shine on my face. Then I asked him how big. And what it should look like.

That flustered him. He became even more nervous when I asked him if he wanted it to look like his own cock. His cock must have liked that because I could see it begin to push his robe outward. I moved closer to him to light my one small candle, and told him I would need to see what he wanted me to duplicate. His cock became fully hard. I reached out and took his cock in my right hand, fondling him through the cloth, while my left cradled his balls. He gulped in air and then almost swayed toward me. I put my left hand to his chest, and touched his nipple, still playing with his cock. I rubbed my thumb over the hard nub and he shuddered. Ah. One of those. I twisted his nipple hard between my thumb and forefinger and he moaned. One of those indeed.

Then I let him go. Told him I would have to see him naked to be sure I understood what he wanted. I could see a flicker of panic in his eyes. Then calculation. Darkness. A peasant’s work hut. A flickering candle. No one near. No one to know. And he’d have a smooth wooden cock to oil and plunge in and out of his hole when he had no real one to use him. With only a little fumbling his weapons and his robes were on the ground. He was naked except for his sandals. Even more nervous when I began to inspect him, so I could remember him well enough to carve, I told him. I pulled the long skin back over the head of his cock. In daylight it would have been bright red, pulsing, his juices already making it slick. I made him squeeze his nipples hard as I slid the skin back down and his thick clear juice spurted out between the folds of flesh.

A nice cock. It fit into my hand nicely. Not long, but thick. I lifted it toward his belly, my fingers pulling the skin back and forth, my thumb rubbing him under the head, then up to cover itself in juices as I rubbed his piss hole.

I paused, confused. What was I doing?

I stepped back into the shadows. Told him to continue playing with himself. I had never had a man’s cock in my hand before. Other than my own. And my hand was on my own cock daily as my wife was sparing of her favors. She had made it very clear it was a favor when I was allowed into her bed, allowed inside her for an unsatisfying fuck that was at best just slightly better than my hand. The soldier’s hand kept stroking his cock, the other squeezed his tits. A long strand of his juices oozed out of his slit, shining brightly in the candle light as it dropped to the ground. I did not really need to see his cock before carving one for him. I had seen enough cocks in my life, all seventeen years of it, that I could have imagined one for him. Poor little boys are mostly naked as they grow up. The men bathe in a stream so I had seen all the men in the village at some time or another. But now I had a naked Roman officer in my tiny hut. And I was hard as well.

“A nice cock,” I said to him from the shadows that almost filled the single room. Night was heavy there and though the hut was small, so was the candle. “But perhaps you would like something larger for your use.” I stripped myself, much more rapidly than he since I had fewer clothes to wear and they mostly rags, and stepped into the light. He gasped and stopped his stroking.

I am a large man. In every way. I roughly knew what he would see in looking at me. I had heard the Romans had mirrors where you could see yourself. A story only, to me. All I had was the well. Or a quiet day at the stream when the surface was smooth. And only time for a quick look so I would not be mocked for vanity if anyone saw. A tall man is what the soldier looked at. A man with a neat beard. A lot of thick, soft hair on my chest around my own nipples and up to my throat, then tapering down toward my flat belly and the wide trail leading down to my cock. More hair there. Even thicker. Even my balls are hairy, large and hanging so far down the tip of my soft cock was only barely past them. He licked his lips as he looked at my dick. Half again as long as his. Half again, perhaps more, as thick as his. A brief “gods, yes,” from his lips told me he liked my idea.

I knew what I wanted now. By the way his eyes moved between my eyes and my cock, he wanted it too. But he was Roman, a soldier, an officer. I was a peasant. He would not move first. I put my hands to his neck, my fingers wrapped around the back, my thumbs stroking his cheeks. “I cannot carve a wooden cock for your ass, centurion, with just one hand, while I use the other to keep me hard as a model. I need a memory to keep me hard. Will you give me that memory?”

An even more fervent “gods, yes” slipped out of his mouth. I barely had to clamp my hands on his shoulders and press before he was moving down, kneeling before me, his breath hot on my own leaking cock. He opened his mouth and took me in. His lips clamped warmly around my shaft, just behind the head, while his tongue did obscene things to it. I looked down at the balding spot at the back of his head, kneaded the hard muscles of his shoulders, tilted my head back and held my breath as his mouth moved down my shaft until he was breathing in the hair at its base.

My turn to gasp. No man had ever sucked my cock before. My wife had tried. Once. And told me she would never try again. It didn’t matter just then. My cock was in the mouth of a Roman warrior. A man old enough to be my father, my grandfather. Tough, battle-scarred, grey-furred on his chest and belly. On his knees sucking the cock of a peasant. And from the ease with which he took my cock into his mouth, and down into the depths of his throat where every swallow sent shafts of heat through me, he was no virgin. He began to move his head back and forth quickly, and I could see he was stroking himself in nearly the same rhythm. I put my hands on the side of his head, asked him whether he needed his face fucked. His moan gave me my answer and I held his head as I used my hips to begin the rough thrusting he so clearly wanted. Needed. As I did.

His mouth was so hot I knew I would be fast. One thrust, two, three, his rough hands holding onto my thighs for balance as he let me use his mouth and throat. I was getting there, almost there, and then....

“Papa?”

The soft voice came from the soldier’s right. Unfortunately the centurion had just pulled back to the head of my cock and so he was able to jerk his head free and look at the boy. The naked little boy with shadows draped around parts of his body, but not on his firm little tummy, and not on his firm little dick.

Panicked, as he certainly would not be in battle, he struggled to get away, to get up, but despite his age and powerful muscles from years of fighting, he was in too awkward a position, at least for the moment. I outweighed him and managed to hold him down, but only for as long as it took me to reluctantly say, “My son.” He stilled at that. He turned his head to look at me and his eyes widened when he saw I was still hard, though he had quickly gone limp.

We looked at the boy, who’d said nothing more. Looking at the size of his stiff little prick, I could almost believe he really was my son. But though I’d named him son just now, and named him so at his birth, he wasn’t. About a year ago, I gave up railing at fate for making me such a fool as to be still a virgin when she was finally old enough to be married as our parents wanted. For still marrying her when she told me she was already pregnant. No one from the village she assured me. But she was thirteen she said, with a flick of her long hair, a woman grown, with a woman’s needs and she twisted things to make it a fault of mine that she had not waited.

My wedding night. A full-grown man of fourteen with a man’s needs and she tells me to spill my seed in my hand, out of her sight, as she was pregnant and could not lie with a man, any man, even her bound-for-life husband, until the baby was born. This from a daughter whose father bragged when he had too much to drink about what a good fuck his wife was even just before their next child was about to be born. I told her how I would beat her, though in truth I would not, if she did not do as I said. Made her lie there very still, while I pushed my fingers up inside her. All the way. Whore. So I spilled my seed. On her face. And then I pricked my wrist to smear blood on the bedding so that I would not be disgraced in the morning.

A cold woman, my wife. A woman of warmth and joy and life, devoted and loving in the presence of others. In private, well, I had to wonder about the man she fucked, and whether, after he came, his cock and balls froze like ice from the distant mountains, and snapped off while he was still inside her. But she knew her duty, knew, too, that if she didn’t want me to get drunk and spill the truth as I so often spilled seed by myself, she had to let me fuck her. So I did. Not often in the first two years after “our” son was born. But enough so she could fake that well-fucked glow when she was with the other women.

Fortunately for me, I did not have to fuck her alone. Inside my head were the images that got me hard, kept me hard, where her dry, painfully tight cunt and martyred face would have left me soft. Images of “our” son. With his lips tightly wrapped around my cock, swallowing my seed while I fingered his hot baby hole and he shook wildly in his own little cum.

It started six months after he was born. First as a kind of revenge on the bastard who fucked my life over by fucking her first. I couldn’t fuck his tiny ass, I thought, but I could fuck his mouth. That pretty mouth with the soft lips that opened so wide when his not-quite-fifteen-year-old papa had his own lips around that hard young cock and tight young balls. I didn’t start doing that, sucking my boy’s cock. At first it was just rubbing my hard cock across his lips until he started licking the juices that quickly began to flow and opened wide and somehow took in most of my cock head. Ah, that first time with his baby lips wrapped around the head of my cock while I stroked myself hard, cupping the back of his head so he would stay in place when I filled his mouth. Fill it I did. A cum like I had never had before. Certainly not with her. Never with my hand. Filled his little mouth several times and he gulped it all down as if were as thin as the goat’s milk he normally drank.

By the time he was a year old and that damned traveler came back, he could take a third of my cock down, though it was still growing. As was his. By then, too, I was a cocksucker as well, at least for a very little boy who thought he was my son. My first time was only a month before his birthday, when I leaned over to kiss him and perhaps scoop up some of my cum with my tongue, and he put his tiny baby hands on my head and gave me a soft little shove toward his belly. Just an accident, of course, he couldn’t have intended it. About as much pressure as feather, but when I looked at his cock, stiff as it usually was when we played our little game, I knew I had to taste him, too.

A very good taste. He started pissing in my mouth right through his baby hard and I was so surprised I swallowed it and kept on swallowing, while I was furiously stroking myself again. He pissed nearly as long as it took me to cum his mouth and when he stopped and shivered I leaned over and spilled a second round of seed on his baby dick. And then sucked it all up until he had his dry spasms.

By the time he was two he could take all of me down his throat. And did. As often as we could. Which was often enough since I began to take him with me to my work hut, began to teach him what his father did and how he did it. She yelled at me, though not when anyone could hear, about how frail he was, how delicate, how he could not be with a rough crude man like me all day. Crap. He is as tough as I was at his age. Strong. Determined. And yet, somewhat...odd. Different from the other boys, though he played with them and had no troubles beyond those a boy his age might have.

My loving wife had ambitions for him. Hiding away money and anything of value for his future. Not that we had much of either, but somehow she managed to convince several of the merchants who were stranded by the Romans as we were when the boy was born, that our god, their god, the Romans’ gods, some deity would bless them if they were generous to our poor little baby. I don’t know whether she fucked just one, or all, making them believe they were great lovers. Or perhaps she just used words to twist their minds. But gave they did.

One of them came back on the boy’s first birthday. The swarthy one, though no more so than my boy or me, middle-aged, lean, hawk-nosed, an oiled black beard around the line of his jaw, a mustache trailing down to the join the beard. Rich clothes, servants and slaves surrounding him. A handsome man. Since my boy began sucking my cock I had begun to look at men differently, assessing their looks, wondering about their cock sizes, though never what it might be like to have one suck me, and certainly not what it would be like for me to suck him. But occasionally, just once in a while, I’d wonder about this one or that one, whether my boy would like his dick, whether I could watch him suck another man, and my own cock would twitch before I pushed the thoughts away.

A different merchant came back on the boy’s second birthday. Both of them leaving something for the boy, but with my wife, of course, not with the crude peasant father. The second one was plump, round of belly, round of face, pale skinned, with a full, snowy beard. An old man, wrinkled of face, wrinkled of hands. Clothes even more gaudy than the swarthy one. They each spent a while with the boy and me. Not talking much, but watching us, their eyes flicking back and forth between us, since I would not leave the boy alone with either. I distrusted them even more than I did Romans. But for the short time they were there, they were polite, yet they watched us with a gaze that made me think, though there was no look, no sign, that they knew what the boy and I were doing.

All this ran through my head as we stared at my naked little boy, and I supposed it would be the turn of the third merchant, the large black one, to check on their investment when the boy turned three in a month. I shook my head to shift my thoughts back to there and then. To a little boy I claimed as my son and meant it, standing naked and hard. A naked centurion on his knees before us, his own cock beginning to rise again. Mine aching and leaking still.

I looked into my son’s eyes. Such wise eyes for someone so young. So knowing. Though I never saw that in his eyes when his mother was around, or anyone else. We stared at each other for only a moment. I knew then that I’d lost him, that he would never again be just mine. I knew I would always be first with him, somehow, even suspected it would be so when I was old, if I survived so long. But there would be others. Many others. The centurion was the first in that line. Then the look was gone and he stepped into the light, and he was just a boy, a sturdy, swarthy, big-eyed, very little boy staring at the kneeling Roman soldier. And softly asking, “Can I suck your cock?”

The centurion gasped. From the shock on his face he would probably have objected, perhaps claimed he didn’t do things with little boys, but by the time he could form the words it was too late. His dick had betrayed him and my son was on his knees, bending over during the centurion’s gasp, holding onto the man’s thighs for balance and swallowing all of the soldier’s dick. Another gasp, louder, as the boy began bobbing up and down, the soldier’s scarred hands caressing the boy’s head, his own tossed back and his eyes closed, his face grimacing with the pleasure he was being given.

Then he had to look. To watch a tiny two-year-old suck his cock. And gasped yet again when he noticed something sticking out of my boy’s ass. He looked up at me and I smiled. A smug smile. It wasn’t only Romans who had good ideas. His eyes questioned and my own approved. He stretched out his left hand while his right kept the boy firmly sucking, grabbed the small handle and slowly pulled. A man-sized wooden cock, slick with olive oil, began to emerge from that tight little hole. Not a big man’s cock, not mine, but still a good size. The smaller wooden cocks he had started with were safely hidden away.

The soldier shuddered and grunted when he pulled it all the way out, staring at the oil and juices dripping from it. As the boy continued to suck, he reached out with his other hand and felt my son’s hole. Not so tight right now, but I knew it would clamp down again in a while. A man obsessed, he used one hand to guide the wooden cock head back into my boy’s hole, and then slid it all the way in, firmly but gently. The boy lifted his head from the man’s groin, licked his lips, begged the man to fuck him. The centurion looked at me and I nodded, my expression telling him as clearly as words that it was only the wooden dick which would be fucking my son.

What a sight they made in the flickering darkness. My boy, so tiny, so dedicated, moving his head up and down, faster and faster, on thick Roman meat. A Roman soldier hunched over the boy, resting his weight on one palm on the ground, while the other fucked the wooden dick in and out of the hot little hole. I joined them. He jumped only slightly when my large, callused hands caressed his naked rump, when a large-knuckled finger stroked across his man hole and pushed a little inside.

“This will be a better thing to recall as I make the wooden cock,” I told him. “I must be sure it will not hurt you. Too much.”

I was not gentle with him as I mounted him. I still resented losing my boy, resented having to share him even while my cock was harder than ever before watching my boy get used by another man. I smoothed my leaking juices around, dropped spit on my cock, and then putting the head to his hole, shoved hard and thrust myself all the way in. He might have howled but though I had never had my cock inside an ass before, I thought he might and had my hand around his mouth before I thrust.

Hot! Tight. Though not so tight as I imagined my boy’s tiny ass might be, would be, oh yes, would be when he was three. I do not cum quickly, not even in my boy’s mouth, but just then, buried in hot male ass, my head imagining for a moment it was my little son, I almost came. So I held very still. And when the urge was past, I began to fuck this man as if he were a tight cunt, able to take all my length, all my width, or take it whether he could or would or not.

Awkward positions for all of us. I would do better, know better, next time, I thought. Certain that there would be a next time, though I did not know who the next man might be. No one in our village I hoped, hard as it was just to keep secret what my son and I were doing. But we were strong males, we three, each in our own way, we endured. Enjoyed.

I enjoyed while I fucked the soldier hard. I took out my resentment on him, cleared it away as I swept up wood shavings at the end of the day, turned it to lusty expectations of the man my son would suck next, or who’d suck my son. Plunging my long fat cock in and out of his talented hole, the walls squeezing and relaxing in time to my thrusts as I once thought a woman who loved me might do for me. No more thoughts of a woman’s cunt. Just the man cunt beneath me. The near silence except for the slap! of my hips against his ass, his gasps and moans as I pulled out all the way and plunged in again hard and deep and fast.

The soldier enjoyed. His gasps and moans and grunts as I fucked him hard, told my son and me that he enjoyed. So did his words as he begged me to fuck him harder, used foul language to my little boy as he somehow managed to go on fucking the wooden cock in and out of his tiny ass, swore at my son while the boy sucked the centurion’s cock all the way into his throat.

My son enjoyed. The wooden cock fucking was ragged, not as smooth as mine, but my boy had a man’s dick in his mouth and a wooden dick in his bottom hole and though I could not see him, hidden by the soldier’s body, I knew when the boy writhed in a dry cum, and then another and then another.

It was the boy’s third cum that set the centurion off, shoving his cock all the way into my boy’s throat, uncaring whether he choked or not so long as his cum shot out, emptying his balls almost directly into the boy’s belly. The soldier’s skilled cunt clamped down on my dick, the slick walls firmly holding every bit of my length as I shoved in once more, nearly toppling us all, and then began emptying my own balls far up into his bowels.

We froze where we were, and then slowly untangled and separated. The soldier sat back on his haunches, his back against my chest as I did the same. My son stood up on somewhat shaky legs then turned his back and bent over. The centurion understood and gently eased the wooden cock out of the little hole. The boy turned back again and took it by the handle, and then rested the head of the wooden dick on the soldier’s lips. The sudden tension in his body said he didn’t want to, then he relaxed and did. He opened his mouth and cleaned the oil and boy cunt juices off the wooden cock.

My son returned the favor and went to his knees, picked up the soldier’s soft dick in his small hand, and then bent down to lick it clean.

The soldier sighed, clearly knowing he had to do what was obvious he had done many times before. He moved away from my arms and started to turn to me, but my son said, “No. I want to do papa.” The centurion gave me a barely-seen “lucky bastard” smile as my boy raised my still-hard cock to a better angle and then took all of it in, licking and slurping loudly as he cleaned his papa’s dick of both cum and the juices of another man’s ass. His tiny smile told me once again that this was only the first.

But I was always hard after I came, and still am to this day. I can see your eyes flickering to my cock while I gently stroke it. Did you know your robe is stained with your juices? No, don’t stop. Keep writing.

I needed then, still need now, to cum again before I can go soft. As my little one knew. He settled down into a leisurely second cumming. The soldier got hard again, watching us, stood up and straddled both my spread legs and the boy kneeling and sucking between them, offering his cock to my mouth. Another first. I’d only sucked a little boy’s cock up to then, but I suddenly thought that if my boy was going to sex other men while I was there to protect him, I might be using them as well, and in fairness, they might use me. I opened my mouth.

I was a good cocksucker, almost as if I had somehow passed an unknown talent on to a tiny boy who wasn’t my flesh, but still my son. And as the centurion fucked my face hard, a little payment back perhaps, and filled my mouth with thick salty cum, while I did the same only seconds later to my little boy, a thought passed through my head. I might have to learn to take it up the ass, too.

I should have become a prophet, instead of a builder and carver.

Over the next several weeks, while I secretly worked on a wooden cock that matched my own, easily keeping myself hard to have a model, the centurion snuck back often. Trying to get in my ass, but only succeeding in getting himself fucked by me, and having my son suck him off. He got almost as much pleasure, though, out of sucking my boy. Who promptly peed in his mouth as he did with me, and the soldier swallowed it without hesitation.

I finally sent word his carving was done and we met at night that time. I told my wife I was taking my son to see the stars from the hill nearby on such a clear night and though she muttered about his health she did not try to stop me. My boy anointed the wooden cock with oil and carried it to where we met. There the grey-furred centurion lay on his back as I knelt over him and fucked his face. My little boy worked the wooden cock into the soldier’s hole with some grunting on the centurion’s part (it was actually a little longer and fatter than my own) and then sucked the soldier off while fucking him hard with the wooden cock. And my son is surprisingly strong. The little boy almost choked on the soldier’s cum, as the soldier nearly did on mine. Then I fucked the Roman’s ass. We left him there and went home.

He did not come back. I shrugged my shoulders, although a part of me had enjoyed watching another man with my little boy. As the days passed we managed, my boy and I, at least one suck a day. And talked about his birthday. The day I would replace my fingers and the oiled wooden cocks going in and out of his tiny hole with his papa’s very own staff. I told my wife I had special plans for the boy, and later that day as I fondled his stiff little dick, I told him how much fun it would be to be alone that day, away from the village. But he shook his head very solemnly and said, “But we won’t be alone, papa. The rich men will be here.”

I didn’t respond but bent to lap his balls and boy cunt and stroke him to his dry cum. When he spoke like that there was no point in arguing. It was unnerving, but somehow he knew. Instead of just the black one, they all arrived in a single caravan the day before his birthday. And spent the entire day with us, to my wife’s delight. Oh, how she would later preen before the other women about the attention shown to her by wealthy traders. I, however, became increasingly frustrated as all my careful plans fell apart like a badly-made chair when someone sat upon it. Until he tugged on my hand, making me lean over so he could whisper, “It’ll be all right, papa. You can still fuck me.”

I smiled, ruffled his hair, and endured. They provided us with a feast, and orders for my carving. And when the feast was done, they gave my wife a gift of fine cloth, and told her that they had special gifts in their tent for her little boy, and that I would accompany him there to get them. She would have protested, I could see it in her eyes if no one else could, but she weighed her anger at being excluded against the value of their strange liking for our family, and smiled prettily, thanked them, and told my son to behave.

We walked quietly to the tent, my boy holding my hand. I had never seen such a display of wealth up close before. Soft rugs to cover the dirt, silken hangings, low tables, plump pillows, candles everywhere casting a warm glow over a space larger than my own home and my work hut together. I felt out of place, which angered me. My son was always in his place, wherever he might be, and his place now was with his father and these men. I was still standing near the entrance when the servants left us alone.

The swarthy one and the pale one had crossed to the other side and were reclining on pillows. The black one was the youngest of the three. An Ethiop perhaps. Tall, he loomed over us all. Well-muscled, if his hands and the way he moved were any signal, as the rest of him was buried beneath robes more subtly ornate and vastly richer than those of his...friends? colleagues? He stood to my right, my son between us. His left hand stroked my boy’s thick, curly hair and he said softly, “It is my turn, is it not, little one?”

Turn? What turn? My anger rose and would have turned into speech that undoubtedly would have cost me all their orders, perhaps led to a beating by their slaves, except for one thing. My boy put his soft little hand on my cock and said, “Please, papa, may I suck him before you fuck me?”

My robe stuck out obscenely, the way it did whenever I thought about sexing my boy, even more so when he touched me. A nearly instant hardness I could no more control than I could have loved my greedy frigid wife. He took my gasp for agreement, because he said “Thank you, papa,” squeezed my cock and then turned to the black merchant. If length and girth indicate obscenity, he was more obscene than me. He had opened his own robes, was indeed beginning to let them fall to puddle on the carpets, his cock thrusting directly out, his right hand pulling the long foreskin back to reveal the gleaming, wet, wide, pink knob, his left hand gently guiding my child’s head toward the black meat.

But still I said, though quietly, “Turn?”

A high, quavering laugh turned my head toward the plump, pale one. His robes were open, his hand around his large belly as he stroked a cock as short and fat as the rest of him. “Oh, yes,” he said, licking his lips as he stared intently at the little boy playing with the black merchant’s meat. “Nothing you had not already done to the boy, of course. But we gambled to see who came back. He— ” and he nodded toward the swarthy man who was fully naked, muscled and hairy, sprawled with pillows supporting his back, his legs wide and his fat balls pulled up tight beneath the wide cock he stroked, “—got to be first. He wrote to tell us how well your baby boy sucked a man’s cock.” He grunted, and squeezed his cock. Juice slid out. His eyes widened. “He is even better now.”

I looked back at my boy then, bent at the waist, his head seeming to almost disappear beneath the large hands, and realized he had most of that meat down his throat. And was slowly swallowing the rest of it. I felt a surge of, yes, pride. Surprisingly, not resentment, but pride at how well my small son was taking cock at such a young age. I smugly thought of the boy’s real father and what he was missing, would always miss, unless by some odd chance in the years ahead he met my boy and fucked his ass or mouth, never knowing the thrill of it being his own son.

“Much better,” the swarthy one said, licking his lips and rubbing the ooze from his slit around the dark purple head of his long-skinned cock. “He could only take a third of mine. I did not know if by his next birthday he would be able to take all of my friend, but I didn’t need to worry.” His eyes flicked toward my own cock which was now on display as well, my robe and loincloth discarded, and then back to the slow, relentless face fucking next to me. “Not with that kind of meat to practice on.”

Naked, all, I was for the moment content to watch the men play with themselves, watch my boy’s mouth being fucked, only briefly startled when the black man reached out to caress my back, squeeze the cheeks of my ass, and use two fingers to rub and press against my moist hairy hole. I was puzzled, and when I spoke for some reason I pushed slightly back against those fingers. “But why all of you today?”

The pale one laughed again. I realized I did not know their names but Pale and Swarthy and Black would do. Not all the men who would eventually sex my boy would give their names. “Your fault, dear man. When I was done fucking my fat cock into his mouth, and he’d gulped down all my juices until only ooze was left, he lifted his head away, and told me we should all come for his next birthday. Then he showed me the little wooden cock you’d carved for his hole, and let me use it on him while I sucked his little meat and gave him what he had given me.”

I could see my boy pulling his head away so his mouth was free of the cock, and Black let him. He smiled up at me, that especially knowing smile of his, while a corner of his mouth dribbled Black’s precum and my son’s spit. “Papa, will you fuck my cunt while he fucks my mouth?”

My plans for a solitary, special fuck to take my son’s virginity went up in flames. Black had a slightly different idea. “Little one, has your papa ever been fucked?”

His eyes widened. “Oh, no,” he said softly. Swarthy and Pale laughed, and went on playing with themselves. Black looked at me and I agreed my asshole was virgin to cock, wooden or real. Nor did I protest. I had known from the day I realized my boy would sex many other men, had known that if I wanted to watch and participate, I would at some point lose my own virginity in mouth and ass. The only virginity I had left was in my ass. I might as well lose it the day I fucked my boy for the first time.

Black smiled. “Little one, would you like to be fucked by your papa’s cock, and then, when he is all the way inside your tight little hole, I will put my cock inside your papa’s ass? It will almost be like being fucked by both of us at the same time.”

The small boy’s “oh, yes, please” was a long, drawn-out sigh of eagerness and lust.

Swarthy pulled a low table into the center of the tent, set a plump cushion on it. Black picked my boy up and laid him on his back. The table might almost have been designed for him it was so perfect. The boy’s head was over the edge, held gently by Swarthy’s hands, the thick dark cock oozing slime on my son’s forehead as the child opened his mouth. I squeezed my aching staff at the sudden image in my head of that rod fucking down my boy’s throat. Swarthy held the small boy’s legs up and wide, so I could see my son’s hot tight pussy, no longer the rosy pink it was when I started fingering it and then feeding wooden cocks into it. It was brown now, the sign of a used hole, but still, a virgin boy cunt in terms of a man’s thick meat penetrating it, forcing it wide. My virgin boy cunt.

Black reached around me, his palm wet with oil and greased my cock, then slid one, then two fingers into the boy’s cunt. The little boy just sighed. Raised his legs. Swarthy leaned forward, his cock sliding easily into my boy’s talented mouth hole. It was my turn now. I shuddered, prayed I would not spoil everything by spewing my seed the moment my knob was inside that hot little hole, moved the tip to where his ass lips began to part, and with Black’s fingers to guide my shaft, slipped into ecstasy. My little one whimpered around the cock in his throat as his papa’s rod spread him wide. And then his cunt relaxed and seemed to suck every bit of me into him. I had my cock in my three-year-old’s hole! And the three-year-old was cumming. Moaning loudly, grunting, thrashing wildly, clamping his muscles tight around my meat. Swarthy leaned forward, grabbed my head and pressed his mouth to mine, forcing my lips open, fucking my mouth with his tongue as we both fought not to cum while the little one writhed beneath, between us, shivering and shaking in a violent, body-wracking dry cum.

When at last, at long, ecstatic last, the boy was done, I would have pulled back, but Swarthy’s grip was firm and in an instant I knew why. I had not paid attention to the callused hands on my waist, the hot thickness nudging my own virgin hole. Swarthy swallowed my scream, one that would have wakened the entire village, when Black plunged that obscene cock into my hole with one hard, fast shove of his hips. The initial scream he caught, but he could not completely stifle the second as every fat inch of the Ethiop’s cock pulled out of my no longer virgin hole, and plunged back in again. I had broken a leg when I was younger, experienced other pains as I grew and worked and learned my trade, but never agony like that from the dick in my tight, raw hole. I gasped, and shuddered, managed to pull my head away from Swarthy’s control, and would have voiced my pain, but my son stopped it all with a touch.

My little boy reached up, touched the thick curling hair on my belly, tugged gently so that I looked down at him, my body following that tug downward so that he could touch my tits with equal gentleness, then softly squeeze them. And softly, softly, say, “You like cock in your cunt, don’t you, papa?”

In that instant, my head clamored to shout out my pain, to deny that I could now, could ever like or love a dick up inside my most private place, to deny I had a cunt, to claim I only allowed it to experience it this once and never again. But my body gainsaid me. In that instant of touching, all the pain was gone, my hole relaxed, and Black was thrusting smoothly, gradually beginning to accelerate, long, long, in-and-out strokes that set my gut quivering as he rubbed over something deep inside my...man cunt. We, my son and I, regardless of our fathers, were born, made, created to be used, to be fucked long and hard in both our holes, to have our bodies used to please men. Born, made, created to fuck and use other boys and men well, taking pleasure either way, giving ecstasy both ways.

My “fuck me, fuck me hard” was a prayer and my young Ethiop god answered my fervent voice. We established a rhythm, Black and my tiny child and me; the thundering force of his cock in my cunt ramming through to my boy’s tiny, tight pussy. We became mindless, devoid of thought, feeling only cocks enjoying cunts, cunts reveling in cocks, spiraling upward faster and faster and faster as the Ethiop guided our fucking until with a violent explosion he filled my eager pussy to overflowing with brazier hot cum, and I in my turn, in almost the same instant, did the same for my precious baby, my wise little boy who knew somehow what his papa needed and craved. And in that same moment, the rolling cums my little one had been experiencing cumulated into an equally violent, body-wracking dry cum that left us all near to passing out.

Black slowly pulled his messy dick out of my hole, and Pale almost shoved him aside, spreading my ass cheeks with his surprisingly strong hands as he buried his face in my crack and began licking and slobbering and sucking the cum out of my hole.

Swarthy, who had pulled his cock away from my son’s mouth...perhaps fearing that in his repeatedly cumming ecstasy he might lose control of his teeth around Swarthy’s most prized possession...was more gentle in moving me aside so that he could lay belly down on the carpets, then raise himself on his elbows, slide my boy to the edge of the table, and pillage my child’s cunt for his papa’s cum. My child eagerly cleaned Black’s barely drooping meat of his papa’s spooge and ass juices. And then cleaned mine while I watched Swarthy mount my son’s hot, slimy pussy.

Pale was next, laying on his back with my boy curved over his vast belly, sliding down until his boy cheeks spread wide and he eased down until the old man’s white pubes were brushing against the boyhole. I watched as my talented cunt boy brought Pale to an almost-screaming cum that left him exhausted and shaking. Watched as he repeated the process with the Ethiop whose cock surged back to eager, dripping readiness the moment Swarthy began fucking. Watched as I stroked my own cock to another cum at the sights and smells of my boy, my young child, being so roughly, so willingly fucked and used. Watched and wondered if it would always be like this...me watching for the most part, despite my own aching to fuck and be fucked, suck and be sucked.

I should not have worried. We fucked and sucked in every conceivable combination. Before our revels all were ended the other men had all fucked me, until my own cunt was as full, well perhaps not quite that, as my little one’s cunt. I had fucked their faces as they had fucked mine. And whenever we seemed to be flagging, to feel we could not possibly get hard again, cum again, the lustful three-year-old boy was there, with a wise smile in his eyes that no one seemed to notice but me, a gentle touch, a caress...and a cock that once more eager to be used.

But all things must end. And this eventually did as well, with the four men and tiny boy intertwined on the carpets, the tent reeking of sweat and cum and juices and raw, uninhibited sex. At last the Ethiop turned on his side, propped his head with his hand and looked down at us, smiling, his teeth startlingly white against so dark a face. “In all these years,” he said, “we have not exchanged names. Perhaps waiting for a time until we were better acquainted?” He chuckled, low and enticing, and so much so that had I not been so well used my cock would have been twitching back to life.

“I think we are acquainted now, are we not?” The Ethiop’s left hand reached out to stroke the fur on my chest, to slide three fingers briefly in and out of my boy’s cum dripping cunt. He sucked his fingers clean, and said, “I am Balthasar.”

His eyes indicated Pale, lying beside me. “He of the vast gut and white hair, worn nearly to death from these exertions, is Caspar.” Caspar responded with a smile and an obscene gesture.

He nodded toward Swarthy. “This last is Melchior.”

He looked expectantly at me. “I am Joseph.” I looked at my precious boy, rubbed his tits and belly, watched his cocklet climb to erection yet again. “This is my son, Jesus.”