EEKEND, BY BOBBY RAY

By DannyR  (MM/b, oral, anal, incest, ws, pedo)
Copyright 2009.  All rights reserved.


Author’s Reminder:  Don’t forget that inquiring authors want to know -- what did you think?  So when you’re done, put your fingers to a  dried-off, cleaned-up keyboard and start by typing:  dr_harris_81@hotmail.com.

DISCLAIMER:  Some folks apparently have trouble distinguishing between fantasy and reality.  This story is a fantasy.  It didn’t happen.  Never will.  And anyone who attempts to do in real life all or any of the things depicted in the story needs to be hanged, then drawn and quartered, and then turned over to the cops for the harshest penalties the law allows. After that, well, hopefully everything Law and Order and the news say is true about child molesters in prison, is really true.  Now that we’re clear on what’s what, and what’s not, read on.


MY WEEKEND, BY BOBBY RAY

You know the old saying:  All dressed up and no one to fuck.

Well, that’s my old saying.  You go with yours.  And it was true.  I don’t get horny like this very often, I mean, fuck, it’s not like I don’t have plenty of cunt to choose from, but every so fuckin’ often, my dick lets me know it’s been too long, that I need this.  So I get all dressed up and go out cruising.  Looking for a nice, tight hole to shove my cock into.

Yeah, yeah, cruising is risky.  Dangerous.  You never know who or what you’re going to end up with; the cops could come along, blah, blah, blah.  Still, I’m careful.  I don’t cruise near home or work.  You don’t shit where you eat, right?

I could probably plan these things out, and be successful every time, but I like the not knowing, the wondering as I put the key in, and start the engine whether I’m going to find me the right hot little hole, or go home hard and horny and kind of pissed.  Fortunately for my regular cunts that doesn’t happen often, since when it does happen, my regular cunts suffer.  Not that they don’t enjoy it, but then it’s not really important whether they do or not.  In that kind of mood, as I move toward the weekend when I can cruise again...and I will cruise again and again until I get what I need...the fucks are progressively rougher, the spankings are harder, and their tits get twisted that extra special squeal-real-loud-for-daddy-you-little-cunt turn.  They don’t know why I get into that mood, but they sure the fuck know better than to ask questions.

So when I pulled into this crappy, off the beaten track as in somewhere in the upper fucking Amazon gas station/convenience store/post office I was frustrated and angry and really fucking horny, with an aching, leaking cock.  Two goddamn chances to get what I wanted, what I fucking needed, and neither one worked.  The fucking GPS was fucked and I’d made a wrong turn somewhere and wound up...wherever the fuck I was.  And I was stuck in one of those cell dead zones from the commercials, only I didn’t belong to the right company.

If the gas pumps had been the kind from the thirties, they would have looked right at home with this kind of Depression era wooden building.  The pumps from the 50’s didn’t modernize it any. Big windows, all dusty, with stuff behind them that had probably been there since shortly after the world was created.  Or big-banged into existence.  Take your pick.  A screen door hanging half open, a big “open” sign (large bright red letters against a black background) dangling in the door.

I stepped down from the cab as the door opened.  An old guy came out.  Sixty or so, thick white hair, deeply lined face, tall, gold-rimmed glasses, clean shaven, wide mouth, thin lips to go with the thin body.  Bib overalls with a tee-shirt underneath, sun-reddened arms.  Lace-up boots.  “Gas?” he asked, holding the screen door half open.

“Fill ‘er up,” I said, gesturing toward the beat-up truck I was driving.  It looked old enough to belong in the Depression-type picture some hot shot photographer should take here, and win some frigging Americana award.  I went inside to get out of the bright glare of the sun and the damned heat, but it wasn’t that much better.  No air conditioning, just a big ceiling fan doing its damnedest to circulate the heat.

And there he was.

Sitting on the dusty wooden floor, on planks kind of wavy from who the fuck knows how many years of being walked on, and warped from probable extremes of heat and cold, was what I wanted.  Needed.  Knew I was going to have as I sure the fuck wasn’t going to go home without getting my balls drained.  Not now.

I watched him play with the cars for a moment, as he drove them back and forth across the bumpy floor, making soft little vroom-vroom noises.  One leg was bent, his bare foot resting against his knee; the other was stretched out and I could see the dust and dirt on the soles.  He was wearing loose tan shorts...that all the better to hide the dirt my dear color...and a smudged white tee shirt.  He was blond, with curly hair that fell over his forehead, hiding his eyes as he looked down at his game.  He was a little on the plump side, but I didn’t mind.  Fat or skinny, he was perfect.  Just what the doctor ordered if my doctor gave pedo prescriptions.

He was three.

Not two, not four...three.  I know these things.

In my head I was singing my favorite hymn, “Praise God from whom all boy cunts flow.”

I hunkered down beside the little boy, listening carefully for the squeal of the hinges on the opening door.  Making sure I wasn’t too close.  Making sure I didn’t appear dangerous.

“Hi, there,” I said, giving him my best smile.  And my best smile is very damned good, even with the thick dark mustache across my lip and the, I admit it, kind of scraggly beard running straight down the sides of my mouth to my jaw.  He couldn’t see my eyes behind old-fashioned “Air Force” mirrored shades, but he didn’t really need to.  The smile, my relaxed body language, my tone, all told him I was a friend, not a stranger he wasn’t supposed to talk to.  And besides, the old man was there to protect him.  Not at that precise, moment, but still....  “I’m Bobby Ray.”

Not my real name of course.  My mama didn’t raise her no dummy, as the saying goes, though I expect she’d be appalled by what she did raise, but then, she’s been dead five years, so what the fuck.  And I doubt the boy or the old man would guess I grabbed the name from a Nifty Archives story I jacked off to a few weeks back.

He looked up at me, smiled back.  Green eyes.  Bright, bright, bright green.  Thick lashes but so blond you almost couldn’t see them.  Fat little cheeks.  Fat, cherry red lips that he licked with the tip of a tiny tongue.  Jesus.  My cock spurted juice.  “I’m Little Jack.”

I had a momentary image of him years from now, a confident teen in high school, muscled, tanned, a deep voice, introducing his butch stud self to some cheerleader...if they had cheerleaders in this godforsaken area...or some other girl he wanted to poke.  Too bad that wasn’t likely to happen any more.  Not after today.  If I were a betting man, and one willing to come back to check thirteen or fourteen years from now, I’d bet on him being a muscled, tanned, deep voiced blond stud...fucked up bottom boy, a pussy for his teammates, the coach, the mayor, whoever else wanted to use his face cunt or his ass cunt.

“So, who’s ‘Big Jack?’” I asked.

I’d heard the door squeal, so I didn’t scream like a surprised little girl or something when the old man said, “His daddy.”

I stood up easily, confidently, harmlessly, swiveled toward him.  “You have a handsome son, sir.”

It never hurts to praise a man’s virility, and there was just the tiniest straightening of his posture at the brief idea that he was still potent enough at his age to father a handsome young son.  But his type generally tends toward the truth.  “My grandson, actually.”

“So that makes you...Biggest Jack?”

The boy gave a little gurgle of laughter, and the old man smiled.  “Nope.  I’m James.”  

I extended my hand to him.  “Bobby Ray, sir.”

The hesitation was almost imperceptible, but he did take my hand.  I mean, what the fuck else was he supposed to see but trailer trash...what with the long, as in past shoulder length kind of stringy hair, the scraggly mustache, the overly long sideburns, the old dark brown ball cap worn backwards, the blue-tan-white plaid shirt open and hanging out, my white tee kind of stained and a little ripped.  Worn and frayed, many times washed jeans held on my bony hips (right below that bulging little belly on my skinny frame) by an old, cracked black leather belt.  Old moccasins, no socks.  But still, I was polite, and had a fucking great smile, and surprise, surprise in this day and age, I even called him “sir.”  He shook my hand.

“How much was it, sir?”

“Forty-three sixty.”

I patted my ass, and not surprisingly, found no wallet.  I looked chagrined.  “Well, uh...darn....”

The old man interrupted me with a laugh.  What kind of a throwback was I, he had to be asking himself.  Polite trailer trash censoring his language because of a little boy?  “Little Jack has heard a hell or damn before, son.”

I smiled back and that’s when the kid sort of chirped, “My daddy’s in church!”

What the fuck?  Not aloud, of course, or I’d spoil the image.  Another laugh, and the old man said, “Hellfire and damnation is what he means.  Reverend Jones.”  Which explained the weird boy segue.

I smiled and nodded.  I knew all about hell and damnation.  Been there, done that, gonna do it again.  Soon.  This very afternoon.  “Yes, it is a beautiful day for praising the Lord.”  And in my head I hummed my little hymn.

“Yep.  Big Jack’s over t’Atwater.  Revival.  So’s most of the town.  Good folks, here.”

“They certainly are, sir.  It must be wonderful to live in a place like this.”  So trusting.  They troop off to do it with God and leave a gorgeous little boy all alone, with just his old grandfather to protect him.  Thank you blessed Jesus!

“Well, as I started to say...damn, but I left my wallet in the truck.  You want me to leave my watch here while I go get it?”  We both looked at my hairy wrist, with the large flashy “will you look the fuck at that goddamn watch?” Rolex clamped around it.

Of course, if you make an offer of good faith like that, good ol’ boys like grampa here feel they’d offend you if they took you up on it.  He waved me off.  Not that I was planning on jumping in the truck and heading anywhere, well, at least not for a little while yet.  I headed out to the truck, grabbed my duffel bag, brought it back in, set it on the counter a little way away from the two.  Little Jack was still on the floor, playing with his truck.  So cute.  So oblivious to what was going on over his head.

As I rummaged around in the bag, I asked casually, “If I drove over to Atwater, you think I might be able to attend part of the revival?”

“Sure could, son.  Started about an hour ago, and it’ll be goin’ on for a couple of hours yet.”  

“Good, good.”  I nodded my head, grampa nodding almost in time with me.  “That’ll give us plenty of time.”  And I pulled the old-fashioned gun out of the bag and pointed it at the old man.  He gasped and turned even whiter than he was before, almost as white as his hair.  It’s very impressive, that gun.  Large.  Even larger when it’s pointed at you by a suddenly no longer polite but clearly deranged redneck piece of trailer trash.  The kind of gun the old time movie cowboys had, where they’d spin the chamber after all the bullets were loaded.  I didn’t bother with that bit of bravado.  He got the point.

“Where’s the toilet?”

Grampa blinked.  Clearly he’d been expecting something more on the lines of “Where’s the goddamned money, old man!”

“O...out back.”

“Good.  Let’s go there.”  He looked down at Little Jack, half hoping I didn’t mean to take the boy along, half afraid of what might happen if I locked grampa in the toilet somehow...and he had to be wondering WTF about the toilet since it undoubtedly opened from the inside...and then I would be all alone in the station with a young boy whose beauty he suddenly recalled.

I wiggled the gun and the old man sighed. Dropped my arm to my side so the boy wouldn’t see what I was holding.  

“C’mon, Jack, we need to show this nice man where the restroom is.”   He held out his hand and Little Jack stood up, that little belly pooching out.  Oh, yeah, plump little boy titties, too.

I stood to the side so they could get in front of me, but L.J., as I’d decided to think of him, and call him, balked and tugged the old man’s hand like he wanted to head in the opposite direction.  “But, grampa....”

Grampa just gave his hand a little jerk and he said, “Behave, Jack!  Now come on.”

Our short little parade reached the front door and following instructions, the old man flipped the sign to “Closed” and shut the door behind us.  Fortunately he wasn’t stupid enough to try anything.  Then we trooped down the side of the station, our feet kicking up dust since it was far too dry for anything to grow.  Then around the corner and out of sight of the road.  Out of sight of pretty much everything except more dirt and some dried up fields and in the distance a few trees.

The toilet door had the outhouse quarter moon shape painted on.  Clever.  It was a building backed up against the station.  Grampa opened the door, hesitated, looked over his shoulder, got a clear look at my expression and went inside, L.J. with him.  I followed.  At my nod, the old man put the hook on the door.  Not a great lock, but then most folks needing to piss or shit at a gas station wouldn’t be trying to break the door down, and would understand that if it didn’t budge they’d have to wait a bit.

The place was perfect.  Ancient.  On my right in the narrow space was a large mirror above a sturdy looking counter with a sink at one end.  Then a rusty old piss trough.  Then a rusting stall with no door on it.  The floor was worn linoleum, cracked and broken, brown and black and tan.  On the left were sagging wooden shelves that had probably been around since the Depression.  Mostly empty, but some supplies...cans of oil, things like that...toilet paper, paper towels.  At the far end another door.

Ah, that was what the boy meant.  Smart little L.J. had been wondering why we were going around the outside of the building when we could have gone through that door from inside the station.

I inhaled through my nose.  Let it out.  Did it again.  Damn but that smell always gets me hard, or stiffer if I’ve already got a hardon.  Like now. Dirt and dust and piss and shit and sweat and disinfectant and the raunch of all the men and boys who used this place over the decades, until the smells were ground in, soaked into the wood, the steel, the walls, the floor.

“Why don’t you set L.J. up on the counter, James?”  The old man’s face turned briefly mulish but a movement of my shoulder reminded him why that wasn’t a good idea.  He lifted the boy up, settled him on the counter with his plump little legs dangling and looked at me in the mirror.  His eyes widened when he saw the gun was up and visible.  I waggled it and he moved aside.

L.J. gasped when he saw the gun and turned a frightened head toward his grandfather.

“Now, L.J., your grampa and you and I are going to play a fun game.  Aren’t we, grampa?”

“Y...yes.”

“Good, good.  So, L.J., we want you to stay right where you are while grampa and I get started.  Okay?”

He nodded.  A little hesitantly, but that was okay.  The smile, the soothing tones, the confident body language that worked so well on other occasions, was relaxing him, smoothing away his concerns.  Damn, I was good.  But fuck, with all those years of experience, I should be.

The old man backed up toward the stall.  When he was far enough away that he couldn’t jump me, I dropped the duffel bag, went to my left knee, used my left hand to rummage around and find what I wanted.  I pulled out two pairs of high-grade steel handcuffs.  I tossed one set to him and he reluctantly caught it.  “Left wrist.”

He did it.  “Hands over your head, cuffs around the pipe, right wrist.”  He glared but did it.

So fucking hot.  The metal stall was supported in part by a pipe that went up about six inches above the top of the side of the stall, then had a curved joint and a long pipe stretching to the restroom wall where it was bolted in.  Grampa was standing there facing out, and nowhere to go.  I circled around him in case he was stupid enough to lash out with his feet, and with the barrel of the gun pressed against his right knee...making a very vivid point...I cuffed his right leg to the bottom upright of the stall.

I tucked the gun in the back of my jeans and stood next to the old man.  “Hey, L.J., you ever seen your daddy’s pee-pee?”  He nodded.  “You have?”  He nodded again.  “Where?”

“Swimmin’.”

“So you’ve seen your grampa’s pee-pee, too?”  Another nod.  “Has he got a big one?”  A little boy shrug.

“Have you ever seen your daddy or your grampa with a big stiffie?”  A head shake.

“Would you like to?”  Another shrug.

“Well, I think every little boy should see his daddy and his grampa with a big stiffie.”  

I turned my back on the boy, alert for any attempt to lash out with the still free left leg, and murmured so just the old man could hear me.  “Don’t do anything stupid, old man.  There are so fucking many ways this could go south for you and the kid.”

“Please,” he whispered back.  “Please don’t hurt him.  I’ll...” he gulped, but made the offer that was the only option he had, “I’ll do anything.”

“Yeah, you will,” I replied just as softly.

James stood very still as I unsnapped the overalls, and then tugged them down to his ankles.  He was fucking commando!  Nice cock, too.  About three inches even soft, uncut with a long foreskin, average sized balls hanging pretty low.  His pubes were mostly silver and grey.

I stood and fondled the old man’s balls and his limp dick.  “Wow, L.J.!  Your grampa has a really nice pee-pee, doesn’t he?”

The kid nodded, kind of distracted but still staring.  Guess he’d never seen anyone play with his grampa’s dickie before.  I let it go, walked across to the counter, and carried the boy back, set him on the floor.  His face was right about the height of his grampa’s crotch.

“You know, L.J., sometimes when a guy wants to get a really good stiffie, he has another guy help him out.  Right, James?”

He turned his eyes away but nodded.  “And grampa wants me to help him get hard, doesn’t he?”

The old man still didn’t look at me.  He still said, “Y...yes.”

I was to the old man’s left.  I dropped to one knee.  The gun barrel caressed the back of his left calf, as I played with his balls and took his dick into my mouth.  I heard the tiniest of sighs from above me.  I was a pervert, yeah, but I wasn’t going to hurt his grandson.  All I wanted was to suck an old man’s dick.  L.J. was safe.  Sure, he’d see his grampa getting a blowjob but that could be...explained.  So the quicker he got hard and came, the quicker I’d be gone.

False hope, thy name is grampa.

He thrust his hips, cooperating.  I wondered what images he was conjuring up in his mind to help him get hard.  Didn’t care much, just wondered.  Whether it was my cocksucking skills or those mental pics or both, he got nice and hard.  Even panted a little as I worked his meat, licking his piss hole, and his knob, deep throating him.  I pulled away.  Grampa whimpered, just slightly.  Nice, thick, eight inches.  Longer and fatter than mine.  Shiny purple torpedo head, with the skin pulled back and bunched.

“Why don’t you be a good grandson, L.J.?  Help your grampa?”

The little one was...torn.  Maybe somebody had just been up front and told him, “Don’t lick your grampa’s dick.”  Maybe he just knew it was naughty.  Filthy.  Perverted.  A crime.  A sin against God and nature.  But the nice stranger had been doing it, swallowing all of grampa’s big fat dickie.  And grampa had been smiling...sort of.  Poor baby boy.  What was a confused not-yet-slut whore to do?

My right hand moved behind my back.  Out of grampa’s sight, but he knew I was caressing the gun, almost as if I was jacking it off.  He got the message when I said, “Tell him, James.”

Grampa looked down at his open-mouthed, plump baby grandson.  The boy with nature-made, God-bestowed, perfect cocksucker’s lips.  Lips that needed practice.  Now.

“It...it’s okay, Li...”

“L.J.!”

With both of us calling the kid “L.J.,” a brand new nickname, then sure as fuck whenever he heard that he was gonna remember today.

“It’s okay, L.J.  G...grampa needs your help.  Real bad.  C’mon, move closer.  Good boy.  Now...stick out your tongue.  Oh, Christ.  Uh, no, no, it’s okay, L.J.  Grampa’s not mad.  It’s just, please lick your grampa’s pee-pee head.”

“But grampa, you pee there.”  The boy’s tone was a little surly.  That kind of shit wasn’t going to last too long.

Grampa must’ve got the mind-signal.  “No, L.J., it’s all clean now.  Bobby Ray, our...our new friend, just cleaned grampa’s pee-pee all up.  And...and grampa would really like it if you’d help him out.”

Which is what good little L.J. did...leaned in and licked the drop of precum that had leaked out.  Grampa shivered.

“Suck him, L.J.,” I whispered.

“No...please....” James whispered back, and looked up at me.

I caught it all.  The jaw dropping.  The skin going pale.  The eyes widening.  The look of total horror flaring in his eyes as he saw I was taking pictures.

Video, actually.  With sound.  But he probably hoped it was just stills.  The other was too awful to contemplate, so he obviously didn’t. What he did do was catch my expression, even though I was still filming.  Catch it and understand.  I was careful to catch, in my turn, the delicious despair in his eyes as he looked down again, at his precious baby grandson, the three year old almost cocksucker.

“Suck on grampa’s dick, L.J.  Just like Bobby Ray did.”

The kid did what he was told.  Not with my expertise, of course, but it was so fucking hot seeing those tiny hands grab hold of grampa’s dick and those fat moist lips curled around the knob end, and that small head moving back and forth.  Up and down, up and down on grampa’s meat, slowly taking more into his mouth.

The guys I sent this vid to would go fucking nuts.

I moved in closer, maneuvering the camera with my right hand, while with my left I took hold of the boy’s little head, holding it in place.  Or, actually, pushing his head a little farther toward his grampa’s pubes.  I moved the camera up to catch all the nuances as I said, “Fuck your grandson’s face, James.  Shove your big fat grampa dick down your three year old grandson’s hot, tight throat.  Cum in his tiny belly.”

Fear, anger, despair, anguish, guilt.  Recognition that nothing he could do would prevent me from just dropping the camera and getting the gun.  Submission.  And...surprisingly...a faint, faint, faint twinge of...lust?

I panned the camera down the length of his skinny body, already glistening with sweat generated both by fear and the heat, down and down to his pubes, wet with both sweat and spit from his tiny grandson’s precious mouth.  A precious mouth attached to a head that was writhing and struggling, trying to get free of my grip, trying to get away from that giant cock snake working its way down into his no longer virgin three year old throat, struggling, whimpering, crying as grampa’s hips moved faster and faster, and the boy grew more desperate for air as his raping grampa’s face fuck went on and on and on, almost in time to the words I was whispering.  “C’mon, James, fuck your baby grandson’s face, shove your grampa meat down that three year old throat, rape the little whore, show him his real place in your life, get him started on being a cum loving slut before you turn him over to other men to rape and molest.  Fill his belly with thick hot grampa cum you boyfucker!”

And with that, James spewed.  And spewed.  And spewed.  While tiny little L.J. gulped...and gulped...and gulped.  Christ!  Grampa had fucked that entire piece of monster old man meat down that three year old throat.

I relaxed my left hand, held the boy’s neck, pulled back to slowly withdraw his grampa’s cock from his kid cunt throat and mouth.

Poor mouth-raped three year old.  A belly full of incestuous grampa cum, a sore throat, lips and tongue and teeth still covered with this grampa seed, a glazed look in his eyes, tears streaming down his face, snot drooling from his nose.  One hole down, one to go.  He just stood there, swaying.  I stood up so I could get some good shots of grampa’s face, his still mostly-hard dong, gleaming with three year old spit and grampa cum, L.J.’s dazed little face with the blobs of manseed oozing out of his mouth.

Then I set the camera on the floor, lens up to record grampa’s drooping slimy dick and my hands coming from behind the little boy, and my voice telling L.J. to “hold the fuck still, you little cunt” while I peeled the tee-shirt off, and pushed his shorts down to the filthy floor.  The boy started to struggle when I put my hand on his shorts but a quick glare from me and James was reassuring the kid, telling him not to worry, to let the nice man take off his clothes.

My buyers think the fact the vid quality is erratic, like when the camera is on the floor and there’s nothing “artistic” about the shots, is pretty hardon making, showing how authentic the events are.  The camera watched while I played with his puffy boy tits, and fondled his tiny three year old package, catching my whispered, soothing endearments.  The camera watched while I turned the boy around so my viewers could see my finger caressing his crack, sliding in; watched while my finger went in, touched his tight little hole, shoved past his fear clamped muscles.  The boy gave a half-gasp, half-scream.  Fucking music to my ears.  I looked up at grampa.  His horrified gaze said he knew what was coming next; knew there wasn’t a fucking thing he could do to stop it.

Then I pulled my finger out, stood up, unzipped my jeans, hauled out my hardon.  The meat with the big steel ring through the knob.  When grampa got a good look he started babbling, a mixture of prayers to a God who so far today didn’t appear to give a shit what was going on, and swearing, and pleading with me not to do it.  Fuck, he even offered to be my bitch if I’d just leave L.J. alone.

I nodded, like I’d think about it.  Or maybe take him up on the offer.

I probably would.  When I was out cruising my balls were working overtime and raping the old man’s ass would be kind of hot.  Just...afterwards.  Not instead of.

I picked the camera up in my right hand, the kid in my left, recording the way my hand was between his little legs fondling his bare boy meat and balls as we walked over to the counter.  It was awkward but he got onto the counter, and then sat down like a good like boy, his plump calves and tiny boy feet dangling over the edge.  Still recording, I walked back to his clothes, picked up the tee shirt, scanned up from grampa’s definitely not scared shitless soft, but still stiff meat to his face.  Told him to open his mouth wide.  Shoved the tee in to shut him up.  Grunts and groans and prayers and screams were okay during what was about to happen, just muffled.

Loud sounds from the boy?  Definitely okay.

I got the magic duffel open again, pulled out the tripod, but first I got a good shot of myself, slowly passing the camera down from my lank hair down past my belly to my steel-ringed cockhead, thrusting out of my jeans.  I pulled my balls out.  Then turned the camera on little L.J.  Sad, afraid face, plump boy tits, boy belly, legs wide, his tiny boy dick soft.  Now that the actors in this little drama were established, I turned back for a brief long shot of grampa, his handcuffed hands up and over his head, his mouth gagged, his overalls at his ankles and his stiff cock thrusting out from his old man pubes.    Then I fixed the camera to the tripod, adjusted the focus.

Delicious little three year old body.  Smooth pale skin.  I put my thumbs and fingers on his puffy tits, using my thumbs to rub the tips.  He shivered.  Messing with my tits did nothing for me, but I sure the fuck loved the little ones with the hardwired tit-cock connection.  Even this young.  I looked down.  Such a tiny little cocklet, almost no ball sac.  I squeezed his titties and he whimpered.  His tiny boy meat stirred, just a little.  I squeezed harder and his baby pricklet jumped for sure, in time with his tiny scream.  

Little L.J. started crying, eyes wide open, barely blinking. I decided I need more skin on skin contact with the little slut than boy flesh on my jeans.  I set the tube of lube from my pocket next to a plump hip, along with the gun, then shoved my jeans down to my thighs.  Much better.  I looked over at grampa.  Naturally I’d set everything up so that he had a clear view.  I quickly lubed my meat, left a little on my first two fingers and then ruthlessly shoved them into his dry virgin cunt.  

It was as tight as a three year old boy ass should be. I smiled at his louder scream, at the tears that began streaming down faster.  I scooted him around so one leg was dangling  off the counter, and I held one up so grampa could see how my fingertips went past that tight pussy muscle to that first knuckle, and then to the second and finally all the way in.  More pain as I decided he really needed three coned fingers.  Another howl, this time for his grampa.  I smiled wickedly at the old man as I finger fucked his baby grandson’s asshole, pointedly looking down at the hardon and then up to the old man’s embarrassed but still angry, still fearful face.

I spread my fingers wide, pushing them all the way in his pained pussy.  I needed him loose enough so that when he clamped down on my dick as I forced it in, it wasn’t too painful for me.  I’m not into pain.  Well, except for that it’s better to give shit.

I roughly pulled him into position, his little boy ass at the edge of the counter.  I think he may have banged the back of his head on the mirror when I did, since he yelled, but as long as it didn’t knock him out that wasn’t my problem.  I needed him awake for what I was about to do to him.

It’s always a bit more difficult to get a dick like mine, with the steel ring through my knob, into a virgin’s hole.  Especially a little boy’s pussy.  Especially one this young.  Though I’d had my own close encounter of the two-year-old kind a couple of years ago when I cruised on the coast.  But where there’s a will, there’s an open, well-fucked boy cunt.

“L.J., my little fuck slut, grab onto the counter and don’t fucking let go.  And keep your goddamned legs up.”  The kid did.

I started pushing my ringed knob into his desperately clenched asshole.  Given the pressure on him, I used one hand on his shoulder to prevent him from sliding away.  I could have ordered him to relax his pussy muscles, but where would the fun be in that?

Fucking cunt didn’t want to give in.  Didn’t want to let me in.  But victory was inevitable.  That was what age and talent was all about.  I kept pushing, and sure as my name isn’t Bobby Ray, the tight little muscle gave way, almost as if something tore.  And then my piss slit and part of the ring were inside his hot little body.  Then more and more until his cunt lips clamped down on my shaft, my knob and ring all the way inside him.  The kid was in agony just then.  Perfect.

I paused as if to give him time to adjust.  Lulling him into a false sense of security, as the pain in his pussy faded just a bit, and his gulping sobs slowed down.  I looked over at grampa James and winked.  “Man, grampa, you gotta try some of this shit.  Three year old baby boy pussy with grampa dick spreading the little cunt even wider with sloppy seconds.   But first, I’ve gotta get him ready for you, open him up.”

And with that, I started fucking the kid.  Mercilessly.  Each fuck stroke in added more of my meat into his hole; each fuck stroke let me feel how his poor little innards were getting rearranged to suit the needs of my dick.  Each fuck stroke brought more tears and howls from my boy whore and gag-muffled obscenities from grampa over by the stall.  In short order I was buried balls deep in his strained, hurting pussy, raping his little cunt as hard as I fucking could.  And when I was cruising I could fuck awfully damned hard.
 
Best of all, okay, not the actual best—that was the wailing and the screaming—but second best was his little boy stiffie.  Was it because my meat was rubbing his baby boy prostate? Or just because he knew now that he was fucking meant, hell, fucking designed by that intelligent design creator in the sky to be a baby slut pussy boy, and eventually a cum dump bottom boy who let anyone with a dick use him. 

I fucked his mind as I fucked his cunt.  “Hey, L.J., so fucking hot to be dicking your pussy and find out you’re nothing but a faggot slut boy.  Only queer little boys get a hardon when a man puts his dick inside a boy.  Shit, L.J., almost every time I’ve been the first man to get my dick into a boy’s cunt, that’s called busting his boy cherry, you little whore, he was screaming and wailing just like you, but his dickie was all limp and just flopping around.  That’s ‘cuz those boys were straight; those boys liked little girls, and they grew up to be straight men, men who liked women.  But you, ya little fuck hole, you’re just a little faggot, a fucking cocksucking queer with a stiff little dickie.”

I kept on fucking.  Usually, when I’m fucking a new boy cunt for the first time, I cum pretty quick. Which is good, since I liked to get in, get off, get out as quick as I can.  Today, though, I was taking more time.  Maybe it was grampa and how he’d pretty much loved the blowjob from his three-year-old grandson.  Or how stiff grampa was watching his beloved baby boy get long-dicked by some white trash pervert.

I started fucking faster.  Christ shit fuck there’s nothing like the feel of your knob, and the thick steel ring, sliding out of raw and puffy boy pussy lips, pulling them out and them thrusting balls deep right away.  And I said fuck it! to myself as I pounded his pussy one more time and then started cumming deep into his bowels.  Usually I didn’t.  DNA and shit like that.  But today...today was different.  No way was grampa going to bring the cops in.  Not with what was going to wind up on a very expensive DVD, but could also very easily appear on the Net.

I looked down at the tear stained face of the worn out little boy.  “Don’t fucking move, slut boy,” I told him as I yanked my cock from his cunt and stepped back.  His legs flopped down over the edge of the counter and I could see a bit of cum and ass juices leak out between his cheeks.  My buyers would like the view of the heaving chest of the well-fucked three year old, so I left the camera recording, pulled my jeans up and buckled them, but left my meat out, picked up the gun and walked over to grampa, my slimy dick only a little bit softer and leading the way.

Only a little bit softer definitely described grampa’s dick.  I got the handcuff key out of my pocket and with grampa understanding clearly what the gun meant, I ungagged him, and then carefully uncuffed his hands.  I shoved one end of the cuffs into my back pocket.   He coughed and tried to get some saliva going.  “Only one more little game, James, and then I’ll leave and never come back.”

He coughed again, and managed to say in a whisper, “You sick bastard.”

I cocked the gun, put it to the side of his head, told him to grab his cock.  He gulped and did what he was told.  “You got a hardon, old man?”

He winced, and tears appeared in his eyes.  Nodded.  I whispered, too.  “You just got a blowjob from your three year old grandson and fucking came big time; you just watched some stranger fuck that little boy cunt for the first time, you fucking watched while a man molested your precious baby boy, and you stayed hard all the time.  And I’m a sick bastard?”

A single tear trickled down.

“Don’t move,” I told him.  And smiled.  As if he could with his leg still cuffed to the stall.  

Gun tucked behind my back again, I dropped the cuffs in the duffel bag on my way back to the counter.  I gave my viewers a nice look at me fondling the little boy dick and balls, reaching up to twist his boy titties again, careful not to obscure the way his little dickie got almost hard.  It got all the way hard when I shoved two fingers into his slimy cunt and fingered him roughly for a little bit.  I pulled my fingers out and told him to sit up.  With a struggle, he did.  I leaned over and whispered in his ear.  He shook his head, and I whispered again.  His body slumped.

I pushed my fingers into his mouth and he began to clean them, licking off the lube and cum and slime with his tongue.  I swiveled the camera so it was pointing toward grampa, picked up the naked little boy and the lube, walked over, told James to get on his knees and when he did, I let L.J. down so his bare boy feet were on the dirty sticky linoleum, his little hard dickie pointed directly toward his grampa.  I dropped the lube next to grampa’s left knee.  I whispered softly enough the sound wouldn’t be picked up by the still recording camera.  “Lube your meat, James, and then fucking persuade your little one to let you fuck his tight little ass.  Or take the consequences.”

With shaking hands, grampa spread the lube on his dick, and wiped his palms on his overalls.  While I was walking back with the camera and tripod to get some good shots, he pulled his naked three year old grandson into a warm, welcoming pedo grampa hug.  He began stroking the boy’s naked back, long strokes from the back of his head, down his spine, cupping his fat little boy cheeks, and then over again.

“Li...L.J., you...you remember how you made grampa feel so good a little while ago?  Hmm?”

The boy nodded, rubbing his face against his grampa’s sweaty, hairy chest.

“Well, grampa really needs you to help him again.  You were so good, baby boy, so good.  You’ll help grampa again, won’t you?”  He set the boy back so the kid was standing between his grampa’s spread knees, his head down, looking at his grampa’s meat, shiny with lube.  The boy bent over and touched his grampa’s dick and his little hand came away all greasy.

L.J. straightened up, and shook his head.  “Nuh-uh, grampa.  Your pee-pee is all...icky.”

“All the better to fuck you with,” I murmured.  And grinned when grampa looked up and glared at me.

“Now, L.J., why don’t you just put that greasy little hand on your bottom, and wipe it, just like when you’re done with a poo.”

The mutinous little shit shook his head “no.”

I took a step forward, probably just to swat his fat little ass a couple of times to get him to pay the fuck attention and do what he was told, or maybe I was going to beat him within an inch of his life.  Grampa probably couldn’t tell, but he brought my evil plan to a halt by yanking the boy forward, whirling him around, bending him over and using his open palm three times...whack! whack! whack! each one a little harder, though I don’t think James was really aware of that...on the three year old well fucked bottom.  The sounds echoed in the silence, followed by an outraged wail from the boy’s face cunt.

A whole afternoon of firsts for little slut L.J.  Face fucked by his grampa.  Face fucked by a stranger.  Getting his virgin cunt reamed by that stranger’s dick.  And now spanked.  But someone, probably grampa, still needed a little encouragement, because the kid was just standing there howling and blubbering.  I don’t know if the cum dump heard the sound of the hammer being cocked, but grampa sure the fuck did.

He pulled L.J. to him, so the kid was awkwardly splayed across his grampa’s chest and belly, the long fat grampa dick shining with the lube.  James shut his grandson up by the simple expedient of kissing him and then tongue fucking the tiny mouth.  The boy struggled, but finally gave in.  And gasped into his grampa’s mouth when James greased up a finger by wiping it on his own meat and then slid it right between those plump cheeks and into the kid’s cummy cunt.

And gasped again when his grampa’s finger was followed by three in a cone shape.  Fucking in and out of that hot little cunt. Then he stopped the tongue fucking, made the kid stand in front of him...and fucking forced his baby grandson to clean off those three cummy shithole ass juice slimy fingers.  Smeared the kid’s face, too, until it was shiny with lube and juices.

James looked down at the again-crying boy.  “L.J., you gonna help out grampa or not?”

Hot shit and damn.  The tone of voice said to me that either the little fuck slut cooperated, turned around and backed his boy pussy up and down onto grampa’s dick, or grampa was just gonna fucking take the cunt.

James’ voice turned soft and gentle.  “C’mon, L.J.  You might as well.  Now that grampa knows what a slut pussy boy you are, grampa needs to get his big fat dick into your wet little slut boy cunt.”

The kid looked up at him, tears running down his face.  He knew, somehow, that being a slut boy pussy was not normally a good thing.  Stubborn little shit said, “N...not a slut boy, grampa!”

“Spread your legs, L.J.”

“Huh?”  The kid was bewildered, but after a slight hesitation, he did.  Then a little wider when James told him.  Still using that soft voice, grampa told him to put his hands about behind his head and showed him how.

Oh, fuck shit fuck.  The kid was braced like all those Nifty slave stories...where the slave is naked, spread-legged, arms behind his head while his owner or potential buyers inspect his meat and the rest of the merchandise.  Only none of those slaves had been three years old, with cum still oozing from a freshly fucked boy cunt.  FUCK!

“Now, L.J., we’re gonna find out if you’re a real slut boy pussy or not.  If you’re not, well, then you don’t have to do anything.  But if you are, you’re gonna let grampa put his big meat inside your slut pussy and fuck you, just like you let Bobby Ray do to you.”

Well, now, that wasn’t quite fair.  Getting raped by an adult (even if your little stiffie shows you’re enjoying it) isn’t exactly “letting” someone do anything.  But grampa’s version of events was fine by me.

“Now, L.J., grampa’s gonna lean forward and slide his finger, or maybe a couple, up inside your butthole.  If you get a stiffie again, well, that just proves you’re a cum slunt whore boy, okay?”

L.J. understood all right.  I could see it on his face.  So would the guys watching and jacking to this video later.  No way was he a slut boy cunt.  No way was he gonna get stiff.

Of course he did.

Within seconds of grampa sliding two fingers into the wet boy cunt and curling to stroke his baby nut.  Perhaps someone should explain that any male is likely to get stiff with something inside his ass rubbing his prostate.  But that might have led the boy to believe he wasn’t a pussy slut.  A consummation not fucking devoutly to be wished at all.  Christ the look of mingled dismay and baby boy lust on his face was something I’d never forget, even without the video to watch.

James carefully pulled his fingers out, and then used them to slime his grandson’s three year old stiffie and ball sack.  The boy’s head was hanging and James looked up at me and glared.  It was intended to convey his anger at being forced...by the threat of my gun...to do something vile, something he would never do bar a threat to his and his precious grandson’s life.  The camera caught that thought.  James didn’t quite realize that the camera and I both caught the rest, the stuff underneath.  The flicker that said that James wanted this now, independent of any threat, he wanted to fuck his precious grandson.  The flash that said that somehow, some fucking way, this wasn’t over.  That he would molest the boy again.  And again.  And again.  The flurry of shame that wasn’t enough to stop the determination for a repeat.

He told the boy to drop his hands, to straighten up, to turn around.  Quiet now, the little stiffie perhaps not quite as stiff, L.J. did as he was told.  James pulled him backwards, made him bend forward a little...perhaps to make sure I had a good shot of grampa cock into three year old slut pussy cunt, perhaps not...and grasping the boy’s plump waist firmly, sat him down on grampa’s fat meat.  All the fucking way in one firm, no nonsense fuck stroke that had the boy briefly howling and then gasping, and then shutting up when James pointed out that he had a stiffie again.

“You’re grampa’s little slut pussy boy, aren’t you, L.J.?”  The boy gasped as he was first raised and then lowered to grampa’s pubes.  He nodded.  Gasped again when grampa reached a greasy hand around and played with his dickie, tweaked his little tits.

“Put him on all fours, James,” I said.  “Show him how a little puppy gets fucked by a big dog.”

James and L.J. did as their director told them.  Fucking fantastic shot of baby boy with his head drooping, his body slick and shining with lube and sweat, that long hard grampa dick ready to plunge into his boy cunt.  I asked James if they had a dog.

His head snapped up, fear flaring.  An expression that said that yes, they had a dog, and please God don’t let this maniac do that to him.

“No time, no time, grampa.  But Jesus, wouldn’t that be hot?  You could get your baby grandson’s cunt all loose and cummy with a load of grampa’s seed, and then watch and jack while the dog mounts L.J.’s hot little pussy!”

I guess that image wasn’t too much since his hardon stayed and he went ahead and plunged it into little L.J.  He was just getting a nice fuck stroke going, long deep ones that took him out except for the knob, before shoving in again, when we heard, “Pop!  Hey, Pop!”

James’ face alone let me know it was his son, L.J.’s daddy.  And how terrified he was of what I might do.  “Call him!” I mouthed as I set the camera down so it was pointed toward grandfather and grandson, grampa with his dick still buried in grandson pussy.  The slightest waggle of the gun helped him to understand.

“Where are...oh, in the john?  You okay?”  The voice was coming nearer to the door that led into the station.  I stood up, quickly stepped over, unlatched it, and moved so I’d be behind the door as it opened.

“I...in here, son!”  James’ voice was shaky and he’d gone the color of brilliant white copy paper, but not shaky enough to alert his son that something was very, very wrong.

The door swung in, “Big Jack” stepped through and stopped.  His “Pop!” was horrified.  And the shock was enough to hold him there for the second I needed to step up and put the gun to the back of his neck.  Not surprisingly, he froze.  The sound when I cocked the gun was very loud in that silence.  “Jeans and underwear to the floor.  Now, asshole!”

He tensed as if he was going to try to fight, but his father’s anguished words stopped him.  “Jack, please, I...I can’t help.  Don’t!”  James moved his leg and the handcuff set attaching him to the stall rattled.

I held the gun pressed tight, angled so that if I shot...although shot what I didn’t know since this was all bluff, and a little more bluff than I’d ever encountered before in all my years of cruising like this...the top of his skull would be blown off.  But then he didn’t know about empty.  I was also smart enough not to stand so close that a sudden backwards elbow jab, etc., might catch me off guard.

He unbuckled his jeans slowly.  I guess the revivals “over t’Atwater” didn’t call for you to dress in your Sunday finest.  Although maybe the faded jeans, white shirt and scuffed Western boots were his Sunday best.  He paused.  Unbuttoned.  Put his hands to his hips with a major sigh, and then began wriggling the tight jeans down over his bony hips.  Well fuck, daddy’s a commando, too.

I stepped back and ordered him to get them all the way down.  He looked over his shoulder, maybe to be sure it was in fact a gun and not a pipe or something, blanched when reality was confirmed, turned back, and got the jeans around his ankles.  His legs were strongly muscled, pale white, hairy.  The brown boots came up almost to his knees.  Yeah, he wouldn’t be moving fast anywhere.

I moved to one side.  His eyes widened when he saw my still somewhat gleaming hardon sticking out of my jeans.  I tossed the handcuffs onto the floor in front of him.  Told him to kneel and put them on.  That only one more game was left and then I’d be gone and they’d never hear from or see me again.  Jack’s raging eyes said he’d both see me in hell and at my trial, but he did what he was told once the gun swung toward his father and his son.

And through all of this good ol’ grampa was still fucking.  Oh, I’m sure he was telling himself it was out of fear of what I might do, but you’d think a grampa who was afraid would have a soft dick, right?  Or even if he was hard, he’d stop fucking while his son was getting hit and handcuffed, right?  So that his poor baby grandson wouldn’t be hurt, right?  Except this tiny boy, his hot little shitter stuffed with eight fat inches of grampa dick was starting to whimper.  Not the pain whimper, any more.  The kind of whimper a little boy slut gets when his cunt is full and his baby prostate is being rubbed and any second he’s gonna get himself a fine fucking dry cum.

Hot fucking damn.

“Crawl over to your boy, Big Jack.  Right in front of him.  Then on your knees, up close and personal to L.J.’s hot little mouth.”

“No fucking way, you prick!”

“Ah, ah, ah, B.J.”  I waggled the gun at him.  “Like I told James here a while back, this could all go fucking south real quick if I don’t get some cooperation.  And L.J. and James were cooperatin’ just fine until you showed up.  See, I was gonna do just one thing more and then leave, but shit, man, you changed all that.  So now it’s gonna be a little different.  You like getting your cock sucked, don’t you?”

Damn if Big Jack didn’t fucking blush all over.  I mean, Christ, here was his daddy fucking his three year old son right in front of him, and he got all embarrassed about admitting he liked a hot mouth on his meat.

“Well?”

He mumbled a “yeah” and nodded.

“You gettin’ it fairly regular?”

He was looking away from his daddy and his son, still blushing.  I picked up the camera and though it was awkward working it with my left hand, I managed to get a good sweeping shot of his long soft meat, pretty damn big balls, up to his face.  Another nod.

“So, your wife’s a good cocksucker?”

That got a head turn and a glare, but not for the reason I thought.  L.J., for all the good fucking he was getting, and for all the way his body was starting to shiver and he was panting, was still following, or at least understanding what was said.  The kid chirped, “Mama’s dead.”

“So, who’s givin’ you a b-j, B.J.?” I asked and made a point of gesturing toward the fucking duo.

Big Jack gulped, and as his body got an even deeper red, he blurted out, “Reverend Jones and....” and then came to the proverbial screeching halt.

I didn’t give him even a second to hope I hadn’t picked up on the fact there were at least two cocksuckers around this pissant little town.  “So your preacher is sucking your dick, and who else?”

He really was looking everywhere but at any of the rest of the males in the room.  “H...his son.”

I burst out laughing.  Couldn’t fucking help myself.  “Man, you got both the Methodist minister and his boy chowing down on your meat?  All fucking right!”

Big Jack’s voice was outraged at the idea his preacher could be a Methodist, as he said, “Reverend Jones is a Southern Baptist!”

“Well, man, when it comes to Bible thumpin’ and behind the scenes dick lovin’, the only folks got the Baptists beat is the Catholics.  So how old’s this cocksuckin’ Baptist preacher?”

“Shit, I don’t know.  Thirty-five or so?”

“He any good?”

“Huh?”

“Fuck, man, is your preacher good at suckin’ your dick?  Does he just suck it, or does he let you hold his head and skull fuck him?”

“Just...just sucks.”

“Where?”

“Uh...in the rectory, mostly.”

“And the boy?  How’s he?”

Dumb shit wasn’t even aware of how his meat had plumped up into a near hard.  And it jerked to full hard when he admitted the boy was fourteen.  That he’d gone to use the church toilet and found young Mike jacking at one of the two urinals; how he was about to turn around and leave when the kid did the turning, showing him a slender, dripping five inches sticking out of his Sunday best slacks; how the kid asked him if he had a big dick like his name, how the kid stepped right up, grabbed Jack’s meat through his Sunday jeans, which made it instantly hard, and got harder when the boy said he’d always wanted to suck big man meat.

Grampa groaned, and the little boy slut he was dicking moaned with him.  He wasn’t quite ready to beg his grampa to fuck his slut whore pussy hard, but he was getting there.  

Young Mike turned out to be a real skull fucking slut.  Able to take all of Jack’s now dripping prick...all eight or nine plus fat inches of it.  Shit, the boyfucker daddy was even bigger than James!  Only he’d never fucked a guy’s ass.  Not even the fourteen year old.  Dumb fucking ass.

When his confession was over he abjectly promised his daddy that he would never do it again, that he was sorry, that he’d just jack off until he found him a good wife.

Yeah, right.  Not after today.

“So you’ve had a preacher suck your dick, and a teen boy...fucking jail big time over that one, Jack, so I figure you might as well get a taste of what you’ve been missing the last year or so while you’ve been playing around with the older cocksuckers.  Hey, L.J., you wanna make your daddy feel real good?”

The boy was dry cumming again right then, so he was out of it for a moment before he said, “Uh huh.”

“Like I fucking said, Big Jack, get the fuck down on your knees in front of your baby boy, and now that that meat is hard, get it up close and personal with his little slut mouth.”

Poor Jack.  What a fucking dilemma.  An admitted user of cocksucker services, including an underage cocksucker, he’d gotten all hard and bothered by his confession, yet he was still Big fucking Jack, daddy of the boy being so well-molested by his own grampa, and so he should protest.  Fight back.  Defend his slut son’s virtue.  But I saw his cock twitch when I mentioned up close and personal with a very young boy mouth.  “No.  I won’t.  I’m no child molester.”

I cocked the gun again.  Damn, but my thumb was getting tired of cocking and uncocking the unloaded gun.  But it did the trick.  Actually it did what he wanted it to, or what his prick wanted...gave him an excuse to follow orders.  The waddle-shuffle to the fucking pair was awkward, and so was getting to his knees, but he managed.

“Suck your daddy’s dick, L.J.”

Jack glared up at me again.  “His name isn’t....”

“Yeah, it is.  It’s his boy slut name.  Whenever you or grampa or any of the other men you let molest him call him ‘L.J.’ he’ll know it’s time for his little hot cunts to be used.  Now fuck your son’s face, man.”

Jack did.  It was awkward, trying to hold his son’s head with the cuffs on, but he had big hands, and his baby boy’s head wasn’t all that large, so in a moment or two, a couple of fat inches of daddy dick were choking into the three year old throat.  Fuck but this video was going to make me a goddamn mint.  I moved around them, gun back in the back of my jeans, getting good shots of two long thick pieces of meat sliding in and out of writhing boy pussy.

“Kiss your son, James.  Lots of tongue.”

They looked disgusted, both of them.  They were fucking a three year old boy at both ends, a goddamned three year old, and they were upset, embarrassed, what-the-fuck over kissing.  But they did it anyway.  And enjoyed the hell out of it.

“Cum in your baby grandson’s pussy, James.  Fuck him hard and deep and cum.  And then his daddy can have a turn.”

James pulled away from the kiss, his face a mixture of anguish and lust.  Full-blown pedo lust.  The kind I recognized on my own face when I watched myself in a mirror as I fucked little boy cunt and slimed it well and deep.  He looked his son in the eyes as he started moving his hips faster, bracing himself on his son’s shoulders.

“Son, I...I’m sorry...so sorry...but fuck goddamn L.J.’s hole is so tight, so hot, never...ah fuck shit...never had a pussy so tight, sorry, sorry, but oh shit fuck I’m cummmmmiinnnnnng!”

As if the whole fucking world couldn’t tell from the way grampa shouted it out and from how hard he slammed the full length of his grampa dick into his baby grandson’s twice fucked hole.  When James...and the baby slut, too...finally stopped shuddering, grampa sort of pushed off against his son’s shoulders and sat back on his haunches.  His slick shiny softening meat began to slide out of the well-fucked little hole.  He turned his head to avoid looking at his son.

“Your turn, Jack.  You know you want it.  Turn your little whore boy around and let him clean his grampa’s meat while his daddy fucks his hot baby cunt.”

Jack shook his head.  Not in rejection but in recognition.  He used his cuffed hands to pull his eager slut boy’s whore mouth off his steel hard daddy meat.  So fucking hot to let the camera catch the pedo lust in his face as he softly told the little cum dump to turn around and clean grampa’s dick.  I zoomed in for a nice closeup of the gaping puffy red pussy, with slime and cum oozing out.

“Help your son bring out his inner pedo, James.”  Grampa’s glare was a frail thing now, compared to the ones he’d started out with.  But he did what he was told since both his hands were free.  He helped shove that nine inch, thick pipe down into a line-up with the sloppy boyhole, seating it on the raw little pussy lips, then held the tiny boy’s hips so his daddy could start pushing that fat dong into the little slut’s hole.

Too fucking slow.  “Make the boy scream, Jack.  He did it for me.  He did it for his grampa.  Pussy boys need to scream when daddy gets his first fuck in.  Shove that prick in hard and fast and balls deep, you pedo son fucker.”

He did, and startled a wonderful shrill wail out of the little slut, which grampa quickly cut off by letting go of the kid’s hips and holding his head in place so he could slide dirty grampa meat into the boy’s pussy mouth.  And started fucking the kid cunt rough and hard.  Fuck me if I wasn’t going to be able to double the price on this video. And shit if old James wasn’t getting hard again.

They were getting into fucking the tiny boy at both ends, giving the now talented little slut a series of one-after-the-other dry cums.  And speaking of cums, my cock needed another one.  I knew just the hole for the last one.  I lubed my meat up, the grease making my knob ring slick and shiny.  I wiped my hand on my jeans, put the camera on the tripod, adjusted the focus, then stepped over and dropped to my knees behind Jack, straddling his bent legs.

Jack got very, very still.  “Don’t get all stupid and heroic now, Jack.  Not now that you’ve got that huge dick of yours inside tight little boy cunt.  You fight me and someone’s going to get hurt.  Sure, maybe me, but you want to gamble that it won’t be you or your little whore cum dump?  I was going to let your fuck of your baby boy be the last thing, but damn, you’ve got such a hot hairy ass, and I haven’t had one of those in a while.    So here’s what’s going to happen.  I’m going to reach down and put a couple of fingers up your ass, loosen you up a bit, and then I’m gonna shove my meat all the way inside, just like you did with your three year old cunt here.  Then I’m going to fuck you while you fuck your little whore.  Right?”

He nodded.

“Not good enough, Jack.  Tell me what’s gonna happen.”

“Y...you’re gonna push a couple of fingers up my ass to l...loosen me up, and then you’re gonna shove your dick all the way inside, just like I did to my...my three year old cunt.  And...and then you’re gonna fuck me while daddy and I fuck our...our little whore.”

And that’s just what happened.  Poor Jack would undoubtedly have preferred to butch it out, but even with lube, a nicely fat cock, though not as big or as long as Jack and James’ meat, combined with a thick knob ring isn’t easy to get into a virgin cunt of any age.  Big daddy fucker howl out of Jack as my belly smacked into his butt. And then he was panting and gasping and whimpering.  The punch fuck had also thrown him forward, and when your hands are cuffed in front of you, your cock is in your baby boy’s pussy and you have another cock in your ass, you don’t have much to work with when it comes to balance.

Fortunately, James caught him since his hands at least were free.  We froze for a moment, and then James ducked his head so Jack’s arms could go over and around and use his forearms on James’ shoulders to brace himself.  James braced Jack under his armpits.  Which left three sets of man hips ready to get moving.  The tiny new cum whore smashed between his horny eight inch grampa and his horny nine inch daddy was forgotten as we started to fuck.  No, not forgotten since it was, after all, his baby boy cunts which were sheathing the steel rods of grampa and daddy that were fucking him so roughly at both ends.  Just...the kid was unimportant now...he was a pair of hot little holes to be used whenever his men wanted to get their rocks off.  And that was what was important.  The lesson little slut L.J. probably hadn’t quite learned.  His function in life now was to be abused and molested whenever his grampa or his daddy wanted.

I started power fucking Jack, who started power fucking the kid.  James was already doing it to the slut’s throat.  Jack looked into his daddy’s eyes and said, “Daddy, oh Jesus fuck daddy, Li...L.J.’s pussy is so fucking hot, so tight, slimy with your cum and...and this guy’s...and oh fuck Christ shit I’m breeding my baby boy’s pussy!”

And with that his cunt walls clamped down hard on mine as he came for the first time in his three year old boy’s slutty whore cunt, and James gave the kid another load of grampa slime down his throat, and I pumped Big Jack’s fresh-made cunt full of his first cum load.  I think the boy slut passed out after a few more cums while all the man cums were going on.

When we were done I looked over Jack’s shoulder, caught his eye.  He looked up at me, looked away.  Ah, post-fuck embarrassment.  Too the fuck bad.  “Damn, man, your son’s got a hot pussy, too.  Tight as his little boy’s.  If you want a break from molesting your grandson, try this hole.”

Jack frantically shook his head, and James muttered soothing words and noises.  But I saw the glint in his eye.  Yeah, grampa was going to be breeding both son and grandson from now on.  My cock was starting to go soft, and Jack quietly begged me to take it out.  I said I would, but...well, fuck...there was all of a sudden another of those “just one more” things.

I pissed his cunt.

Emptied my fucking bladder while Jack whimpered, then slid out, telling him to clamp his pussy hole tight.  He did and only a few drops escaped.  I stood up.  As much fun as it would have been to get my cock cleaned by one of them, I still didn’t trust daddy or grampa with my dick in either mouth.  And little L.J. was all fucked out.  Though I was fairly sure if I worked either pussy or played with his little pricklet he’d get a stiffie right away.  So I tucked my sloppy meat back in my jeans.  Got my act together.

Picked up the camera and got some really good shots as grampa, and the now plump-bellied Jack sat back on their haunches and thick, slimy meat slid out of both ends of the three year old pussy boy.

“Relax, Jack,” I said as I walked around behind him.  “Straighten up...and relax.”

“Aw, man, no, please, don’t make me do this,” he begged, looking over his shoulder.

I had the gun in my left hand again.  His eyes darted toward it.  His shoulders sagged, but he lifted his bare, hairy butt off his legs.  And emptied his cunt of piss and cum and slime.  Fortunately, nothing else.  The ripe acrid smell filled the room.

“Piss your little whore, gentlemen.  Teach him to be a toilet, too.”

That was the final straw.  They were completely broken.  It took a few moments, but in short order Jack was covering his baby boy’s back and bottom with hot stinking piss.  James, on his own, pissed the boy’s hair and face and then raised the boy’s head, getting his own hand pissy, and forced his pissing meat into the kid’s mouth, making him swallow.

There’d be no fucking question on the video that it was Jack and James, and tiny whore L.J.  When the pissing was done I got close enough to nudge the boy with my boot to get his attention.  The adults were too wiped to do anything.

Fuck, what a shot.  Panning up from daddy’s limp meat, up the kid’s back and then a nice shot of his face, his eyes still somewhat glazed, his plump cheeks and fat lips all shiny and wet, blinking the piss out of his eyes.  “You like being a whore for daddy and grampa, L.J.?”

He started to nod, but I sharply told him he had to answer.  “Uh huh.”

“Did you like having three big man dicks in your bottom pussy?”

A nice little smile.  An eagerly bobbing head.  An eager yes.

“Did grampa fuck your mouth good...both times?”

Another eager yes.

“You want to be their cum dump and have them fuck your holes again?”

A nod.

“Right now?”

“Yes, please!”

I panned back to their faces...a mix of despair, and anger, and guilt...and oh yeah, a shit load of pedo lust.

I turned off the camera.  Went back to the bag, put it away.  Ditto the tripod.  Got out a spray bottle and rag and went everywhere I might conceivably have left a fingerprint, and got rid of it.

Of course there was my DNA in the kid’s pussy, though it might be diluted with grampa cum and daddy cum.  “You can call the cops, guys, but do you really want to have everybody around here know how they had to scrape out Big Jack’s hot wet cunt to get sperm samples from where he’d been bred?  Or inspecting L.J.’s cute holes and then getting DNA samples from grampa and daddy, and...oh, wow, they fucked a three year old!  And of course, if you find me this video is going up on the Net.  It’ll get a lot of downloads before someone catches on and kills it, but then it’ll just go up elsewhere.  The whole world will see how much you two like fucking your baby pussy boy.  And do you really think L.J. is gonna keep his mouth shut?”

I reached the door.  Stopped to look at the exhausted, wet, smelly trio.

“You know, Jack, if your preacher and his kid like sucking your dick so much, they’d probably like to try out your pussy, too.  And maybe even your little whore’s holes.”

Jack was smart enough to keep his mouth shut and only glared his dismay and fury at me.  Grampa, however, had a speculative gleam in his eye.  Watching the pastor and his son, fuck Big Jack?  Letting them molest the baby boy?  Maybe getting some teen boy cunt while this was going on?

I unlocked the door, opened it.  Turned back.  Tossed the handcuff key toward them.  “By the way, guys, the gun was never loaded.”

I shut the door on their shock, quickly walked around the building, fired up the truck and hauled ass...but not fast enough to alert any cop who happened by, or be noticed as something out of the ordinary by anyone who came from the revival early.

I got back to town late, well after dark.  Johnny’s place was dark, too, but his truck was out back.  I used my key to open the huge doors, drove my truck inside, locked everything back up.  Walked through the mechanics’ bays to the back stairs, old and rusted, and went up to the second floor office/bedroom/fuck room that overlooked the chop shop, uh, car and truck repair shop.  As usual I was dropping off the keys to the vehicle I’d borrowed for my cruising weekend, and even if daddy or grampa remembered anything about the truck, or decided to take the risk of those videos of grampa fucking his three year old grandson, or daddy doing the same and then daddy getting fucked, spread all over the Net, well, by noon tomorrow, that truck would be in pieces.  Or so changed no one could match the two.

As I unlocked the office door, I heard grunts...grunts I recognized.  Johnny was fucking.  I headed into the back room.  Big dicked, big bellied white trash Johnny, an inspiration to me on my weekend cruising, was down on the floor, plowing his dick in and out of the ass of a scrawny nigger kid.  Teen, actually, from the size of him.  Not someone I recognized, but then Johnny had so many sluts it was difficult to keep track.  It wasn’t that Johnny was some incredible hunk, he wasn’t.  Big dicked, yeah, but that wasn’t usually enough to offset the skanky hair, the big belly and big man-tits, the grease under his fingernails, in the cracks and crevices of his body, and the pervasive sweaty, raunchy pits and crotch smell.  On the other hand, Johnny also had access to fine drugs, which made up for a fucking lot in the sex appeal department.

The nigger boy had his head down, so it was only Johnny who was watching the tied up stud nigger on the big screen getting gangbanged by some less than studly white guys.  Subtle, Johnny, subtle.  He heard the key turn in the lock and twisted his head.  I could see the big smile even through the dimness, as there wasn’t much light in the room other than the monitor.  “Hey, motherfucker, welcome back.  Good weekend?”

“Hot.”

He knew I didn’t mean the weather when I held up the camera.  I always made a point of letting Johnny have a direct camera-to-computer copy of my weekend cruising.  He didn’t make copies and sell them or anything, and I was never quite sure why he wanted them.  He liked boys, which was pretty fucking obvious considering the hole he was dicking, but I’d never seen him with anyone as young as I preferred.  Or heard him mention it, although he sure the fuck knew what I was into.  Ah well, to each his own perversion.

I started toward the computer for the download, but stopped when he said, “Man, you’ve got great timing, you know?”

“What?”

“You want some virgin nigger pussy?”

“Yeah, right,” I said, looking down at how easily he was plowing the nigger teen.  No fucking way that hole had been virgin before Johnny got into it.

“Naw, naw, not him.  Over there.”  He tilted his head and I looked.

Holy shit.  A small, nappy-haired nigger boy was sprawled on the couch.  I quickly hooked the camera up, did my magic, and had my latest masterpiece ready for Johnny to view.  I stepped over to the couch.  The kid was dead to the world, sprawling loose limbed on his back.  Skinny.  Naked except for grimy white undies.  The size feet that probably meant a big nigger dick when he was older, but for now it was just a delicious dark chocolate mound.  Surprisingly thick pointy nips.  Fat lips, wide mouth, a gleaming strand of drool running down from one corner.

Nigger pussy.  Fuck, I hadn’t had nigger pussy in close to a year.

And I really love little nigger ho boys.  My dick was hard.  I leaned over, pinched a tit.  Nothing happened.  I turned my head to the fucking a few feet away.  In the dimness he couldn’t see my face, but Johnny knew what my question was.

“Jamal here needed...ah...help from me; his mom’s out, probably workin’ her fucking corner, and he was stuck with his kid brother.  S’posed to stay home, but he really needed my help, so he brought him along.  Kid wouldn’t shut the fuck up so I gave him a little something to drink.  Got him real quiet real the fuck fast.”

Translation in my head:  Jamal was strung out on something and needed a fix bad.  The kind of need that results in broken rules, orders, whatever.  The kind that results in a young virgin boy becoming accessible to a couple of perverts like Johnny and me.  I looked down at the still boy.  One of Johnny’s famous keep-em-quiet drinks always contained booze and GHB.

“Hey, Jamal, how much for your brother?” Johnny asked.

When he didn’t get an immediate response, he stopped fucking, still balls deep, dug his fingers in Jamal’s hair and yanked up and back.  Hard.  The teen jungle bunny yelped, and came out of his haze.  Sort of.  I could see the pain that had worked its way through the drugs.  Johnny wasn’t exactly gentle at the best of times.  Jamal named a number.

No surprise there.  At the lack of objection, the lack of furious outrage over the despicable proposal.  If he was selling his own boi pussy for drugs, he’d have no trouble selling an even more valuable commodity.  His little brother’s virginity.  I left them to their spirited negotiating, well, as “spirited” as negotiations can be when one side of the table is a cold-at-the-core drug dealer, chop shop owner, and all around bastard and my good friend, and the other side is a thoroughly drugged, thoroughly fucked thirteen year old nigger.

I left them to it, and stripped the dirty undies off the kid.  Yes!  A very nice boi prick and boi balls.

I peeled my tee over my head.  Dropped it on the filthy floor.  Second floor that day.  I unbuckled, unbuttoned, unzipped, dropped the jeans to the floor.  I’d already stepped out of the mocs.  Stepped out of the jeans.  Stroked my leaking hardon.

“How old?” I called over my shoulder, as I picked up his limp little body.

“F...f...four,” Jamal stuttered.

Another appropriate Sunday hymn hummed in my head.  Jesus loves me, this I know, ‘cause two boy cunts tell me so.

I sat down on the couch, my legs sprawled, my pierced meat standing tall.  Glanced over at Jamal, who seemed to be coming just a bit out of his drug haze, suddenly seemed appalled by what was about to happen.  Just not enough to try to do anything about it.  Not with white trash cock in his nigger teen cunt, and drugs in his system, and the promise of more drugs and more use of his body by Johnny and whoever Johnny decided to pimp him out to, not that Jamal was probably aware of that at the moment.

Johnny kept lube everywhere, but the tube on the end table was practically empty.  Only a small blob came out.  I crumpled it and tossed it at Johnny.  “Hey, dick breath, where the fuck’s the lube?  I got me some nigger boy cherry to fuck.”

Johnny gave me a wicked grin and yanked his meat out of the jungle bunny pussy.  He sat back and slapped Jamal’s scrawny ass...hard.  “Crawl over there, nigger boy, and suck on the prick that’s gonna punch out the little brother pussy you just sold.”

The drugged out fucked up teen did what he was told.  Like sucking and slobbering on his little brother’s soft bare meat and balls.  Eating his brother’s almost pussy and getting it dripping.  Slobbering and sucking on my meat, desperately trying to get all of it down his throat.  Getting it slimy.  Getting two fingers on my left hand slimy, too, so I could shove them into the kid’s quim quick and hard.  The unconscious boy gave a half shriek, half moan and flopped about as if he was having a bad dream...although this sure the fuck wasn’t a dream...and he was trying to escape it.  Too bad, so sad, four year old nigger pussy boy.  Ain’t gonna happen.

What did happen was I lined up my hardon with those tight, tight pussy lips, told Jamal to hold my dick in place, watched the nigger teen cry for a second, wondering whether it was remorse or guilt or WTF, but didn’t care, grabbed the four year old’s waist, and shoved him down...hard!  Yeah, it was painful for me to punch my knob with the fat ring into such a tiny, hot, tight little hole, but the reward, not only the fucking heat of that fresh-made cunt but the boy wail as it happened, was fan-fucking-tastic.  I made Jamal lean forward again, slobbering and slurping where his little brother’s no longer virgin ass was pierced by white meat, getting my shaft wet for the next thrust.

And then I started fucking the nigger pussy hard.  Shit, so motherfucking hot to have my dick in four year old unconscious nigger boy cunt, giving his fresh pussy a rough fuck, as he flopped around, drugged out of his little boy mind.  But I couldn’t really fuck him like I wanted in that position.  I lifted him up and off my cock, got up, told Jamal to get the fuck out of my way, and when he moved, turned around and put the four year old face down on the sleazy couch, his legs dangling over the side.

Johnny told Jamal to get in position next to his brother, got behind him and mounted his cunt.  Hot!  A glassy-eyed, drugged thirteen year old nigger bent over a couch getting royally fucked by my scumbag buddy Johnny, and his baby four year old brother right next to him, getting royally fucked by scumbag me.  But as much as I wanted to enjoy a leisurely rape, I still had to get at least some sleep and there were things I needed to do to get ready for work in the morning.  So this final fuck of the day had to be fairly fast.

I started power fucking the four year old cunt.  Long strokes that took my knob all the way out of his slimy pussy, leaving it gaping, the pussy lips already swollen, then ramming back in.  Over and over again, not particularly caring how the unconscious toddler was feeling, how he’d feel when he finally woke up and felt his raw pussy and wondered what happened, not particularly caring that drugged out or not he went through two writhing cums before I shoved deep, grunted and emptied my balls.

I pulled out, stood up, bent over to get the kid a little further onto the couch so he wouldn’t fall off, and quickly got dressed.  Johnny was still ramming Jamal, and the boy was finally starting to feel it.  He was going to be feeling it for quite a while since it took Johnny an incredibly long time to cum.  No idea whether it was just something in him that made him really slow to build up to an orgasm, or whether he just enjoyed watching his cunts go from the pain of entry, to gradual pleasure, to a cum, or two, to despair wondering whether the greasy white man breeding him was ever the fuck going to cum, and then back to pain again as his pussy got raw, rawer, rawest.  

When I left, Jamal was greedily slurping and lapping his brother’s freshly-fucked cunt, eating my spooge out of the tiny tot’s pussy.

I got to work early the next morning, as I usually did when Deputy Collins was working security.  Not always, though.  Couldn’t let him get complacent.  As I walked down the long hall, my steps echoing on the tile, only a few fluorescents lit, I saw him standing by the metal detector.  Saw his smile, quickly suppressed, when he realized it was me.  Heard his gasp when the buzzer went off as I stepped through.  His eyes went to my crotch and then up to my face.  When I nodded he smiled like a boy who’d just gotten everything on his Christmas list.

He hadn’t smiled that first day.  I smiled at him again, remembering how he just looked puzzled when I stood there with my arms out and he swept me with the hand-held and it went off as he passed my crotch on the way from my left side to my right.  I really had forgotten that my cock ring was in place.  The one around my cock and balls wouldn’t set anything off.  It was rubber for ordinary day wear.  But the pussy I’d pounded so hard the night before had worn me out, I overslept, and I was so used to the feel of the ring being in that I threw on clothes and rushed out.  Not too bright on my part.

“It’s a cock ring, deputy,” I murmured.  I wasn’t exactly planning to announce to everyone I worked with that I had a thick steel ring, though removable, through the head of my dick.  “I forgot to take it out.”

The “huh?” was more in his expression than voice.  Then the slight fog cleared.  Duty called.  “I can’t let anyone in who sets the alarm off.”

“It’s only a cock ring, deputy....” I looked at his name tag for the first time, “Collins.  A Prince Albert.  No harm to anyone.”  The latter wasn’t quite accurate if you were plowing a really hot and tight young boy pussy, but I wasn’t intending to get into that.

He shook his head, his expression clearly telling me had not the slightest fucking idea what I was talking about.  “Sorry, sir, but those are my orders.”

“Well, Jesus fuck, deputy!” His eyes got a little wide at the mild obscenity.  Did he live with his mother or something?  “Then just let me through so I can go to the john, take it off, and then walk through the damned machine again.”

He stubbornly shook his head.  No Trojan horse with a bomb in his undies was gonna pass the gates while he was in charge.  No sirree, bob.

“Fine, damnit.  Then just come with me.  You can leave your post for a couple of minutes, can’t you?  Like if you had to piss or shit or something?”

That took a moment to sink into the quagmire, but he finally nodded.  He taped a sign to the double doors saying “back in 10” and after we were through, he carefully locked them.  A short way down the hall, left, into the toilet.  This early, no one was going to walk in on us, so I set my briefcase down.  And suddenly I went from being pissed to being horny.  I liked other guys perving on my meat.  I could feel myself plump up as I unbuckled my belt, unbuttoned my slacks, pulled the zipper down.  It wasn’t really necessary of course, but what the fuck.  He’d basically asked, practically demanded, to see my prick, so he might as well get a good look.

His eyes widened a little when he realized what I was doing, but he didn’t stop me.  I shoved the pants down, and they dropped to my ankles.  His eyes widened again when he realized I was commando.  My shirttails were long, so I kind of rolled them up and tucked my tie between two buttons.

Completely the fuck unnecessary if all that was going on was just the deputy making sure that the metal he’d detected wasn’t dangerous.  That could have been done with a quick unzip, haul the meat out, waggle the Prince Albert at him, hide the meat, zip and be done.  I was hard, now, and the steel ring glittered in the fluorescent lights overhead.  He was mesmerized.  He started to move his hand as if to touch me, realized what he was doing, stopped.

“You ever seen one before, deputy?”

He nodded.  Well, shit, maybe he wasn’t as dumb as I thought, since he played like he didn’t know what had set off the metal detector.  Maybe he just wanted a look.

“Real life?”

He shook his head, still staring.

“You download pics from the Net, then?  Guys with rings through their dicks, maybe their tits, too?  Jack off to ‘em?”

He fucking blushed.  Looked up at me and nodded and then down to my slowly jacking hand.

“Go on, touch it.  You know you want to.”

His hand was rough, a worker’s hand, not someone behind a desk all day like me.  I loved it as he played with my dick, with my ring.  Without being told, he moved closer, used his other hand on my balls.  I paid attention to his looks for the first time.  It’s only polite to do that when you have a deputy sheriff getting all faggoty with your prick and balls.

Somewhere in his twenties.  Close cut medium brown hair.  Brown eyes.  Small mustache.  Short, stocky.  Light tan uniform with the shirt open at the collar, a crisp white tee visible underneath, with thick tufts of lighter brown hair curling up and over the edge.  Gun, radio, cuffs, the whole bit.  Very security conscious here.

“Did...it hurt?”

Well, fuck yeah, it fucking hurt getting a hole in your dick so you can slide a ring or a horseshoe through.  Bled, too.  I just nodded.  “You want one, don’t you?”

“I...no.”

Soft, soft.  “Fucking liar.  You’re just afraid of the pain.”

Another hesitant nod.

“Show me your meat, deputy.  You’re playing with my dick, drop your pants, jack for me.”  

He stopped the jacking and ball playing, obediently unbuckled, unzipped, and shoved his uniform slacks and tighty-whitey briefs down to his ankles.  With a loud clunk! of course, given the gun and gadgets attached to his belt.  He followed my lead without being told, and tucked his shirt up and his tie as well.  No treasure trail, just a furry chest, stocky abs with fur leading down to the thick, short hardon sticking out.  He started gently jacking.

And not looking at me.

Shit.  If anyone had taken a picture of the two of us, fully dressed, and asked someone to identify the fag top and the queer bottom, the hairy, butch buzz cut guy would definitely be the top.  The wrong conclusion, but fortunately, the one most often reached about me.  Christ, this was going to be so much fucking fun.

“You have any plans for next Saturday?”

He shook his head.

“You do now.  You’re getting a Prince Albert in that meat.  Pull up your shirt, show me your tits.”  He stopped jacking, lifted his shirt.  Bulging pecs and big fat tits.  “And at least one tit ring.”

Deputy Collins moaned, dropped his shirt, squeezed his cock and looked scared as shit.  Too fucking bad.

“Guy I know takes good care of pussies like you.  He’ll strap you naked on the table so you can’t move a fucking muscle, except for your dick.  That way you won’t jerk around and fuck things up when he hurts you putting the rings in.  And he will hurt you.”  

He moaned again, his hand moving a little faster, his eyes focused on my leaking meat, on the way some of my copious precum oozed out the hole in the underside of my dick and made the steel ring even more shiny.

“Look at me.”  He did.  Damn.  “Christ, you want to be hurt, don’t you?”

He didn’t say anything but when I told him to fucking answer me he said “yes” in a very shaky voice.

“You think you deserve it.”  Not a question; I knew.

“Y...yes.”

“Why?”

“I...I’m David Collins.”

“So?”

“The third.”

Well, Christ on a dildo fuck machine set on high.  The grandson of David Collins, the preacher whose beliefs made the Phelps clan look like liberal atheists.  The son of televangelist David Collins, Jr., who made Jimmy Swaggart in his hey-day look like a piker.  I remembered reading or hearing somewhere that the grandsons all lived with daddy and granddaddy in a big old mansion out on the edge of town.  I just hadn’t known the oldest had gone into law enforcement as a lowly deputy sheriff assigned to metal detector duty.  I wonder who he’d pissed off in the department.  It had to be someone who wasn’t afraid of daddy or granddaddy, or maybe someone just getting back at one or both through the deputy.

And deputy Davey the wannabe bottom boy needed to be hurt and punished for betraying daddy and granddaddy.  For betraying the Bible.  For being an abomination unto the Lord.

That worked for me.

“You ever had anything in your ass besides shit?”

“A...a cucumber.”

“How big?”

He made a circle with his thumb and middle finger.  Impressive.  “How about dick?” A head shake.

“Sucked cock?”  Another head shake.  

He also hadn’t fucked another guy or had his dick sucked.  All he did was fantasize and jack off and live in fear of being found out.  All of which, especially the “just fantasizing” part, was about to change.

“We don’t have a lot of time, so you want to suck my dick or get fucked?”

“I...I....”

“It’s not like you have a choice about getting used, pussy boy.  All I have to do is go to the principal and tell him you made a pass at me in the toilet here after following me in.  Hell, you even put the “away for a shit” sign up so you’d have time to accost me.  And you have to know how ready everyone is to believe depraved things about a family values fucking family like yours.  Suck or fuck?”

His face had gotten more dismayed as I talked, but his dick hadn’t softened.  “S...suck.”

I punched him in the belly and he gasped and doubled over.  “First lesson, cum dump, you never fucking choose anything.  I’ll decide how you’re going to be used.  Now get the fuck over to the sinks, bend over and hold on.”

He shuffled over, still breathing hard, and did what he was told.  I followed...two men shuffling around with their pants at their ankles is not a macho sight, especially when one of those men is me, but when you’re horny and about to shove your meat into virgin man cunt, or in Davey’s case, about to get dicked, you don’t fucking care.  I squirted some liquid soap from the dispenser on my left hand and stood partially to his right, so he could watch me jack in the mirror.  Watch me put my slick fingers down between his large, very, very hairy ass cheeks, down into his deep crack.  Watch his own eyes widen and his mouth fall open from the loud grunt when I shoved two fingers all the way into his hole.  Watch his expression as he whimpered and whined when I finger fucked him.  Watch as I stood behind him and used my right hand to position my thick knob at his pussy lips.  Watch as he saw himself gasp and scream like a little girl when I punched my prick deep.

Watch himself and me in that mirror, seeing my disgusted expression, hearing my voice abuse him for his filthy perversions, feeling my dick ramming in and out of his cunt, knowing he’d finally become the kind of man his father and grandfather would hate, that it wasn’t just a fantasy any more, that he’d finally crossed over, become a faggot in truth not just in yearning.  Tears were streaming down his face as I made him hurt himself, twisting his tits until they were bruised enough to be sore for days, before I shot a huge load in his pussy, and he came without touching his meat.

He collapsed on the floor when I was through with him.  I got my act together, and left him there, but not before telling him where to meet me on Saturday morning for his first piercing.  He begged me not to, told me he couldn’t take a chance on his family finding out, offered to “let” me do anything I wanted to him, just not that.  All very believable.  Except he didn’t do the one thing that would have accomplished his goal...telling me to fuck off and not showing up.  

He showed up.

I blinked and came back to the here and now.  With a visible hardon from the memory and Davey practically drooling.  Christ he was such a submissive slut.  “Suck me, cunt boy.”

“But...but someone....”

“Yeah, someone could.  So you probably ought to get me off pretty damned quick.” 

He fumbled with my slacks, got them unzipped, hauled my meat out and leaned over...so if someone did come along, he could just straighten up and maybe not be seen sucking dick.  Much more difficult to play innocent if you’re on your knees, especially considering the extra time it takes to get into an upright position.  Naturally I forced him to his knees.  Made him squeeze and jack his dick through his uniform while I held my briefcase in my right hand, and used my left hand to hold his head in place while I fucked his pussy mouth.  I’ve heard that danger can be a hardon killer.  Not for me.  It heightened all my senses, like fucking L.J.’s hot little boy twat in that stinking toilet, knowing another customer could appear, could rattle the door knob and hear grampa start screaming through the boxers in his mouth, or hear the boy...and bring everything crashing down on me.  That thought, combined with the genuine risk that one or more of my colleagues might enter the hall at any moment, got me off in a few balls-deep strokes into his now very talented mouth.  I spewed gism into his gullet and he gulped it down.

I stepped back from his gaping cum hole, tucked my dick back inside, zipped, and left him on his knees, hard and hurting.  He’d hurt the rest of the day as well, since I reminded him he couldn’t cum until I let him.  By now, he knew better than to beg, as that just extended the days he went without release.  He just quietly said, “Yes, sir.”

As I walked away I thought for a moment about how I was going to use him next.  There were a few men I knew in the leather scene who would thoroughly enjoy abusing the deputy.  It would be a real shock to his system to get gang banged in a fag bar back room.  I’d just have to set it up so my acquaintances wouldn’t know it was me that owned his hairy ass.

But on the other cock, I’d been toying with the idea of introducing him to boy fucking.  I mean, his daddy and granddaddy preached the word of the Lord on how all queers were pedos.  How humiliating for him if I made him prove them right.  Forced him to fuck a young boy.  Or maybe I’d be fucking the toddler, while he buried his boy face between Davey’s hairy cheeks, eating him out until his pussy was nice and wet, and then while my dick was pumping kid shit hole, the little one would fist the deputy, shoving not just his fist but his arm into the cop cunt.  My dick twitched and spurted that final bit of spooge.

A moment later, I paused at the door, checked my reflection in the glass that was acting as a large mirror.  The wig was gone, the mustache was gone, the tats were washed off, the bright blue contacts were gone.  The flashy in-your-fucking-face (fake) Piaget watch with all those (fake) diamonds and the (fake) gold was gone.  Everything that attracted attention to the surface and diverted attention away from underneath was gone.  I was just me.  A little over five ten, one forty, softening around the middle, a definite little belly.  Early thirties, balding, thin light brown hair cut short (no fucking comb-overs for me), light eyelashes that appeared almost to be non-existent, pale blue eyes, round face, clean shaven, small, almost prissy rimless glasses, thin lips, forgettable nose.  Long-sleeved white shirt, dark blue tie, tan, pleated, cuffed slacks with a black belt.  Black shoes precisely tied, long black socks held up by a garter.  Your ordinary, everyday, blend into the woodwork, somewhat prissy, fussy bachelor who might, perhaps, be queer, but he was so very good at what he did that that no one would ask so he wouldn’t have to tell.  I was a minus six on the one-to-ten-scale of men you would remember.  That redneck baby boy fucker was a twelve.  I allowed myself to grin at myself, then smoothed my face back to its usual forgettable business as usual expression.

As I opened the door, the only thing the slightest bit out of the ordinary was the not-all-the-way-down bulge at my crotch, and the little stain of cum.  I wondered if anyone would notice.  I almost hoped someone would, as the energy level from the weekend was still with me, and deputy slut Davey wasn’t quite enough to bring me back down to normal.

I went through, walked to my desk, turned.  They were all standing, not at attention, this wasn’t the military, but heads up, arms down at their sides, looking straight ahead.  At me.

“Good moooooorrrrrrninnnng, Mr. Wilson.”

I smiled at the roomful of first grade St. Pius boys, in their tight grey shorts, and the short-sleeved polo shirts with the embroidered cross and the St. Pius logo, their bare boy feet encased in the sandals required for warm weather wear.  After all, what was good enough for Christ was good enough for the good Catholic boys who were here to learn everything they could.  About everything I wanted to teach them.

“Good morning, young men.”  They adored being called that, instead of being just little boys.  “You may be seated.”

I waited through the mild hub-hub as they got back into their chairs and settled.  I noticed, too, that young James...what a nice coincidence...had zeroed in on the stain on my crotch.  He blushed when he looked up and realized I was watching him watch his teacher’s meat, but that didn’t stop his left hand from going between his legs to unconsciously squeeze the visible little stiffie under his shorts.

“Now, class, let’s begin with what you did this weekend.  Any volunteers?”  James’ hand shot up and I nodded at him.  He marched up to the desk, his little hardon leading the way.  Clearly commando.  We carefully explained to the boys’ fathers that underwear was not mandatory; that very young boys like their adorable sons often thought there was something manly, almost grown-up like their daddies, about feeling the smooth cloth over their naked boy bodies, how hot it made them (in the kid sex sense), how many tiny hardons it gave them during the day.  Though not in quite those words, of course.  At least not for all fathers.

For a moment I considered asking James to stay after school.  His daddy wouldn’t mind.  His daddy was, after all, an avid fan of my amateur videos and very much a caring, sharing father.  But that was too long to wait.  James would have to visit my office during recess for a hot protein drink.

James got in place to the left of my desk, looked over his shoulder for permission to start.  Gave a tiny little grin when he realized I was admiring the way the fabric of the grey shorts molded his pert little butt cheeks, clearly displaying the deep crack between them.  A very talented crack.  Especially with a dick buried in his six year old boy pussy.

I nodded, and as he started to speak, I started composing my own report to the class...not that they’d ever hear it.  Well, maybe one or two.  While they were getting bred.  I smiled inside.  “My Weekend, by Bobby Ray.”  I reached between my legs, my hand out of sight of my little students, squeezed my hardening meat.  How should it begin?  Ah.  Yes.

You know the old saying:  All dressed up and no one to fuck.


    

My Weekend_by Bobby Ray