ERED IN THE BLITZ
By DannyR (MM/b, oral, anal, incest, extreme pedo)
Copyright 2012. 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.
BUGGERED IN THE BLITZ
It was November 3, 1940. My fourth birthday. It was, by long family tradition, the day I was to be fucked for the first time. At a meeting of the Society.
That’s all my father and grandfather called it. With some degree of pride, however, since it had been founded by one of my ancestors two hundred years ago, back when [I decline to tell you] was merely a barony, and not the dukedom it became a generation later. After all, if you are supplying the king and a few very select members of the royal ranks with the finest young boy pussy, you deserve a reward. And my ancestor was a most deserving man.
In 1940, then, my grandfather was the duke, my father was a marquess in his own right, and I was just a young lord, although I would one day be the duke.
I was also no stranger to pricks.
I had been introduced to cum from a man’s cock the first time my father got me alone. Which was, he told me, the day after I was born. The boys in our family are always born at [the estate I won’t name], and the women who are our mothers have been carefully selected for: (a) their willingness to be bred until they had produced at least one son, although preferably more; (b) their willingness to be bred by any male in the direct bloodline as our family is not very picky about who fathers the next generation so long as the father is in the family; (c) their willingness to enjoy vast wealth and social position for the price of looking the other way, or indeed, not looking at all, and (d) their ability to understand that in the long history of the paedophiles in our line, an occasional duchess or marchioness has met with an untimely accident when she saw too much or said too much.
My mother certainly met all those qualifications. She was drugged on her wedding night, not enough to be unconscious, but enough to not object to what happened next, although the drugs certainly enhanced her physical enjoyment. She was bred, bare-cocked, first by her father-in-law, then by his younger brother, and finally by my father. The photographs of my grandfather’s and great-uncle’s breeding were insurance, as she would obviously be ruined if it became known that she had gasp! cuckolded her husband on her wedding day in such a disgusting, though to the nobility, highly titillating fashion. Thereafter, they bred her as they chose.
Grandfather, great-uncle and father would regale my little unformed mind with tales of fucking her wherever and whenever they wished, and only rarely at night in her bedroom. Never her arse, never her mouth, since she was just there to produce the next heir. Me. So while the Marquess of [omitted] is legally my father, for all I or any of them know, my grandfather could be my father, or my great-uncle.
I was born on November 4, 1936. Grandfather told me years later that my mother had believed that after I was finally out of her body after over twenty hours of pushing, she would have some respite from being bred, a break to enjoy the wealth for which she’d sacrificed both the few principles she had (she was, after all, the daughter of an earl), and the use of her cunt. After all, she had produced an heir within ten months of the marriage. But they began breeding her again in December. My younger brother was born on December 10, 1937, the anniversary of Edward’s abdication. Yes, I said “Edward” and not some appropriate formal address. There is no need for formality with a soon to be former king who fucks your thirteen month old mouth, sliding that long slender prick in and out of your talented baby throat the day before he abdicates.
Over the years, at least until I began to get pubic hair, Edward would molest me every time we met—ah, the perquisites of being a royal, or even an ex-royal. It was just my mouth in the first few years, though fingering my boy cunt was permissible, and naturally that expanded to fucking me once I had been broken in. Wallis was, I learned, a slut who was more interested in power, prestige and position, than in pricks in her cunt, or mouth or arse. Though she took them in all her holes as necessary (for that, read as advantageous to her) and apparently did a fine job as a cum receptacle. Piss, too, I heard, women or men, though I never saw that myself. But her greatest pleasure was watching Edward, his royal fucking highness the Duke of Windsor, with men. And teens. And very young boys.
I was six, I think, when we were in a hotel suite in London. Edward, thin as ever, submissive as ever to my grandfather, was naked on the bed, on all fours, his ducal, formerly kingly, ass filled with my grandfather’s large ducal pounding prick, Edward’s cock in my talented cunt, his mouth around my five year old brother’s prick and balls, his greasy fingers in little Charles’ baby hole. My father and great-uncle were naked as well, their meat hard, lightly stroked, waiting for an available hole. Though they were paedophiles all, and much preferred boy pussy, they certainly enjoyed abusing and using a former king.
And through it all, a naked, drunk and inordinately high Wallis sprawled on a nearby sofa, avidly watching the man sex, boy sex, going on, smoking cigarette after cigarette, and working her own cunt with a large dildo.
But back to the earliest days. It was my father, legal if not biological, who had the right to use my mouth first, and he told me how turned on he was by my naked day-old body as he hovered, naked himself, over me on his bed, rubbing his leaking prick over my tiny mouth and face, getting it all slick and slimy, wanking slowly to prolong it but realizing he couldn’t, then quickly stroking until he was going to cum. He cupped my fragile head with his left hand, pressed his piss slit to my tiny lips, pushing them open, blowing the first shot of his seed directly into my mouth, then pulling back so that the rest of his ejaculate, hot and thick, covered my face.
I did not cry or scream. I just swallowed his seed down. I suppose there is something to be said for some thirteen or fourteen decades, at that point, of careful breeding. And I also didn’t object, just dutifully swallowed, when he used his little finger to scoop some cum off my face and into my mouth. Then he licked me clean.
My grandfather and great-uncle molested my mouth, with my father carefully holding me in place, a week later.
By the time I was a year old I was a skilled cocksucker, though not yet able to take the full length of many cocks. Certainly not grandfather’s. By then I was also being molested by a few other members of the Society, dukes and earls, viscounts and barons, members of Parliament, carefully selected wealthy industrialists. Face-fucking a duke’s grandson before the boy was broken in at four was a privilege, not a right, and each load of cum I swallowed benefited the family or some business or social interest of the family in some way.
I was a baby cum slut, a boy cock whore.
I fucking loved it.
While the other men the duke (the ultimate arbiter of my molestation) allowed to use me could have me naked, and play with my body, and rub my pussy lips, finger fucking was reserved for family. For training me for my fourth birthday.
And I grew up listening to, eventually reading, a different type of fairy tale. Vastly different. Not the Brothers Grimm, not Anderson, for me. They read to me from the journals of the Society, and once the art of photography had been created, the Society quite naturally began to use it to extensively document their paedophilia. So there was a great deal of showing to go with the telling.
I think my favorite tale was from an old, old book with a red leather cover, with a crest in gold, and the Society’s motto below it. It was the story of how a three year old ancestor of mine, a many, many greats uncle, got his first fuck at an inn in 1809.
And of course they showed me pictures, actual pictures from the 19th century, of my grandfather being fucked for the first time, by his grandfather. Of my four year old father’s howling face as my great-grandfather fucked away his virginity, and died the next day, a consummately happy deviant.
I was certainly a hit at meetings of the Society, wandering naked and stiff through the darkly paneled rooms of the club, inhaling the marvelous scents of fine brandy, fine cigars, fine men. The scent of the fireplace. The smell of the unwashed crotch of the cabinet minister as I sucked his uncut meat, while he sat in the large armchair, the hand with the cigar caressing my head, the other hand lifting a snifter of cognac to his lips. He had agreed to something my grandfather wanted in exchange for my not quite four year old mouth, and he’d chosen to have me in the club, where everyone could watch. It was August of 1940.
By then I could deep throat all but the biggest prongs. And after that display, the Society members were eager to find something they could provide to my family. My grandfather reinforced my talents that same evening, standing in a circle of fully dressed men with their cocks out, wanking, as he held my head and skull fucked my small mouth. When he was done, I could smell and taste his thick cum in my mouth and throat, but also smell the other cum that had spurted and spattered while the duke molested my baby boy mouth.
With me still naked, and his softened cock dangling from his wool trousers, grandfather escorted me to one of the private rooms where my father was being repeatedly bred. I loved watching that happen.
Oh, my father could fuck, and certainly enjoyed it. When I was about two and a half, I watched him bugger a stable lad, since he wasn’t allowed to bugger me. Watching my father plunge his cock into the seven year old’s cunt (they didn’t know I was watching), as the boy screamed and thrashed, and his own father held him down for my father’s use, had me frantically wanking my own little stiffie. But then it was my father’s turn.
The groom whose son my father had just molested, shoved my father belly down on a blanket over a bale of hay, lowered his trousers to his ankles, dropped spit on his angry-looking hardon, and then shoved his cock balls deep into my father’s cunt, just the way father had done to the seven year old. It was more of a shout than a scream that my father let out when that meat forced its rough way into his bowels, but I had heard that shout before when grandfather and his brother fucked my father, and knew it was from the pain he loved. The groom called him vile names, which only turned my father on more, until he was begging to be fucked harder. I could tell he was cumming on the blanket when the groom seeded that noble arse.
I had another dry cum, biting my lip to keep from crying out, when I saw my father’s gaping, cum-oozing pussy when the groom pulled out. My father started to get up, but the groom shoved him back down and called out. Two more stable hands fucked my father’s willing cunt, making him cum yet again.
But even though there was a war on, the standards of Society, and the Society had to be met, so everyone acted as though the world of wealth and noble privilege was untouched, even with the sound of bombs falling and heavy drapes covering all the windows so no lights could show. And ceremonies must be held, the Hun and their war notwithstanding.
My ceremonial first fuck.
It was evening. I was on my way to a meeting of the Society, though to me it was only a meeting with my beloved grandfather, who was, I knew, going to put his cock in my cunt and make a complete pussy boy out of me. A consummation I had devoutly wished for, nearly from the time I watched my father bugger that stable lad and wished it was my hot tight little cunt getting his seed.
We were in the 1938 Bentley. I was in the back seat alone, as a ducal heir should be. Solemn, neatly dressed. Shirt, tie, blazer, tight grey shorts, long socks, black patent leather shoes. A dark overcoat worn open. No underwear, which somewhat scandalized me, but Pendleton, my valet, assured me it was all quite correct attire...young aristocratic English school boy attire in miniature...for the event I was attending. Andrew was driving.
Father would normally have been with me, he explained, but he had a meeting with Churchill right after he buggered me...he was, you see, as the eldest son of the oldest male in the family, entitled to fuck me next, after my virginity had been taken. He and Franklin, the senior chauffeur, had the Rolls. They were probably going to molest Franklin’s son, the stable lad whose vigorous fucking had moved his father from the stables to the chauffeur’s seat in my father’s cars, before heading to the West End for the meeting.
The best-laid schemes gang aft agley, both then and now, when the fucking Germans are involved.
We were not on a route Andrew would have preferred, but it was the best he could achieve given the existing damage to London, and so we were not in Mayfair or one of the finer portions of the City when the air raid began. I had been through raids before, but always in the safety, or perhaps I should say the comparative safety, of a well-designed air raid shelter beneath the gardens of my home. But never on the street, in the dark, with the sirens going, and the lights going out everywhere, quickly, almost as if you could hear them go, like a series of doors slamming in a French bedroom farce. Though I didn’t have that image in my head at that moment. All I had in my head was terror, as Andrew stopped the car, came around, threw open the door, grabbed me up, and then stopped. He had no clue.
A man running by did. “ ‘ere, mate, ya daft bugger! Get movin’! Follow me.” And so we did, down the street, into an alley, a twist, a turn, into a huge old building, and down creaking stairs, into a makeshift shelter. It was lit by a single dim bulb that was turned on after the door was carefully closed. There were ten of us. Eight rough, crudely dressed men, some unshaven, some clean shaven, some bearded. More like beggars I had seen on the streets as I regally drove by in the Rolls, the Bentley, the Daimler, than the elegant scions of nobility, and their fathers, and relatives with whom I normally associated. And sucked. Just as the other little boys in our particular group did.
Eight commoners who stared with resentful eyes at the chauffeur’s livery. At the tiny boy in his public school uniform, trembling, holding onto Andrew’s hand, leaning against his thigh, and the knee high boots that had lost most of their gleam in the frantic run to get to...well...what safety there was. Though since I am obviously still here, it was safety enough.
I remember the smells. The large bucket someone had already pissed in. Old clothes, dirt, sweat, fear, my little boy cologne so I would smell nice for my grandfather before he dicked me, Andrew’s shaving cream. A bomb went off. Not close enough to damage our shelter, but enough to shake it thoroughly. I screamed, and would have screamed again, but a rough voice shouted from a dim corner to shut the little bugger up.
Another air scream as the bomb came down, another blast, another shake. And the light went out.
And did not come back on.
I was a four year old duke’s heir cock whore, in the utter darkness of an air raid shelter with eight strangers and my chauffeur. Who was, I already knew, going to use me at some point, although not immediately after my grandfather and father, and perhaps a special friend or relative had fucked me. My skinny little bottom hole was completely off limits until my family had fucked it into a cunt.
Andrew held my hand tightly and we moved toward where there had been an empty space on a bench, getting there with only one mishap, blundering into one of the men and getting a rough shove that almost unbalanced Andrew. But we made it, and he sat down, pulled me into his lap. He had a hardon!
Not that Andrew and his hard prong were unknown to me. Just never with others around. Unless I was sucking grandfather and father, or Uncle James with them, my mouth was always molested one-on-one. Emboldened by the dark, I wiggled around so I was straddling his knees, and reached down between us to feel the familiar hardness. I began unbuttoning him and he made no effort to stop my tiny hands. Just held my shoulders steady while I struggled just a bit to get his thick meat up and out and into the safe dark.
Andrew was much fatter than grandfather, and longer than father. Uncut. And we shared a dirty little secret that my father and grandfather did not know: I loved the scent of unwashed cock, loved the raunch and the smell and taste of cock cheese inside a long foreskin, loved the scent and taste of stale piss. Loved burying my face in Andrew’s hairy unwashed ass and licking his tangy hole.
As I played with his leaking meat, rubbing my tiny thumb over the wide piss slit, he said, in a flat, quiet voice, “We might die.” The point was punctuated by another bomb that shook our shelter.
That was the only time I have ever been in a life and death situation. The kind where in the movies inhibitions are lost. The movies are right. Combine a paedo, possible death, darkness, and a four year old boy slut whose kid cunt you were going to fuck sooner or later anyway and the result was inevitable.
Andrew raped me.
I had been quietly made ready by my father and grandfather with detailed explanations of what would happen in the ceremony at the Society’s club. The gentle pussy preparation, the easing of grandfather’s cock in my cunt, the fuck that would open my hole and get it ready for the others who would use it next.
Instead, Andrew raped my four year old virgin boy hole.
He yanked me off his lap, put me between his legs and roughly forced my head down onto his cock, deep throating me before I was ready. I struggled in his hold, terribly frightened, my mouth producing what felt like cups of spit and throat slime, and then he grabbed my hair, forced my head up, lifted me again so I was straddling his thighs but with my feet on the bench. His thick, hairy fingers that had always been so gentle hooked into the front of my shorts, and with a sharp pull my buttons popped and he was forcing my shorts down to my ankles. I was of course wearing no underwear since I had been scheduled for my first boy fuck in such a little while.
I knew what was going to happen. I tried to get away. It was supposed to be my grandfather who fucked me first, not Andrew, even though I knew I would eagerly welcome Andrew’s dirty, smelly cock into my cunt. Just not first. Later. I begged Andrew, but he just shook me, and said, “Shut up, you little slut. We might die.”
The shelter was silent. The eight men in there with us were still. There was only one voice in the darkness that young. A tiny boy. A fucking nob, a toff, one of the upper crust. They had to understand what Andrew’s words meant unless they were too stupid to live. Would someone have objected to my hole being rudely opened? Objected? Stopped it?
Perhaps.
But the Germans made my rape almost inevitable.
The next bomb, only a moment after Andrew’s words, was closer than any of the others. Yes, Andrew and I might die. So might all the others. But still I had a chance to escape, a chance he might change his mind.
The man on the bench next to us wiped that possibility away. A groping hand reached out. Found my naked leg, reached past, found Andrew’s meat and fondled it, caressing its thickness and length. The hand moved away. The sound of spitting was loud in the dark and quiet. The hand came back to help slime Andrew’s prick for its invasion.
“Bugger ‘im, mate,” a voice said from right next to us. “ ‘n then share ‘im round. Yer right, we moight die, we moight.”
“Shorts.”
Only a word, but my next-rapist-after-Andrew understood and when Andrew lifted me up, the man pulled my shorts entirely off, leaving me naked from the waist down. A rough, callused hand reached between my legs and grabbed my boy bits. My hard boy bit, my soft little balls in their tight sack.
The man let me go, stood, moved to stand between Andrew’s spread legs as I was lifted, turned so my back was to Andrew and my virgin bottom was hovering over his leaking knob. “G’arn, mate,” the deep voice said. “You push up, ‘n I’ll push down.”
They did.
I screamed, loud and shrill and long, like the sound of the bombs coming down, as Andrew’s fat meat punched into my cunt, ripping me a new pussy. I was sobbing as Andrew started to rape my hole, fucking up. He was buried balls deep inside me, hurting me, the man I’d sucked so well so many times.
“Does the little bugger suck?”
Andrew laughed, a mean laugh. “Aye, mate, ‘e’s a cocksucking whore. Now hear this, yer little lordship, yer gonna suck the nice man’s meat ‘n yer gonna do a good job like the cum whore y’are, or we’re gonna hurt ye bad.”
The man groped in the darkness, his hands just barely brushing the top of my head. I guess he hadn’t realized what a small boy I was. But he still found me, still grabbed the back of my neck, still tilted my head and shoved his stinky unwashed prick down my throat, choking me. My mouth was being raped, the nasty cock meat deep and hurting my throat, my pussy was being raped, my body screaming with pain as my mouth could not.
When you might die at any second, with a bomb on your head, your sex is not slow and gentle. But then, rape never is. With moments the man fucking my face seeded my mouth with thin, watery cum, and Andrew bellowed out that he was fucking cumming in my fucking cunny. The cock eased out of my mouth and I drooled slime and seed.
Someone lit a match and for a second I saw the seven other men, dirty commoners all, their pricks out and hard. “Fuckin’ arse!” one man said, and leaned forward to blow it out. “Don’t want ‘im knowin’ oo we are, do we?”
Andrew pulled me off his still not soft meat, turned me around to face him, my legs straddling his thighs on the bench, spread wide so that I had to bend my knees for balance.
My next rapist pulled off the rest of my clothes and tossed them aside. I was a naked just four that very day cum slut in a totally dark air raid shelter with men who wanted to use me.
And they did.
I was raped seven more times in the dark and the heat and the smells. The sweat, the stench of the piss in the bucket, cigarettes with matches quickly blown out so I couldn’t see who my rapists were, cum and cum and more cum. Dicks of all sizes and shapes. One huge boy fucking prick that made me scream again, made me feel that was what my grandfather’s cock might be like if he’d punched it into my hole the way this man did. I cried through the first couple of rapes, then began getting turned on and started to have dry cums. I could barely stand but Andrew held his hands in my armpits to brace me.
Andrew who was getting his cock sucked by one of the men, the straight men who didn’t want anyone to know what they were doing in the danger and in the dark.
No one took long; no one wanted to be caught if the light suddenly came back on; no one wanted to deprive their mates of their first and probably only baby boy cunt. A few muttered our catch phrase, their excuse, “We moight die, we moight,” as they raped my pussy. The all clear sirens had already sounded by the time the last one bred me.
I could hear the men frantically getting their clothes together, stumbling and groping their way in the still dark room to the stairs, and up and out. Leaving Andrew on the bench, me on his lap, sobbing, my bruised pussy leaking a thick cum.
And one other man. He knelt beside the bench just as the light bulb flickered, on-off-on-off, and then went on. Past forty I later learned. Dark hair with flecks of grey. Craggy features, deeply lined, the face of a man who had worked at manual labor and worked hard all his life.
He didn’t rush out. He reached out a callused hand and gently pulled my head away from Andrew’s chest, leaned forward and kissed me. I could taste cum in his mouth, smell it on his breath, along with some sort of alcohol. This was the man who had sucked Andrew off.
He ended the kiss and then moved his left hand behind me, two fingers sliding gently into my aching four year old cunt. They were well slimed when he pulled them out. He offered them to Andrew and smiled when Andrew sucked the fingers clean.
“Again?” the man said, and Andrew and I both knew he wasn’t talking about cummy fingers.
“Aye,” said Andrew. “I’d like to see yer fuckin’ ‘is little lordship ‘ere, mountin’ his bleedin’ pussy whilst I, ah, fuck you?”
The unshaven man in the sweaty clothes of a common laborer, with thick dirt and oil underneath his nails, grinned. “Ain’t ‘ad much dick in me arse. M’mates wouldn’t approve. But what the bloody ‘ell, I say.”
Up until that moment I’d not known that Andrew carried a card case. Silver. Engraved. He solemnly handed one to the labor, whose name was Tommy. He told my first commoner molester to call him tomorrow.
Andrew set me on the floor and told me to get dressed. My clothes were scattered everywhere, trampled with the shoes and boots of eight boy cunt raping fine citizens of London. I was wearily pulling on my jacket when I heard a loud thud.
I whirled around. Tommy had just punched Andrew in the face! He was down on the filthy floor and his mouth was bleeding!
I ran screaming at the bastard, yelling at him to fucking stop hurting Andrew, not realizing at all that at four and as small as I was, there was fuck-all I could do about it. But it was Andrew who rolled over, smearing his uniform even worse, right in front of me. Sat up. His face showed the pain, but there was still a slight smile.
He grabbed my shoulders. “We were attacked. In an air raid shelter. I tried to protect you but they overpowered me. You were raped. We have no idea who they are.” He shook me, just a little, but hard enough to make his point. “You understand?”
“Even...” I looked at Tommy.
“Yes.” He saw the look in my eyes, understood. “You’re a slut, boy, it’s what you were bred for. So, yeah, Tommy and I are going to fuck you again, share your tight little pussies. Breed you like the cum whore you are. Right, your little lordship?”
I was tired, frightened, bruised, abused, and smart enough to know if Andrew wanted me, Andrew would get me. I nodded.
“Right, then. Now show Tommy how much you want his cock in yer boy cunt by givin’ ‘im a nice suck before ‘e leaves, hmm?”
There were sounds of people moving around upstairs. So Tommy managed a quick fuck of my mouth, pumping four thick, salty shots of seed into me.
The night was overcast when we made our way outside. Down the block was a shattered building that had been fine when we stopped. By some miracle the Bentley was untouched. Andrew carried me to the car, let me sit beside him instead of riding in the back the way a proper ducal heir would do, cuddling close and shivering.
That night was the only time I ever recall Rallston, the Society’s butler, show any emotion. He certainly didn’t the one time grandfather had allowed him to molest my three year old mouth and cum down my throat. But that night his jaw dropped as he opened the door to see a filthy, bruised ducal chauffeur, carrying a filthy, clothes-ripped four year old ducal heir.
And then he got himself under control. And showed us to the bedroom where my grandfather, my father and my great-uncle were waiting, naked under dressing gowns that began to bulge in anticipation as Rallston opened the door. They were clearly expecting the ceremonial deflowering of my virgin pussy to occur, now that the Huns had stopped their petty interference with important paedophile activity.
My grandfather’s face went into granite-duke mode the moment he saw us. He instantly understood that he wasn’t going to get the pleasure of my virgin pussy.
“Put the boy down, Andrew.”
No one ever disobeys the duke, even if there might be a fleeting thought of doing so, or at least disagreeing. Even at my age I recognized the tone that utterly destroyed the slightest possibility of considering disagreeing, much less acting on it.
He gestured, and on shaky legs I walked toward him. He sat down in a large armchair, spreading his legs wide. The robe fell open, giving me a glimpse of the ducal meat I’d sucked so well, so often, in my short life. I stood between his legs, my head hanging, ashamed that I’d allowed myself to be raped, ashamed as it went on I enjoyed it. Enjoyed being fucked.
“Explain, Andrew,” the duke said as he caressed my messy, sweat-damp hair.
Andrew did. The King James version of holy writ, as carefully revised by the Saint Andrew who had tried so valiantly to protect me. To prevent my being raped by seven, count them, seven men in a filthy air raid shelter. Men he could not describe because of the dim light, the pain from the beating, from being held down while each of the filthy buggers took their turn, well, buggering my baby boy cunt.
And as he talked, detailed the rapes and my screams and how my voice got hoarse and how I should not be blamed for the dry cums I had over and over and bloody over again, my grandfather got hard. Grandfather spurted precum and slimed it over his meat, wanking lightly, as Andrew told how the men had forced him to rape the poor child under his care. Grandfather understood, of course, that fear is more likely to keep a man soft than get him hard and ready for rape, but since Andrew was a paedophile, a hardon at the idea of my four year old twat being available to him, even by force, was inevitable.
When Andrew was done...Scheherazade would have been proud of that tale...a baby boy raised as a cum slut raped by eight men...there wasn’t a soft cock in the room.
Father and great-uncle Reggie had dropped their robes, and stood close to the chair. Grandfather shrugged out of his robe, sat back. “Show me your pussy, Charles.”
I flushed, but naturally did as I was told. I stripped naked once more, letting my clothes fall as I knew the men in the room were not interested in neatness as they ordinarily would have been. I turned around to face Andrew, looking at his large thick dong outlined in his uniform pants, bent forward, and reached behind with my small hands to spread my cheeks.
Grandfather’s thick, hairy finger stroked my four year old pussy, pushed just a little inside pussy lips that he later showed me, with a mirror, were puffy and red and bruised. But not as bruised as they became, once grandfather ordered me up on the edge of the tall bed, the kind that required steps to get into, but was, oddly enough, at precisely the right height for a tiny boy to lay on the edge on his tummy, with his legs dangling over, and have his grandfather the duke ram that large hard prick balls deep into my well-used baby cunt.
No gentleness, no careful preparation. I was, after all, not a delicate virgin, but a well-bred (in both senses of the phrase) cum slut, and my grandfather needed to cum in my boy hole. My pussy was raw and hurting but still slimy with ass juices and seed, which slicked my grandfather enough to make it pleasurable for him (as he later told me). The speed and ruthlessness with which he fucked my tired cunt attested to that.
My father was next, then my great uncle. When he was finished, his body nearly crushing mine and pushing me into the soft mattress, Andrew coughed politely. My grandfather, who was kneeling on the bed, wanking, said, “Oh, of course, Andrew. Such, ah, almost saving the day should be rewarded.”
He paused. “Besides, we all know that had things gone as originally planned, and damn the Huns for that, you would have fucked him well before you got him back home.”
The other adults chuckled at that and then gathered to watch Andrew haul out his pants staining cock, shove it inside me, and pound my pussy as hard as he could, using all the power of his muscular hips the way he could not when I was on his lap in the air raid shelter. When he was done seeding me, they each took turns sucking and lapping cum and ass juices out of me, sharing it with each other. And then Andrew fucked my father, my grandfather fucked my father, and my great uncle sucked me to several huge dry cums while cramming three fingers in my pussy.
When they were done, they took me into the bathroom so they could piss. On me, of course.
And a little while later, Andrew got many envious looks from the Society members who saw us leave, Andrew carrying me, his fingers obviously (to any rational paedophile) up in my four year old arse through a convenient hole in my shorts, both of us reeking of piss and cum and sweat and sex.
He did indeed fuck me on the way home, his cock up inside my cunt, me on his lap as he drove...very, very carefully. And for years thereafter, long after I was grown up, we continued to fuck. “We moight die, we moight,” he’d whisper, and I’d get hard and my cunt would ache and Andrew would fuck me well and hard. As he did one afternoon in the garage, with me bent over the same Bentley. He died quietly in his sleep that night in 1987. He was 77.
Good breeding in every sense, and inherent talent helped to make me the well-satisfied paedophile duke I am today. But the finishing touch on my cherry, as it were, was due to the bloody Germans, as much as I regret acknowledging their contribution. After all, had it not been for them, my four year old pussy undoubtedly would not have been buggered in the Blitz...at least not so well, and so often.