Paper Boy 

by Noah Vail

 I guess I wasn't your typical ten-year-old freckle faced paper boy, tossing rolled up newspapers on doorsteps with the insouciant accuracy of a budding quarterback or little league fast baller. I was slender, slightly effeminate, with a mop of blonde hair and a pretty face, and tended to skip along the gravel sidewalk as I approached the end of my route with lightened bag and the anticipation of home and hot supper. And I was selling my body. I liked it when the old man on my paper route fondled me. It had started when I had gone to collect at the end of the month, and now he took me inside his house almost every day. The canvas bag half full of city newspapers, already two days old when they arrived in our little northern town, would lay undelivered on the front porch as I sat in an overstuffed armchair in a darkened room with my pants down around my ankles. I would arch my back in ecstasy as the man sucked on my hard little penis. After a spasm of pleasure, I would be hoisted to my feet, caressed, and kissed on my girlish cheek before being sent off to finish my route with an extra dollar in my pocket.

Once a month, after supper, I would go out and make the rounds of my customers, collecting unpaid subcriptions from those who hadn't been home when I'd delivered earlier. It had been on this collection round that the old retired bachelor had first seduced me, and later it became an opportunity for special trysts, less furtive and hasty than our day to day couplings. In fact, I started telling my mom quite often that I was going to try to collect from some mysterious deadbeat customer, as an excuse to slip out early in the evening and visit Mr. X. He was gray haired and slightly paunchy, with an avuncular smile that was both kindly and appealing. He looked down at the slender little boy who knocked on his door and said he was the paper boy and had come to collect and invited him inside. How much was it? He would get the money from the other room. Would the boy like a coke? Would he like to earn some extra money? He'd like him to pose for some pictures. Would he like to see some pictures? The pictures were interesting. They were exciting. The boy's little cock stiffened as he looked at the naked men and pretty girls. He took his clothes off for the man ... That was how it had started. I loved what the man did to my cock. But what was really exciting was the way he was gradually turning me into a sexy little girl like the ones in the pictures in his magazines. They were cute little sissy boys like me, and they wore lipstick and makeup and high heels and sexy dresses that they lifted up to reveal stiff little cocks. The man fondled me as he showed me the pictures, and whispered things in my ear. He showed me how to do the things we looked at. Soon he was dressing me up and calling me girly names, just like the little trannies in the magazines. I'd always known I really wanted to be a girl. I still had dolls in my bedroom. And now I knew I wanted men to fuck me like a girl. 

For my eleventh birthday, my mom presented me with a pale blue button down dress shirt, a pair of corduroy slacks, and a pair of penny loafers she'd ordered from the Eaton's catalogue. From the same catalogue, my sugar daddy got me a cute dress, a slip, a bra, and a pair of pumps with 2" heels. Neither ensemble was really appropriate for the rough logging town we lived in. Still, I was delighted with my new clothes, and dreamed of wearing them in the big city. Not just Vancouver, but Hollywood or New York, where I would dress glamorously and be a movie star or a fashion model or a famous writer. Meanwhile I had my paper route and my secret life as a preteen sissy mistress. 

I loved my sugar daddy. "Sugar daddy" was barely in my vocabulary, of course. He was Mr. X to me. Still, I understood our roles. When I came in his front door, he would hug me affectionately, then command me to take off my clothes. Sometimes I was daringly wearing panties he'd given me, but usually I was naked under my corduroy trousers. If there was time, he would dress me, fussing over me as he transformed me into a little girl, and perhaps take some pictures as he had his way with me. He would end up by shoving me down on his bed, my face in a pillow, my dress hiked up over my little bum, and plunging his cock into my rectum. He would lean down over my little back as he thrust in and out, breathing heavily and whispering questions and instructions in my ear as I whimpered and gasped replies: yes, I'm a little whore, yes, I like it, yes, I like fucking, yes, fuck me, yes, yes, yes! My little cock would spurt on the blanket and my ass would be a hot sticky mess, and I would feel sexy and happy and then Mr. X would pull out his spent cock and I would be empty, burning, dripping, sometimes crying. Mr. X would be tender with me then, soothing me with kisses and sometimes a crisp new two dollar bill. 

My dad was away at one of the outlying logging camps most of the time, and my mom was a schoolteacher. I was glad that she taught at the other elementary school; it was bad enough being a latent sissy cocksucker in grade 5 without being the teacher's kid. I was pretty much on my own. I liked reading books, and the paper route and Mr. X were my main commitments. At night I would pore over the magazines I swiped from Mr. X, reading the stories and looking longingly at the pictures while I stroked my little cock, imagining I was Tammy, the cute little tranny in the magazine who dressed so sexily and had so much fun. She was the same age as me, I could tell, and she wore high heels and thigh high stockings and a garter belt and a little bra that made her look like she had pubescent tits. Her spiky blonde pigtails and blue eyes sparkling under shadowed lids made her smile look simultaneously innocent, cute, and seductively naughty. And there, below her bare preteen midriff, framed by the white lace garter belt straps, was her erect little penis. Just like mine. I caressed my little cock until it was swollen larger than Tammy's, dreaming that I was her. She lived in the city, I knew, and had fun all the time, and nice clothes, and sucked off handsome well dressed men who treated her like a princess. I squirted my jism into a sock dreaming of myself in her high heeled shoes, taking big cocks in my mouth and ass in an orgy of flowing, flooding sweet creamy cum. 

The man at the newspaper depot told me that customers were complaining about their papers being delivered late, and wanted to know why. I promised him I would do better, and stop loitering at the candy store on the way. The season of slush and snow was upon us now, and I trudged dejectedly through the cold, darkening afternoon with the heavy bag of newspapers slung over my slender shoulder. What was I going to tell Mr. X? I was approaching a crisis and a turning point in my eleven year old life. But when I saw the familiar silhouette of Mr. X waiting for me behind his living room window, I rushed up eagerly to his door. I was his girl, not a paper boy, and he would make things better, I knew. 

And I knew what to do, too. As soon as he opened the door, I burst into Mr. X's arms and kissed him. "I can't stay," I blurted out. My eyes went back to the canvas delivery bag lying on his porch, and he followed my gaze. He understood. Then, without another word, I closed the door behind me and fell to my knees in front of him. My little hands felt under his robe and in an instant his large, semi erect cock was in my mouth. I sucked greedily, bobbing my head further and further back and forth, licking the underside of his knob and taking the thickening shaft as far down my throat as I could. My lips caressed the stiff cock with quickening strokes and I felt Mr. X's hands guiding my head. I kept him in my mouth, clutching his ass to steady myself, and tasted his slick, throbbing, salty moist rod as he moaned softly. I wanted his cum in my mouth. Wanted him to pant and groan and hoarsely call me his pretty little girl as he filled me with warm semen. He came in thick starchy spurts that I swallowed, gulping and sucking until he was drained. Then we were standing in the open doorway again. I hoisted my bag onto my slim shoulder, reached inside and took out a newspaper, handing it to Mr. X with a smile. "I'll collect later," I said, and ran down the porch steps, through his front gate, and down the street, skipping towards the end of my route, towards the city, towards Tammy.
