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A Beyond His Years - copywrite Satyricon <firstname.lastname@example.org>
He can't be more than twelve or thirteen, the I'm watching. He's
standing there, next to his mother; fidgeting, bored while she picks
through the pile of clothes on the market stall. Dragged out to the
flea-market, on a lazy Sunday morning, his blue eyes glance around,
searching for something to grab his attention. A slight breeze flicks his
sandy hair from his freckled forehead.
I have a book-stall on the market, and its from there I'm staring now.
The market won't be busy for a couple of hours yet, so I have the luxury of
time - time to fantasize about the parade of youths, dragged here by their
working class mothers. Most of them are your average, scruffy, wouldn't
look twice, teens. Then, occasionally, I'll get one like this. He has
that perfect build - you know, the one that says "I'm enough to know
what you're thinking, but too for you to do anything about it!".
Kind of like the middle one from Hanson, but more city than beach. Cute,
but trying to be a man.
Do you get what I mean yet?
My eyes move down from his white tee-shirted chest, towards his crotch.
He's wearing sandstone jeans, the colour of which mirror his hair. My
vision tunnels in on his fly region, trying to make out any bulges. After
five or six seconds of staring, his hand move into my focus, and rubs
across his cock. I look up - does he know I'm watching?
No. He's looking in the other direction. He glances at his -
she's still absorbed in the clothes, and then looks round, like he's
checking for anyone watching. He still doesn't see me, and no-one else is
He's putting his hand down his jeans! He's adjusting himself, and, he's
squeezing his cock as he does it! There's no mistaking those movements.
He takes his hand out, leaving, quite clearly now, the outline of his
He's looking away again now, in the same direction as before. What is
it he's looking at that's turning him on so much? There's nothing over
But the toilets.
The public washrooms for the market. They were built in the sixties
together with the market, and haven't been refitted since. And for good
reason. You see, they don't get used as toilets as such (at least, not by
locals, who have all heard the stories). The people who use these
lavatories are after a different kind of relief. I'm sure I don't need to
be explicit to get across what I'm talking about. And so, locals won't go
in them. Mothers warn their kids not to go near them, in case a 'bad man'
should get them. And lets face it, there are enough of those in modern
society (says me, a staring at a twelve year old's crotch). But
This is staring at the toilets and getting off on it. And he must
be local - only local people would be on the market at this time in the
morning. He must know what goes on in there - it doen't make sense.
He's looking at his now, some indecision in his face. Suddenly
steeling himself, he walks over to her. He says something to her, and
points away, in the direction of a stall selling cheap computer games. She
looks at her watch, and replies to him, presumably telling him how long he
can be. He nods, and I read from his lips that he's replying, "Okay." to
Walking away, towards the computer stall, he glances over his shoulder.
His is once more absorbed in examining clothes, and, seeing this,
the turns, mid-stride, and paces away. Straight toward the toilets.
Well, what can I do?
Before I can answer this, I find I've already done it. I've pulled the
shutters down on my stall, stepped out, and started tracing the boy's
steps. Nobody pays any attention to me when I pause outside the toilets and
glance around, so I assume nobody sees me enter. And frankly, with my
hard-on raging inside my trousers, I don't care!
It's the smell that hits me first, stale urine, stale shit, and stale
semen. I breathe it in deeply, letting the odours infect my body - an
infestation of decrepitude. The walls are a grubby yellow, the floor dirty
brown tiles. The air is warm and damp. Walking into the toilets is like
being transported from a crisp clear mountain peak, to a festering, humid
Yeah, it turns me on.
I enter the proper. A line of six cubicles to my left,
graffitied and doorless; washbasins in front of me; and a row of urinals to
my right. It is at the last that the is standing.
At first, my heart sinks - he looks as though he's only taking a piss.
Maybe he doesn't know what goes on in here...maybe he just needs to take a
- but no. As I move closer to him, I can see the slow, languid, strokes
he is making with his fist. My hard-on pulses as I take the urinal next to
him. As I reach down to my fly, I realise we haven't made eye contact yet.
My hand reaches inside my pants, grasping my cock as I stare at his.
His delicate hand is moving from the base to the tip and back again, of his
four inches. The head glistens with precum. Fiercly, I yank my dick from
my pants. My boner bobs up and down in front of me.
And then, the giggles!
My eyes dart to his face and find his eyes locked on my midriff. He
giggles some more, and licks his lips: and he looked so innocent! I start
to stroke my shaft, and his eyes light up.
For a minute or so, we both continue stroking, when all of a sudden the
boy looks up at me, as if only just noticing I have a face. He pauses his
masturbation, and scrutinizes me. Finally he says, "You're kinda cute.
For an man."
Now, I'm not that old. Forty-five in September. But to a twelve year
old, I guess forty-four is ancient. I reply, "I bet this could
teach you a thing or two."
He gives me this really mischievious grin, like I've said something
funny. Glancing down at both our cocks he says, "Are you sure?" And before
I can reply, he's down on his knees, a hand around my dick. I feel it
twitch in his hand as he lowers his head closer.
An inch before his lips touch, he pauses, and softly blows, cooling the
precum that has gathered. His tongue slips out and licks my piss-hole. He
looks up and cryptically says,
"Mmmmm.... just like daddy used to make."
Looking down at him, "You've done this before then?"
Disdainful look up, "What d'you think?"
"I think.... I think you talk to much."
He seems to consider this, just for a second, "Maybe."
And his mouth opens and his head goes down, taking my full seven inches
deep into his throat. His lips close around the base of my shaft, and he
sucks, making the blood pressure in my cock rise to a painful ecstasy.
"Oh God yes!"
He releases the pressure, and starts to move up and down my shaft. His
youthful lips softly trace the veins which are protruding. His hand has
moved to his own dick, and is stroking in time to his movements on mine.
"God kid, you're good."
By way of reply, the moves up a gear, and increases the speed at
which he bobs up and down my shaft. My cock is covered with his spit,
which runs down the shaft and dampens my pubes. I can feel the pressure
Its like an itch, between my balls and the base of my cock. And it
can't be scratched, so it gets worse. Maddening, that I can't be released
from it. And the boy's movements make it worse. And the worse it gets,
the better it will be. An anatomy of orgasm. Once you're aware of how
everything occurs you can hold it, like I'm doing now. Postpone the moment
when I release my into his throat. The itch is so insanely painful. I
need the release! I need it...
"I'm cummin' kid!"
And I fill his mouth with semen, so much it dribbles from his lips. I
literally gush the stuff. It pours out of me, and.....
..... and, as so often happens when I orgasm, I get a memory. I'm
fifteen, and minding my year niece. I've given her her bath, and she's
lying in front of me while I dry her, her little chubby legs waving in the
air, revealing her baby slit. Not that I'm turned on, she's only a baby,
but I'm fifteen. Cunts are few and far between. So a bend down, for a
closer look. My face is inches away, I could lick her if I - and she
pisses on me. Little just gushing out, running down my face,
into my mouth. She literally gushes the stuff. It pours out of her,
.....and the memory breaks, and I'm back in the toilets, my dick in a
twelve year old's mouth. My drips from his chin. He's still and swallowing the last of the cum. My knees feel weak in the wake of my
He hasn't yet. He's still beating his four inch pecker. He
releases my cock, and licks round his mouth with his tongue. Just like
he's had a goddamn sugared donut!
He looks up, sweeping hair from his forehead with his free hand.
Blue eyes sparkle.
I laugh, "Jesus kid. Where'd you learn to do that?"
He looks away, and says, solemnly, "I'm a natural. Or at least, that's
what my dad said."
There's an awkward pause, where neither of us know what to say. Even
through the moment, he still strokes his dick.
"Are you... are you sure you're okay doing this? I mean..." I gesture
to my cock.
He glances down at his own cock. It's still rock hard. Developing a
smile again, he looks up. He gestures with his dick.
"Sure looks like I am, don't it? Don't you worry about my problems.
Well, except one...."
And, as he stands up and heads for a cubicle, I don't need telling which
of his problems is mine.
To be continued....