luc.html

Huge Dildo

A story by Bard Boy [bard_boy(at)protonmail(dot)com]

I write a lot, mainly intending it to be longer format stuff. I don”t really do short stories. This means that I have a lot of unfinished bits and pieces and/or cast-offs that I”m yet to continue or recycle for something else. In this series I”ll post up some of the good bits that work for Nifty, but don”t form part of a finished story yet. There won”t be any unifying theme, and the style may change radically from one piece to the next. If short, sexy vignettes are your thing, I hope you enjoy reading some of these as I post them up.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. None of the characters in it are real, and the town doesn”t even exist. The story explores underage alcohol and drug use, and sex between an adult and a teenager. Just because it”s here in a story, doesn”t mean any of those things are encouraged. Don”t break any laws or do anything that might hurt someone else. If you do, don”t blame me for the consequences. But, of course, if it”s legal where you live, you may want to light up a fat one while reading this.

This story is the property of the author. Do not repost it elsewhere without their prior consent.

Nifty relies on donations. If you can contribute, do so here.

 

Luc

 

I first saw Luc on the bus from the stadium, on the night of my first French football match. Villeneuve had played very well to earn a surprise 2-1 victory over Lyon, in a game from which the visitors expected three points to further their claim to second place in the league – best of the rest after the ridiculously dominant Paris Saint-Germain. The long bendy bus chugged through the spring night, and I stood in the middle of the bend – the rubbery joint between the two halves of the bus – with two friends from my new local pub, stealing furtive glances at Luc as he stood by the rear doors with his dad.

His dad was a big man, all dreadlocks and tattoos, the top of his head looming over the upper handrail, casting a shadow over his corner in the cold, creamy light of the late bus. Luc was evidently tired – it was, as the French say, twenty-three thirty, after all – and leaned forward into his dad’s chest. The man didn’t acknowledge him; he and his friend were joking with two young women sat opposite. Flirting. I snuck a glance at Luc’s pert ass, outlined perfectly in his tracksuit bottoms as he leaned forward, his back to me, resting his head against his dad. Then he stood back up, and I turned back to my friends before I got spotted checking out a young boy.

The thing about looking, especially in crowds, is that very few people are ever paying attention to what anyone else is looking at. It’s a free hit. There’s a reason that ‘getting lost in a crowd’ is a cliché. I’ve been at my most alone sometimes in football crowds, where we’re all together, relying on the collective of the crowd to connect for us, each trapped in our own private worlds. I can think about whatever I want. I can feel how I please. I can perv on young lads.

Lads like Luc. I guessed he was maybe twelve. A tall twelve. I’m not a big guy, so tall twelve-year-olds come up maybe to my mouth or nose. Luc looked to be maybe that height; one of those boys who are tall but not lanky or gangly, rather genuinely well-built. One of those boys who are big, and a bit rough around the edges maybe, but still talk in a lilting falsetto and are tired by eleven-thirty on a Friday night, worn out from celebrating a late winning goal in the tribune with the ultras.

He had the ‘loveable rogue’ look nailed. Thankfully not dreaded like his dad, he had short golden-brown hair, left sort of messy – au naturel. Two ridiculous square ear studs, shiny but clearly not diamond. Tracksuit clinging to his perfectly sculpted backside. Grey eyes. Straight nose with a bridge that bulged and threatened to hook but couldn’t quite bring itself to vandalise his face. Chapped lips pouted out by a fresh set of braces. The thing I remember most, though, of that first encounter, is his hands. He held out his left hand to grab a bus bar, I remember distinctly. It looked large and rough, shortish fingers, shortish fingernails. A loveable rogue’s hand, all wrestling and wheelies.

When we reached our stop, I tried to brush against him as we left through the rear doors. He politely made as much room as possible to allow me to pass unobstructed, squeezing in and looking at the floor. But I bet he still felt my eyes all over him.

 

**

 

It was the next season. Maybe October. Villeneuve kept their usual routine of pootling around the bottom half of the table without ever threatening relegation. Sometimes I’d see Luc and his dad on the post-match bus ride to the pub, other times not. This time, after Villeneuve edged a late goal to beat local rivals Caen, I saw Luc, sat on a seat near the back of the bus.

Just Luc. No dad.

I was alone too. I’d met my friends at the game and had a couple of beers, but they had some family party to attend that required some other bus route. So, perhaps fortified by several French lagers, I made straight for the seat next to him.

“Is this seat taken?”

Shake of the head. Gaze through the window.

I sat down and stretched, somewhat melodramatically. No reaction. He was in tracksuit bottoms again and they clung to the form of his thighs. I manspreaded a little so our legs touched.

“Don’t you usually go with your dad?”

Shrug. Gaze fixed on the window. Outside was too dark, inside too bright, to see much beyond your own reflection. It was another Friday night game.

He could tell I was watching him and waiting. He sighed and decided to play the game.

“Where are you from?”

Still gazing at some point hidden beyond his reflection.

“Villeneuve,” I said.

“No,” he huffed, “I mean originally. You have an accent.”

Got me there, kid.

“England.”

“I thought so,” he said, “Your accent sounds English. And I heard you speaking English, before, with some other people.”

“I could have been American.”

He finally looked at me, incredulously.

“American people don’t speak French,” he said. “And definitely don’t watch football.”

I laughed and nodded at him. Bonne point, bien fait.

“It’s a bit weird,” he said.

“Sorry?”

“It’s weird, you supporting Villeneuve.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “I live here,” I said. “I love football, like you. Why wouldn’t I support Villeneuve?”

He raised his eyebrows and his grey eyes surveyed me, very seriously. “No, I mean supporting Villeneuve. I’ve seen you before at the stadium. You stand in the Tribune Sud with the ultras and sing all the songs.”

I held his gaze and smiled at him. “You spied on me.”

“No!”

I laughed to myself. Luc blushed a little and folded his arms, gazing past himself in the window again.

“It’s just a joke,” I said, knocking my knee against his. “Anyway, that’s how I’ve always watched football. It’s not only about the players on the pitch. It’s the atmosphere, the fun with other people, you know, like that. Maybe it’s weird, but so is putting egg on pizza. French people still do that all the time.”

“My dad’s in hospital.”

This sudden conversational turn momentarily caught me out.

“Oh,” I said. “I hope he’ll be okay. Is that why you’re by yourself tonight?”

Back to staring past his own reflection again. “Yes.”

“So, it’s just you başakşehir escort and your mom at home at the moment?”

“Just me.”

“Grandparents?”

“Just me.”

I wasn’t sure if I totally believed him. He was a young kid. Surely someone was looking out for him, at least, if not actively looking after him. But, then again, if not…

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Luc.”

“How old are you, Luc?”

“Thirteen.”

“And you’ll be all alone when you get home?”

He nodded. I was watching his reflection in the glass rather than looking directly at him; he was curled sideways against the seat, so he had part of his back and shoulders to me. I heard the announcement for the bus stop nearest the pub.

“That’s a bit crap,” I said. “You’ll have nobody to celebrate the victory with.”

He turned and looked at me strangely.

“I’m by myself, too,” I said. “But I have a few beers at home if you’re interested in sharing.”

“You want to drink beer with me?” Luc squeaked.

“I have some stuff we can smoke as well,” I said, grinning at Luc. He smirked and showed his braces. “What do you think?” I squeezed his left thigh with my right hand as I asked.

“Okay…” he said, blushing and looking back at the window.

“Great,” I said, “Look out; it’s the next stop.”

I got to my feet and Luc followed. I put my arm around his shoulder as the stop for my apartment was announced.

“Allez Villeneuve,” I said to Luc.

“Allez Villeneuve,” he smiled back.

The doors opened.

 

**

 

Not having previously made a habit of inviting sexy thirteen-year-old boys back to my apartment, I wasn’t entirely sure what to do next. Luc had taken the bait of being invited to do things I’d normally invite adults to do, so the easiest thing to do was let that play out.

Luc sat on my sofa, in front of an untidy coffee table, looking around. His right knee danced and he had his hands in his pockets.

“Here,” I said, handing him a beer from the fridge. “Bottle opener is on my keyring.”

“Umm, thanks,” he said, reaching for the keys on the table. He opened his beer as I sat alongside him. I smiled at him and he looked satisfied, sat with his open beer in hand. Nervous, but satisfied.

“Cheers,” I said, in English, clinking my bottle with his.

“Tchee-urs,” he responded. I nodded and took a swig of beer.

“I didn’t know what you liked, so I got us the French stuff,” I said. “I keep the good English stuff for myself.”

He made a face, wiped his mouth with the back of a rough hand. “French beer is probably better.”

He thought for a second.

“Why do you live here, anyway?”

“Work,” I said. “I didn’t have to come to Villeneuve. I visited here once about a year ago and decided I wanted a change of scene. I found an opportunity to move here permanently after that.”

“Cool,” he said. “You didn’t tell me your name?”

“Duncan.”

“Dun-can?”

“Duncan.”

“Okay.”

“You can just say Dunc.”

For some reason that made him snort with laughter. “Okay, Dunc!”

“I know how much French people love to say it,” I said. “Donc, donc, donc, euuuuh, donc, donc, euuuuh, donc…”

Luc was rocking with laughter, and his beer was foaming. “You’re a racist, man!”

I laughed too. “No, I love French people!”

Luc took a big swig of his frothy beer and it fizzed up his nose, making him cough.

“Hey, spill that beer and I’ll spill you.”

“What do you mean, spill me?” he said, standing up and puffing out his chest exaggeratedly. “Come on, you can’t even speak French properly. Fight me!” I think the beer had gone straight to his head.

“Alright big man!” I said, accidentally reverting to dialect English before catching myself and flipping back to French. “Okay, little boy. You want this?”

I stood up and pushed my chest against his. He laughed and immediately started grappling with me, trying to hook his leg around my ankles so that I’d fall back to the sofa. I pushed myself free of his hands and tickled his body. He squealed.

“You’re cheating!”

With my extra height and weight, I easily pushed Luc back down onto the sofa, me on top of him, he in fits of giggles, wriggling and writhing, gasping for air.

“You fight like a girl!” he panted.

“You scream like a girl,” I said.

“Okay, even,” he said. I could feel the soft warmth of his body beneath mine.

“Finish your beer,” I said, looking him directly in his watery grey eyes. “I’ll sort out the weed and get us fresh ones.”

Luc grinned. I slapped his hip twice as I lifted myself off him. “Allez Villeneuve!”

“Allez Villeneuve!”

 

**

 

I’ve never been the best at rolling, so the next part took me some time. Luc and I had finished our beers; I sent him to the fridge for two more, and he was popping them open as I finally held up my creation to the light.

“Beautiful!” I said. I moved to sit right next to Luc, our thighs and arms touching. I lit up and took the first drag.

Luc was watching me closely. I handed him the spliff.

“Do you know how to do it?” I asked.

“I’ve smoked cigarettes before.”

“This is a little different,” I said.

I put my arm around Luc’s shoulders and used my hand to move his arm, drawing the spliff towards his lips. 

“You suck in, just like usual,” I said. “Then it’s probably a good idea to hold the smoke in your mouth a little, breathe it into your throat slowly, bit by bit. Afterwards breathe out through your nose.”

He was doing it, my hand still on his forearm, though there was no need for me to guide him physically. I felt his chest expand against me as he sucked in the smoke, then deflate as he breathed out, looking pleased with himself. He turned and looked at me for a reaction.

“Good?” I asked.

“Good.”

He took a second drag but fumbled his technique somewhat this time. My arm was still around his shoulders, stroking his thin bicep. He coughed and spluttered, and I moved it to slap his back.

“Still need more practice,” I said. “Give it to me.”

I took another hit. The end of the joint was warm and wet with his saliva.

“Drink some beer,” I said to Luc, as he sat subtly against me, a little red-faced. He took a long set of swigs while I had another drag. I handed the spliff back to him.

“Don’t rush,” I said. “Enjoy it.”

He took a couple more drags, grunted, lay against me a little more. My arm was back around his shoulders, my other on my beer.

“How does it feel?” I asked.

“Soft,” said Luc. “Warm.”

I ran my hand flat across his chest. He wore a thin white t-shirt, his tracksuit jacket open at the front. He’d taken his Air Max off at the door.

“Does that feel nice?” I asked. “Soft?”

He nodded. I took the joint gently from his fingers with my wandering hand and put it to my mouth, pulling the pliant boy further against me with my forearm cross his chest. I took a drag and then fed it to his lips. I felt their pout against the bottoms of my fingers as I held the spliff to them.

“Good celebration, eh, Luc?”

“Feels good.”

I eased his jacket off and sat him more against my chest. I spread him like pâté, felt him soft and warm against me. He smoked more.

“You finish it,” I said. “I’ll help you feel good.”

As Luc smoked, I let both my hands wander over his body. Luc let both halkalı escort my hands wander over his body. He was mine to pour in any direction I liked.

“You have a nice body, Luc.” One hand on his right breast, the other on his flat tummy, fingering his bellybutton through the fabric of his t-shirt.

“Mmph,” he grunted, taking another hit on the spliff as it began to burn down.

“I think about it every time I see you. I think, there’s that hot boy again, with the tight, sexy body.”

“Mmmm,” Luc smirked to himself as he blew smoke from his nostrils.

“Is that a good feeling?” I asked, running my hand under his t-shirt to feel the bare skin of his belly, the ripple of his muscles beneath, his body somewhere between big boy and young man.

“Touch me,” he whispered, nodding his head. The spliff was finished. I took it from Luc and tossed it onto the table. I ran both my hands up his sides, underneath his t-shirt.

“Raise your arms.”

I pulled his top off him, over his head, finally revealing more of his taut body. Smooth. Hairless. Tiny brown nipples, erect from all the attention his upper body had been receiving. Soft and warm.

“Beautiful,” I said.

“Thanks,” he whispered, eyes half closed, head laid back against my chest. He breathed deeply and slowly, seeming utterly comfortable and relaxed. We were on the second floor, but he was floating somewhere above the rooftops. “Touch more; it’s good.”

I ran my hands in large circles over his torso, pinching at his nipples on each pass. And with each pass, the lower reach of my hands descended, pressing ever more against the waistband of his tracksuit bottoms. Soon I had a hand slipped in, resting half-beyond the elastic. I tickled the area beneath his bellybutton with my thumb, ever so slowly letting the rest of my hand descend more. Soft and warm, and there, in the darkness of the front of his bottoms, damp and sweaty. I felt the waistband of some boxer shorts, form-fitting, the penultimate stop on my journey south. Luc lay still, still breathing deeply, still beatific, lying against my body. I pushed my hand beyond this last frontier, reaching into the warm damp of the young boy’s underpants. In a swift move I had my fingers around a semi-hard cock, which rose to salute my touch.

“Fuck…” whispered Luc.

“You want me to touch more?”

“Touch more. Please.”

S’il te plaît. If it pleases you. It pleases me very much, Luc.

 

**

 

Luc was my puppy to scratch and lead away once I had him hard in my hand. Not to mention scandalously high for a thirteen-year-old boy. I was feeling it a little – it wasn’t weak stuff – and I imagine it was his first time. At any of this.

I played with him on the sofa for a while, his body limp jelly against mine, save for the silky, steely stiffness of his dick. I jerked him at mid-pace, making his cock and balls clench and dance, feeling him begin to lubricate – the thin wetness of a streaky beginner. I worked his bottoms and boxers down and off his legs, leaving him lain against me in just his dark, ankle-length sports socks. I tried a kiss on the lips, but he turned his head in refusal; I nuzzled his cheek instead. My left hand caressed the unblemished skin of his thighs, cupped his pert, sweaty buttocks, fondled his balls. My right kept jacking, spreading his moisture with my thumb.

He had a big boy’s zizi. It wasn’t yet a teenage zizi, fat and long and thick and vascular; the beginnings of a man’s zizi. But it wasn’t a little boy’s compact zizi meant only for doing pipi, either. It was still thin, but lengthening, at the stage at which it was at odd proportions with the more rapidly growing balls and descending, webby ballbag. A big boy zizi, not a little boy zizi, nor an adolescent zizi. A big boy zizi with a smattering of little blond hairs around the top, a couple of the longer ones either side of the shaft starting to turn browner and coarser.

And it was definitely a zizi. Not a willy, nor a wiener or peepee, or whatever. At the risk of sounding like Mellors from Lady Chatterley’s Lover, tediously exhorting the true meanings of ‘fucking’ and ‘cunt’, a French boy’s zizi is different from an English boy’s willy. Physically they might look alike – the scourge of circumcision not ever having caught on in our wet and windy corner of Western Europe – but they mean very different things. The way a French boy thinks about his zizi, acts with it and towards it, is different from how an English boy thinks about and acts with his willy. Most English males over the age of about nine don’t enjoy wearing tight speedos. Most French males wouldn’t think twice about cupping a friend’s crotch for an extended period of time as a joke. Luc was a French boy with a big boy zizi.

That being the case, it wasn’t hard to move things to the bedroom, with whispered nothings about how big, and hard, and sexy he was. Of course, in his state, I had to carry him, legs wrapped around my waist. He was way too heavy, but the chance to run my fingers along his now splayed arse-crack was encouragement enough for perseverance. He moaned into my ear. I dumped him on the bed.

“Take off your socks,” I said, standing over the bed, staring ravenously at him, stripping my own clothes.

He’d just about managed it by the time I’d got on the bed with him. My hard dick was in front of his mouth and nose, centimetres short of touching him.

“What do you think of this?” I asked, placing his aimless hands around my member, bulbous, rigid and proud as an old oak table leg. “I’ll suck yours if you suck mine.”

I didn’t wait for an answer and plunged onto Luc’s throbbing cock – big boy zizi – tasting his sweet dribbles of fluid. He moaned and his urethra burped more precum onto my tongue as it flicked at his bellend. I could smell sweat on his bald scrotum, the moisture making the thin skin tacky against the touch of my nose. There was a hint of stale piss under his foreskin – typical loveable rogue tastes; too busy rascalling for strict hygiene.

My dick was still open-air, Luc’s rough hands gently playing with the shaft and my balls, much more voluminous than his own, and decorated with long, flyaway white and blond hairs. I pushed myself further towards his mouth, trying to force the decision on him while milking his zizi with my mouth. The head touched his lips, and I sensed the warmth of his breath, inhaling sharply twice, as if sniffing it. Then, his decision must have been made. A couple of tentative licks, teasing my knob with a clumsy tongue, then penetration, entrance, a wet embrace. I didn’t care that he had no concept of minding his teeth. I just needed to know he’d do it.

I upped my game on Luc’s cock. His defence had no answer to my direct oral attack, my superior pace and power, my lips working the offside of his zizi – boys against men – while my tongue drove him to the goal.

“Nnhuuuhuuuuuhw!” His cry muffled by the head of my cock in his mouth, Luc’s cock delivered its payload to mine, a shot, then a dribble of his sugar brine. I sucked it down and spat out his spent worm.

“That good? You want more?” I pulled myself from his mouth and reached over him, my chest and arm brushing his clammy torso, to grab a bottle from the bedside table. It was only beard oil, but it would have to do. I hadn’t exactly planned ahead.

Luc looked dazed, still coming down from coming hard while higher than the Chili Peppers. I puddled some oil on my fingers and placed şirinevler escort them against his players’ tunnel.

“You want more? Here?” He stared at me, his eyes glazed and confused. I pushed my middle finger slowly but firmly past his outer ring, and he growled and whined like an angry puppy, scrunching his eyes, gritting his teeth, pushing his head back.

“More?”

He nodded his head once, slowly, then, as I paused, twice more, quickly. I plunged in to the base and watched him writhe and howl, then whimper as his zizi, the skin salami-red from its adventures in my mouth, stood to match me like a finger puppet.

 

**

 

Working Luc’s tense little hole was a dream. At first, my middle finger was in a red-hot stranglehold, the boy grunting and his zizi twitching as I worked round and round, in and out. I pulled his arms behind him with my free hand, to prevent him touching himself and cutting off my journey down the home stretch before it had begun. I nuzzled and licked at his neck, his ear, and the side of his face, smelling strongly of ganja and tobacco. The tips of his fingers tickled my damp and sticky bellend. As I felt Luc begin to loosen up, I pulled my finger out to the tip, gripped by his twitching doughnut, and slammed my index finger back inside with it. Luc gurgled and reflexively bucked away, but I had him by his wrists, and dragged his hips back towards me with my knee. He was too relaxed to resist. His cock had deflated a little to a semi in reaction to the new, sharp intrusion in his rear orifice. A flick over the knoll of his prostate gland had him bursting to attention again, a big trickle of immature lubrication pooling in the cup of his foreskin.

“You love it, don’t you?” I whispered roughly in his ear. Luc just cooed and warbled, to overwhelmed by the combination of his high and the new sensations to speak coherently.

I released his wrists so as I might dump more beard oil onto my fingers and his ring, gradually widening out like a reluctant circle of rubber. His hands didn’t move, his rough fingers still mindlessly fondling my glans and foreskin. I gave it a few minutes, fucking away with two fingers, scissoring at his rear passage, letting my mouth and tongue do a little tour of his upper body while I worked. The plastic smooth of a sweat-tangy armpit, Luc too high and focused on the feelings coursing from back to front of his pelvis to get ticklish. The solidity and power of his ribcage, giving sharply way to his boyish abs, chest rising and falling with the medium pace of his breathing, thud-thud vibrations of his heart to one side. Finally, his miniature brown nipple, rigid with sensation, which I nibbled as a distraction while slipping my ring finger into his oily arse alongside the others.

Luc growled and tried to twist away again – a welcome reminder that he was still awake – but I had him pinned by the lower leg with my knee, by the wrists with my hand, and by the chest with my teeth. This time his zizi stayed rock solid and bobbing. My two other fingers had taken the time to do a proper job. My cock was also straining at its physical bounds, threatening to end its nights work prematurely every time it brushed against Luc’s passive fingers. My threesome only had time to do a rudimentary job of stretching out his teen tunnel further. It was about to take a thick adult cock regardless.

I released his limp wrists and used my free hand to slicken by cock with more of my male grooming oil. Of course, tonight it was serving that purpose in a somewhat different context. I already had him pinned in the spoons position. With a little shuffling, my slimy eel was in place. I pulled my fingers away and felt the slick heat of his back passage against the dome of my cockhead.

“Are you ready to be fucked?” I asked, assertively, directly into Luc’s ear.

“What?” he croaked, groggily.

“You’re going to get fucked now.”

I pressed against his dilated shithole and my slippery man shaft squeezed him further open without any particularly dogged resistance. Luc squealed, his body going from a puddle of warm water to a stiff block of ice in an instant. His copious sweat was dampening the bedsheets.

“Stay relaxed,” I said. “Act like you’re shitting.”

Luc was too out of it to hold his own leg in place, so I gripped the back of his thigh below the knee myself, with an oily hand slickening the pit of his leg and the back of his prickly calf. His proud zizi had withered on penetration and shrunk to more minimal proportions, hiding under an increasing tail of foreskin, as I slid more of my member into his rear. I momentarily released his leg to place one of his hands on his groin, slickening his fingers with oil, and retracting his skin to mix it with his natural lubrication previously produced by my pistoning fingers. I encouraged him to fondle himself, my dick slipping ever further into his gulping anal canal, his sphincters pliantly accommodating the invasion. Luc whimpered, grunted, heaved, but didn’t move or object. I angled myself in the vague direction of his prostate and began to saw my cock in and out, a little more entering each time. His zizi decided this was a good time to come back out to play, lengthening and widening in Luc’s slippery grip. Our balls touched, and with enough persistent pressure, my pubes were flattened against his cleft, buttocks squashed against my pubis. I hade made him take it all. I revelled in victory for the second time that night. Luc quietly pumped his stiff zizi.

This was my cue to start fucking properly; to show the boy how it was done. Luc squeaked and squelched as I pounded him quicker, battering his buzzer on every thrust like a manic gameshow contestant. The countdown clock was dropping fast, but I was solving the conundrum every time. It wasn’t long before I felt Luc’s inside spasm and contract, squelching more around my bursting cock, which fired off on the first squeeze. I filled his rectum with a healthy amount of red-hot spunk, licking his salty face and neck as I came, pressed balls-deep into his conquered cunt. Luc had released a single dribble of translucent semen, dribbling down the shaft of his abandoned zizi like a single teardrop.

He was asleep before I’d even fully extricated myself from him. I left him collapsed on the damp sheets and went to brush my teeth and wash my hands and my spent dick. Luc hadn’t moved when I returned to my bedroom.

The bedside lamp played deep, dark shadows across the room, Luc in the deep sleep of a strong joint, naked and uncovered in the middle of the bed. His little ejaculation was beginning to dry and leave a sticky residue on his now re-shrivelled zizi and sparse blond pubes. I leaned in and parted his cheeks to assess his hole. It was still slick with oil, and a fair amount of my spunk had flooded out while he was still dilated – before the puffy rubber knot had managed to close itself back up – and was drying in large, sticky clumps on his taint, in his crack, and on his thighs. He was sore and slightly bloodied – I’d noticed some on my cock, along with streaks of his shit, while I was cleaning it – and I relished the chance of making him submit to the application of ointment in the morning.

For now, I needed to sleep. The combination of beer and weed was sapping my will to stay awake too, now that the thrill of defiling Luc’s provocative early-teen form was all but spent. I eased the defenceless, comatose boy to one side of the bed, leaning over to kiss and lick at his rosy lips when I was finished. They tasted of weed, and tobacco, and beer, and a hint of man cock. This virgin lad had ended up swallowing at both ends. I guess he wasn’t so tough and roguish after all. I lay alongside him, pulled up the bedcovers, and turned off the lamp.

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