Brought up in a religious family, my life in all its aspects revolved around the Cathedral. I went to the choir school, was in the cathedral's platoon of Cubs, was going to piano lessons given by the Cathedral organist...it was inevitable I would join the Cathedral Choir as a boy treble. It was an all male choir and, really, apart from my mother, I grew up in an all-male environment until I was eighteen. It can't have been that which made me a boy lover as I was entirely typical and my brothers went through exactly the same process.

I was an angelic looking boy though, to be sure, the cassock, surplice and starched ruff contributed to this. Well, to move on - as a boy, nothing happened to me! I retained my innocence throughout my boyhood, and no one laid a finger on me. Not quite true...the cub master did love his new intake and was very physical with us, so there was much in the way of chasing and tickling and riding on his shoulders. But no more than that. And we had a sharp lesson in the realities of life when a new cub year began and a new intake arrived. We were cruelly thrust aside as he turned his attention to the newbies. Maybe I do the man a disservice and his actions were wholly innocent; perhaps be really did want simply to put us at our ease. It did not make what seemed like rejection any less traumatic for a nine year old.

The years passed. I sang my heart out, three times on Sundays, once on Wednesdays, year in and year out until the inevitable happened and my voice broke. I kept up my presence in the choir, however, by becoming a member of the Guild of Service, the Anglican equivalent of altar boys, but we seemed to lack abusive, pedo priests. A shame because I was dying to be abused for years without anything happening. And then, as my voice settled and I could sing without the danger of a squawk emerging, I became a bass in the men's choir.

Then I left home to go to university, and, freed from the stifling Puritanism of my home provincial city, I became an out gay man. However, I had grown up with secrecy an essential part of my nature and my day to day life and so it continued. I had always had romantic longings for boys of my own age or younger, since the time I became aware of my sexuality at the age of twelve. This saved me from predatory older men and they were definitely around, circling like sharks but curiously reluctant to attack. The cub master was replaced by the scoutmaster, by a member of the clergy, by my art teacher and I exploited all of them. I knew what their interest in me was all about. I was happy to accept all the presents and treats that came my way but I was not prepared to offer anything in return except companionship. And, to do them credit, they never attempted any further intimacies even though I marvel now at the time I spent with them, just an adolescent boy and a middle-aged man, on day outings, or sailing, or listening to music and, guiltiest of pleasures, being introduced to wine... I doubt I, as an adult pedo, could be so restrained, given the intimacy of these situations. My parents were alarmed but that's a different story.

My secret lives continued into young manhood because it was all too clear to myself that I was/am a pedo, and we don't get the best of press at the best of times. Oh, I may have been an out gay man but I owned up only to an interest in males. And I tried repeatedly to go 'straight' by having a succession of lovers who were all of legal age. But my heart was not in it and, not surprisingly, none of these relationships lasted. Not that I resigned myself to celibacy but again, those are different stories to be told.

My life was a restless one. I kept moving from country to country, from Spain, to France, from France to Germany and from city to city within each country until I reached, let me say, a certain age and I realised that I had few, genuine friends. I decided to return to my home city. One advantage was that, by selling a property in an expensive European city I had enough money to buy outright a huge luxury house in the countryside, not for from the city, which in addition to its size, boasted a ten metre indoor swimming pool. I intended this to be the bait.

The city had changed a lot. But my family was no longer there and I had left childhood friends behind long ago. I needed a social life. Where better to turn then than to the world that had embraced me, educated me and protected me? Yes, the world of the cathedral and its choir.

I went back as a tenor. Amazingly, there were still members in the men's choir who had been there in my time, all those years ago. But the boys were, of course, entirely new! They seemed to range in age from eight to an amazing fourteen. There were two boys who were taller than I am! Still with unbroken voices. Mine had gone when I was twelve. Anyway, they were all shapes and sizes and all with the beautiful bloom of boyhood on them.

The eight year olds, the newbies, contributed little other than beauty. I soon discovered that, joining the choir, even as a man, was akin to be thrown in at the deep end. There was an hour's rehearsal before the service for the boys, the men arriving after half an hour into it. Music was handed out and you read it and sang. No note banging - you were expected to read your part on sight. Really, it was the same for the boys. The youngest boys just joined in where they could. Otherwise they were simply absorbing the music until such time as they could open their mouths and sing with confidence.

A boy's choir is a marvelous thing and all boy lovers should grasp any opportunity to hear one live. Perhaps nothing captures so perfectly and poignantly the transitory nature of the beauty of boys than their voices raised in unsullied innocence. Even those boys who, outside the choir's duties, might be brash and crass and vulgar, in that setting and with those sounds become angels. Angels that I planned to fuck and be sucked by. How many boring sermons passed with me sitting there imagining sex with each one in turn - or better still, an orgy at my pool, with me talking my pick like a depraved Roman Emperor. I thought longingly of Tiberius, with his 'minnows', trained to swim underwater and nibble and lick at his genitals as he swam. How fit a forty-five year old I could turn out to be!

Facing across the divide of the chancel, Decani and Cantoris, I had a perfect sight of six of these 'angels'. As the weeks passed I began to feel I knew them and characterise them, even if I had picked up few of their names. It passed the time in the more boring sermons to give them nicknames and to fantasize about which I would fuck if offered a choice. There was Emo boy, about twelve, just beginning to shoot up, with a new found vanity that led him to torture and tease his mop of black hair forward from his ears; Tich, the smallest boy, with freckles and definitely one of those boys who could not remain well presented how much his mother might try - the shoes would always be scuffed, the tie awry, the hair refusing to sit down; Boss, oldest, tallest, most mature, most experienced, whose days as head chorister were surely numbered; Blondie, most conventionally pretty with delicate, fine, almost feminine features; Spud, a thickset boy with a coarse, jovial face and an inability to rise to the solemnity of the occasion; and John, perhaps the most conventional looking boy in the choir. There was an ordinariness about John which led me to overlook him at first. Neither tall nor short in height, hair rather mousy, cut in the classic school boy cut, just neat and short. But little by little he began to draw my attention, more and more.

They were a fidgety lot. They yawned and shifted about and giggled together when they were not singing. We were much more strictly controlled when I was a boy. But John might have been beamed up from an earlier age. He behaved himself. He was focused, concentrated, prepared. As soon as one piece of music finished, he had the next on the music stand, ready to go. He sat motionless and expressionless, his eyes distant but curiously alert. He appeared to exist outside our dimension until the cue came to sing and he was there, on his feet, ready to sing.

So little by little, I began to pay less attention to the others. In fact, I seemed to be mesmerised by him. He, sadly, seemed unaware of my existence. Until one practice where, alarmingly, he reached for a high note, and missed it, by at least a tone. The rehearsal continued with only a glare from the choirmaster to indicate it had happened. Plus the blush that quickly spread over his face and his own look of horror. His eyes seemed to search our ranks on the other side to see if we had noticed. His eye caught mine, I winked, and made a rueful face. He smiled. The first smile I had seen from him as he seemed an unusually serious boy.

And with that smile my obsession really began. Now, a smile is very little to build on but it was all I had so I determined I would build on it. I became every mother's nightmare - a predatory pedo, obsessed with the idea of slipping my cock into her little boy's hole whether he wanted it or not. I found that I was wanking three to four times a day and always with the same visions before my eyes - John's little mouth stretched to the maximum to accommodate my thrusting cock, gagging on it but powerless to resist as I held his head firmly fixed on it until I exploded down his convulsing throat; or better, me spreading his arse cheeks and pushing relentlessly into his hole, which in some of my solo sessions he loved, and in other, even more exciting, he screamed at the relentless invasion but to no avail as I ploughed him to my desired conclusion of emptying my seed deep into his boy cunt.

To be continued...