Parrafan

Mothers' Club
&
A Walk in the Park

#1
Mothers' Club

Every boy suspects, doesn't he? Every boy, deep down, has a sneaking niggle of suspicion, a tiny crawling termite of doubt. That when he is at school, or at sport on a weekend, or attending his scout troop meeting some evening, or perhaps selling newspapers on his paper route of an afternoon, that his mother is gossiping about him to other mothers. Gossiping 3; discussing 3; disclosing 3; undermining 3; exposing. Revealing things that no boy wants revealed. Personal things.

The sad truth is, these fears that all boys hold are well founded. Mothers gossip about their sons all the time. It's one of their favourite pastimes, especially if they don't have a husband or partner to dump on.

What drives them to do it? How can they live with themselves? We're going to have a peek at one such group of chatty mothers, and listen in on what they are saying to each other about their male offspring. Set your faces to 'stunned' 3;

Tale #1 – New Undies

"What did you do, dear?" Mrs Baker asked solicitously.

"I used my ultimate weapon – I told him we were going shopping for clothes! He absolutely hates that. But I refused to give in and just let him buy things for himself, because he always comes home with the most dreadful items, all mismatched colours and incorrectly sized. That boy just has no idea – or maybe he does, and he just enjoys tormenting me!"

"How old is Paul again?" Mrs Peterson chimed in.

"Thirteen and two months last Tuesday," Mrs Kenthurst rattled off without having to think. "Gets one pubic hair and he thinks he's Jesus Christ in a pair of Reeboks. Well, I fixed his little red waggon for him."

"What did you do, pet?" Mrs Flannery asked, eyebrows raised.

"Well, first off I phoned the menswear shop down town, you know the one, they have that big marquee outside? I wanted to make sure René was still working there. He was such a help with Chelsea, you know, Paul's older brother, when he needed outfitting for ballet school-"

"Your older son is named Chelsea?" Mrs Peterson inquired. She had only been in the Mothers' Club a few months.

"What? Oh, of course not, dear, it's Kelsey. It's just that all the other boys in his class called him 'Chelsea' for some foolish boyish reason or other, and the name just stuck. After a while, I was calling him that myself! There was one summer when I heard it all the time from one visiting classmate or other, there was a virtual stream of them, going in and out of his room every day it seemed like. Right through the whole vacation, Chel- er, Kelsey would only appear at odd intervals to use the bathroom and brush his teeth, then disappear back into his bedroom. He was very popular, though, even though he didn't go out for sports. Goodness me, I had boys coming and going at all hours, asking for Ch- uh, Kelsey. The day before he left for the ballet academy, all his school friends gave him a big send-off, a sleepover party. Though I don't think he got much sleep, the next morning he looked very tired and was walking very gingerly. But where was I?"

"You phoned to ask if René still worked at Carson's Menswear," Mrs Baker reminded.

"Oh yes, that's right. René had been such a help with Kelsey, those ballet uniforms must be terribly hard to fit, he had to go back again and again to René just to get the size exactly right. René even let Kelsey visit the shop after it had closed, that's how dedicated he is, letting him in the trade entrance at the back and staying on for, oh, hours it was some evenings. That's how I know René is thorough: he simply doesn't stop until the job is done. That's exactly what Kelsey told me- 'René just doesn't stop, Mom', he told me once. Anyway, they advised me that René is still there, in the boyswear department. He's almost a fixture there. He'd probably work for nothing, the man is so loyal to old Mr Carson.

"So, I didn't tell Paul where we were going until we were in the car. Gave him no chance to back out, or pull some lame excuse. You should have seen his face when I told him we were shopping for underwear at Carson's. Took the wind right out of his sails. I told him he could begin buying his own clothing when I saw a change in his attitude, and until then we were shopping for it together."

"Quite right, too," Mrs Jensen added. "Did René give you good service?"

"The best, as usual," Mrs Kenthurst replied. "As soon as we arrived, he met us at the door and whisked us away to a fitting room. I suggested that Paul needed to be measured for some new underwear, and René agreed with me wholeheartedly. Such a pleasure to be served by a male who understands these things! I told Paul to slip his jeans off so René could get an accurate measurement, and that's when the sulky face appeared. Can you believe it, he didn't want to take his pants off in front of his mother? Who had her own body bloated out of shape carrying him for nine months!"

The other women muttered agreement at this, all of them well able to recall the tribulations of their own pregnancies. "So what did you tell him, dear?" Mrs Flannery sniffed.

"I gave him a little reminder of who was the boss. I shamed him into it. I said, loud enough for anyone within the store to hear, 'who wiped your shitty bottom when you were a baby? Who cleaned under your foreskin when you took your first bath? And who do you think knows every inch of your body because she's seen it naked since the day you were born, so now you can't even take your pants off?! I bet you've got those ghastly boxers on underneath again!' Oh, yeah, I let him have both barrels."

"Good for you, dear," murmured Mrs Peterson. "Did it work?"

Mrs Kenthurst smirked. "Damn straight! He knew that I would just get a lot louder and a whole lot more personal if he didn't play ball. He looked at René, as if to suggest that he shouldn't undress in front of him, but I told him René was like one of the family, and to get on with it. He unzipped the jeans, and, sure enough, he had on this pair of boxers with some cartoon thing on them. Some little kid with a head shaped like a football. I don't know what they see in that crap. I told René he could do his stuff."

"Was René as 3; thorough as you remembered?" Mrs Jensen asked.

"Oh, yeah, his hands seemed to be all over those boxers all at once. He had that measuring tape of his flying around so fast it could have taken your eye out, let me tell you. But the boxers were awfully oversized, I think his uncle bought them for him for Christmas, poor René was unable, try as he might, to get an accurate set of numbers. 'Just pull the horrible things off', I told René, and Paul actually started crying! Apparently, René's few accidental touches had given Paul the beginnings of an erection, and he was ashamed to let his own mother see it. Me! Who had-"

"And what happened then?" Mrs Flannery interrupted. She didn't really want to hear the saga of Paul's infancy again.

"I told Paul that I would leave the fitting room, on one condition. That he immediately remove those ugly boxers and allow René to measure him properly, and I would be waiting outside no more than ten seconds for him to pass the boxers through the curtain to me! And I counted out loud as well! Lucky for him, I only reached 'six' before his hand poked through the curtain and gave them to me."

"I think curtains on a fitting room are so much 3; nicer 3; than those -ugh!- doors some places have. I mean, darlings, you just don't know what might be going on behind a door! But a curtain 3;," Mrs Peterson observed.

"Exactly! After I put the boxers in my handbag, I felt it my duty to pull the curtain a little, just so I could peek in, to make sure Paul wasn't being silly. Boys his age can be so 3; so foolishly modest! And needlessly, I might add. I mean, they've all got the same equipment, what's the big deal?"

The other women muttered their agreement. Mrs Kenthurst continued her recollection. "So, when I glanced into the fitting room, I saw that René had everything under control. He had made Paul pull his shirt right up to his chin, and was measuring all around his groin. I think the tape measure he uses must have been cold or something, because Paul's little erection stood right out! Kept getting in René's way, I gathered, because René had to move it around, oh, quite a few times, this way and that, to continue his task. Then René got Paul to turn around, and made more measurements, this time of his bottom. There's nothing worse than a pair of underwear that doesn't fit right in the seat, I always say. Poor René was panting from exhaustion, it sounded like. Then I had an inspired moment, girls. I saw a pair of briefs on a shelf just like the ones I wanted for Paul, so I checked the size, and ripped them out of their packet and thrust them through the curtain. I think, by then, Paul was glad to have anything on.

"I watched as René pulled them up Paul's thighs, then pulled back the curtain. Well, I had to see them in the light, didn't I? And those fitting rooms can be so gloomy. Naturally, Paul complained, in that whiny voice of his, something about everyone seeing him. Which was nonsense, there was only a handful of people there, no more than about a dozen, maybe twenty, tops. I pulled him out of there by the arm, and made him turn all around so I could see if they were too tight. It was one of those new seamless styles, like a pair of sheer swim trunks, only square at the side, you know? I guess they must have been a little tight, because his penis was sticking out fairly prominently. When I said we should go over to the front window, where there was more natural light, he whined again. So I offered him the choice – here, in the store, or out on the street where there's even more light?"

"Damn straight!" Mrs Jensen muttered.

"So, did you buy them, pet?" Mrs Flannery asked.

"Of course, dear, they were the ones I wanted to get him all along – only the fitting room was now occupied, so I just pulled the undies all the way down and off him and gave them to René to wrap. Naturally he whined again, but he soon stopped when I asked René if it came in more colours"

"Good for you, dear. Little brats need a firm hand, don't they," Mrs Jensen agreed.

Tale #2 – The Masseur

"That's nice, dear," Mrs Flannery remarked. "How did you manage it?"

"Well, it all came about in the oddest way, I can tell you. When my husband, god rest his soul, was alive, he was a very 3; er, virile man, if you know what I mean. In the first few years of our marriage, I had to change the sheets of our double bed every single morning" Mrs Peterson smirked, giving the other ladies a knowing glance. "So after he passed on, for quite a while I was bereft of that 3; er, special companionship that only, er 3; a man can offer. I'm sure you girls know what I mean. Anyway, a friend at the Golf Club, Cynthia, you know, the one with the totally unsuitable hair, put me on to a very special masseur – one who does house calls. Antonio is his name, and let me tell you, girls, he is extremely, er 3; gifted. But so expensive! For a two-hour, ah, session, he charges $200 [€250]! naturally, I can only afford one visit per week at that rate."

"So, is your son home when Antonio 3; visits?" Mrs Baker enquired sweetly.

"Oh, Ronnie is very much a homebody. I just tell him that Antonio is giving Mommy a massage, and that sometimes Mommy's muscles might need a very vigorous 3;, ah, workout, and that if he hears Mommy call out, he mustn't worry. Naturally, I keep my bedroom door locked during Antonio's visit. I also told Ronnie that sometimes he might see my clothing dishevelled afterwards, but not to be alarmed."

"And he believes you, pet?" Mrs Flannery asked, incredulous.

"Oh, yes, he's very trusting, is Ronnie. So, anyway, after each 3; session, Antonio often goes out to the family room to pass a few minutes with Ronnie while I, er, fix my hair. I often find the two of them chatting away happily, goodness knows about what. A few weeks back, after a very thorough massage-" Mrs Peterson smiled and blushed prettily to make sure that all the women knew exactly what she was referring to "-Antonio suggested that he would take 25% off his fee if he could spend an hour with Ronnie."

"My dear, you must have been shocked!" Mrs Baker gasped.

"Shocked? I was outraged! I expected 30% at the very least! But I managed to negotiate him up to 50% for ninety minutes. That meant that I could afford two visits per week for the price of one!"

"But darling, why on earth would a grown man want to spend ninety minutes with a boy of 3; how old is Ronnie, dear?" Mrs Kenthurst asked.

"He's 12. Well, it turns out, pet, that Antonio had been looking for an apprentice: someone to whom he can pass on his trade. I thought Ronnie was a little young to start learning a craft, but 3; well, I said it would be alright, so I told Ronnie I was going down to the shops for an hour and a half, and that Antonio would wait with him while I was out, and to mind what Antonio said. Ronnie doesn't like to be left on his own, so it suited him as well. I left by the front door and crept around outside the house to the living room window, to listen in to what they were doing. Well, a mother has a right, after all!"

The other four women murmured their agreement, yes, she certainly did have a right, never know what people might do nowadays, plenty of weirdos around after all, and so on.

"But it was all quite harmless, you know. Antonio simply wanted to sit and chat with the boy, about school, and books, and such. I could see he had his arm around Ronnie's shoulders, which was very friendly, and he patted his head and stroked his neck from time to time, which I thought was very decent of him, you know, to show an interest in a boy that isn't even your own. Well, after ten minutes I felt rather foolish standing ankle deep in the crocuses, so I went shopping. When I came back, all was well, the two had gotten along splendidly. Ronnie told me later that Antonio had given him a backrub, and he hoped that Antonio could stay and talk with him after his next visit with me. I told him I was certain of it.

"The following week – well, it was only three days later on account of I could now afford a second, er, visit – Antonio stayed back to talk with Ronnie, and I went to the shops. When I returned, I let myself in quietly, and saw right off they weren't in the living room. I heard some muffled noise coming from my bedroom, and found them in there. All quite innocent, really. Ronnie had his shirt off, lying on my bed, Antonio was rubbing some essential oils into his back. He really is a genuine masseur, you know, among his, uh, other talents. And Ronnie seemed to be enjoying their time together.

"Well, after a few more visits, I wasn't really surprised to hear Ronnie ask if he could visit Antonio at his house. They had become firm friends, and I thought it was high time Ronnie ventured out without me, you know what I mean. Can't have your son tied to your apron strings all his life, he'll end up 3; strange. So I said, Sure, of course, I'll help you pack.

"So, when he returned from his weekend at Antonio's on the Sunday night, I told him to unpack his port and put his worn clothes in the laundry hamper. He said that nothing needed washing, since Antonio kept a naturist household and they didn't wear any clothes the whole weekend. Oh? I replied, Tell me more. So Ronnie tells me the details of his weekend.

"He said Antonio gave him a backrub as soon as he arrived, a nice deep one. Then another one during the night, and again in the morning. That's when Antonio explained that clothes were unnecessary. Apparently, since he sees everything when he gives a massage, there's no need for modesty anymore, and besides, it's better for your body to let the air flow over it. So Antonio told Ronnie, anyway."

"Well, I suppose they're both male, what harm could it do?" Mrs Flannery observed.

"Quite right, dear, just what I thought," Mrs Peterson replied. "So, anyway, after breakfast, Ronnie said a whole group of people started arriving. They were all masseur friends of Antonio's, apparently. Ronnie told me their names, too 3; now what were they? 3; oh, yes, there was Claudio, Gilberto, um 3; I think there was a Marco in there somewhere, oh, about half a dozen of them"

"Goodness," Mrs Baker exclaimed. "Who would have thought there'd be so many masseurs in our little town!"

"Apparently, there are more of them around than anybody realises, so Ronnie said. But the good thing was, each of them brought a nephew along for the weekend, so Ronnie had plenty of company his own age. He became quite friendly with two of them, er, Jared and 3; Taylor, was it? or maybe Tyler? Whatever. The other boys were too busy, it seems the masseurs all wanted to give them backrubs, not to their own nephews but to the other boys. Ronnie said most of the backrubs took place indoors, but Jared gave Taylor a backrub right out in the open, on the lawn beside the pool. Ronnie said everyone gathered around and watched, and called out encouragement and advice."

"Ooh, a pool! I didn't realise the massage business was so 3; so rewarding!" Mrs Baker gushed.

"Well, from what Ronnie told me, they make a lot of their additional money from instructional videos which they market on the Internet. Antonio told Ronnie he might even find him a role in one!"

"And what else did he get up to on his weekend away from home, dear?" Mrs Flannery asked sweetly.

"Oh, they kept busy, according to Ronnie. I think some of the boys, the nephews that came along, must sing, or recite poetry, because Ronnie mentioned how talented they were with their mouths and tongues. Antonio must have stables there too, because I recall Ronnie saying how much some of the boys enjoyed riding the pony. Some of them also practiced their gymnastics exercises, I heard Ronnie mention some complicated manoeuvres involving two men and one boy. Ronnie was quite weary when he got home. Tired, but happy. On the Saturday night, they were all so 'shagged out' as Ronnie put it, they simply collapsed together in one big heap on the floor. Ronnie confided in me that he might enjoy being a masseur when he grows up."

"So nice to see ambition in a boy nowadays. Most of them just drift through their school years, with no ideas about the future. Good for him, I say!" Mrs Kenthurst affirmed. "And just write Antonio's name and phone number on this slip of paper for me, dear, if you don't mind."

Tale #3 – The Diary

"What is it, pet?," Mrs Kenthurst asked.

"Well, it's my Daniel's diary. He mentioned at the start of the school year that his English teacher encouraged everyone in the class to keep a diary. I stumbled across it when I was cleaning in his room."

"A boy – keeping a diary! How absolutely darling!" Mrs Flannery gushed.

"Yes, well, you know, we all probably kept them when we were schoolgirls, recording all our important secrets," Mrs Baker related, "but I didn't realise how 3; deeply my Daniel felt things before reading this. I'm sure he wouldn't want me to see it, but he did leave it just lying around wrapped in a T-shirt under four pairs of shorts in the bottom drawer of his cupboard."

The mothers all looked at each other, wondering whether Mrs Baker was actually going to open the diary, or just tease them. Mrs Peterson broke the ice. "Well, are you going to show it to us, dear, or shall we just use our X-ray vision on it?" The other women tittered, Mrs Baker blushed and opened the book.

"Ooh, look at that, girls!" Mrs Jensen piped up. "Little hearts and 3; are those stars? all around 'Mr Davis'. Who is Mr Davis?"

"Mr Davis is my Daniel's Grade 9 English teacher," Mrs Baker commented. "I guess all the other stuff is just doodling. This is what they call a title page, girls, you're supposed to decorate it. Now let's see what we shall see." She turned a page and began reading.

"Oct 3 – Mr D called on me again today. Hmm. Not exactly 'Call me Ishmael', is it, dears? Maybe it gets better" Mrs Baker remarked.

"Oct 5 – Mr D asked me stay behind to clean dusters!!! Goodness. I wonder are all those exclamation points really necessary? What's the big deal about the dusters? Let's read on a bit further."

"Oct 6 – helped Mr D straighten the storeroom!!! XOX !!! Well, I have to admit my Daniel does seem to get very excited over routine classroom chores. Pity he doesn't have the same enthusiasm for cleaning his own bedroom! And what's the 'xox' mean?" The ladies all looked at each other, but none could shed any light on the mysterious code, if that's what it was.

"Read on, dear," Mrs Kenthurst urged.

"Oct 10 – OMG!!! Mr D gave me a B!!! Awesome!!!' My goodness, my Daniel must not be very used to getting good grades if he is so amazed at getting a B. Look at all the exclamation points," Mrs Baker exclaimed.

"Perhaps this Mr Davis is a hard marker, and a B grade is quite a rarity? if so, it's a pleasant change from those weak-willed teachers who give out A's like jellybeans," Mrs Jensen sniffed.

"Yes, I expect you're right, dear," Mrs Kenthurst concurred. "But what's an 'omg' when it's at home, I wonder? Maybe he'll translate it for us at the end."

Mrs Baker read on. "Oct 11 – Another B! Better than yesterdays! Well, at least his schoolwork is on the improve, two B's. Something Mr Davis is doing must really be sinking in. I'm only glad my Daniel is taking it all in, it's such a rarity nowadays, a boy who is grateful for whatever his teacher gives him!"

"Oct 12 – Returned the favour to Mr D! Cleaned up and everything. Sounds like he's referring to the storeroom again, girls. Though I wonder what this 'favour' was 3; perhaps it was driving my Daniel home after school that evening he stayed back late to clean the dusters."

"Oct 13 – My first F!!! Hurt at first, but then 3; Oh, dear, the poor boy got an F – it hurt his feelings! It must have been a difficult test or something, maybe it was a really hard one. He seems to have taken it like a man, though, and you have to admire that"

The other women murmured their agreement. Mrs Baker continued.

"Oct 17 – Two F's in one day!! Mr D so hard!! Well, really! You'd think after all the extra-curricular effort my Daniel puts in, this Davis guy would cut him a little slack! Two failing grades in one day? I have no problem with his teacher being hard, I've always said that teachers should be firm, firm but fair is my motto. What's the use of him staying back after school to straighten the storeroom if it doesn't get him a little 3; consideration now and then?"

"Read on, dear," Mrs Kenthurst repeated.

"Oct 18 – Greek today from Mr D – fabulous!! Huh! I thought he was an English teacher? Maybe he gave a lesson on the Greek derivations of some words. It's so refreshing to have a teacher these days who is trained in the Classics, and knows where the language comes from, dears!" The other women tsked into their coffees.

"Only one page left, girls – " Mrs Baker informed the group. "Oct 20 – Mr D gave us our final mark today – I got an A ! It all paid off! Well, I'm sure he means his extra study, girls. I must say I'm quite surprised that my Daniel stuck at his task for so long – he always struck me as a dreamy sort of boy – you know, the kind that doesn't really know what's going on?"

The other ladies murmured their agreement.

Tale #4 – Doctor Visit

"Oh, the usual, you know, housework, shopping 3; oh, and I've had to take my youngest to the doctor's," Mrs Jensen explained.

"Ah, yes, your youngest, how old is he now?" Mrs Kenthurst inquired. She asked this question every time the Club met, never paying any attention to the answer.

"Sven is eleven now, nearly twelve. You know, when I fell pregnant with him, I thought it was just the Change, girls. Took me by surprise, I'll tell you. Imagine, all his older sisters have left the nest, and now, here I am at fifty-seven, still raising a little boy."

"And the doctor 3; ?" Mrs Peterson urged.

"Oh, yes. Sven asked me a strange thing last week. He said is it possible to ask for a man doctor, or do you just have to take the doctor you get. I told him it was completely in order to specify what sort of doctor you wanted, after all, you wouldn't want an Ob-Gyn looking at your throat, now would you? He didn't get my little joke, but he did ask if I could take him to see a doctor, provided it was a male doctor"

"Did he tell you why he wanted a male doctor, pet?" Mrs Flannery asked.

"Well, he's always been a bit of a hypochondriac. He hedged around the subject, when I brought it up. At first he said he thought his feet were growing too fast. Then it was his hands – his fingers were too long, he said, and they were clumsy. Then it was his voice – he thought he might be getting laryngitis. I told him I thought it was absolute nonsense, but I would take him if he really needed to go. So I took him along to see that nice young doctor at the new medical centre, you know the one, it's on the corner there across from the shopping mall. We waited for a good forty-five minutes before we were finally called to see him, and then the little beggar has the hide to ask me to wait outside!"

"Whatever did you do, dear?" Mrs Baker asked.

"I told him in no uncertain terms that I was not going to wait outside like a poor relation. He was a child, and he needed parental supervision, whether he wanted it or not."

"Good for you, dear," Mrs Kenthurst agreed.

"Now I'm not a cruel woman. I know Sven, I know he can be a little 3; sensitive about 3; certain things, so I said to him that the doctor could examine him behind the curtain, and that I would be sitting right there in the chair. The doctor said that would be fine, in fact, as his nurse had gone on her cigarette break, he asked me to assist."

"How 3; versatile of you, dear," Mrs Baker remarked.

"Oh, yes, before I was married I turned my hand to many an occupation. So 3; er, where was I?"

"Waiting outside the curtain, pet," Mrs Kenthurst reminded her, with a sigh that suggested she was getting bored with the other woman's dreary recitation.

"Oh, yes, of course. So, there I was, waiting on the other side of a curtain in the doctor's room, listening to him go through the routine, you know, deep breath, cough, does it hurt when I do this, that sort of thing. Then the Doctor poked his head around the curtain and said that everything looked quite alright, and unless there was anything else, the boy was simply wasting his valuable time. I saw Sven's head appear, and whisper something into the Doctor's ear. 'Very well', the doctor said, 'take your trousers down and let's have a look, shall we?' "

"Ahh, he was having some problems with the, er, plumbing, my dear?" Mrs Baker observed sagely.

"It was the first I had heard of it! Sven never mentioned anything of the sort to me, ever!" Mrs Jensen replied indignantly. "So, of course I absolutely had to see what it was that Sven was so concerned about. So concerned that he could not even tell me about it."

"What did you do, pet?" Mrs Flannery asked, totally captivated by the other woman's narrative.

"Well, I waited. There's a tell-tall sound a zipper makes, darlings, I'm sure we've all heard it. So, I waited a few seconds after hearing it, thinking that he would have got his pants down by then, and put my head around the curtain. What I saw 3; well, it was quite a shock, I can tell you!"

"Well, don't keep us in suspenders, dear!," Mrs Kenthurst exclaimed.

Mrs Jensen took a deep breath before continuing. "His 3; thing was out. His 3; mechanism. The Doctor had his fingers on it, twisting it this way and that, handling it 3; pumping it 3;"

"His 3; mechanism?" Mrs Baker asked, confused. "Did he have some kind of 3; wind-up toy that he wanted to show the doctor?"

"No, no, dear, it was his 3; er, his 3; you know, his 3; part." Mrs Jensen struggled to find the right euphemism. "His, er 3; instrument."

"He plays an instrument? What's that got to do with the Doctor? Was he a musician too?" Mrs Baker pressed, either deliberately or unwittingly missing the point.

Mrs Kenthurst could stand no more of it. "It 3; Was 3; His 3; Penis!" She jumped up and declared in exasperation to the group of women, Mrs Baker in particular. "His Wiener! His John Thomas! His Prick! His Cock! His Doodle! His Trouser Snake! Whatever name they give the vile things nowadays!"

The other women shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Mrs Kenthurst sank back down in her chair, her face flushed from exasperation. "Well, I mean to say! 3; Really! 3; It's obvious what Mrs Jensen was talking about! If only she would get to the point!"

"Phimosis! That's the word the Doctor used," Mrs Jensen exclaimed joyfully, delighted to have recalled the Doctor's diagnosis. "Little Sven had a case of phimosis. Of course, I had to ask the Doctor what on earth that meant – whether it was contagious, or anything. He laughed, and said it certainly wasn't, and that it only affected some boys from birth, but didn't show up until they approached puberty."

"What is it, dear? This 3; ferrosis?" Mrs Baker asked, in a rather vague voice.

"Phimosis, pet, P 3; H 3; I 3; M 3; O 3; S 3; I 3; S. Apparently, so the Doctor explained, it means a tightened foreskin. He said it is especially painful when the boy tries to 3; er, retract his, ah 3;"

"Mechanism?" offered Mrs Flannery.

"Exactly!" declared Mrs Jensen. "Of course, I immediately asked the Doctor whether this problem arose as a result of 3; self-abuse, of, er 3; playing with himself."

"And did it?" Mrs Flannery enquired sweetly.

"Well, the Doctor said it was quite the opposite – if Sven had been playing with his, er, playing with his, ah, with 3; it 3; all these years, he probably would not have had this 3; er, condition. But as it is, he has it now. Just goes to show you, I guess, there is no reward for virtue nowadays." The other women sighed and nodded their agreement.

"What did the doctor recommend, dear?" Mrs Flannery persisted.

"Well, he gave me two choices. The first one, well, I was against it from the start: circumcision."

"Wouldn't that make your son a 3; a Jew?" Mrs Baker asked hesitantly.

Mrs Kenthurst turned up her nose at such a ridiculous question, and interjected before Mrs Jensen had the chance to reply. "Rubbish. We eat fish on Fridays, and it doesn't make us Catholic!"

All of the women chortled at this, the very idea of being made a Catholic because one ate fish on a Friday, how absurd. Mrs Jensen continued.

"Well, just at that moment, the nurse reappeared from her cigarette break, filthy habit that, and pulled the curtain back. Sven was a little put out, having the nurse see his, er, apparatus, especially as the nurse seemed to know who he was."

"So, the nurse knew Sven, from 3; ?" Mrs Baker asked.

"Well apparently, the nurse's younger sister is in the same class as Sven at school, and quite the little busybody she is too, the sister that is, by the sounds of it, poor Sven was a little distressed that the whole class, and shortly the whole school, would get to hear of his, um, inability to retract. Happily, the doctor assured me that his nurse was the soul of discretion, and would never dream of divulging confidential patient information such as that. To prove how reliable the nurse was, the Doctor asked her to take over his, uh, ministration, while he discussed the second option with me. Poor little Sven got even redder when that nurse began handling his, uh 3;"

"Just say 'penis', dear, for goodness sakes," moaned a desperate Mrs Kenthurst. "What did the Doctor suggest?"

Mrs Jensen blushed a delicate shade of pink. "Well, I was quite taken aback, I can tell you, so many new things happening at once. The doctor recommended that I permit Sven to, uh, play with his 3;"

"Penis, dear," Mrs Kenthurst supplied.

"Yes, play with – it – for fifteen minutes a day. To loosen up the band of skin, of course, not for any, uh, reasons of base pleasure. Alternately, I could send him to a special clinic that the Doctor conducts, where trained physiotherapists would, uh, handle the, ah, handle 3; it. I asked him if it was expensive, and he said there would be no charge, as it was a research program with a University grant. All I had to do was sign a consent form."

The women were silent for a moment, digesting this information. Mrs Flannery was the first to speak. "So, you signed, of course?," she murmured.

"Well, naturally. The alternative, telling Sven he had to play with his 3; uh, play with it, every day mind you, was just too ghastly to contemplate. No, I opted for the scientific approach, and arranged for Sven to visit the clinic twice a week. He's had four visits now, and I think it's having a beneficial effect."

"He's showing some improvement, pet?" Mrs Baker asked.

"Oh, yes. After the first visit, he came home a little 3; flustered, but as I said, he's a shy little fellow, and any new experience is bound to 3; well, be a little daunting. But now, why, he is coming out of his shell quite a bit – he shows interest in the people around him, he seems more confident in himself, he's dressing with more 3; style, and he can't wait to get to the clinic for his therapy – he's thriving! And, that nice young doctor that Sven saw first? He's taking a personal interest in Sven's case. Sven told me the Doctor – he calls him Doctor Tim – has been at the clinic every time Sven has attended. Isn't it nice to find a professional who takes so much care over one of his patients!"

"That's nice, dear, that he's coming out 3; of his shell," Mrs Baker murmured.

Tale #5 – The Webcam

"Well, girls, these have all been marvellous stories, you all must be so proud of your boys. But I am afraid that my story will trump the lot of you today." She smiled smugly as the other ladies leaned forward to hear her account. Mrs Flannery loved being the centre of attention.

"And what is your story, dear?" Mrs Baker enquired.

Mrs Flannery blushed modestly before beginning her revelation. "You all know my Justin? I've mentioned him before. Well, he's nearly 14 now, and honestly girls, I never thought he would ever make anything of himself. Always in that room of his, hunched over that computer. Night and day, mind you! I was nearly ready to tell him I was confiscating the horrid thing, when he dropped his bombshell!"

The other ladies leaned forward a little more, keen to hear about the bombshell Mrs Flannery's son dropped. "What was it, dear?" Mrs Baker whispered.

Mrs Flannery beamed at them. She spoke slowly, so as not to have to repeat herself. "My Justin 3; at 14 3; is well on his way 3; to becoming 3; a 3; millionaire!."

Mrs Flannery slumped back in her seat, as thought the effort of announcing this news took all her energy. The other women gasped, then all began speaking at once. Of course, this was exactly the effect Mrs Flannery hoped for. Holding up her hand for silence, she let the other women in on the secret of her son's success.

"It all started a little over six months ago, but I only found out about it last week. A bank statement arrived in the mail for Justin, and I thought 'that's odd – why would Juss be getting a bank statement from First Federal Trust – we don't even have any accounts there!' So I thought it had to be a mistake – maybe there's another Justin Flannery and we got his mail by mistake. So naturally I opened it."

"Naturally," the other ladies concurred.

"Well, girls, when I read the pages of figures, I just couldn't believe it! Money, coming from all over the country, being deposited in this account. It couldn't possibly be my Justin – it had to be a mistake!"

"Er 3; how much money was it, dear?" Mrs Jensen enquired.

"Well, the individual amounts started out quite small, only twenties and fifties going in, maybe the occasional hundred. But as I read through, there were more and more hundreds, and less twenties. Girls, there was over seven hundred thousand dollars in the account!"

The other ladies gasped, a sound which made Mrs Flannery the happiest woman in the room.

"But 3; but 3; was it really your Justin's money?" Mrs Peterson asked.

"I confronted him that afternoon, as soon as he walked in the door. He had been down at the Mall, probably haunting that computer shop. That's the only other place I can guarantee he'll be, if he's not in his room. He was very annoyed that I opened his letter, he said, and so I knew I had him – it was definitely his account. So I demanded a full explanation."

The other ladies had put down their coffee cups and were hanging on Mrs Flannery's every word. She was enjoying being the centre of attention immensely.

"It turns out Justin has a thriving home business in – wait for it – personal training!" Mrs Flannery declared, smiling triumphantly.

Puzzled looks crossed the faces of some of the women. Mrs Jensen looked completely baffled.

"I know what you're wondering," Mrs Flannery continued, before anyone else could get a word in, "I thought the same thing – how could he do this 3; training 3; from his room? Well, as Justin explained to me, the answer is simple. He uses a webcam."

The looks of puzzlement around the coffee table did not abate by very much, and Mrs Flannery smiled inwardly at her superior knowledge. "A webcam is this little camera that sits on top of his computer screen, girls. What happens is, he advertises his services as a personal trainer, and people from all over the country sign up and pay him their subscription fees. He switches the camera on, does his routine, situps or whatever, and the subscribers watch on their computers and 3; they get fit, I suppose."

"But who on earth would pay all that money for 3; for that?" Mrs Baker exclaimed.

Mrs Flannery had the answer ready. "Justin told me that most of his customers are older men, some of whom are maybe a little overweight, and who are too busy to get to a gym. So they 3; sign up with Justin, and get 3; personalised training. Like those yoga classes on the TV, or those Jane Fonda exercise videos. It's all the rage nowadays, girls, this personal training."

"So, why did the subscription fees rise, dear – you said they gradually rose until there were more hundreds than twenties?" Mrs Kenthurst piped in.

"Justin explained that to me as well. Some of the clients were asking for a little more than just watching Justin go through his routine, so Justin asked another boy from school, his friend Josh, to help out. With two of them, they have a wider range of 3; 'sets' he calls them 3; than with him alone. Josh comes over a couple of times a week to do the routines with Justin. He seems a nice, friendly boy. He's about twelve, I think, probably your Ronnie's age," she answered, looking at Mrs Peterson.

"And have you ever seen them doing these 3; 'sets'?" Mrs Kenthurst pressed.

"Well, I haven't actually seen them at it – but I've heard them. It sounds very strenuous, from all the grunting and groaning. In fact, Justin said it was not worth the bother to watch, it would only make me tired, and besides, they would both be sweating a lot, he said, and the room would be a bit stinky because of that. Which is true, because they both dash to the shower right after a session, and the room does smell a bit 3; well, boyish."

"But to earn so much money 3;," Mrs Peterson sighed.

"Just goes to show you, dears, what a boy with the right attitude can do on the Internet nowadays," Mrs Flannery grinned.

Well, there you have it. These five women are typical of mothers all over our country today – interfering in their sons' lives, then blabbing about it to their coffee-club cronies. Oh, if only they knew!

"Come on, darling, it's time for our walk." Mrs Rawdell called up the staircase. "I told Mrs Johnson we would be at our favourite seat no later than two o'clock, and it's nearly half past one. Now, you know I do not care for being late. It shows a lack of refinement, arriving late for an appointment."

A tattoo of footsteps clattering down the stairs announced young Davey's arrival into the parlour. His mother looked him over with a practiced eye. She frowned.

"You do not seriously believe that I will let you leave this house wearing that ridiculous shirt, do you?" she declared, hands on hips, glaring at the bewildered boy. "A blue shirt can not possibly be worn with green shorts. It absolutely will not do. I will not have people thinking I have a tramp for a son, and a colour-blind tramp at that. Go back upstairs this instant and put on that nice pink shirt I laid out for you. The one with the lemon ruff down the front. Go on, up you go. And take that look off your face, young man."

The footsteps trudged up the stairs they had so recently descended, as young Davey, resigned to his fate, returned to his room to change his shirt. He hated the pink shirt his mother insisted he wear. In fact, he hated going to the park with her. He especially hated meeting Mrs Johnson, in the park or anywhere else. She always said strange stuff to him. And when she wasn't saying stuff to him, she was saying stuff about him. And his mother was just as bad – but he was used to it from her.

The eight year old ("nearly nine," he thought in a brief moment of happy anticipation) dutifully removed his blue shirt and replaced it with the pink one, the one with the stupid girly yellow frills on the front. He tucked it into his waistband (because he knew his mother would have another fit if he left it out loose) and slowly made his way downstairs to take his mother's hand. She led him out into the bright Autumn sunshine and they began their walk to the park.

Being a Sunday afternoon, they did not have the park to themselves. Several families of picnickers had spread their travel rugs or blankets on the grassy areas alongside the paths and were now reclining on them, recovering from their packed lunches. Some men walked dogs. Others played frisbee with theirs. A few smaller children chased butterflies, laughing gaily as they scampered around.

In the centre of the park, the four paths that led from each of the corners met. A fountain stood at the convergence, quite a large one in the ornate Italian style. A life size Cupid stood atop the fountain, his arrow permanently nocked on his tiny bronze bowstring, his dainty feet diverting the spray of water into several smaller spouts. Around the fountain a wide circular path ran, and bordering the path, facing the fountain, were a dozen wooden-slatted benches. It was here that mother and son usually met Mrs Johnson.

There were no shady trees in this part of the park – the conservators said that the leaves fell into the fountain and made it a nuisance to keep clean. The warm sunshine heated up the circular gravel path, and the benches, making it a less desirable place to sit than it might otherwise have been. The sparkling water, however, looked very inviting to Davey, as he fidgeted uncomfortably alongside his mother, awaiting Mrs Johnson's arrival.

A man, probably in his early forties, neatly dressed and wearing a camera around his neck, strolled into the circular fountain area and sat on a bench near Mrs Rawdell and her son. He took some photos of the Cupid, then a couple of the fountain, then got up and moved to another bench, and took some more photos. He glanced at Davey and his mother, looked as though he was about to say something, but did not.

A young couple pushed a pram through the circular path, pausing briefly to look at the cool water before continuing on their way. The man snapped a photo of the nascent family as they passed by his seat.

Presently, Mrs Johnson arrived. She carried a small parasol to shade herself from the sun. Davey wished his mother had thought of that. The perspiration ("It's not sweat, darling, only tradespeople sweat," his mother informed him) ran in little streams down his back, making him squirm on the uncomfortable bench.

Davey's mom stood up to greet Mrs Johnson, dragging him up with her. Mrs Johnson cast a disapproving eye over him before seating herself. Davey was used to that – Mrs Johnson was always somehow disappointed with him whenever they met.

After a few minutes of idle chit-chat, Mrs Johnson could abide Davey's wriggling not a second longer. She gave a large sigh and said "Mrs Rawdell, whatever is the matter with your boy? He looks as though he has 3; ants in his pants!"

"He was complaining about the heat, earlier, Mrs Johnson. Boys nowadays simply have absolutely no forbearance. Why, in my day we deliberately sat in the sunshine to accustom ourselves to discomfort," Mrs Rawdell recalled.

Mrs Johnson agreed. "It is not only forbearance they lack, Mrs Rawdell – the little brutes have no manners, either."

Mrs Rawdell heard a 'click' and glanced over to see that the man with the camera had taken a picture of their little group. She smiled and gave a slight nod of acknowledgement. Inclining her head slightly to indicate that she was referring to the man taking photographs, she remarked "So nice to see a man occupying himself with a sedate pursuit on a Sunday afternoon, and not grunting and groaning on some awful sporting field somewhere." Mrs Johnson gave a small smile and also glanced over at the man, favouring him with the slightest of nods of approval.

The two ladies, with Davey sitting miserably alongside his mother, chatted on for a few minutes about nothing in particular. Mrs Rawdell saw an opportunity to draw her son into the conversation – not to speak, of course, but to be spoken about. "Davey has recklessly contracted heat rash from this unseasonably warm weather," Mrs Rawdell confided out of the blue to Mrs Johnson. She turned to the boy and motioned him to stand up. "Show Mrs Johnson your rash, Davey," she commanded. He knew better than to argue, sliding off the bench and positioning himself in front of Mrs Johnson. He untucked the hated pink frilly shirt from his shorts and pulled it over his head. He had a slight redness in the armpits, which his sweating – or perspiration – was doing nothing to help. Soon he stood shirtless in front of his mother's friend, hands clasped behind his head, while she inspected the affected areas. The man with the camera took another photo.

"Talcum powder, that's what he needs," Mrs Johnson advised Davey's mom. "Plain, unscented baby powder, after each bath. That'll keep it under control."

"There's a trace of it in his, er, groin, as well," Mrs Rawdell commented, loudly enough so that the man with the camera could have heard it, if he was listening. "Show Mrs Johnson your crotch, darling," she added, holding her hand out for Davey's shorts.

For the tiniest moment, the thought crossed Davey's mind that he should object. After all, they were in a public park. Mrs Johnson was not a relation of any kind, who might be trusted with a family confidence. The man with the camera was only half a dozen yards away. Anybody, absolutely anybody, could stroll past the fountain at any moment.

But Davey knew, even as well as he knew his own name, that his mother would not brook any opposition to her will. He unbuttoned the front of his shorts, unzipped, and lowered the garment to his feet, whereupon he stepped out of it and handed the blue shorts to his mother.

Mrs Johnson stared straight at Davey's underpants without speaking. Clearly, she could not make out any redness, and was on the verge of losing patience with Mrs Rawdell. A 'click' distracted the two ladies, who glanced towards the origin of the sound. The man seated nearby was lowering his camera to his lap, looking at the small group with undisguised interest. Mrs Rawdell again gave him a polite nod.

"Pull that out of the way and show Mrs Johnson your rash, darling," Davey's mom urged her son. The boy complied, tugging the leg hole of his underpants to one side to allow the sun to strike a part of his body that was normally kept covered in public.

"I still can't see what you mean, dear," Mrs Johnson sighed. When he looked back later on that moment, that remark, Davey guessed that Mrs Johnson said it on purpose, knowing the reaction it would produce in his mother.

"Oh just take the confounded thing off, you foolish boy," Mrs Rawdell barked in exasperation, and reached out to the waist of Davey's underpants, tugging them straight down his thighs. Without consciously meaning to, Davey automatically lifted his feet, one after the other, to permit his mother to draw this final piece of clothing off his body entirely, leaving him standing there in front of Mrs Johnson wearing only his shoes and socks. The man with the camera snapped a couple more photos of the unusual tableau.

"There, you see? Right there, next to his, er, little balls," Mrs Rawdell declared triumphantly, relief sounding in her voice that she had been proven right. "And look, it goes all the way under, er, underneath, to his er, turn around, darling, and bend over."

Dazed by the surreal sensation of being examined like a prize puppy at a pet show, Davey turned around dumbly and bent over, even spreading his bottom cheeks before his mother could order him to do it. He could feel a finger tracing around the affected areas, but whose finger it was, he did not know. He heard the camera click twice more.

"Does it feel uncomfortable, or hot, boy?" Mrs Johnson addressed him when he straightened and turned back to face the two ladies. He instinctively put his hands over his crotch, but his mother gave them a little slap and a glare, as if to say 'Don't you dare play with yourself in front of Mrs Johnson!' Which was unfortunate, because that made him think about being naked, in the middle of the park, with a man also watching less than twenty feet [5 m] away. The inevitable happened: his little penis began to stiffen.

The pointy little purple head poked out through Davey's foreskin, and the whole organ lengthened gradually to a modest two and a half inches [6½ cm], as it pumped, pumped, pumped upwards, stiffening with every heartbeat. Davey felt like crying and shouting at the same time, but all he could do was stare down at his cock as it betrayed him.

"Oh, my," Mrs Johnson exclaimed. "Perhaps, ah, a little splash in the fountain might 3; er, cool the boy down. And do his rash the world of good, dear," she assured Davey's mother, who stared at her son's small but increasingly rampant dick in horror.

"Take your shoes off and go for a paddle, David," Mrs Rawdell directed, and this time there was no hint of argument from the boy as he sat down on the bench and pulled his shoes off without unlacing them. He very well knew what it meant when his mother called him by his full given name. His socks followed shortly thereafter, and he scampered, now fully naked, over to the fountain and began to climb the low rounded sandstone wall.

Davey quickly found that he had a logistical problem: he had first attempted to straddle the wall of the fountain face-on, as any boy would do, but his legs were not long enough to permit this without serious injury being done to his penis and balls, which would have been crushed against the unyielding stone had he attempted it. He withdrew his leg and thought for a second or two. Summing up the situation, he realised he would have to go 'bum first', like a girl, then swing his legs over, in order to get into the cool fountain without crushing his still-stiff tool. He performed this manoeuvre, finally settling first his feet and then his hot loins in the cool water. The man's camera clicked away all the while.

While Davey shut his eyes from the piercing glare of the sun, and revelled in the cool water, behind him the man had risen from his seat and approached to within a respectful distance of the two ladies. He gave the seated women a courteous little bow, from the waist, then, smiling, said "Now there are two Cupids in the fountain. May I?" inclining his head towards the fountain and giving his camera a little shake.

Mrs Rawdell, eager to appear urbane before her friend, immediately responded. "Of course you may. Davey is quite accustomed to being photographed. There have been, oh, many times, other gentlemen have said to me that he is quite an attractive boy. Shall I ask him to stand up?"

"Oh, no need, no need madam – let him enjoy the water undisturbed. I'll just take a few shots from different angles, if the light is fortuitous," he replied. Mrs Rawdell smiled at his answer, mildly pleased by his manner and speech.

Davey made some small splashes, the man took a few photos, and the ladies busied themselves in small talk, as a few more minutes passed peacefully by. A small cloud passed in front of the sun, making the boy look up, squinting, shielding his eyes from the glare. He noticed the man holding the camera, then looked back to see if his mother was still on her bench.

"Hello," the man murmured genially. "Your mother-" here the man nodded in the direction of the two gossiping women – "said I could take some photos of you in the fountain."

Davey knew he was not supposed to speak to strangers. But this man seemed to know his mother. And his mother was right there – if there was anything wrong, she would have called him away instantly, he knew that from past experience. So Davey concluded that this man with the big camera must not be a stranger. He smiled at the man, and said "Okay!"

The man's camera clicked away as the boy frolicked in the fountain's cool spray. But even as his eye was on the viewfinder of his camera, framing the naked boy with his lens, in his mind's eye the man was viewing images of a different kind – images of ravishing this young boy, of plundering his virginity, stealing his innocence, debasing him. And how much more thrilling would that be, right in front of his distracted mother? He clicked away.

The conversation of the two ladies finally began to falter, so before any embarrassing silences could intrude, Mrs Johnson bade farewell to her friend and rose from the bench, departing along one of the gravel paths. Mrs Rawdell called out to her son "Davey! It's time we were going! Hop out of there now."

The man stopped snapping his shots as the boy emerged, dripping wet, from the fountain. He did not want to make it seem as though the boy was the entire focus of his afternoon, even though he was. The wet, naked child walked gingerly towards his mother, somehow expecting her to magically produce a bath towel from her purse and begin drying him off. Mrs Rawdell summed up the situation in a second. "Oh, don't just stand there, David – run around in the sunshine, you'll soon be dry."

Dutifully, the boy retreated to the grass surrounding the circle of gravel, and trotted about in small figure eights, flapping his arms as he did so. He resembled an unfledged bird attempting to take off. The man inclined his eyebrows towards Mrs Rawdell and looked at the bench, silently asking for permission to sit. She gave a small smile and moved along the wooden seat, to give the impression that he should not sit too close to her. He smiled back and carefully perched on the opposite end of the seat.

"Thank you for allowing me to photograph your son this afternoon, ma'am," the man almost whispered, respectfully. "May I presume to give you one of my cards?" He reached inside his jacket pocket and withdrew a pale green-coloured business card, handing it to her. He had to stretch his arm to its full length to bring it within reach of her timid grasp, but the lady eventually took it, trying to show some reluctance.

She read the card aloud. "Peter W French, Photography. Portraits & Weddings a Specialty." Mrs Rawdell gave a modest smile. "Well, Mr French, even though we have not been properly introduced, I could tell right away that you were a professional man the moment I saw you. I am rarely, if ever, wrong in my judgement of people." At that moment, the now-dry David returned to interpose his naked body between his mother and the man with the camera, his back demurely turned towards the man. Since his mother was talking to the man now, they surely were not strangers. He knew his mother would never, ever, strike up a casual conversation with some strange man.

Mrs Rawdell picked up her son's underpants and held them open for him to step into. Shielded partly by the boy's back, the man took a couple more shots of the naked boy close-up, particularly of his exquisite bare bottom. As his mother drew the underwear up his legs, Davey whined "I need to go wee-wee, mommy."

A look of impatience mingled with disgust flitted across Mrs Rawdell's face as she pulled the tiny garment all the way up her son's thighs to his narrow waist, perhaps a little too high for comfort. "Oh, David! Why didn't you go before we came out for our walk? Can't it wait until we get home? You could have done it in the fountain, no-one would have known!" Not knowing which of these statements required a reply, the boy simply bowed is head and grabbed at his crotch, wriggling his legs to illustrate the urgency of his need. Mrs Rawdell continued dressing him, adding shorts and shirt and making him sit on the bench while she put on his shoes and socks. As this took up a few more precious seconds, the boy realised there was now no chance of getting home without wetting himself.

"I really need to go, mommy. Now," he repeated for emphasis. Mrs Rawdell glanced around as she summed up her options. Letting her son piddle in the fountain was now out of the question as he was dressed; there were no convenient trees to go behind, and she did not want to encourage that sort of behaviour in any case, urinating in public like a 3; a common mongrel. Her eyes fell on a small brick building, a public toilet, which she had never noticed before on previous walks. She thought it beneath her (and therefore also her son) to patronise such a venue, but it was something of an emergency. Mr French saw her glance, and immediately offered her a solution.

"If I may be so bold, ma'am, I would be quite happy to escort young Davey to the public lavatory over there. I will not let him out of my sight," he added, seeing the trepidation in her eyes.

Mrs Rawdell bit her upper lip. "David has never been in 3; such a place before. May I ask you to 3; er, show him what needs to be done?" she asked, clearly reluctant to put the man to any inconvenience, but having no other remedy to hand.

"I shall see to it personally, ma'am," Mr French replied, standing up from his seat and holding out his hand for the young boy to take. "Come, my young friend. We shall see to your little problem."

Observing no protest from his mother, Davey put his hand in the man's and walked off with him the thirty yards or so to the public outhouse. Even before they reached the opening (there was no doorway, the boy noticed, just a clever arrangement of the brick walls to produce a U-shaped entry) the strong smell of stale urine assailed his tender nostrils. "Yuck!" he declared. "What stinks?"

By the time he made his rather redundant outburst, Davey was already within the small building and looking at a stained chrome wall with a gutter at its base. This was obviously the origin of the awful stench. He had never seen a public urinal before, and would not have been bothered if he never saw one again. But the man led him past the strange metal structure, saying that only drunks and lowlifes used it, and his mother would not be pleased to learn that Davey had. He led the young boy to the sole cubicle, closing the door behind them as they entered the narrow space.

Here, at least, thought Davey, was a familiar object: a porcelain toilet bowl. He moved his hands towards his zip to undo his short trousers, but the man beat him to it. "Your mother told me to show you what to do, and I would not want to displease her," he stated, and Davey immediately understood what the man meant. His mother was not a good person to cross, and Davey was mildly surprised to discover that even a grownup like this man was afraid to cross her. So naturally, he let the man undo his shorts and lower them, and also pull his undies down his thighs. The man pulled the pink shirt up to the boy's chest and shook it a little to indicate Davey should hold it there. "So you don't wee on it," the man said, and Davey could see a lot of sense in that.

The man's next action puzzled Davey a little – he took hold of Davey's little pee-pee and skinned it back, pointing it downwards to the bowl. But since both Davey's hands were already occupied holding onto his shirt, he decided that it made a kind of sense as well. He relaxed and let his stream go, noticing that the man pointed the jet of wee-wee towards the side of the bowl, just like he himself did at home. His mother did not like the sound of a boy squirting his wee-wee straight into the water – she had told him it was ungentlemanly, on several occasions in the past. The man even gave his pee-pee a couple of tugs when his stream finished, just as he would have done for himself.

"All done now, Davey?," the man asked, releasing his pee-pee. Davey smiled and nodded his gratitude and dropped the hem of the pink shirt, reaching for his undies.

"Uh, oh, just a minute, I need to clean up first. Always have to clean up after visiting a lavatory," the man said, and lifted the surprised boy bodily into the air with both hands grasping his bare hips. He set the boy on the ceramic bowl, one shoed foot on either side. Davey was puzzled again, but waited to see what the man would do. He didn't have to wait very long. The man bent his face towards Davey's bare crotch and took his pee-pee in his mouth and began sucking on it!

Davey was too surprised to say anything! The man sucked on his pee-pee like it was an everyday thing to do, but Davey had never heard of this before! His pee-pee got hard as well, but the man kept sucking! Davey wondered how much the man had to suck to get his pee-pee all clean, because it was starting to feel really nice! He let go his pink shirt and rested his hands on the man's head, and sighed.

The man kept right on sucking as Davey's hips started to push forward, propelling his pee-pee into the man's warm mouth. It felt terrific! Why had his mother never told him about this before? Was it something to do with public toilets? Could it only be done by men? Davey's little fingers entwined in the man's hair as he urged him to keep sucking, his good feelings mounting until a shower of sensations swept over him! He gasped, and the man's mouth released his pee-pee. Raising his head, the man asked "All clean now?"

Davey could only nod in agreement, unable to speak, as the man pulled up his undies and shorts, and tucked in his pink shirt. "Good boy, well done," the man complimented as he gave Davey's crotch a slow grope, stroking his cupped hand in the boy's groin. "Let's go find your mother and tell her what a good boy you've been," he said, lifting Davey off the bowl and setting him back on the floor. Unlatching the door, he led the somewhat bewildered boy back out into the afternoon sunshine and strolled hand in hand back to the fountain where Mrs Rawdell sat patiently waiting for them.

Mr French smiled at Mrs Rawdell as man and boy approached. "All done," the man declared to Davey's mother as he released the boy's hand. "Davey was a good boy, and he's all cleaned up now."

Davey was surprised to see his mother smile and nod at this remark – did she know what the man did in the toilet? About the 'cleaning up'? She must know – he told her that he cleaned me up, after all.

"Now David, just because you visited a public lavatory today, does not mean you can frequent them at your whim," Mrs Rawdell admonished her son. "You must only visit them only when you have an urgent necessity, and only when you have an adult with you."

Davey mulled this command of his mother's over. Of course, if he visited a public toilet again, he could only ever get cleaned up by an adult – a man – who else but a man would be able to do such a thing? He decided that it was just another example of his mother's excessive caution, and nodded his head in agreement.

"And now," Mr French murmured to Mrs Rawdell, "would you permit me to drive you to your home? My car is but a few steps away, and it is still very warm out."

Mrs Rawdell tittered like a schoolgirl, then made some obligatory noises of demurral, but finally consented to be driven home. Mr French took Davey's hand as the threesome walked across the grass to his car.

Davey sat in the middle of the front bench seat of Mr French's early model car, between Mr French and his mother. He couldn't quite see over the dash of the old car, but it felt nice to be sitting between the two adults. The journey was short, and sooner than he would have liked, the car pulled up at the kerb outside their apartment building and his mother stepped out, letting Davey clamber across the seat and hop out onto the pavement alongside her. Mr French had already exited from his side and opened the door for his mom.

"Er, would you, ah, care to take afternoon tea, uh, with us, Mr French?" Mrs Rawdell stammered, a little overpowered by the presence of the generous man.

"That is most kind of you, Mrs Rawdell. I would be delighted." And with that, Mr French again took Davey's hand, the two males falling in behind Mrs Rawdell as she made her way into the apartment building and across the foyer to the elevator which carried the trio to the eighth floor.

Entering her two-level suite, Mrs Rawdell invited Mr French to follow her inside. Still holding the boy's hand, he smiled and fell in behind her. "Would you care to, ah, freshen up 3; before afternoon tea, Mr French?" she enquired, a sweet smile on her face.

"I would be most grateful, ma'am," he replied courteously, still holding onto Davey's little hand.

Mrs Rawdell looked down at her son. "Please take Mr French upstairs to your bathroom so he can, er, wash his hands, David," she directed the boy. To Mr French, she said "Tea will be about fifteen minutes, Mr French." He gave a slight bow from the waist and turned towards the staircase, with young Davey in tow. Mrs Rawdell wandered off to the kitchen to busy herself with the tea things.

Although Davey led the man to his bathroom, it was Mr French who took the initiative at the doorway and took the boy inside with him. "Do you need to do a wee-wee, Davey?," he asked solicitously of the boy, who was caught off-guard by the man's use of his own childish expression. "I can clean you up afterwards if you do 3;," he added. That settled the matter, as far as Davey was concerned. He raced the few steps to the commode as Mr French shut the door behind them. Shucking his shorts and underpants down to his ankles in one movement, Davey stood in front of the toilet bowl, waiting for Mr French to join him. The man, however, paused for a moment to pull his camera up in front of his eyes to take a photo of the boy's half-naked form.

Davey was not too worried about the man's photographic interests. After all, his mother had permitted the man to take pictures of Davey earlier that afternoon when he was wearing nothing at all. The man set his camera on the cistern and knelt alongside Davey. "You go first, then me," the man whispered, to Davey's delight. As he had done earlier, he held David's little penis between thumb and index finger, but this time he also steadied the boy by cupping his bare bottom with his free hand. Having peed earlier, Davey took a little longer to get his flow started, so the man rubbed up and down his back, under the pink shirt, to relax him. After a few such rubs, the boy sighed and a trickle of pee started from the pink head of his penis. "Good boy," the man praised him, which made Davey happy, not just because he was peeing while the man held his pee-pee and stroked his bottom, but also in anticipation of being 'cleaned up' by him afterwards.

Davey pushed his hips forward a couple of times, trying to expel the last few drips of his wee-wee, then giggled as the man shook the final droplet off his hardening pee-pee. Davey knew what was coming next, and relished the idea. The man smiled as he lifted the boy by his hips and stood him on the commode, his feet straddling the porcelain as they did that afternoon in the park. "Ready to be cleaned, Davey?," the man asked the grinning boy, who nodded vigourously, pushing his young loins forward in anticipation. Mr French leaned in to the boy's crotch, enveloping Davey's now-stiff tool in his mouth. Davey sighed as the man's hands came around behind and held his bare bottom, revelling in the sensations of his second blow-job of the day, indeed, of his young life.

The boy's sensual feelings grew and exploded as they did before, and it was lucky the man was holding his bottom this time, as the boy's knees buckled under him when his climax hit. Davey had been clutching at the man's hair when he rode the man's mouth to orgasm, but Mr French didn't mind. He lifted the boy off the commode and set him next to the white bowl, pulling his undies and shorts up as he did so. "Now my turn," he said, unzipping his trousers as the boy watched open-mouthed. The man drew his penis out through the opening, and took Davey's hand to place it upon the fleshy organ. Davey gasped as he felt the heat of it, then giggled as the man's stream began.

"I can feel your wee-wee going through," Davey whispered, chuckling. The man smiled, making Davey feel his remark was not out of place.

"Shake the last drops off, Davey," the man urged, and Davey happily complied, stroking the man's fleshy cock to milk out the remnants of his urine.

"Good boy, Davey," the man praised the little fellow. "Now, I'll sit on the seat while you kneel down and clean me up."

David looked dismayed for a moment. He had not let go of the man's big pee-pee, which was getting stiffer now his wee-wee had finished, but he had not counted on this development.

"It's okay, Davey, your mommy knows this is what men do for each other after they go wee-wee. You probably never had a man help clean you before, so it's all a bit new for you. Just kneel down there, between my legs, and clean off my pee-pee for me, there's a good boy. Rest your hands on my thighs, that's it." Still unsure of what he was doing, Davey opened his mouth wide and lowered his face to the man's crotch. Mr French put his hands lightly on the sides of Davey's head, to guide him down, and the boy's lips enclosed on the head of Mr French's penis, now fully erect. Davey gave the man's cock a few tentative sucks, then lifted his head.

"Am I doing it right?" he asked plaintively, his wide brown eyes staring up into Mr French's kindly face.

"You're doing okay, kiddo, just keep at it, you'll get better. Swirl your tongue around and clean it up good. Bob your head up and down a little if you want." Davey resumed his task, his silky hair swishing about as his head rose and fell in the man's lap. Mr French reached behind him for the camera he had earlier left on top of the cistern, and flipped a switch to 'VID' mode. The boy was oblivious to the soft 'click' as the man filmed his new little sex slave in action.

"Just a little longer, and I'll be all nice and clean for afternoon tea with your mommy," the man crooned as he felt his cum barrelling up the stem of his cock and into Davey's little mouth. The boy recoiled a little when he felt the first jet of Mr French's warm cum, but kept sucking until the man's pee-pee was all clean. Despite a little unsteadiness at the point of ejaculation, Mr French managed to keep the camera on Davey's fresh young face the whole time, even when the boy lifted his head up, desperate for masculine affirmation. The final few seconds of footage of Davey's face, with a trickle of pearly cum on his red lips that Davey quickly licked off, assured the man he had found a willing sex slave. Davey had been photographed so often that afternoon that he thought nothing of it.

"What a good boy you are, Davey," the man congratulated his new slutboy. "Your mommy must be very happy with you!" He put his softening tool back inside his trousers and zipped up. Kneeling in front of the boy to put their heads on the same level, he hugged Davey to him. "What a great cleaner-upper you are, Davey, I'm proud of you. You cleaned me extra good!" Mr French took the boy's shoulders and pecked him on the lips, smiling as he did so. Davey gave a confused smile and pecked back. he still wasn't quite sure whether he should be doing this, but it felt okay. At school they taught him that if something doesn't feel okay, you should tell your mom or a teacher, but this felt pretty okay to him, even when he cleaned Mr French.

"Let's go downstairs for afternoon tea, okay?" Mr French suggested, and the boy smiled more broadly, thinking of the nice cakes his mommy usually made. He allowed the man to take his hand again and the pair strolled downstairs to Mrs Rawdell's dining room.

"And what you two been up to all this time?," Mrs Rawdell asked good-naturedly. She had no concerns for her son, knowing him to be a rather timid boy who never got into trouble.

"I was just showing Davey how to clean up," Mr French replied evenly. "He's a growing boy, and sometimes growing boys need a little guidance in some special areas."

"I know exactly what you mean, Mr French," Mrs Rawdell replied, making Davey think that his mommy knew what they had been doing upstairs, and was okay with it. He was also happy that Mr French had said he was 'growing'.

Mr French sat at the table, pulling Davey onto his lap. Mrs Rawdell was about to insist that her son should not bother their guest, and sit in his own chair, but the afternoon had been so pleasant she decided to hold her peace. Their conversation crossed a number of topics, and the little cakes, Davey's favourites, were especially tasty. Mr French's hands gently ran up and down Davey's thighs as they chatted, unseen by Mrs Rawdell due to the dining table. Soon, Mr French indicated that it was almost time he was departing. Mrs Rawdell made a feeble protest, but conceded that the afternoon was getting away. Standing the boy on his own feet, Mr French said "Before I go, perhaps Davey might like to show me his room?"

Mrs Rawdell agreed immediately, before Davey could answer. "Up you go, Davey, take Mr French upstairs and show him your room, I'll clear these tea things away. Go on," she added.

The two males skipped up the staircase, again hand in hand, making Mrs Rawdell smile. She felt lucky that they had, by chance, encountered such a nice man. He seemed to be taking a generous interest in Davey, as well, she though as she busied herself with the cups and plates.

At the top of the stairs, Davey half-dragged a not-reluctant Mr French into his room. Before he could show him his dinosaur models and his racing cars, Mr French drew Davey over to the boy's narrow bed and sat down, holding Davey in front of him between his knees.

"May I have another hug like before, Davey? To keep me going until next weekend. I won't see you until then, unless you mommy invites me to supper with you one night. You've got your schooling, and I have my work."

"Do you do camera work?" Davey asked innocently, allowing Mr French to caress his bony arms and shoulders.

"I do. I'd like to take some more photos of you one day, too. But for now, just a hug like we did before, you remember?." The boy nodded placidly and allowed the man to pull him towards his chest. Mr French pressed his mouth to the boy's, and gently insinuated his tongue past Davey's pouty lips. Davey's big eyes widened in surprise, and he pulled back a little, but before he could utter a word, Mr French told him what a good kisser he was, and how delighted his mommy must be in him.

Somewhat mollified, the boy allowed himself to be kissed again, the man pushing his tongue more deeply into the boy's mouth this time. Withdrawing again, Mr French moved a hand around from the boy's bottom to his front, where he carefully felt for the boy's penis. "Does your pee-pee feel happy now, Davey?," he whispered in the boy's ear as he grazed his hand back and forth in the boy's crotch. "Next time I come to visit you, we can have a nice long play, and a really big clean up of our pee-pees, okay?"

"Uh huh," the boy murmured, his eyes fluttering shut. A dreamy look took over Davey's face as he rocked his groin over the man's hand.

"Would you like me to play with your pee-pee some more now? I don't think your mommy is finished with the dishes yet," Mr French softly spoke into the boy's ear, still caressing the fly of the boy's short trousers.

"Uh huh," Davey breathed again.

"Pull your shorts down for me, there's a good boy," the man urged, and Davey quickly complied, aching with an urgent desire for the sensations that emanated from his groin to be increased. His undies came down with the shorts, and the man stroked and tickled the boy's stiff little cock.

"That feels nice, doesn't it Davey," the man whispered before kissing the boy again. "Fun to play with your pee-pee, isn't it?," he added, pushing his fingers between the boy's legs and grazing along the crack of his bottom, tickling his balls, stroking his fingers along the boy's inner thighs before returning to his little cock. "And we can play with each other again if your mommy asks me to have dinner with you both this week," he reminded the boy. "Your mommy is really nice, letting us play like this. She understands what you like, Davey. She knows you like it a lot when I play with your pee-pee. She wants you to have all these good feelings – that's why she asked me to take you to that toilet in the park today."

"Uh huh," the boy sighed, ready to agree to almost anything as long as his new friend kept rubbing his pee-pee like that.

"But we better go downstairs, now, or you mommy will think one of your dinosaurs ate me all up" the man chuckled, as he left off diddling the boy and pulled up the flimsy underwear and short pants.

A final kiss, in which the man sucked Davey's tongue into his mouth, before the two mismatched lovers stood up and returned back down the stairs. "Davey's got some neat stuff, Mrs Rawdell – I didn't get a chance to see it all, especially his dinosaurs," the man enthused as Davey's mother appeared from the kitchen.

Mention of the word 'dinosaur' seemed to trigger a memory in Davey, because he piped up straight away with "Mommy, can the nice man come to supper with us one night? Pleeeease?"

Mrs Rawdell's first instinct was to refuse her son's request – after all, even though he had been a perfect gentleman, she did not really know anything about Mr French (except that he was a photographer). She had to be so careful – even though it had been three years since her divorce from Mr Rawdell, she feared there were still legal avenues that he could pursue to make her new life a misery. But Davey seemed very taken with Mr French; what harm could one meal do?

"Of course, Davey, if he wishes – Mr Rawdell, it appears you have won my son's heart. Would you care to have dinner with us one evening this week?"

"Tomorrow, mommy," Davey whined, still thinking with his dick.

"Well, now, really dear, the choice of evening is usually left up to the guest," Mrs Rawdell admonished.

"Tomorrow evening would be just fine – and you can show me the rest of your dinosaurs, Davey," the man graciously replied, again giving his little formal bow from the waist, and made for the door. "Until tomorrow, then?" he asked, before opening the door and departing into the descending evening.

"Welcome, Mr French, and right on time, too," Mrs Rawdell gushed as the photographer smiled in reply to her greeting and accepted her invitation to enter. The sound of movement from within the apartment indicated that Davey was eager for his friend's arrival – dressed in his pyjamas, the boy hopped excitedly around the room like the Energiser Bunny, an impression strengthened by his pink night attire.

"Thank you Mrs Rawdell, and look who's here! It's a giant rabbit!" he exclaimed, picking the boy up under his armpits and swinging him around the room, eliciting a gleeful shriek from the boy.

"I see you have your camera with you, Mr French," Mrs Rawdell observed.

"I never leave home without it, Mrs Rawdell," he quipped, grabbing his tool of the trade and returning it to a more settled position on his chest, after setting Davey back on his feet. "I told Davey I might get another photo or two of him. Luckily it functions just as well indoors as outdoors."

Mrs Rawdell smiled to see the easy interaction between the man and her son. "Why don't you take Mr French up to your room, Davey, while I finish off preparation for dinner?"

"Is there anything I can do, Mrs Rawdell?" the man asked, even as Davey dragged him by the hand in the opposite direction.

"No, it's quite alright, it will only be fifteen or twenty minutes – you two go upstairs and amuse yourselves, I'll be just fine here," Mrs Rawdell assured him, smiling.

Man and boy scampered up the steps, hand in hand. As the two passed through the doorway of Davey's room, Mr French slipped the camera off from around his neck, set it on a chest of drawers and switched it on 'VID' before Davey could turn to see what he was doing. "Come here, you little scamp," he whispered in mock ferocity to the giggling boy, who sidestepped to evade the man's grasping hands. Having nowhere to escape, and not really wanting to, Mr French quickly caught the boy, and hoisted him in the air. Their mouths met instantly for a passionate kiss, Davey this time taking the initiative.

Setting the boy down, still with lips locked, the man dipped one hand inside Davey's pyjama bottoms and found an already erect tool. "Let me clean your pee-pee right now, before dinner, Davey," the man urgently whispered in the panting boy's ear, still stroking the fleshy rod. "Take your pyjamas off, Davey, all of them, and I'll clean your pee-pee really good." Davey nearly tore his shirt buttons in his eagerness to remove his pyjama top, Mr French helping with the bottoms as the boy tumbled naked onto the bed.

"There's a good little bunny," Mr French crooned as he mouthed the boy's bee-sting nipples and caressed his hot little prick. "I bet your pee-pee has been hard all day, waiting for me, hasn't it?"

"Uh-huh" Davey replied, urging his hips up into the man's hand but wondering why the cleaning hadn't started yet.

"Hey, I got a good idea- if you turn around this way, we can both clean each other's pee-pees at the same time! You wanna?," the man asked, lapsing into the boy's careless mode of speech. Right about then Davey would have done almost anything to get his pee-pee cleaned, even swallowing that stuff his new friend's pee-pee spurted the day before, whatever it was. He swung his little frame around to face the man's legs and reached inside his zippered fly, which the man had conveniently undone as he spoke, and glomphed his mouth onto the man's big pee-pee knob.

Davey circled and slurped his little tongue around the man's prickhead, just like he felt the man doing to him. His skinny fingers gripped the ample tool and stroked it up and down as he did so. Mr French meanwhile, given free access to Davey's upturned bottom, roamed his hands all around the tight globes of flesh as he suckled the boy's cocklet. When his fingers grazed along the boy's crack, Davey froze momentarily. Was the man going to actually touch his bottom hole? Where his poo-poo came out?

Not just touch it – Davey felt the man's finger rub right on the dot 3; right on the place where his poop came from. And he didn't seem to mind! The finger felt 3; strange, but not bad – like itchy, only not. And whenever the man touched his poo-hole, he sucked harder on his little pee-pee, so that was good. Davey decided it was okay.

After some more sucking, Davey felt the man's hips start to go kinda jerky, like they did yesterday just before that stuff squirted into his mouth. He was a clever enough boy to realise the two events were related, and sure enough, he got the same taste as he did before, sort of slimy, like snot, but not horrible. The man made his pee-pee feel even better than yesterday, too. Maybe that was because he was playing with his poo-hole, Davey decided.

Mr French swung the boy around and kissed him firmly, tasting his own ejaculate as he did so. "What a good little bunny you are, Davey. Let's get dressed and go down for supper," he suggested, covertly zipping up. Just before they reached the doorway of Davey's room, the man stopped before Davey's dressing table and knelt in front of the boy. He slipped his hand inside the boy's pyjama bottoms and cupped his little package. The boy sighed in pleasure. "Now, Davey," the man suggested, "did you like having your pee-pee cleaned today?"

The boy smiled and nodded vigorously, so the man said "When we get good feelings in our pee-pee, we're supposed to say some special words. Can you say them after me?"

"Uh huh," replied the boy, swaying slightly as the man caressed his still-hard dick.

"Say 'I like sucking dick' for me, Davey, please?" the man whispered.

Eyes fluttering, the boy repeated "I like sucking dick."

"Good boy. Now say 'Your cum tastes really great'."

Not quite understanding what it meant, but wanting to please the nice man, Davey replied with the requested words.

"You're doing just great Davey," the man praised the boy. He slipped the lad's pyjama bottoms down to his ankles and reached his free hand around to the cleft of the boy's ass and sought his hole once more. Davey scrunched his eyes shut and chewed on his lower lip, concentrating on the good feelings generated by the man's busy fingers. "Now just one more. When someone makes you feel really, really good, in your pee-pee and your poop-hole, you say 'please fuck me harder'. Can you say that for me?"

Davey gasped. His eyes flew open on hearing the naughty word. His mommy had paddled him once, a while back, for saying it. But the man was asking him to say it now, and mommy was down in the kitchen. "Please 3;" he whispered, licking his pouty lips, " 3;fuck me harder."

The man grinned widely and hugged the boy, giving him a big sloppy kiss as he pulled up Davey's pyjama bottoms. "What a wonderful boy you are, Davey. I'm really glad we're friends. I think you might be my best friend," the man added, as he took the boy's hand and walked him through the doorway. Blocking the boy's line-of-sight with his body, Mr French reached behind his back and retrieved his little camera off the chest of drawers and pocketed it, flicking its switch to 'off'. He led Davey down the staircase to the supper table.

"And what have you two boys been up to?" Mrs Rawdell asked, but there was no menace in her voice.

"Oh, we just cleaned up before supper," Mr French replied easily, giving Davey a wink that his hostess could not see. "Isn't that right, Davey."

The boy grinned, pleased that he shared a special secret with his new best friend. "Yes, we cleaned up real good, mommy."

Dinner was light and pleasant, the man dividing his attention equally between mother and son. He amused them with little anecdotes about life in the big city, about the photography business and about his travels around the country. He managed to slip in to the conversation that he hadn't yet had the chance to take any pictures of Davey, and that he had no appointments the next afternoon. Mrs Rawdell picked up on it immediately.

"Well, if you're sure you're free Mr French 3; I have errands that I normally run on a Tuesday afternoon, and Davey stays at after-school care until I come and collect him at five-thirty. To tell you the truth-" she leaned conspiratorially towards the smiling man "-I'd really prefer not to have him there at all, even for that one afternoon a week. After all, one never knows what the, er, staff 3; get up to, if you know what I mean. One hears 3; things, er 3; all the time."

"I know exactly what you mean, Mrs Rawdell. One can never be too cautious when it comes to our nearest and dearest. And Davey is far too precious to be left in 3; well, the hands of 3; employees," he declared, allowing a slight sneer to colour his voice, playing up to Mrs Rawdell's inherent snobbishness. He turned towards Davey and held his arms wide. The boy grinned and clambered off his chair and sat in the man's lap.

His hands hidden by the wooden dining table, he insinuated his fingers inside the front of the boy's pyjama bottoms and began diddling Davey's cock right in front of his oblivious mother. Davey sighed happily and let his head rest on the man's chest. "Don't you worry about us, Mrs Rawdell, we'll take good care of each other," he smiled, reaching down a little further to tickle the boy's balls before gliding back up to the top of the hard little stalk to lightly squeeze his foreskin-covered knob.

"Mmmm," murmured the contented boy.

Davey smiled broadly as he ran down the path to the school gate at three o'clock the next afternoon. Finally, he was going to walk home with a man, like the cool kids did, and not have to stay in the after-school jail like a loser, waiting for his mommy. Mr French was there at the gate waiting for him, and he gave him a big hug in front of the other boys, just like the cool daddies did with their sons. He thought he might burst with happiness. His pee-pee had been stiff since lunchtime, and he knew he would soon be getting those good feelings again, like yesterday and Sunday.

The two capered down the sidewalk, swinging their arms wildly, dodging doggie-do, singing silly songs, skipping, laughing and generally enjoying themselves immensely. Davey recalled a fleeting memory of his real daddy, who used to do things like this with him, before he went away.

Arriving at the door to Davey's apartment, Mr French pulled out the key Mrs Rawdell had given him the evening before. A moment after they stepped across the threshold, Mr French swept Davey up into his arms and covered his mouth with a big kiss. Davey felt delirious with happiness, just like the night before when the man carried him up to bed and tucked him in. His mommy had given him a little peck on the forehead, but when she turned to the door, the man gave him a big kiss , their 'special kiss' he called it, the one when they played with their tongues.

He set the boy back on his feet, but still held onto his waist with one hand. The other lightly grazed up and down the boy's inner thigh. "What would you like to do first, Davey, photographs or 3; suck each others dickies?" The man had decided it was time to give up any pretence of 'cleaning', and begin calling a spade a spade.

"Uh 3; I don't know 3; what do you wanna do?" Davey replied, his big cow eyes glazing over as the man's wandering fingers crept higher and higher up his leg.

"Well 3; maybe we should let your pee-pee decide what to do. Is it stiff?" he asked, knowing the answer already.

Davey grinned shyly and nodded, reaching down to clutch it.

"Hey, I know – let's do both at once! I'll put my camera over here 3; and then we can 3;"

"Suck our pee-pees?"

The man grinned in agreement. "Bet I can get my clothes off faster'n you!" he challenged his young friend. Davey shrieked with excitement as he tore his school uniform off, trying to win the impromptu race. He only managed to beat his older friend because he ripped his school shoes off without untying the laces, and because the man took a few seconds to set up his camera and start it recording.

They came together, naked, in a tight clinch. The man kissed his way down to the boy's nipples before caressing his groin. "What do you want first, beautiful? Want me to play with your pee-pee, or suck it?" he murmured, positioning their bodies on the couch so that it was mostly the excited boy's body in the viewfinder.

"Umm 3;," the boy pretended to think for half a second. "Suck it!"

"Tell the camera," the man urged quietly.

The boy turned his gaze directly towards the small device. "Suck it!" he repeated.

"Say 'suck my hard little cock'," the man whispered urgently.

"Suck my hard little cock, you 3; you 3; cocksucker!" the boy yelled with glee, using a very forbidden word he had heard at school, but whose sensual meaning he had not fully appreciated until that moment.

The man lay on the couch, the boy hovering above him, him crotch at the man's face, his hands on the padded arm of the seat. The man took the boy's piece into his mouth and gave it a few swipes. Releasing it, he whispered "You're a brave boy to say that! I bet you know lots of naughty words! Say them to the camera while I suck you!"

The boys eyes closed as the man recaptured his cock between his lips. "Suck my cock," he murmured to the silent camera, its red blinking eye the only response. "Suck on my 3; prick! Eat my dick! 3; Uh 3; rub my 3; my 3; titties! Shit! Piss!" the boy continued, trying to think up all the rude words he had ever heard. The man's hands busied themselves on the boy's bottom as he fellated the lad, sliding a finger along the length of Davey's crack.

"Finger my ass!" the boy yelled, finding inspiration in the man's exploring digits. "Shove it up my ass! Fuck my ass with your finger! Stick it in my shit-hole!," the boy shouted gleefully, remembering the terrible word the man said he could say the previous night. "Fuck me harder!" he yelled. But there was still one word, one really awfully taboo word he was never, ever allowed to say. Dare he say it now? He shut his eyes so he could savour the sound of it as it rolled off his lips. "Cunt 3;"

As soon as the powerful word was uttered, the man's finger, which had been rubbing his bottom hole, pushed into his poop-chute. The boy felt as though a veil of ignorance was torn from before his eyes. He never really 'got' the whole sex thing before; he couldn't quite fit the jigsaw puzzle of whispered information together in his mind, but now 3;"Finger my cunt!" he shouted. "Fuck me with you finger! Fuck my cunt! Uhhh 3;"

The combination of sucking, crude language, and a finger up his hole had brought him to a strong (albeit dry) climax. He panted as the man drew him back down so they were face to face and crotch to crotch.

"Wow! What a sexy boy you are, Davey! A real firecracker!" the man praised, making the boy blush.

"Should I 3; suck you now?" Davey asked earnestly, starting to slide down the man's sweat-slick body towards his cock.

Mr French held him under the arms before he could slide down any further. "You know what would really make me feel good? As good as you felt just now?" he whispered. "If you let me fuck your ass with my cock."

The boy bit his bottom lip in consternation. "Uh 3; will it 3; hurt?" he asked shyly.

"Maybe a little, at first 3; but then your whole body will feel that good feeling that you got in your pee-pee 3; your cock 3; just now. We'll go nice and slow. I'll bet you'll be really brave and take my whole cock inside your ass," he added, and the boy, dreamily, nodded.

It took more than a little effort, patience, trial and error, and some sobbing on Davey's part, before the boy was comfortably sitting on the man's prick, still facing the camera. The man had been in this exact situation with quite a few boys in other places and times. He was constantly surprised by the ease with which he was able to seduce boys. Some lads who put on a macho front turned out to be screaming queens, begging for more of his cock after the first few fucks; others, who had played the flirt, proved very difficult to penetrate, as if the boy was willing but his hole was not. Younger boys, under about eleven, often turned out to be more flexible and accommodating of his weapon, while older boys nearer puberty frequently required a few slaps on the bottom to get with the program.

After the initial shock subsided, Davey began a slow ride of Mr French's cock. At first he leaned forward to rest his hands on the man's chest, but soon sat upright to let the man diddle his little dick as he gently bobbed up and down on the hard, fat pole.

"Do you remember the words we practiced, beautiful? The little play we are going to put on for the camera?" the man asked his little sex partner.

"Uh huh," the boy replied, squirming around on the man's groin. Mr French had told him it would be fun to make up a story for the camera while they were fucking, and Davey, in a state of sexual delirium, had thought so too.

"Okay. Don't forget to keep fucking while you talk, all right? What is your name?"

Davey looked straight at the camera lens and smiled "My name is Davey Rawdell. I'm nine years old."

"And what are you doing, Davey?"

"I'm getting my ass fucked by my friend," Davey continued with a half-smile playing across his lips. "He's a man my mommy invited over. We met him in the park on Sunday. Mommy gave him her door key. We've had lots of sex, and I love it!"

"Where is your mommy now?" Mr French whispered.

"Mommy's out for a little while. She told the man to get me from school, so we could come home and have sex. I like fucking. And sucking, too. Oooh, I'm gonna have a oar-gazzum now, uhh, uhh, uh, ohh, aaaaahh 3; Shit that was good! Fuck me harder next time! Jam that big cock up my boycunt!"

The boy's prepared lines were all completely true, so he had no difficulty remembering them. The man's frantic rubbing of Davey's pricklet had brought the boy off in mid-speech, timed to perfection just as he had hoped. "We better go upstairs and have a wash before your mommy comes home, handsome. I don't want you to wear my cock out!"

"No, you'll wear mine out," Davey retorted, chuckling, as he carefully eased himself off the man's impaling prong. His first few steps were a little cautious; most boys walk gingerly after their deflowering. The man swept up behind him and carried the naked giggling boy to the bathroom.

Davey was settled happily on the couch in his pyjamas, watching cartoons on television, when Mrs Rawdell returned. Mr French forestalled any belated invitations to stay for dinner by saying he had a business flight to catch to New York City that evening, but they would both hear from him again very soon. Davey jumped up from his seat to give Mr French a goodbye hug, which made Mrs Rawdell smile.

Mrs Rawdell took a few weeks to get over the shock she received on taking her lawyer's phone call the following morning. Her ex-husband's lawyers had contacted her lawyer, and made a non-negotiable offer: hand over full custody of Davey, with zero visiting rights, or the video that her lawyer had played a few seconds of would be forwarded to Child Protection Services. She would be branded an incompetent mother, and probably be charged by the police with procuring a minor for sexual exploitation, aiding and abetting the statutory rape of a child, as well as neglect, child endangerment, and a host of other offences her lawyer could only guess at. Tearfully, she handed her son over to her lawyer, and booked herself into a clinic for depression.

Davey had never been to New York City before – or even flown on an aeroplane! Everything was so exciting, it made it easier to forget his mommy's sadness. And Mr French met him at the airport when he got off the plane! The buildings were so tall in the big city, he had to twist in his seat and he still couldn't see the top of some of them. There were so many cars, he was glad he was with Mr French, or he might have gotten lost, Anyway, Mr French still had not told him where they were going. He only said it was a surprise.

The car swung into a basement car park, and they got out and rode an elevator to the twenty-sixth floor. "Are you nervous, Davey?" Mr French asked him, holding his hand in the lift.

"Kinda, a bit," Davey agreed. The lift stopped and the doors swooshed open, letting the pair out into a cool, quiet hallway. There were only two doors, and Mr French led Davey up to the door with '2601' on it, and opened it. Davey got a big shock when he saw who was standing in the room waiting for him.

"D-daddy?," the boy cried, running the short distance to throw himself into his father's outstretched arms.

"Oh, my beautiful, wonderful boy," Mr Rawdell crooned as he hugged his son, rubbing his hands up and down the boy's back as though to convince himself he was really there. "Three long years, and now, finally 3;"

Father and son hugged for a full minute before relaxing. The man looked his son over, amazed at how the boy had grown. But there was a pressing matter that he wanted to broach right away – something he had already discussed with Mr French. "Davey, did you like meeting Mr French?" the man asked eventually loosening his hold on the boy.

"Yes, daddy, I like him a lot," the boy replied happily.

"Did you like 3; sucking his cock?" Mr Rawdell asked evenly.

Davey detected no danger in his father's question, so he answered truthfully. "Oh, yes daddy, we sucked each other's cocks, it was lots of fun"

"And did you let him 3; fuck you?" Mr Rawdell continued.

"Yes, daddy – he's my friend, he fucked me really good, it felt nice," the boy replied candidly.

"And do you think you'd like to let your daddy fuck you too, Davey?"

"Oh, daddy, do you want to? Really?" the happy boy rejoiced. Davey hadn't been sure whether his newly emerged sex life was going to continue now that he had gone to his daddy's place, but it looked like it was!

"Oh, yes, my boy, really. I'm going to fuck you as much as you want. if you like, Mr French can visit us sometimes and we can both fuck you at the same time. What do you say to that idea?"

Davey's eyelids fluttered shut in contentment as he relaxed into his father's strong grasp. "Fuck me harder, daddy 3; fuck me harder 3;"

The End