Shadey Grey

Silent Service

My front door opened and was closed quietly. There were shuffles in the front entryway. And then a knock on the empty doorframe leading to my office. I turned around in my chair to find a nine year old boy, brown hair slightly disheveled, looking at me silently.

"Did you finish the weeds?"

The boy nodded, expressionless.

"And cleaned up around the sidewalks?"

Again, he nodded.

"Good. Go into the kitchen. There is a glass of lemonade for you on the table. Don't spill it."

Without response, the child turned and headed towards the kitchen.

The boy came knocking on my door a while back. I'm not much for solicitation or being bothered for anything. The boy looked to be around eight or nine years old, so I didn't expect him to understand what "No Solicitors" meant. And a quick peek through the glass told me that he was not selling candy for an instrument or cookie dough for some cheap prize. That he was at my door during school hours was even more interesting.

So I opened the door. The boy waiting on my front step was dark skinned. Maybe half-Latino or just tanned. So hard to tell these days. He wore a pair of shorts that were perhaps a decade out of style for children, ending above his knees and looking almost like they were made of swimming trunk material. A shirt a bit too large for him hung over most of his shorts, ending almost as far down. Brown eyes looked up at me from beneath brown hair.

Since the boy was too shy to pipe up on his own, I quickly took control, demanding why he was bothering me. The boy explained to me that his mother sent him out around the neighborhood asking if anyone would pay him to mow their lawns or pick weeds. Or anything, really. There was something rather amusing about the request. I wouldn't entrust a lawn mower to an eight year old child unsupervised – especially not modern ones that self propel. This was something twelve year olds did. The money, the boy further explained, his family needed.

I hardly needed help. And while I did not have any interest in charity, there were plenty of other needs that a boy such as he could fulfill that would be worth paying for. So, I explained to the boy that a deal could be made and brought him in.

There were rules and expectations, I explained. The boy would do whatever I asked him to do in exchange for fifteen dollars a day and he would be expected to be present for two hours a day. That was about minimum wage and gave him the opportunity to work elsewhere. Tips would be given if he did everything right. But for every rule broken, he would lose five dollars. The rules themselves were fairly simple: do not speak unless I asked, do everything I instructed him to do without complaint or resistance, take off shoes when walking into the house, do not touch anything unless instructed, etc.

The boy agreed to these terms. I further drafted a letter to his mother, stating that her son would come work for me daily and receive the compensation agreed upon. If, however, the child receives less, it was due to misbehavior and would be her loss. Should things go well, however, I noted that the boy would get a raise or perhaps more hours.

With that, I sent the boy home, telling him to report here the next day. That was a few months ago.

A few minutes after I sent him off to the kitchen, I followed him in. He stood next to the kitchen table, knowing full well that he could only sit if invited to. Next to his glass sat five five dollar bills. The boy received his raise a month ago. I always left it there to remind him of what he would get if he behaved.

As the boy finished his lemonade and replaced it on the table, I came up behind him and wrapped my arms around him, my hands falling gently onto his hips. "You've been doing well today. And all week." One of my hands pulled up his shirt a bit while the other tugged free the metal button on his shorts. My thumb ran over the soft skin, getting caught in his belly button and gripping his round stomach with it. As came to be expected, this boy allowed me without complaint. The little zip opened up and my hand climbed in.

I fondled the little bulge in his old underoos for a few minutes, luxuriating in the warmth to be found there, but I didn't need to give foreplay with my little gardening assistant. Tugging his shorts past his square hips let them fall to his ankles, I returned my gaze to the child's face. "Mom has been buying you new clothes. I see that money is coming in handy."

Without the usual dramatic affair of childhood revealings, I hooked the boy's underpants and slid them down to middle of the way down his thighs before returning to the first part of my purchase. My finger and thumb trapped the tiny, limp head in its grasp and began to roll it about, adding the occasional tug to make him jump a little. The boy's darker skin tone extended to everything, making a lovely contrast between my stark white hands and his pink and mocha boyhood.

It took a minute or two, but eventually, the boy's primary tool rose to the occasion, growing to two-and-a-half inches [6½ cm] of stiff boy flesh. I leaned forward, my lips right next to the little boy's cheek. "Look at your little dick," I said, stroking him slowly. His eyes cast downwards, watching the source of strange feelings he was unable to understand. I began to pick up speed, drawing heavier and heavier breathing into him. Behind him, my own hard on was pressing into his back.

I added my middle finger, jacking the entirety of his length with every stroke. My other hand grabbed him in the space between his legs and massaging the flesh there. In minutes, his legs were so weak that I was holding him up. Hunched forward against my arm and hanging, he whimpered ever so quietly.

The sensations were getting to him. What was once a little nub, barely poking out of him now stood straight and pulsed in my grip. His breathing became uneven and his stomach spasmed against my arm. The head of his tiny cock was a vivid red, straining against my fingers. Each stroke puffed it up a little more until it looked like it might pop.

He closed his eyes tight, bit his lip, and sucked in air. His back locked up and the whole little body in my arms rippled. The crown of brown hair atop his head fell back against my chest as I drew out an intense dry orgasm from him. I eagerly leaned farther forward to watch his little slit wink, trying to push out fluids he didn't have yet.

In a few moments, it was over and all the muscles in his body relaxed in the afterglow. I could feel the blood leaving his pricklet, the boyhood in my fingers once again soft and pliable. "Very good 3;" I said, my eyes still drinking in his half-dressed, flushed body. When I was confident he was capable of it, I let him carry his own weight and stood up again.

My pants were opened up in a hurry. I barely gave the kid enough time to stand up straight before I turned his face to my six-and-a-half inches [16½ cm] of straining cock. One of the things I liked most about this child was that his face was at fly level. And it only took a few goes of this before I didn't have to spell this particular act out to him.

With my hand at the back of his neck, I guided his willing mouth onto me. The heat and slickness of his mouth surrounded my member. I made him pause after the third inch, close to where the boy's mouth bottomed out, and held him there. His little tongue squirmed against the underside of me, unable to fit around it much at all. Watching the cinnamon-turned-pink lips stretched tightly around my cock try to open any further is a joy I have never gotten tired of.

I drew the boy's head back to the tip and back down again. I kept complete control, making the boy bob on my cock at my speed. He rarely could do it right on his own, but I didn't mind helping him earn his keep on this task. Soon, he was carrying most of the motion himself, driving four inches of me into him with every thrust.

Even with the novelty of having a little boy to provide blowjobs, this one wasn't that good at it. His small lips helped, but his technique was lacking. No student was perfect. If one thing was given in his favor, it was that, over time, I could tap the back of his throat without dramatic gagging. Gagging lost him money.

I pulled his face away from my cock, watching it and the boy's lips glisten with a mixture of saliva and natural lubricant. I stroked it a few times casually, watching him gather extra breath. I thought about jerking off into his open mouth, about watching it pour over his tongue. I imagined closing his mouth until he swallowed it, then presenting the proof. I decided that I wanted more.

I shucked the boy's undies to the floor. Dropping a foot on the pile of cloth bunched up around his ankles, I pulled him up by his armpits, abandoning them to the carpet. I brought the boy to my dining room table, which stood low. He landed in a sitting position, but I practically knocked him onto his back as I pulled his butt over the edge and threw his feet in the air.

My cock found its target, a tight ring snugly hidden between two pert globes of flesh. For a moment, the image before me stood out. The smooth little latin boy, laid out on my table, shirt hiked up near his neck. His stomach rose and fell quickly, leading down to his immature cock, barely more than a head poking out over a tightly constricted sack. And one adult manhood, pressing urgently against his smooth rear. And it was as quiet as a photo, no crying or whining. Perfect.

Taking each of his ankles in my hand with his legs all the way in the air and spread, I pushed forward. At first, it didn't feel like there was any hole there at all. But, eventually, my slick cock broke through. With a sudden slip, my head stole into the boy. My little servant arched his back without a word, not daring to even gasp. His dedication was inspiring, I thought, as I pushed deeper into him.

I fucked the boy slowly at first. Drawing myself out gently, then driving myself in firmly. It was a necessity, as his ass was so tight as to make it difficult to accomplish speed. But with every repetition, his muscles relaxed. Slowly, but surely, his back settled back down onto the table beneath him. And the grimace on his face dissipated, replaced with fatigue and slack-jawed stimulation.

Soon, the pace had been set. I drove my cock through him roughly, going deep enough to feel his ass cheeks against my pelvis. Each new thrust reverberated through his torso like a wave, making first his ass bounce, then his little dick, then his stomach, chest, and head. I gripped his legs like the arm of a pump, using them to get leverage and fuck harder. Looking down to see my rod pump into his tiny passage, I was mesmerized. When I thrusted, it looked like I was pulling his entire rump down into his asshole with me.

An idea struck me, a final image I wanted for the end of my day. It drove me wild with the thought. I started slamming into the boy's ass, fucking him as hard as I could. My body started to shake with euphoria. I wasn't sure if the muscles in his legs were shuddering or my hands were. I felt the ecstasy hit its peak and pulled out.

The first jet of cum fired as if from a cannon, splashing across the panting chest and nipples of him. The second fell across his stomach, pooling into his belly button. The final burst and ending cock drool poured across his now half-erect dick and sack, still shaking from the thrusting. I drank in the image of this child, sprawled across my dining room table, covered in my white essence. And even as he calmed from it all, his anus still twitched, as if searching for something to continue where it left off. A fine mental souvenir.

At least, I let go of the boy's legs and let them hang almost lifeless over the edge of the table. Even in afterglow, I heard not a peep from the young employee of mine. Just his breathing and mine. There was something peaceful in that. And peaceful was a most deserving adjective to promote.

Putting away my shrinking shaft, I left my companion there and went into the other room. When I returned, he was sitting up and, having let down his shirt, now had stained his. I handed him an old undershirt of mine, having predicted this eventuality. "Tell your mother that she will get that shirt back tomorrow, as your work got messy today." Obediently and quietly, shirts were exchanged.

Dazed with the events of the day, the gardening assistant took his time climbing off of the table and retrieving his pants and underwear. It seemed a cautious dance he did to manage it without losing balance. And, for my part, I never enjoyed watching a little body disappear under the confines of clothes.

At last, he reached for the pile of money on the end of the table, but my hand came down on it suddenly, stopping him. "Not quite, young man."

The face of this young thing looked up at me, still flushed from being molested in every way. His expression was one of astonishment and fear.

"For your performance today," I said evenly, pulling the pile from his reach and into my hands, "this is not the correct amount." I counted it over again. Then I reached into my pocket and pulled two more five dollar bills out. "You did everything correctly today, even the most difficult parts. Good work." Even I am not a heartless man. Tips, I have always believed, are earned when deserved.

As the collection of bills was placed into his hands, the boy smiled at me. I doubted that he really understood what we were doing. I certainly never explained it to him. Or that it was the only reason I paid him. But regardless of how much I took advantage of him, he still seemed to find some level of pride in his work. I liked that about him.

This arrangement continued for some time, but eventually stopped after two years. His family left, the house they lived in labeled a foreclosure. I tried to hunt the family down, but to no avail. It wasn't until the boy was gone that I realized how good my garden used to look.

The End