Anonymous

Agent

My name is John.

Yeah, sure it is. You think you're going to get my real name here? Needless to say, I'm not going to tell you who I am. If you're in the movie business, you know me; if you're not 3; Well, you might know me anyway. I manage some of the hottest young talent in the industry.

I'm CEO and COO and CFO (and chief goddam plumber when the employees' toilet gets jammed up) of my own little one-lung, just-about-one-man agency, and I'm doing very nicely, thanks. I'm at that wonderful point in an agent's career when I no longer have to be nice to the sons of bitches in casting, but I stay nice anyway. A couple dozen doughnuts and some coffee doesn't cost that much, and like my father used to say: people should remember you well after you're out the door.

Right now, I've got damn near a dozen child actors in my stable, with iron-clad lifetime contracts to represent two of the biggest young talents in the business.

I wasn't always this successful. In fact, only a couple of years ago I only had two really significant clients. One was a woman, a not-very-lovable ditz for whom I was able to get some pretty regular commercials. While she was on the set she would manage to blow every single male individual she thought could help her career. God knows what went on in the ladies' room.

The other was a youngster for whom I'd managed to get two exceedingly good movie roles. He was the one who was actually making money for me. If I were to mention his name – and I won't – I'm sure you'll know him.

At the beginning the little guy became successful because of his looks, but he was smart, he was willing to work hard, and he had the spark. Undeniably, he was talented. If he didn't burn out or drug out by the time he hit nineteen, he had the kind of talent that was going to take him from child star to legitimate box office leading man.

He wasn't quite ten years old when he started with me, and by the time things came to a head, he was just a couple of months shy of his eleventh birthday. He was built small, and looked even younger than he was, with that delightfully innocent face that turns on all the motherly types and a slender, beautiful young body. In the stranded-on-a-desert-island picture I'd gotten him, the director had wisely opted to dress him in the scantiest loincloth possible, and there'd been a bunch of 'innocent' (but oh-so-pretty) nude scenes that wound up in the European release – and on the cutting-room floor here in the good old U.S.A.

He had blond hair, and he wore it long. Dressed properly, he could pass for a girl. He was that pretty.

I don't know which one of my two clients was the biggest pain in the ass. She had no talent whatsoever and made my life difficult by constantly wheedling for that one good role that would put her in the limelight. The only thing that made me keep her (I mean, besides the money) was the fact that she gave the best blow jobs of anyone I knew – at the time.

He, on the other hand, came as a package deal with a stage mother who was a major pain in the ass. That woman had to have been the biggest bitch in the history of Hollywood. She'd never had the talent or the looks to cut it in the business herself, so she used her son.

Once I got him his break, she began trying to control everything, bossing everyone around and making my life miserable. What could I do? If I wanted to make any money from the kid – and, boy, did I want to make money! – I had to put up with his whore of a mother, and she knew it too.

Every chance she had to get on my nerves she took, but all of that changed.

On this particular day I was with the kid and his mother at a photo studio taking pictures of him for one of teen magazine layouts. As usual, she was bossing everyone around. I want this shot, I hate that shot, those clothes look bad on him, I want more close-ups – blah, blah, fucking blah.

When we broke for coffee and chocolate milk, the photographer came over to where I was reading the trade papers, and he asked me if I could get the kid to take off his shirt.

"Huh? For this teeny-bopper thing? Are you crazy?" I nodded as discretely as possible toward Momma the Terrible, and kept my voice low. "Sure, she let Mezvinsky get away with undressing him for that desert-island movie; they were on location, and Mezvinsky had a bunch of other kids stripped down so it would've looked just too damned weird if Momma got her way and the kid had to wear those goddam baggy shorts."

I thought for a moment. "And Mezvinsky could talk a Trappist monk into doing stand-up comedy. He even got those bare-ass shots he wanted, when all the kids were skinny-dipping – though I thought Momma was going to have a heart attack. Shit, she won't even let the kid wear a pair of Speedo's."

"Too bad," he said. "If I can get a couple of pictures of him with his shirt off, the magazine would sell a helluva lot better – with all little girls and with all the old pedos buying it up." He grinned. "A couple of shots of him bare-assed – with a nice little hard-on 3; Hell, we could sell those for five or six figures, easy."

After the 5:30-to-8:00 AM photo shoot, I dropped him off at his school. Hm. We've gotta have a name for the little guy. Unless I call him something, I might slip and use his real name. Let's call him "David." That's different enough, and later that day the kid sure had to cope with Goliath 3;

Did I mention the fact that his mother insisted that I become David's driver whenever it's not convenient for Momma to chauffeur him around? I was his agent, she said. If I owned ten percent of his earnings, wasn't it only fair that I spent ten percent of my time driving him around?

Hell, I didn't mind. Not too much, anyway. David was really a pretty nice kid whenever he didn't have Momma around.

Momma left the photo shoot to head for my office. She wanted to review scripts while David was in school. She usually hated all the decent offers that I floated in front of her, and I was learning to stack the deck with such a bunch of stinkeroos that she had to choose from among the two or three good scripts mixed among 'em.

When I got back to the office, I learned that she'd ditched everything but one of the stinkers, a bletcherous sci-fi crapmeister that would've had the kid running around in a spacesuit for the whole damned movie.

I was pissed. I'd managed to get my hands on some pretty good prospects – including one from a writer who'd seen the stranded-on-a-desert-island movie and who'd put together a treatment and an on-spec script that were definitely bankable, settling the whole idea squarely on David's round little shoulders. There was money in this one, and the possibility of a couple honest-to-god award nominations.

Momma, however, was as stupid as she was contentious. She started chopping that script to bits and claiming that science fiction was the wave of the future, and blah-blah-blah, and I snapped.

It went from argument to screaming match in nothing flat, and by the time it was finished, I was fired. My contract gave her an out, and she knew it. There were agencies – big ones – out there hungry for a property like David, and she knew how to find them.

I couldn't believe the bitch actually fired me. After she stormed out of my office, I told my assistant to grab a bagel or something and sat down to think. What the fuck was I going to do? David was the kind of kid you run across maybe once in a decade, and I'd had big plans for him. Now I was left with the blow-job cunt and a couple of other talentless has-beens and never-weres. Jesus, how was I supposed to pay the bills, anyway?

I was pissed. I got out of there and headed for my car, digging out the emergency stash of toot and treating myself to a quick pre-bottled line of Peruvian blue. I'd been cutting back, but when you need inspiration, you need inspiration.

Frozen-nosed, I could smell a good idea better than a bloodhound can sniff up a felon. I had it. It would work – and if it didn't, I'd have myself some fun anyway. Momma was gonna learn that in this town you don't fuck with your agent. Never!

After making a call to the photographer I went back to school to pick up David. When I saw him coming out of the building I motioned for him to get in the car.

"Where are we going?" he asked.

"Back to the photo shoot," I replied. "The photographer messed up a couple of pictures, and we have to take them over again."

He accepted my answer. His school – which catered to kids in the business, and which was private and hip and very expensive – didn't allow pupils to carry pagers or cell phones because they were worried about the little darlings scoring xstasy or coke during recess.

And most of the little bastards would do it, too.

Obviously, David's mother hadn't had the chance to tell him I was fired. I'd counted on it when I'd come up with my plan.

We got to the studio and started taking pictures as usual, with him dressed in the regular pants and the cornflower-blue silk shirt in which he'd started the morning shoot. After a couple of shots the photographer asked David to open his shirt. The boy hesitated and looked at me.

"Go ahead kid," I said. "Nothing wrong with showing a little skin."

He shrugged. He hadn't minded it in the desert-island movie. Hell, I think it excited him to know how much the crew and the rest of the cast liked looking at him. He unbuttoned his shirt a little and showed off his smooth chest.

"Why don't you take off your shirt completely?" I suggested. "You know; show off your pretty little bod. Make the girls all go crazy."

"I d-don't think so," he said softly. "Mom doesn't like that. She said it'd be bad for the market here in the U.S."

"Well, your mom isn't here now, is she? But we are. So why don't you be a good boy and take off the fucking shirt?"

"But we're gonna get in trouble," he whimpered. He was almost in tears. "She'll fire you for this, John"

"Too late, kid. She already fired me, so basically I have nothing to lose." I grinned. "You, however, have a lot to lose. Now, take off the fucking shirt or I'll give you the first spanking of your little life. How do you think that's going to look on the cover of the magazines? A big star like you, getting bent over and spanked?"

When I'd come up with the idea, I wasn't sure if I could actually do it. Like I said, David's actually a pretty nice kid.

But he didn't know that. He looked up at me and I could see I'd shaken him. He was remembering all the times he'd been snotty to me, mouthing off the way a kid his age will, and he remembered the anger in my eyes when I'd had to let him get away with it. Then, suddenly, it was like somebody had pulled a cork and let all his confidence dwindle away and disappear.

Inside of every star – child or adult – there are feelings of inadequacy the depths of which none of us regular clowns can ever completely understand. David was no exception. He looked at the photographer for some support in return all he saw was a guy with a huge smile, getting the camera ready. It took him a minute to think over his options.

A couple of pictures without a shirt was no big deal, but a picture of him getting a spanking would be way too embarrassing. The choice was pretty simple. He took off his shirt and posed for the camera.

"Now we're getting somewhere," I said, smiling. "Now, why don't you be a good boy and take off your pants? Let's get some really nice pictures. Okay?"

His eyes went wide. "I will not!" He stood there, trembling. "There's no way I'm going to take off my pants!"

I expected this. How else could he react? Insecure he might be, but he was a genuine movie star. Everyone had been treating him with kid gloves, and everywhere he went on the promotional tours there were people asking for his autograph and giving him gifts – and all of a sudden his manager was telling him to take off his pants. Of course he was going to object.

I walked up to him calmly, smiling in the nastiest possible way. Slowly, he backed away. When he reached the wall, he had nowhere to go, and he knew it. He looked up at me with disbelief in his eyes. Quickly – but without any anger whatsoever – I took him by the throat and started squeezing. With the other hand I grabbed one slender wrist and then the other, holding them easily. When I saw his face start to go dusky, I let up one the pressure and gave him a second to catch his breath.

"Now listen to me – and make sure you hear and understand everything, because I will not repeat myself. Your mother isn't here to protect you. In fact, nobody knows you're here, so you have two choices: either you do exactly as I tell you or I'm going to give you the biggest, most painful beating of your miserable life and then you'll do exactly as I tell you anyway. You have one minute to decide."

I took a step back to let him think. Not that I let go of his throat or his wrists, of course. Tears streaming down his face, he looked around the room and saw he had nowhere to go. You could literally see all hope leave his body.

"Time's up, David. What'll it be? And don't waste my time begging. What have you decided?"

"I-I'll do what you say. Just don't hurt me. P-please."

"Smart decision, David. Now why don't we get you cleaned up a little. We want you to look good for the pictures, don't we?"

The photographer hadn't said anything the whole time. He handed me a wet towel and I swabbed off David's face.

Now that's better. Nice and clean and pretty. Okay, we don't have the whole day. Take off your pants, David."

He sniffled and closed his eyes for a second before he unhooked his belt and undid the buttons of his fly. He dropped his pants and, lifting up one leg and then the other, pulled them over his sneakers and off. The photographer immediately started to take pictures of the boy standing there in nothing but his underpants, his socks, and a brand-new pair of white Nikes.

I learned later that it was even more embarrassing for David than simply being forced to undress. He hated the underwear he was wearing that day. They were not only a little too small for him but also out of some '60s retro specialty shop his mother went to, with flowers all over. If that weren't enough, they were made 'European' style – which meant no Y-front, so he had to pull himself out one leg when he had to pee.

He'd told his mother that they were girl's underwear.

"So what's the difference?" she'd replied. "As long as they're comfortable. It's not like somebody's going to see them!"

Boy, had she been wrong!

"Smile for the camera, David." I instructed him as I hadn't been allowed to instruct him during the earlier shoot. "Now turn around and show off that pretty little ass of yours."

As the boy turned around, I had to admit he did have a nice ass. I'd never much looked at boys sexually before. (Well, not since junior high school days, anyway.) I'd come to enjoy pussy too much.

But, like I said, David had a sweet little pair of buns: smooth and firm and perfect. Mezvinsky had known what he was doing, all right. No wonder that picture was doing so well in European release.

"Now turn back to the camera, David."

He obeyed, and there were fresh tears in his eyes.

"What's wrong, David? Is it the underwear? Don't you like the panties your mommy picked out for you? Or did you pick them out yourself?"

"No," he answered, so much misery in his voice I almost felt sorry for him. "Mom makes me wear them. I hate them."

"Well, in that case why don't you just take them off?"

He'd known this was probably coming, but still part of him was hoping that he would keep some modesty. Again he looked at me and started to plead.

"Let's not go through this again," I interrupted. "Take 'em off. Now!"

He took hold off the waistband of his panties and peeled them down and off. When he straightened up again, he stood there, exposing himself to the camera and our eyes. His penis was just the least little bit stiff, but it withered under the light if it were trying to hide from view. He didn't have a hair on his whole body. Like I said, he just stood there, bare from the top of his head to the rumpled tops of his socks, trembling and crying, very quietly.

On the set and on location, the bare-assed scenes he'd done had been made with other kids around, all of them in the same condition. Mezvinsky had kept things light and comfortable, and it had been fun. This was different, and David knew it.

"This is too much," spoke up the photographer. "Let's take a break. My dick is killing me. If I don't do something about it, I think I'm gonna explode. Just gimmie a minute in the bathroom"

We'd had this planned, too. "Don't be silly," I replied. "Our little friend here would love to help you with your problem. Wouldn't you David?"

The photographer put down his camera and stepped up to the naked, crying little boy. He took off his shirt and dropped his pants, exposing his erect dick.

"Get down on your knees and face me, boy."

By this time all resistance was over. Without any protest – just a few hopeless little sobs – David faced the photographer and got down on his knees. It was an interesting sight: a thickset hairy man in front of a young, pretty boy.

"Now take hold of my dick," the photographer commanded, "and start jerking it off."

Not knowing exactly what to do, David took the big cock into his hands carefully, as if he were afraid he might break it. He began to work the loose, rumpled skin back and forth, his lips slightly parted as he got a good look at the dusky head of it, watching it get wet with clear, musky ooze.

The photographer had been excited since the moment I discussed the plan with him, and it didn't take him long to get to where he needed to go. He began to caress David's hair, and then he tangled his fingers in it, holding the kid firmly.

"Yeah," he breathed, giving instruction in the fine art of masturbation. "Squeeze it a little harder, like that. Work it faster now, with both hands, and get your face right in front of it." He used his left hand to hold the boy's head in place. With the other, he covered David's hands and held them on his cock.

"I'm gonna cum," said the man quietly. He pulled David's face closer and closer, until the head of his cock was rubbing all over the boy's cheeks and eyes and lips. "I'm gonna cum right in your face, pretty boy. No, don't try to fight me!" He jerked David's head briskly. "Watch my cock," he commanded. "Keep your hands on it, nice and tight, and work it faster – yeah, like that! Good little fuckboy! Squeeze it tight – yeah! – and work it, work it, work it 3;"

Then he came, spattering David with spurt after spurt of rich white manscum, making the boy sputter and writhe on his knees before him, unable to get away as he got himself a good faceful of the photographer's jism. The man used his cock to work it into David's eyes, massaging it into the boy's long, golden hair.

"Beautiful!" said the photographer at last. David blinked up at him, his hands still caught 'round the still-thick shaft of the man's cock. The photographer let go of David's hair and took one of the boy's hands in each of his own.

"Nice work," said the photographer, and David gave him a shy, doubtful little smile.

"Okay, then," I said, clapping my hands together briskly. "Now that you've gotten yourself some badly needed release, let's get back to work."

"Sure, sure." The photographer grinned down at David. "I want to get some close-ups of him with my cum all over his face."

He caught the embarassment and misery perfectly. His shots later showed every drip and drizzle, and there was no mistaking the nature of the stuff that glistened all over David's face.

"Enough," I said at last. "It's time to make some pictures for your pedo friends." I began to take off my clothes. "You can really make sure that he's gonna be the only one anybody can identify?"

"Sure," the photographer said. "Besides, I can doctor these things before they're final." He hadn't bothered to dress again. He picked up the camera he'd been reloading and focused on the boy. "This is gonna be great."

I came up to David and pushed him down on the floor, laying him belly-up across the carpet. Spreading his knees wide apart, I knelt down between them and took hold of his testicles, pulling them down away from his body. He whimpered and quivered in pain, but he didn't try to get away. The camera clicked as I bent low to lick his penis and balls.

Even though he'd been scared from the beginning, his pretty little pecker didn't stay shrivelled-up for long. He was more than half-hard when the photographer began making David jack him off, and by the time the cum was spurting, David's little soldier was at full attention. He squirmed like an eel when I took his stiffie into my mouth.

I didn't bring him off, of course. There were plenty of pauses while we got shots of his saliva-wet little sex, his face hot with shame as we positioned him for photograph after photograph.

I gently tweaked his penis between thumb and forefinger to keep it nice and tight while the photographer reloaded. Three inches [7½ cm] long it was, sticking up in the air and angling up over his belly. "You really love this, don't you?" I chuckled. "I was worried that it was going to be hard to make a humpy little homo of you, but you're just born for it, aren't you?"

His only response was a whimper of anguish – and his little dick, throbbing harder still between my fingertips.

After taking more pictures of the boy on his back I instructed him to turn over so we could get some nice shots of his pert little ass. Then I made him pull up his knees to his chest and expose himself even more, getting almost a whole roll of photographs of his tight, pink young pucker.

Especially when I spread his ass cheeks for a better view.

That was the moment I decided to go ahead and rape his little ass. Honestly, I'd only been kind of halfway planning to fuck the kid. I'd never really been into the gay scene, but David's baby butt was so tempting and so ripe for it that no man could possibly have resisted.

I turned him over on his back and let him see how hard my cock was for him. As soon as the photographer handed me the Vaseline the kid understood what was about to happen and he started to struggle underneath me.

I guess he wasn't as stupid or innocent as Momma thought. But, after all, where the fuck was he going to go? I held him easily; he was no match for me. I pressed all the weight of my body on his legs, pushing them as far up against his chest as they would go. He tried to kick me with his sneakers, but I only laughed at him and got both his ankles in a one-handed grab. He yelped as he felt me work a fingerful of goo into his hole, and he begged and pleaded with me not to do it to him.

"Like hell," I said. "You need this, and you know it." I shifted myself into position and spread his knees apart. "Now, no more bullshit – or I turn you over my knee and beat your ass until you beg me to just fuck you and get it over with. Understand?"

Palefaced and breathing hard, David looked up at me. "Y-yes, sir," he replied, almost whispering. I felt him give up. His hands settled nervously on the carpet and his legs relaxed, letting me position him properly. God, he was beautiful! If the marketing guys at Nike could've seen him like that, wearing nothing more than their product and showing off that perfect mixture of sex, innocence, and little-boy good looks 3;

I got the head of my cock up against the opening between David's bottom cheeks and nudged it into place. He moaned, feeling the size of it, and I smiled down at him. "Ready, kid? No? Too bad! 'Cause ready or not, here I come!"

I shoved down, spreading him open and forcing myself into him, amazed by his scream of pain. That was the moment at which I discovered that in addition to good looks, David had a nice little singing voice.

I wanted to go easy on him. After all, I didn't want to kill my investment. But once I was inside of him and started to fuck him a part of me wanted to take out all of my frustration on the kid. As I looked down into his eyes, I pretended Momma was watching from behind a pane of bulletproof glass, eyes bulging with rage as I paid her back by cockspiking the slender, helpless body of her sweet little boy.

Luckily for him it didn't take long before I came inside him. Long before then, though, he stopped screaming and gave up his struggles. He moved beneath me, yeah, but not to get away. He was still crying, though, taking whatever I had to offer, gasping as I fucked my cock into him, squealing softly as I slid partway out, lifting himself up just a little each time I began to push myself back inside.

When I came, it was like an explosion behind my eyeballs, and I pounded little David harder than I'd ever fucked a woman, listening to him yelp in pain as I punished him for his mother's arrogance and stupidity.

I shot a full load all the way up inside him, and I held him while I crouched over him, my cock not even starting to go soft inside the heat of his baby ass. He just lay there, sobbing, looking up at me, his face full of his understanding of what it felt like to be fucked by a grown-up man.

That was when I felt sorry for him. Just a little bit. I reached over and grabbed the nearest piece of clothing – it was his flowered little pair of underpants – and began to gently wipe his face while I worked my still-hard sex in and out of his bottom, in and out.

"Like that better, kid?" I asked softly.

He nodded. "Yes, sir. It doesn't hurt so much when you do it like that." I looked down between our bodies and saw that David's pretty young penis was tight with pleasure, pulsing against the boy's smooth, flat little tummy.

I looked up at the clock. It was almost time for Momma to arrive. The photographer had called her to come over at 4:30 to take a look at the morning shoot's proofs.

Slowly, I pulled myself out of David's bottom and got up to get dressed. He groaned as he unfolded himself and tried to stand. I pushed him back down.

"Relax," I said. The photographer went on taking pictures, and he got a couple superb shots of the defeated, submissive look in David's eyes as I spoke to him. He also got some great shots of the boy's stiff, hairless little pecker. "Someone else has to see you like this. Someone important."

You should have seen that 'someone important' when she came in to the studio and saw her superstar little boy lying on the floor, wearing nothing but a pair of sneakers as the photographer continued to order him around, getting the best possible shots of David's no-longer-virgin little boyhole.

Before she had a chance to really react and start screaming I grabbed her and made her face me. I tell you being scared as hell I gave an excellent acting performance I should have been an actor myself. I yanked David to his feet and took his arm in a powerful grip.

"You've got an imagination," I said. "Well, you can just goddam imagine the kind of picture's I've got right now. You've got two choices: you can call the cops and try to make a criminal case out of it, or you can take the easy way out."

"Easy? You bastard! You take your hands off my boy!"

"Your boy?" I glanced down at David. "He's my boy, now – in the most thorough sense of the word. Aren't you, kid?"

David's face went hot with humiliation and he looked down at the floor – but he nodded. "I-I guess so." His penis went even harder as he acknowledged it, and I felt him shudder with need. I hadn't let him cum, not even once. I wanted him like this, feeling his hunger overwhelming him in spite of Momma's battleship presence.

I looked back at Momma. "Like I said, you've got two choices. Call the police and I get prosecuted, sure – but everything comes out, including all these photographs. Know anything about the Internet? Little David here could become world-famous for something more than just a couple of movie roles."

Momma thought for a moment. "And the other choice?"

"Simple. You keep your fucking mouth shut and I get a lifetime contract as David's manager. That way I've got a real incentive to keep MY mouth shut and make sure that nobody sees any of these pictures."

Of course a normal mother would grab her son and run to the cops, but I knew the only thing she cared about was Hollywood. If she had to use her son to make her mark in Tinsel Town – no problem.

She stood there for a minute looking at her naked, sobbing young child with all kinds of thoughts running through her head.

Finally she turned to me. "You won't tell anyone?"

That was when I knew that my spur-of-the-moment plan had worked. We were safe – and in the clover. I pulled David around in front of me, letting Momma get a good look at the mixture of cum and Vaseline that glistened between the boy's asscheeks. I held the kid's smooth shoulder in one hand and lifted his chin with the other, looking down into his tearstreaked young face. Sniffling, he gazed back at me. His little pecker was still stickup-stiff, and he did nothing to push me away.

"Not as long as I can have him this way whenever I want him." I looked at David, not at his mother, as I spoke. I saw a shudder run through his naked little body. "Just like this, in front of the camera, to suck and fuck do whatever else I want with him."

Momma paused for a moment, her face going pale, her mouth open with words she didn't dare speak. David glanced at her, afraid. Was she going to do what a good mother should do? Was she going to defend her helpless little boy from the man who had kidnapped and raped him?

"All right, then," she said. "It's a deal."

The boy looked up at me. His mother had betrayed him. She'd sold him into sexual slavery so that his value as a child movie star wouldn't be destroyed. His hands came up to grab fistfulls of my shirt and he slowly leaned his head against my chest, the photographer recording his submission just the way he'd recorded David's rape.

He was mine to control. I caressed his shoulders and back, loving the silky smoothness of his flesh. "Not bad, kid." I bent down and kissed the top of his head. "Tomorrow's Saturday. What do you say we spend the night at my place, just you and me? I've got a script I want you to read, and I think you need to learn how to suck cock. I should be up for it by bedtime."

David raised his head. "A-are you going to suck mine, too?"

"Sure. Fair's fair." I smiled as I slid my hands down to get a double-grip on his freshly-raped little ass. "But you're the one who gets fucked, now and forever. Can you live with that?"

The boy blushed and looked down at my shirt. "Yeah, I guess so." He shrugged. "I guess I gotta." He tilted his head up to eye me sort of slantwise. "Until I'm big enough to do some f-fucking of my own."

I laughed and slapped him on the ass, and he giggled, grinning up at me. "That won't be for a long, long while," I said. "Go in the bathroom and wash the cum off your face and your bottom. Then get dressed, and don't forget those flowery underpants."

David glanced at his mother, then he made a face at me. "But I hate them! Couldn't I just throw them away?"

"Hell, no!" I shook him by the shoulders. "I want to see you in those girlie panties one more time, tonight – just before I fuck you out of them and have 'em framed and mounted over the head of my bed."

He smiled then, understanding. Looking from the photographer to his Momma, David grabbed his clothes and ran to the bathroom like the happy little boy he was born to be.

I turned to his mother. She inhaled slowly and completely, but said absolutely nothing. "He has self-defense lessons tomorrow morning at 10:00 o'clock."

"He'll have to miss 'em. I plan to be fucking him again tomorrow morning at 10:00 o'clock."

She sniffed. "Will you call when you're done with him?"

"I'll call you when I'm ready to send him home. I may keep him until Monday morning." I pointed to the clothing in which we'd conducted the morning shoot. "There's plenty of stuff I can take with me. That pair of pants and the silk shirt would be perfect for school."

"He'll need underwear," she said, not thinking.

"No, he won't."

And that was that.

Now – two years later – with the help of the photographer who became my partner we've build a nice agency. With the same plan we got a lifetime contract with another child star: a dark-eyed, sleek little guy with just the faintest hint of a Provencal accent. Seven years old when we busted his cherry, and even more fuckable at age eight-and-a-half than any woman I could tell you about.

David likes him a lot, and we're hunting for the kind of properties in which the two of them can co-star. Got slots for a couple of highly-talented kids? One twelve-year-old blonde and an eight-year-old brunette, both of 'em guaranteed bankable.

I should know. I made a deposit in each of them, just this morning.

The End