Zadziu

Whizz Kid

Max had a date and he was both excited and scared. In order to make this date, he had broken just about every rule his parents had laid out for him. All the rules about internet usage, talking to strangers, chatting only to his own peer group, avoiding giving out personal details – well, you name it and Max had broken it. Because he knew he was ready to make all his confused dreams come into focus and finally be realized. After all, he was eleven and had read so much about what was going to happen to him, to his body, and his mind had already shown him where he wanted to go. He was educating himself. That was his justification for his actions. He was poised for it and couldn't wait for it all to start happening. Every day he examined his body for signs of change. He wanted to find evidence of hair growing around his pubes or in his arm pits or even on his little white chest but so far, disappointingly, there was nothing. Little did he know that his lack of hair would be a powerful attraction in itself.

He wanted to be taller, he wanted to be heavier, he wanted a bigger cock, he wanted his balls to drop, he wanted his voice to break. He wanted to be older. He could not wait until he was a big boy. He knew it would happen but he was fed up waiting. He wanted to be sixteen right now and then he could do all the things he wanted to. When he looked at himself naked in the cheval mirror that stood in his parents' bedroom, all he saw was a short, skinny boy with a mop of untamed black hair, all the more dramatic against a white skin, slim legs, tiny buttocks, (albeit exceptionally pert), delicate features that were pretty rather than handsome 3; He knew he didn't even look eleven – he was among the shortest boys in his class at school and was subject to bullying because of it. The worst taunt, the one he couldn't stand was, 'You should be in Primary Four, not Seven!'

But what he lacked in maturity of appearance he more than made up for in his mind – and having had a computer from the age of eight, he had set about the task of discovering all the secret worlds that could provide him with the key to entering some of them, especially the ones that were difficult to access.

On his own, and through his own research, he had found a way into the hidden world of the internet. It was a closed, untraceable world over the rainbow. It was a world of illegality and he felt rather like Dorothy on first arriving in Oz; but just as she, though intrigued by the strangeness of the world around her, kept her eyes on her goal of finding a way to return home, so he ignored the world of drugs and contract killers and bomb making and mercenaries and all the other strange byways of the dark side of the internet and headed for erotica. Here, too, he followed his personal Yellow Brick Road, ignoring the worlds of bestiality, of incest, of sadism and masochism, to the hidden lair of child pornography where he was able to feast his eyes on boys just like him having sex with adult males. He saw little skinny bodies like his being held against burly, hairy men more than twice their size. He saw tiny rosebud asses being spread wide by adult penises, and boys stretching their jaws to accommodate adult cocks. And, having feasted on this forbidden fruit late into the nights when his school friends were long asleep, he found his way to the hidden chat rooms.

Of course he had difficulty in convincing the men he chatted to that he was indeed eleven. He came across as too mature, too knowing in the way he articulated his feelings – but the connoisseurs among the pedos soon realised that this was something rare – a boy with lots of theoretical knowledge but no experience. And so the date was made, the rendezvous arranged, and the boy duly in the assigned place at the assigned hour. And the black Mercedes approached exactly on time and Max got into the front passenger seat and fastened his safety belt.

I am being kidnapped, thought Max. And it was a kind of kidnap. His innocence and naivety showed in his guilelessness. No one knew he was doing this. He had left no note of explanation. He was supposed to be playing tennis after school.

He should have felt panic but he did not. He felt strangely calm, as if there was an inevitability and rightness about what was happening to him.

I have no idea where I am going, I have no idea who this man is, I should be terrified.

And in a way he was terrified – but excitement and sheer curiosity was taking him over, blotting out all rational thinking. He was discovering himself. He was running on adrenaline. And he was totally excited. So many ideas and notions and fantasies he had obsessed about for at least a year were now going to happen.

From time to time, he looked almost wildly around him, as if looking for escape – but then the gloved hand would rest on his leg, firmly pressing him. He felt as if he were being pressed into place, pressed into acceptance. He felt wholly powerless to resist. And with that thought a new sense of peace came over him. He could not resist, but he did not need to resist. Decisions were being made for him, he no longer had control; all he had to do was go along with what this man wanted. He had to obey. Somehow, obscurely, he felt that if he just went along with everything, if he just did exactly what this man wanted, then he would be safe.

The journey became a dream. He could not have said how long it took. Had the car stopped and he had been thrown out, he could not have said in what direction he had come, what areas of the city they had passed through. None of this reality was real to him. And now the car was pulling up outside a large, tall terraced house, and he was getting out and following the man up the steps to a Georgian front door, being ushered inside, into a long dark hall; he heard the door close behind him, heard a bolt being shot home, as he stood there uncertainly, trying to adjust to the darkness. And he sensed the man coming up behind, falling to his knees, and felt his nearness and then a gloved hand was over his mouth as he felt his head being pulled back onto the man's shoulder.

And he did not panic. Or fight. Or try to pull free. His head came back in a slow, steady, relaxed way as if what was happening to him was the most natural thing in the world. The gloved hand covered his mouth; it was held firmly; there was no way he could break free from the strength of this hold; but he did not want to. The soft but tough touch of the leather, the potent smell of the leather acted on him. Tentatively he forced his tongue through his slightly parted lips. He wanted to taste the leather in addition to feeling it and smelling it. And this made him completely hard in a way that came instantly whereas before this he had to work to make his little cock swell and stick out. Now it bulged against his school uniform shorts, tenting them as the man's other hand slipped round to feel it and grasp it and hold him there with as much casual power as the hand over his mouth.

His body folded into this position of helplessness and powerlessness. He felt the man's cock pressed against his buttocks and his hands moved to caress the suited body that held him. But as he did so, as if any gesture from him was a sign of independent thinking, the man broke the static nature of the scene by turning him around to face him. A gloved hand grasped him by the chin and held him in his gaze. Max was forced to look at him – but in this darkness he could not see the expression on the man's face. Was there cruelty there? Or lust? Or, even possibly, love?

Max knew instinctively what he must do, what he had to do to please this man; and at this moment he wanted so much, more than anything in the world,to please the man. And so his face moved towards this stranger, his tongue tentatively parted his lips and moved slowly towards the man's face. Delicately, he tongued the lips of the man, savouring their shape, their feel, their taste. There was no response – except, did the man's lips part just a little? Max's tongue dived for that tiny space, that opening and the lips parted to let him in. A kiss, a passionate kiss, such as Max had long longed to experience with a man.

The man relaxed his hold on him and drew back a little. There was a strange stillness, as if each was watching the other. In a sudden movement of total surrender Max kissed him again but with more fervour and a fierce concentration, his whole being focussed on this act of devotion and emotional engagement. The response from the stranger was equally strong. Again, time stood still, even disappeared in the intensity of this moment.

The man stood up. An arm went round his shoulders, the other arm crossing his waist as he was gently led upstairs. In a dream-like state he mounted the stairs, still not seeing the face but knowing that the eyes were fixed on him, on his slightest response.

To a bedroom. An undressing, both of them, sliding between cool sheets, all happening so slowly, so intensely, so beautifully as if choreographed; the bodies coming together, hands exploring, touching, caressing; tongues moving and sliding and kissing and coinciding; and Max's little boy's body, being held, and caressed and being rejoiced in for all the things he disliked about himself – his slimness, his boniness, his hairlessness, his tiny cock, his little pert buttocks, a waist so slender it was no more than the size of one of the man's thighs. Now that he was in the embrace of a man, Max instinctively behaved in ways designed to elicit the ultimate in approval from the true pedophile as he became a lithe, wriggling, tactile, oral sexboy; hands and mouth everywhere, licking and sucking and stroking and kissing and emitting little gasps and squeals of pure pleasure as he was introduced for the first time to the world of sex and sensuality.

He felt so small against the full figure of the man. He was aware of so many contrasts. The man's hairy chest, broad and muscled against his own slight nakedness. The powerful, huge cock pressed against his tiny little buttocks. But he had seen the pictures, he had read the texts – he knew it would go in, that it would hurt but that the hurt would be wonderful and that he would pass through the pain to a new feeling. This is what he had worked towards and he was not going to fall at the final hurdle.

The man flipped the boy over on to his back and straddled him, placing the boy's ankles on his broad shoulders. Max gazed up at the man who smiled encouragement at him and spoke for the first time. "Time to breed my little boy," he said, with a chuckle.

Max felt the man lubing his ass and pushing one finger, two, three up his bottom but so gently as he expanded it expertly. The boy was fully relaxed. The man was gentle but insistent and Max pressed back to show that he desired it, that he wanted the man's cock to push in, and that he was ready. He wanted to rise to meet the challenge and soar over it, with joy and ecstasy which is all he felt – the physical feelings now metamorphosed into a spiritual feeling of being taken, of giving himself, of surrendering totally as this man entered him slowly, pausing to let the boy adjust to each centimeter of progress, as Max gasped and winced but willed himself impaled on the cock until suddenly it moved with a swift glide to its home and the boy cried out in pain, then pleasure as he felt it deep inside him and the man began to fuck him, gently at first but with larger and deeper thrusts, his body coming up hard against the soft, sweet cheeks of the boy's buttocks and fucked him, slowly, gently, forcefully, wildly, to the point where the boy could no longer distinguish between feelings and emotions other than the knowledge that the stranger was making them one, him and the man, until he did not know who was the man and who was Max, as he felt the man's seed empty itself into the very centre of his being and he shot his own stream of cum onto his hairless chest.

The End