Fearless Frankie

FEARLESS FRANKIE by Jon Kent

DISCLAIMER

Everyone should accept the laws of his country, reserving the right to strive democratically to change those he disagrees with. Therefore, if the laws where you live say that you should NOT be reading stories like these, you are legally obliged to leave now and read no further. It does not matter if these stories are fiction, made-up, only written to entertain, instruct, engage, and inform. If for any reason, the law where you live says you are NOT allowed to read them, you have to go. So off you go. Live a healthy and happy life, and come back, if you want to, when your laws say.

And remember: these are only stories. They are made-up. They did not happen. And the writer does not believe they should happen. The first responsibility of adults is to protect children and their innocence. It doesn't mean some adults won't enjoy reading stories like this, but it doesn't mean they should go out and do things like this. Who knows? maybe reading stories like this will actually stop them going out and doing these things.

This is a revised version of a story I wrote over ten years ago for Nifty. I have substantially revised it (a) because I'm a much better writer now than I was then, and (b) because it deals with some aspects of sexuality, especially scat, that I couldn't handle them. I needed to write this story to get it out of my system, and that, as they say is that.

SUPPORT NIFTY

Nothing comes free, so remember we wouldn't have the massive treasure of Nifty if these good folk were not keeping it up and running year after year. So, dip into your wallet, find something for Nifty and send it to them. Every little bit helps.

FEARLESS FRANKIE

Frankie is 11 years old. Frankie is not cute. Frankie is beautiful. He turns heads in the street. In restaurants and cafes, both men and women find it hard to take their eyes from him. When he flicks his blond fringe from his eyes, women sigh and think eyelashes like his shouldn't be wasted on a boy. When he rises to go to the toilet, they marvel he can be so slender, so slim, and yet not seem skinny. Women would die for those hazel eyes, perfect skin, small white even teeth, and those pale pink lips that lick so casually at his ice cream cone.

No, Frankie isn't cute; Frankie is beautiful. At school, his teachers call him 'Angel' - not to his face and not infront of his classmates, of course, but together they call him Angel.

Even Frankie's rosebud is beautiful. I know because that's what I'm looking at now. The pale pink of his skin gives way the the faintest tinge of brown that finds its centre in the portal to his anus. I pry open his cheeks a little wider and flick my tongue against the tiny starfish.

I'm stretched out on the bed, full-length, naked. Frankie, naked, is stretched along my length facing in the opposite direction. He holds my hard-on at the base, his finger-tips touching as they meet. He licks tenderly at the head of my dick, then slips it inside his mouth, something he certainly couldn't do when he was six years old. The fingers of his other hand play with my balls, slide in the sweaty crease that leads to my own bruised starfish. His lips, tongue, mouth tenderly caress my glans, make little circles, plant tiny kisses. He releases me for a moment. Then returns to his work, his long middle finger sliding back and forth over my arsehole, mirroring what I am doing to him with my tongue.

Even Frankie's rosebud is beautiful. I know because that's what I'm looking at now. The pale pink of his skin gives way the the faintest tinge of brown that finds its centre in the portal to his anus. I pry open his cheeks a little wider and flick my tongue against the entrance to his rectum. I place my thumbs on either side of his hole and gently prise it open. A musky smell fills my nostrils, and I tickle the entrance with the tip of my tongue. I hear him giggle. Later I will fit his butt plug. I want him to be ready tonight. Ready for the camera. Ready for those men all over the world who want to peer into the boy's anus as much as into his hazel eyes.

The boy's penis is as hard as a stick of asparagus, the head poking out obscenely from the foreskin. I fight my desire to lick it because I know how easily Frankie can cum when he is fully aroused as he is now. I feel him pull my open legs even wider as he plunges his face between my legs, between my buttocks. He is kissing and sucking at my hole, almost frantically, as if he wanted to find and suck the shit out of me. I can feel one, then two fingers, fight their way inside me. They start a sawing motion I know will open me wider and wider. A third finger tries to join its brothers, but I clench my buttocks, the sign that's enough, enough for now.

"You're not listening!"

I realise Frankie has been speaking to me. Gently I ease his fingers from my hole and swing his body, feather-light, round so that his hard-on is against my belly, his shoulders against my chest, his face and lips to mine. His breath is so sweet, a wonder when you consider where his lips, tongue and mouth have been a few minutes ago.

"I said," he repeats, "what should I wear tonight? Until I take it off..." he giggles. "How many viewers do you think we'll have? We had 808 last Friday. That's a record, isn't it? Can we have a Big Mac after?"

Frankie, like most boys, flits from one topic to another with hardly a breath between. I'm still amazed how innocent he can still look. Stretched out along me, his chin resting on his arms crossed on my chest, his face a picture of concentration, a frown that only serves to make him more lovely.

"I've got two little hairs down there," he adds suddenly. "They'll have to come out, won't they? The guys don't like hairs. But you're not plucking them! You'd fukin' make it hurt." He is serious but smiling at the same time. "I'm gonna pull the hairs out of your bumhole," he adds. "See if you like it."

A moment of sadness. Two hairs down there. Time passes so quickly. Was it only yesterday.....?

Frankie is sitting on a swing in the park. He looks so tiny, so alone. It's only 6 o'clock but already shadows are long, there's a chill in the air. Who the fuck leaves a kid on their own in a public park? The toilets are only a few steps away, for Chrissake, and these toilets are not only used for the obvious. I sit down on the next swing.

"Hi, kid. You on your own? What you doing?"

The boy raises his head, and for the first time those big hazel eyes look into mine. My heart skips a beat, no, it skips half a dozen beats. He looks at me brightly.

"Waiting for mum. She's in there."

He turns his head, and I realise he's looking at the local clinic.

"Oh, is she a nurse or something?"

"Don't think so," he says. "She cleans the place in the afternoon. I play here till she comes out at the end of school."

"What time does school finish?" I ask.

"Not sure. I don't tell the time so good." Then brightly, "You teach me."

Frankie is one of life's optimists. For him, the glass is always half full.

"Frankie! Frankie!" and a young woman comes clicking across the tarmac.

"Hi, mum," returns Frankie, leaping from the swing.

Frankie's mother stops in front of us. I see where he gets those big eyes from. "I've told you not to speak to anyone," she begins to scold him. I intervene with "But Frankie knows that strangers give the best sweets." She looks at me uncertainly. "And, anyway, Frankie didn't speak to me. I spoke to him. I'm a teacher. I guess that's what we do when we see a little kid sitting on his own in the park at this time of night."

"Oh, a teacher... well, thanks. I know I shouldn't have Frankie wait here for me. But it's only for a couple of weeks. We're new around here. I don't know anybody. And I've got to keep this job. I've just got to. You understand, don't you?"

"Coffee?" I say.

"Pardon?" she says.

"Coffee?" I repeat. "And juice for him. No Cola, no Pepsi... juice."

I turn and point to a high-rise behind us. "That's mine. Way up there. Twentieth floor. Top flat. The lift's working. At least it was this morning."

Uncertainty flits across her face.

"Can we? Please, mum, can we?"

"Oh, hell, why not? Anything to get off my feet." Pauses. "You sure you're a teacher."

I laugh

"Well, at least I was at 4 this afternoon. And I'm pretty sure I will be again at 8.30 tomorrow morning. St. Stephen's. Deputy Headteacher."

Amy blushes, "Sorry," and takes Frankie's hand. The boy takes my hand, or at least wraps his little fingers round mine.

"Come on, let's go," he pipes.

And so begins an awfully big adventure.

...

I love boys. There. I've said it. I've learned to live with it. I've learned to accept it. I've spent most of my working life amonst boys. I am not a saint, but I like to think I've helped more boys than I've hurt. In fact, I like to think I haven't hurt any boys, but as they say, you never can tell. I've certainly never forced myself on a boy though I've seduced my share - or have they seduced me? When an 11-year-old boy is lying on the carpet, stripped to the waist, an obvious bulge in his jeans, and he looks seriously into your eyes and whispers, "I like having a hard-on," it's hard not to believe he has an agenda in mind. And if his agenda concides with yours, well...

Why me? Why boys? Honestly I don't know. I imagine a Freudian would have a field day with me, but for the life of me I can't recall wanting to murder my father and fuck my mother. To be honest, even the idea fills me with horror. And nobody seduced me, nobody molested me when I was six years old - my rotten luck I guess - but I knew when I was 11 years old that it was boys I wanted, and as I grew older, the objects of my desire didn't. Oh, to be fair, I graduated to 13 and 14 year olds, and I had a 'go' at 15, 16 and 17 years old, but to tell the truth the magic wasn't there. Gone was the intense desire that drove me on time after time but I'm nothing if not self-controlled, and even though the ice creaked and cracked under me a few times, I've never plunged into the icy waters of disaster - yet.

Now, those of you who have already pulled down your zip and fished yourself out in anticipation, just pop yourself back in. I'm the writer; I say what goes. Actually Frankie does, but since he's not here at this moment, I'll sneak in a few bits of the grown-up stuff. Of course, you can always use Ctrl+F (FIND), pop in whatever you fancy (dick, cock, hole, anus, and so on), skip the grown-up bits and head straight for the other stuff.

Frankie... ah, Frankie... the little fucker who sneaked up on me when I wasn't looking, and stole my heart away even before I sneaked into his little underpants. You'd think a man of my experience would be immune to 'lust at first sight', but no - for Frankie I fell head over heels right down that fucking hill. Now where did that come from? I still see him as a kid standing buck-naked in my shower, chanting out nursery rhymes, whilst I... You have to admire the boy's powers of concentration. Not many kids would remain word-perfect with an adult naked man kneeling before them in a power shower.

And where was the lovely Amy, mother of Frankie, when all of this was happening to her beautiful little boy? Out at a pub or club probably. And who could blame her? And where was Dad, father of Frankie, impregnator of Amy? You might as well ask 'Who was Dad?' And the answer you'd get wouldn't be much better, though Amy, to her credit, could narrow it down to one of six, or was it seven, who'd taken it in turns to fuck her on that bit of wasteground behind 'The Red Lion'.

Now before you go hollering 'rape' it was definitely not that. Amy herself will tell you that though she was out of her mind on rum and blackcurrant - Do kids actually drink that stuff? - she really enjoyed that Big Night Out, or what she can remember of it, which, to be sure, isn't very much. And to her credit, instead of snuffing out the foetal Frankie, she went through the whole messy business of pregnancy and birth, to raise Frankie as best she could, which was pretty good all things considered. Her family disowned her, of course, chucked her out, which is to be expected from strict, devout Plymouth Brethern, or some such sect. But like most single mothers, Amy was doing a great job with Frankie on the proverbial shoestring and the actual last two-quid on a Friday night.

Then along came me.

Amy'd checked me out: (a) I was indeed a deputy Headteacher, and therefore CRB-checked, (b) had a beautiful flat, (c) had a BMW, (d) and was obviously liked by Frankie: she saw her chance for a bit of freedom. And, to be honest, I saw my chance - to spend time with, support, and enjoy what I admit I've always been drawn to -a cute boy with high spirits. But one that young? That gave me pause. I'd never spent much time with boys so young. And I'd certainly never fantisised doing with Frankie what I'd done with older boys... but he was so sweet, so cute, so funny, so precocious, that, when Amy asked me if I'd mind - "I know it's an impossible favour, but we've no-one else... and Frankie really really likes you... and it would only be twice a week, and..."

Oh. come on now, you'd need a heart of stone to refuse a request like that. So Tuesdays and Thursdays it was, from 3.30 to 6.15, Frankie was to be with me -and Frankie? - he loved it so much that when he begged for weekend sleepovers Amy said "Yes, why not?" And everyone was happy. Amy was happy as she dolled herself up for The Roxy Club. I was happy as I showered, shaved and scented as I waited for Frankie to be delivered into my safe-keeping. And Frankie was delighted. What boy wouldn't be in a four bed-roomed flat (one of the rooms equipped as a small gym), another room not only with bunk beds but with a host of toys from Hamleys (all of them new!) -and with its own computer. Then there was the master bedroom with a giant double bed, a wall-to-wall mirror, and a balcony on top of the world.

Frankie wasn't much interested in the bathroom at first - What kid is? - until he saw the jacuzzi in action... ah, the jacuzzi - every boy lover should have one; they are irresistible to small boys. And did I mention the DVDs - a whole shelf of them from which Frankie could have his pick? Well, not those, not quite yet - "You have to be at least eleven to watch those," I explained.

Could I have kept my hands off Frankie? Could you? When he was sprawled across me as we watched 'Toy Story', or 'Transformers', or 'Gladiator', or 'The Terminator' together. Could you keep your hands off a boy as he wriggled around in your lap making himself comfortable, his pyjama top riding up to his tiny nipples. the pyjama bottoms hanging from his bottom?

If Frankie asked you, "Can I sleep with you tonight? Mummy lets me sometimes," would you have the strength to say 'Fuck off'. If Frankie climbed into the jacuzzi with you and wanted to play at ducks with your... but I digress. Or rather I jump the gun. And I held out. Honestly I held out for four weeks, but that Saturday night, yes, that one, was the beginning, and I guess you want to know what happened - with all the details, because it's the small things that matter, isn't it?

Well, who am I to refuse you? So here goes.

...

Frankie's eyes are huge as he gazes directly up at the shark circling above his head.

"Sharks don't have any eyelids," he whispers. "Did you know that?" he asks without turning towards me. "No, I didn't," I reply, my gaze fixed on Frankie as intently as his is on the grey-white circling above us. "And did you know..." the boy continues giving me a potted history of the life of the shark. A tiny yawn escapes his pretty pink lips.

We've already spent two hours on the beach and Frankie has spent most the time in the water with me in close attendance since the boy cannot swim -something he is determined I will put right. "Mummy's frightened of water," he confides, "but don't tell her I told you," he instructs me. "Promise?" I promise. "Solemn promise?" he insists. "Solemn promise," I assure him. "Believe me, Frankie, I know how to keep a secret," adding, "Mums don't have to know everything."

He smiles his agreement.

The conversation takes place, as with an oversize beach towel, I shield him from from the eyes of passers-by, but not from own. I'm not surprised by the beauty of his body; that could hardly be otherwise. But I'm startled by the size of his penis. Nothing outlandish, but it wouldn't look out of place on a boy slipping into puberty. A good four inches, it sticks out in the way that dicks on small boys often do with being in any real sense erect. Four inches, slender though not skinny; creamy, except for the little pink mushroom peeking our from the soft foreskin.

He wriggles into his satin Speedos - two shades of blue, electric and royal, I note his bum deserves the over-used description of 'bubble butt'. It's like a firm peach slashed through the middle by the crease of his buttocks. "These things make my bumhole itchy," he announces, pulling a fold of fabric out of the crease. "That's better," he sighs, "but I wish my mum would get me baggies." To myself I laugh, "I'll fukin' kill her if she does."

"Am I allowed in the water?" he politely asks.

"Yes, but not above your waist. And stay near me all the time. Got it?"

"Got it."

"Now hold the towel for me," I instruct, "and turn your eyes away," I add a bit primly.

"What for?" Frankie laughs. "You're a boy, too. Well, you're a man, but you're a teacher, so..."

"Close your eyes, you wretched creature!" I command.

Frankie gets the message, laughs, but turns away as I slip into my baggy swim shorts.

Two hours in the water and we're both ready for home, stopping on the way to pick up a couple of ready-to-bake pizzas.

I settle Frankie down in front of 'Merlin' on the TV and head into the shower since lots of sea and sand still cling to me. I've got a Walk In Shower Surround, silver-framed, toughened clear glass, a left or right hand opening, and built in speakers. I chuck my clothes onto the bathroom floor, turn on the music, and step under a welcome flow of warm water. I try to keep images of Frankie at the beach - his dick, his balls, his bubble butt - out of my mind, but it's hopeless, and within a minute my cock is tumescent and hoping for more. Nobly I resist - Thou shalt not touch! - and I might have made it if...

I realise the Frankie is there when I feel him bump into me. The shower, the music, the soap, my own lewd thoughts... "What the fuck?!"

"You said a bad word!"

I turn to find Frankie standing in front of me, his head bumping against my chest, my semi-hard cock poking against his I'm-not-sure-what. I turn down the music.

"Frankie! Get out of here. Get back to Merlin!"

"But it's all kissing stuff," he protests.

"I don't care what it is," I yell. "You can't be in the shower with me. I'm naked," I add superfluously.

"So am I," he says - superfluously - since I can't keep my eyes from him. "Mummy lets me share a bath with her sometimes. We gotta protect the planet," he says.

I'm about to correct his English but realise there are bigger issues at stake. I kneel down in front of him and take him by the shoulders - my fingers slide on the silk of his skin - and try to explain.

"Listen, Frankie, there's really nothing wrong with sharing a shower with me... but some people don't like it. Some people think it's wrong." He gives me a frown. "They think it's wrong because... because..." How do you explain to a kid that most people would not see the sweet side, the reasonable side of man and boy sharing a shower of hot water after a sweaty day at the beach.

"I can't really explain why some people would think it is wrong. They just do. I'm not even sure your mum would like it."

Frankie brightens up immediately.

"But remember," he begins, "we don't have to tell mums everything. 'Cos we don't want them to worry. But I know Mummy likes me to be clean. So... can I have the soap, please? And can you put the music back on? It's really nice."

I sigh and hand Frankie the soap. I turn away. Fortunately my erection has already collapsed - anxiety will do that - but my dick is still swinging like a small trunk between my legs. That Justin Bieber kid comes on the radio. I know it's Justin Bieber because the younger kids in my school spend most of the day singing his songs - at least the girls do, while boys claim to hate him, say he is 'gay', and claim he takes pills to stop his voice breaking. Of course I should hate the stuff but something called 'Eenie Meenie Minee Mo Lover' comes on, and I have to admit it's cheerful and catchy. Behind me, I hear Frankie piping along with Justin Beaver, word and pitch perfect.

A tap on my back.

"Yes?"

"Can you do my back, please?" comes the request. "Mummy always does my back, and the soap is too big."

"Too big for what?" I think, but dutifully take the soap and begin to stroke the cream bar up and down Frankie's back, satin on silk. The bar and my fingers slip lower and lower until they are caressing Frankie's bubble butt in unison. The boy stands there, legs apart, so that the crack in his buttocks is open to my caress. I drop to my knees and begin to soap him from the ankles upwards, my hand sliding up the front and back of his legs until I can only be centimetres from his ball sac and his four inches of wondrous flesh. It would be so easy to...

"I'll do you now," Frankie pipes.

"What?!"

"Let me do you now," the boy repeats.

I glance down. I'm fully erect. In fact, I've started to ache and leak pre-cum. I risk a glance at Frankie. Fukin hell! The boy is erect, too, his cock stiffly upright against the lower part of his tummy. How the hell did this happen?!

Flustered and frankly scared by my own lust, I step out of the shower and grab a towel, fling it round me and announce, "Thanks, Frankie, but I wanna get those pizzas in the oven. You finish off. Get to your bedroom and get your jammies on. You got 15 minutes exactly."

"Okey dokey," chirps Frankie, and I can't help pausing to observe how the head of his dick has forced its way out of its foreskin for a breath of fresh air. My cock leaps in response, and I beat the hell out of there, not caring whether MY English has collapsed this time.

Pizza on the terrace as the sun goes down. A boy, cute as a button, sitting opposite me, his lips wet with a variety of flavours and juices, once again showing me how bright he is, though he clearly isn't aware of it. Frankie, you're one special kid.

"May I choose the DVD?" he asks, not adding something like "You said I could," because above all Frankie is being raised to be polite. "Of course you may," I echo, "but nothing too long, and nothing too violent."

"Toy Story 3?"

"'Fraid I haven't got that one," I admit.

"But I do," he grins. "I got it with me. It's in my bag. I wrapped it in my jammies. Case Mum said I couldn't. Remember what we said about mums." His grin is even wider.

"What's it about?" I stupidly ask.

"Well, toys should get delivered to the attic the night before Andy goes to college. But there's a mistake, and they get delivered to a day-care thingy instead. And Woody has to convince the other toys they should..."

"Whoa Whoa, young man. How often have you seen this movie?"

An Frankie frown of concentration.

"I don't know. I don't count. But I got most of the words off by heart."

"Well, just stop there," I admonish him. "I haven't seen it even one time, and I definitely don't want to know what happens."

"Sorry," murmurs the penitent child.

"No probs. Now get to your room, get the DVD, and load it up pronto. We've got to get this show on the road."

Before I can get the plates and glasses into the kitchen, let alone the dishwasher, I hear, "Ready! Hurry up, you slow coach." I abandon the dishwasher and head into the salon. The DVD is loaded, the TV switched on, and Frankie is standing, waiting.

Waiting for what?

"Where you watching from?" he asks.

I point to the couch; it's a four-seater.

"Stretch out on it," he instructs. "Please," he adds.

"Please," he insists.

I humour him by stretching out full-length on the couch, which, I have to admit, is the only way to watch a DVD with a boy.

Frankie leaps onto the couch, and onto me, and manoevers me until I'm stretched against the back of the couch with him pinned full-length against me.

"This is the way me and Mum always watch Toy Story," he explains and cuddles down against me.

Don't ask me how I survived Toy Story 3 - 98 minutes, and I couldn't tell you a fukin thing about it if my life depended on it. But I remember every second of how Frankie's hot little body pressed against me. How when he got excited - and he often got excited - he would squirm against me, his back, bum and hips pressing into me. How when he got sad - not often - he would turn to me and look up into my eyes as if he needed assurance to be sad.

Can you imagine how difficult it was not to lean down and kiss him on those pretty pink lips, stained a darker pink by fruit juice? How when he needed a cuddle he reached for my hand and dragged my arm round him - my hand resting on his naked tummy, my fingers instinctively stroking his belly button, sliding up his chest, circling his hardening nipples until Frankie pushed them away only because they broke his concentration.

If this wasn't Paradise, it wasn't far from it.

And yet, and yet... (and I still smile) by the end of the movie, he is asleep. Sleeping, yes, but probably running the final part of the movie in his dreams.

Gently I rise and carry the boy through to my bedroom and deposit him gently on my double bed. Oh no, don't get me wrong. I have no designs on Frankie's virtue whatsoever; at least I have no conscious desire. I simply want to be sure he is sound asleep before I deposit him in his bunk bed. 'Deposit' rather than 'tuck him up' because although it's September, we're enjoying an Indian summer and a single cotton sheet will do. Frankie murmurs as I lay him down, and it's a challenge to untangle his arms from round my neck without waking him as I lay him on the silk top cover.

The dishes are done and tidied away. I've checked our plans for Sunday -the Toy and Model Museum - then beach sports for kids - I've tried to settle down to a book, to TV, to... but nothing works. I'm so conscious of Frankie stretched out on my bed. I must take a peek - to see he's okay.

Frankie is okay - stretched out on his back. His pyjama top has ridden up his chest, his pyjama bottoms have slid down to his hips. His pyjamas have been chosen to last - two sizes too big. His thumb is in his mouth. Now that surprises me. But then I remember how young the boy is.

... but that's quite a bulge under his pyjamas. .

Gently I sit on the edge of the bed, and even more gently I grip his pyajama bottoms and slowly lower them down to his knees.

The boy's penis is fully erect, the foreskin completely retracted, the little pink head wet and glistening. Surely not pre-cum? No, of course, it can't be, but it makes it o so delicious, o so tempting. And it will do him no harm as I lean over, flick out my tongue and run it across, then round the naked glans. My fingers toy with his balls, tiny walnuts in a sac. Enough - enough - that's enough. But of course it's not. I lower my head and draw the full four inches into my mouth, let my lips slide up and down the shaft, as a free hand slides up the silk of his chest.

All of Frankie is in my mouth. No, not all, and I lower my head further and let his balls slips inside my mouth along with the shaft. I can't slide my lips up and down on his shaft like this, but it feels so good, so right. I set his balls free - the sac is wet with my saliva - and slide my lips up down the shaft, squeezing, easing, tightening, freeing. Frankie's legs begin to twitch, his tummy seems to flutter, he seems to suck harder on his thumb. I let one finger slide into his crack, let a fingertip play across his tiny opening, then bring it to my nose to smell my Frankie as he is - all boy.

Enough - enough.

No - more - more.

I rise, stand and slip off my robe. I am naked. I am so erect it hurts. Believe me, I am stripped to finish my interrupted shower. I had no intention of... I have no intention of...

I see Frankie stretched below me, naked from nipples to knees, his thumb deep in his mouth. I climb onto the bed, not quite sure of my intentions. I remove his thumb from his mouth. I place a knee on either side of his head, take my cock and rub the head along his pretty pink lips. My balls hang floppily on his neck below his chin. I ease my arse until the boy's hard-on is snug between the cheeks. I begin to masturbate.

At first I am slow and gentle, working my own foreskin until my precum drips onto the boy's face, his cheeks, his lips. Then faster, working the foreskin over the head until my fingers are a blur. It's going to be messy... and then...

No, you can't.

Yes, you can!

With two fingers, I pinch Frankie's nostrils. His head rolls slightly. I hold the pinch gently. His mouth opens. I slip my finger in his mouth and roll it in circles. His mouth widens in response. His mouth is almost a perfect pink circle. I can see his pretty little tongue. I can't hold it any more. I squirt once, twice - that's enough to fill his mouth. I free his nostrils. He coughs a little and the cum bubbles through his lips. I twist my body and squirt the rest of the semen onto the silk cover. There's so much of it I'm relieved I kept some control. I don't want Frankie waking up, choking.

I lower my lips to his, lick away the cum on his lips, chin, neck and chest. I keep on licking till there's nothing left to lick. I press the tip of my tongue against the boy's lips and I'm rewarded when he opens them a little and I can slide the tip in. No semen. Where's it gone? Down his throat, all the way to his tummy. It's strange to think there are now hundreds if not thousands of tiny me's swimming around inside my very own boy.

I pull his pyjama top down, the bottoms up. I get my arms under him, raise him - only the merest of protests - and carry him through to his own bed. I lay him down, kiss his nose, and leave him to his dreams. I hope they'll be as filthy as mine.

...

I play the same image over in my mind again and again. I, a fully-grown man, naked, kneeling, one knee on either side of a young boy's head, squirting semen into his open mouth and across his face. I see one drop of cum hanging from the long eyelashes of his right eye, another splashed across his blond fringe, his lips, cheeks and chin a mess of splattered cum. I see my buttocks clenching, my dick so stiff it hurts, as I fire spurt after spurt across the sleeping boy's face. The image is intensely erotic, as erotic as the experience itself because I have time to replay the scene again and again from every possible angle.

The detail amazes me. I see my thumb in close-up as it eases open the boy's mouth, my finger circling inside his mouth, the way he gasps for breath when I pinch his nostrils, eyeballs fluttering beneath the thin skin of his eyelids. Why is this all so intense as I stand in the shower jerking myself furiously to orgasm, or lie on the same silk top cover - now washed - as I take all the time in the world to replay the scene again and again before finally allowing myself to shudder to a climx that leaves me gasping like a goldfish out of water.

I try to explain it to myself, but none of the explanations seems to fit. Power? Am I really enjoying my power over Frankie, his powerlessness when faced the relentlessness of my desire? I don't believe so. Apart from the sex, I try not to exercise any power over the boy. In fact, if I'm guilty of anything, it is allowing the boy to have so much power over me. I present Frankie with the options - whether it is having mayonnaise on his chips, a sip at my lager (he loves it), going to the park or the Marina, choosing a movie, showering alone or with me - and he decides. If I'm guilty of anything, it is of spoiling the boy, the saving grace being that Frankie remains as polite and unspoilt as ever. I dismiss power and consider other possibilities - the more difficult of which is... corruption.

Do I enjoy corrupting a six-year-old boy? It's certainly not my intention, and to tell the truth I'm not even sure what corruption is? Oh come off it, I hear you say. How many smal boys regard having their bumholes kissed and sucked as not only fun but something quite normal, though not to be shared with Mummy? And how many grown men regard a boy's anus as amongst the most beautiful things our planet has to offer? And how many grown men would.....? Would you?

But the focus of this story is not on me. I'm not here for analysis, self or otherwise. I'm here to tell the story of Frankie, Frankie my love, and then at the end, if there is an end, and only at the end, try to figure out what it was all about. And ever at my back I hear your voices: O for fuck's sake, get on with it. What happened next?

What happened next didn't happen next day, or even next weekend. I tried to keep myself under control, I really did. Even when Frankie was sprawled across my lap, more naked than clothed, even when my fingers were permitted to stroke, caress and tickle more or less where desire led me, I resisted the compulsion to... It was the showers that were most difficult, especially when Frankie insisted that if I helped wash him, he was obliged to offer the same service in return. Not that Frankie, no matter how precocious he was, put it quite like that. All he said was "My turn now," and who was I to deny him.

"My turn now," pipes Frankie, reaching for the wash cloth. He giggles as he jumps to wipe my face, then solemnly reaches to do my shoulders and chest. "You've got big nipples," he remarks, "but not as big as Mummy's. Hers are like dinner plates. But ladies need them for carrying the milk and feeding their babies, don't they?"

Oh how I would like to feed Frankie, have him suck the milk right out of me. Frankie doesn't use childish terms for things such as pee-pee for penis, though equally he doesn't use words such as cock, dick and balls. Amy recognised early she has a remarkable boy on her hands; she doesn't treat him as a baby, and she is never condescending or patronising towards him. So nipples they are as Frankie circles them with the wash cloth.

Frankie is used to the little trunk swinging between my legs but I wonder what he'll make of it as it stiffens and heads upwards towards my belly button. I soon find out as he steps back and says, "Wow! Look at your penis growing."

I'm surprised by his matter-of-fact statement until he adds, "Mine does that, too." He points down to the evidence and for the first time I see Frankie getting a stiffy, a hard-on, an erection that stands vertical rather than horizontal.

"But look at you," he continues, "when does it stop growing?"

His hand keeps running the cloth across my belly. "And your balls..." (I guess gonads or testicles were too much even for a boy as bright as Frankie.) "...they're huge, too. And really hairy." He pauses, then... "But you haven't got any hair on your chest. Just this..." and he trails a finger in my pubic hair. "One of mum's boyfriends was as hairy as a gorilla. Mum called him her 'chimp' - but not to his face, of course. That would be rude." He pauses, then... "I better do your penis. Mum says you have to be clean everywhere - specially under, under... what's this bit called again?"

"That's my foreskin," I manage to blurt.

"That's right. This is your foreskin, and this is how you should clean under it." He lays the wash cloth aside, take the soap, make two handfuls of bubbles, and places his small hands round the swollen head of my penis. And Frankie begins to circle the glans again and again. Then he lets his cupped hands slide down the shaft into my bush before heading back to caress the head again. I'm going literally insane with desire. I see the top of his head, see his hands round my dick, watch his fingers slide up and down, and I can't help myself. I feel like Alice falling down the rabbit hole, and, like Alice, I've no idea where this is taking me.

Reaching down, I close my big hand round Frankie's two little hands.

"Oh, am I doing it wrong?" he pipes.

"No, no, you're doing great, but it's even better like this."

I enfold both his hands in mine, and guide them up and down the shaft. Frankie catches on almost immediately, and I'm able to watch his small hands and littlefingers work my cock. Now I'm not huge, but I might just squeeze into the category of big, about seven and half inches, and fat with it. I'm not huge except maybe to a boy whose fingers barely lap over each other. Frankie looks up at me, those big hazel eyes shining. "Am I doing it all right now?"

This time I can't speak. I grunt like a chimp in heat. Frankie, ever the scientist, is carrying out little experiments of his own, varying the speed of the the stroke, and the pressure of his fingers against my tumescent flesh. I have a decision to make, but in truth the decision has already been made as I hit the point of no return.

Huge spurts fire from the head of the shaft, splattering Frankie's face, neck and hair. As if it were an electrical shock, Frankie hangs on tight watching each spurt from the little mouth on my cockhead. Only when I push him gently away does he react with, "What the fuck?!" I don't know who is shocked more - Frankie or me. I look down. He is bright red except where creamy globules spatter his face. I shouldn't burst out laughing but I do, which makes Frankie go even redder, and for the first time show a bit of temper.

"I'm sorry. It slipped out."

I realise he is on the verge of tears and scoop him up into my arms. I plant little kisses all over his face, at the same time licking away the cum. I give him a huge smile, and, relieved, he smiles right back. "Guess it slipped out of me, too," I tell him, though I doubt whether he got the import of the remark right then. "Let's get under the shower again," I say, "and get the rest of this stuff off us. Remember we're meeting your mum at seven, and we're all going out for dinner."

The boy babbles on charmingly as we shower again, I dry him off, and send him to his room to dress in the jeans and shirt we bought in the afternoon. As we wait for Amy, he asks me again, "What was that stuff that came out of your penis? It didn't hurt you, did it? You're not sick, are you?"

I briefly explain that it's 'man stuff' and I'll explain what it's all about on Sunday. But, no, it's good stuff. Only men and boys, when they're wee bit older, can make it, and someday he'll make just as much as me."

"I'll be careful where I shoot it," he grins, still with little idea of whatr the stuff actually is. "Can I help you make some more?" he asks.

"'Course you can," I tell him, "but remember it's 'man stuff', tapping the side of my nose as I say it. Frankie smiles and taps his nose in response -"Man stuff. Just between us."

The doorbell rings, and Frankie rushes to the door. It's heartening to see a boy love his mother as much as Frankie loves Amy, though Amy has less time for him now that she's recovered some of the freedom she lost as a single mum.

Now don't get me wrong. Amy adores Frankie, and she has done a wonderful job of bringing up a wonderful boy single-handedly. But she is only in her early twenties, and if someone has come along, someone she can trust, who can take Frankie off her hands now and again, and who can actually benefit Frankie, she'd be stupid not to, wouldn't she?

"Frankie needs men in his life. There's nothing but women in his school, and a boy needs role-models, doesn't he?" She admits some of her past boyfriends had hardly been role-models for a small boy but she'd always dumped the worst ones as soon as she saw there were no good for Frankie. "You wouldn't believe what pigs some men can be," she told me as if it were a secret known only to women. "When you came along, it really was a bit of a God-send. I can tell you now I was struggling to make ends meet. And... well, Frankie adores you -he can be very choosy, you know - and you like Frankie, so..."

There was no need for Amy to finish the sentence, and I was touched when she laid her hand on mine. "I know whatever you do," she said, "it will always be what's best for Frankie. And he knows it, too, because I've told him so."

Sunday afternoon and Frankie's curiosity is far from satisfied.

"So, you see, the stuff that comes out my penis is semen, and the semen carries the sperm, and the sperm is what makes the lady have a baby."

"I understand that," says Frankie, but you weren't making a baby, so why did it shoot out of you?"

This is more delicate, but in for a penny...

"The semen shot out of me because I got excited," I tell him.

"Excited?" he repeats. "What got you excited?"

Deep breath.

"Well, to be honest, it was your hands on my penis, and it was you rubbing my penis that got me excited. First the rubbing got me hard..."

"You were hard before that," he interrupts.

"Okay... being in the shower with you got me excited. Your hands got me more excited. And in the end I got so excited I couldn't help shooting the sperm."

"I got you excited," he smiles. "You must like moe lots and lots."

"I do."

"That's good." He thinks. "So if you rub my penis, I'll get excited and I'll shoot sperm just like you/"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because you're too young. Boys can't make sperm until they reach puberty. Remember, I told you about that."

"Oh yes... pooberty... that's when I get hair, and my balls get bigger, and my dick - Can I say 'dick'? - Thank you. - and my dick gets as big as yours."

"You got it."

"Good." Frankie thinks some more. "But can I get them feelings you get? My dick gets hard, too."

"Yes, you can get those feelings, but you can't cum until you reach puberty. Remember what 'cum' means?"

Frankie gives me a look that says, I'm a kid but I'm not a dummy.

"I want to try it!" he announces firmly.

"Try what?" I naively ask.

"Rubbing my dick, of course. I know I can't cum but I want to see if I get those feelings." He twists round against my body, and looks up expectantly.

Decision time.

"Well, go into the bathroom and have a 'go'," I say as if I were sending him to try a new computer game.

"No way," he says. "You have to do it for me. I did it for you in the bathroom. Fair's fair. You always tell me that."

"Frankie," I protest, "this is man-stuff, real man-stuff. You're a boy and I'm..."

"My best friend!" he finishes for me. "But maybe you dont want to do it cos you don't really like me. Maybe you like my mum better than me. Maybe you're just like her boyfriends." His voice tails sadly away.

"No, Frankie, that's not it. I like your mum, but I like you better... better than anybody in the whole wide world, and you know I'd do anything for you you, but..."

But again Frankie finishes for me. Not by saying a word but by pushing his trackies and his underpants - psychedelic orange - where does Amy get them? - to his knees. His dick is in the small-boy position, somwehere round 45 degrees. As I hesitate, he struggles his way out of the bottoms and underpants. I say nothing but reach to help him off with his T-shirt. I shift positions so that I'm sitting on the couch with Frankie stretched across my lap,

A naked six-year-old boy is stretched across my lap, knees dangling on one side, head on the other, helpless to my gaze and touch. I reach to stroke his penis with one set of fingers while the others play with his body. I'm startled by how quickly he becomes fully erect. His erection remains just over four inches, but it has the hardness of a school milk bottle.

With thumb and forefinger I draw his foreskin as far back as it can go. Close it over the head, draw it back, close it over... sometimes slow, sometimes faster. I feel the tension in the boy's body as it rises from my knees, his back arching until the strain causes him to fall back, only for him to arch again a few seconds later.

Frankie's head, hair hanging back from his face, dangles over my right knee now, his legs hooked over my left. He is truly helpess in my grip, and in the excitement that is coursing through his body. He begins to whimper, to make tiny mewling sounds like a kitten. I want to lean over and take him in my mouth but that would be for my pleasure, not his, so I concentrate on the rhythms and pressures that seem to give the him the most pleasure.

Can a boy have an orgasm at six years old? I'm sure he can - though maybe not connect it to sexual stimulation. Whatever Frankie was having, there are no better words to describe it than having an orgasm. His bottom, hips, belly, chest and genital region buck out of control. Eyes tight shut, he finds the only words he can to express what is happening to him: Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

Even before the convulsions subside, he pulls himself up, turns towards me, throws his arms round my neck, and buries his face in my chest. I'm growing sick with worry until I hear: Awesome! Fuckin' Awesome! Then he pulls away, looks at me with glazed eyes, and whispers: "Did you feel that way when I made you... cum?"

"Yes," I nod.

"Do it to me again. Do it again."

I laugh and bounce him from my knee, slapping his cute little arse before he hits the carpet.

"Get your clothes on, you little minx. We've both got school tomorrow. It's Sunday. Your mum will be here in half an hour."

"Oh," he murmurs, standing naked before me. He puts a finger to the side of his nose and whispers, "Man-stuff. Don't forget."

"Man-stuff," I echo as I stoop to help him step into his undies.

I recognise the song on the radio.

It's the Carpenters.

'We've only just begun.'

...

"Your son's a very handsome boy. You must be proud of him."

"I'm not his Dad. I'm his Uncle."

"Yes," piped up Frankie. "This is my Uncle Dan. I'm his nephew Frankie, and we're very pleased to meet you." He extended a small hand. The tailor took the proferred hand and shook it solemnly. I see you're also a very polite boy. Always a good thing in a young gentleman. Now let's measure your inside leg."

I must say Frankie looked particularly fetching as any boy should on his birthday. We'd spent the morning at a Boot Fair where Frankie had bought a Moroccan cap for 50 pence. Brightly coloured, it fitted round his head pushing his blond hair behind his small ears and over his collar. The odd thing is that no matter what Frankie wears, he never looks girlish. Cute, yes, stunningly cute but rarely did anyone take him for a girl. Now, on his birthday, he is developing into a remarkably attractive boy. This, of course, was helped by his height. In a group of boys his own age, Frankie always stood a couple of inches over the tallest. And slender, yes, but skinny, no. His flat chest was taking shape, his hips more noticeable, his legs running on forever.

Frankie's birthday, and Amy and I had agreed I could buy him a new outfit. Like any good mum, she'd then left it to the 'boys', and thouugh Frankie and I had decided on new jeans, shirt and light leather jacket, I'd decided to have the jeans tailored rather than store-bought. There's not much point earning a deputy head's salary and not being a little extravagant now and again.

Later we'd meet Amy and off we'd go to the restaurant of Frankie's choice. He didn't mind which restaurant it was as long as he could have 'mule's mareenyer', by which he meant moules marinieres. He'd tried them on our day out in France. Frankie could tell you they were mussels cooked in white wine with onions, herbs and a tiny splash of cream, and they were on the list of things he wanted to try and make for his birthday. Fortunately, we'd compromised he could have them as a special treat when the three of us dined out to celebrate the great day.

After dining, Amy would go on to her club, and we'd head 'home' to watch a DVD of Frankie's choice, and... there was something very erotic about knowing Frankie, on his birthday, would be lying naked over my knees as I stroked and pressed his tummy - full of 'mule's mareenyer - squeezed the cheeks of his buttocks, kissed his nipples, and worked his hot hard-on to orgasm as his whole body shook and trembled beneath me. Frankie would then climb into his terry-towel bath robe and snuggle into my body, naked within my bathrobe, as we watched whatever he had chosen for that Saturday night.

I'd done well. You have to give me that. I insisted Frankie shower on his own. I insisted he sleep in his own bunk bed. I insisted he kept his hands off my dick, no matter how hard it pressed into his hot little body. Frankie accepted the rules gracefully, if not cheerfully. He loved me playing with his body but did not seem overly interested in mine. Perhaps that's a characteristic of small boys; they are more interested in having their own bodies pleasured than pleasuring others. This made sense, and it also helped emormously not to give into the lust I felt for him, and every part of him.

I hope I was protecting Frankie. I know I was protecting myself. Frankly, I was sometimes terrified, though far less often than I'd been only a few months before. I knew how ready children were to 'tell tales' - not with the intention of getting their 'accomplice' into trouble, but simply because 'secrets' aren't real secrets unless they are shared. I also know that Frankie might be under immense internal pressure to express his sexuality with others. But it seemed that when Frankie classified something as 'man stuff' that's exactly what it was. To be shared with me, but with absolutely no one else. Still, despite this assurance, I didn't want to take risks, especially since I didn't know if I could limit myself if I gave into the desires that prowled my imagination. I couldn't forget that image: my kness on either side of the sleeping boy's head - my fingers prising open his mouth - the cum shooting from my cock into his open mouth. If I could do that, what else was I capable of.

"That man was feeling my cock," says Frankie, his fringe bouncing on his forehead in time with his skipping by my side.

"Why didn't you say anything?" I ask.

"Because it felt nice," he replies. "I've got a hard-on now," he adds.

"Well, don't think about it," I say, though I can feel my own cock begin to twitch.

"Don't be silly," he says. "You can't just NOT think of a hard-on when you've got one. When you try NOT to think about it, you just think about it even more, and that makes it worse. Wait a minute." He pauses, sticks his hand in his pocket, and angles his erection up his tummy. "Can we go for a Pepsi now, please?"

"Half a glass," I compromise. "We'll share."

"Okay," he agrees, "and we can sort out things for my birthday party tomorrow."

"Agreed. Come on. And remember ... no thinking about that hard-on. I'll do tht ehtink about that for both of us."

Ten minutes later we're sitting over a large glass of Pepsi - one glass, two straws. I'm not going to do well out of this arrangement. We're sorting out Frankie's official birthday party, the first that will be attended by other boys. The party will take place in my flat, but I won't be there. Amy will do the honours. But I'm as thrilled as Frankie. He has invited seven boys from his class - one for each year - and I've arranged for a professional party person to organise the games and activities.

It seems a weird sort of career: a PPP (professional party person) to make sure kids have a great time at their parties, but I guess if you are a BL or GL, it must be a sort of Nirvana. Not for me though. I'll be elsewhere, among adults, in my role as pillar of the community, rising star in state education, eligible bachelor, and all-round good egg. And here I sit, sharing a Pepsi with birthday boy, and wish I could be his tummy with his hot hard flesh pressed against me.

If I were writing a novel, rather than simply telling a tale, I would give some account of the birthday dinner, the moules - gobbled everyone - the slightly tipsy single-parent mother and the deputy headteacher, and the bright-eyed, rosy-cheeked, ivory-skinned, Moroccan cap betopped, golden-fringed little boy to whom an entire restaurant sang 'Happy Birthday' and meant it. I would describe Amy kissing the cheeks of her little boy, before bundling herself into a taxi with the words, "See you tomorrow, birthday boy," before she and the taxi disappeared into the night. I would recount Frankie and I catching our own taxi, negotiating the lift, and Frankie, rather than I, working the key into the door as we more or less fell into my apartment.

"Right, birthday boy, into the shower with you," I say. "Properly dried. Sort out the DVD. Then onto the couch. I'll be back in ten minutes. The boiler's a bit wonky. I'm going down to see the caretaker. And remember, birthday boy, properly dry, and... no thinking about hard-ons!"

The ten minutes take thirty minutes. The caretaker is a happy idiot, but a brilliant engineer, and after a bit of clankimg, banging and dinging at assorted pipes, he convinces me the problem with the boiler is no more. I take the lift, my excitement rising, my cock hardening as I think of a damp Frankie, slippy as silk, stretched out naked on the couch, his hard-on stiff against his tummy. I'm humming as I open our front door.

Frankie is naked. But he is not stretched out on the couch. He is sitting there, watching a DVD, eyes wide, mouth open, one hand holding the remote, the fingers of the other working his cock - it still looks outlandish on his smallbody - he does not look towards me as I cross the room.

Familiar moaning and groaning tells me this is not 'Toy Story'!

I stand in front of the boy, reach out, take the remote control and flick off the DVD.

Frankie looks up at me, smiles and says, "I know what to do now." He reaches out and runs his little fingers down the front of my trousers. I know I should push his hand away, but a boy is sitting before me, his robe open to revealed his nakedness, his fingers moving the foreskin quickly up and down over the head of his sweet prick. I haven't the strength to resist. I feel myself growing hard. He leans forward and places his mouth against the bulge and presses with his lips. With his free hand he undoes my belt, not easy for such a small hand. He flicks open the clasp. Slowly pulls down the zip. Begins to edge my trousers down and over my hips and ass. I throw the remote on the couch and help him push my trousers and boxers down together. I kick off my shoes, then with a slightly comic struggle kick off my pants and boxers.

My prick, taut and hard, stretches from my bush up to my belly button. I feel Frankie's fingers, so light, so feathery, run up and down the shaft. I feel him weigh my balls in his hands, one ball at a time in such small hands. Then I'm surprised and a little shocked to feel him kiss my belly, my pubic area, my thick curly hair, and at last the head of my cock which looks bigger than his tongue. Now he is running his little pink tongue up and down the shaft while his fingers explore my bush and the trail of hair that runs up my belly.

"Am I doing okay?" I hear his voice below me ask.

Somehow I get the words out: "Beautiful, just beautiful."

He is moving the skin of the shaft harder and faster now - Where the fuck did he learn this? - while he tries to fit the mushroom head of my cock in his little mouth. I hear him gag. He can't do it. So he licks round the head, up and down, slow and fast. I feel the pre-cum ooze from he; Frankie licks it up as fast as it reaches my glans. Behind me I hear the soundtrack of the damned DVD. Did I really leave it where he could find it? The moans, the groans, the slapping sounds, the squeals, the muffled unbroken voice of a prepubescent boy being used and abused by two - or is it three grown men?

I'm not going to last much longer.

Gently I ease Frankie away from me. Once more his eyes are fixed on the screen. I flick a mechanism on the couch, and the back slides down, turning it into a double bed. I throw off my sweater and shirt. No time to get my socks off. I push Frankie onto the couch and go down on him, making sure he can still watch the screen. I take his four inches between my lips. He couldn't be harder. Foreskin fully retracted. I lean back at marvel at the purity of his skin - not a hair, not a blemish, his ball sac almost completely round with only the hint of the two balls inside. The sac with the 'seam' that my tongue can follow to paradise. I feel a push on my head. Frankie is pushing me back down on him. I manage a little control, running my lips up and down the shaft. It is actually throbbing. He is pushing his hips up from the couch, sliding into my mouth, withdrawing, sliding in again. I feel the tension in his body rise. Like me, Frankie isn't going to last long if I keep sucking like this.

I flip him over onto his tummy - small boys are so flexible -making sure he still has full view of the screen. His bum, bottom, arse, ass... is is open to my gaze. He is ivory clean with the merest hint of an opening shaded in darker pink. I want to lick that opening, kiss it, suck it, so I do, though it's practically impossible to suck something so tiny with my adult lips. For a moment, I expect surprise, shock, protest from the boy, but he simply pushes his bum into my face. I would like to work his hole with my tongue, my fingers, my dick, but that will have to wait.

I flip him onto his back. His head is hanging over the edge of the couch. He is watching the action on the screen upside down. I wonder if it makes any difference to Frankie. I glance at the screen - the boy, 10 or 11 years old, is being arse and face fucked simultaneously. I swallow Frankie's dick and balls and slurp on them for a while. I slip my finger between his buttocks, find his tiny sphincter and stroke it. I release his balls and suck his four-incher as fast and as hard as I can. His body tightens, bucks, shivers, trembles. I hear squeals and yelps and realise they are coming from Frankie, not from the screen. His orgasm hits him like a silver bullet. He clutches me so hard I feel his nails nip into me. Pain and pleasure. For the moment there is no difference. He writhes below me, his cock throbbing in my mouth. Then with a whimper he subsides, collapses, and for a moment I think he has fainted. Sure that he hasn't, I turn his body lengthways on the couch.

I kneel over him, one knee on either side of his head.

"Open your mouth. Open wide," I whisper.

Frankie opens wide.

"Close your eyes," I whisper.

Frankie closes his eyes.

I place the head of my cock against his open lips and jerk as fast as I can.

It's a matter of seconds. Squirts of warm cum fire into Frankie's mouth, hitting him on the back of the throat. He tries to swallow. There's a brave boy. But there's too much. Reflexively he closes his mouth. Cum escapes from the sides of his mouth, dribbles down his chin. He begins to cough - cums fires like snot from his nose. His pink tongue snakes out and tries to lick the cum from his lips. I pick him up. He has already lost the bath robe. I carry him into the shower. I hold him in my arms as the hot water beats down on us. The jacuzzi filled, I climb into it, still holding him as the water fizzes and bubbles round us.

In time, Frankie opens his big hazel eyes. I am worried how he will react. Then he speaks.

"Can we watch the rest of that DVD, please, Uncle Dan? I want to see what else they do to that boy."

I laugh, relieved, and say, "Nope, we're going to watch the DVD you chose. What is it by the way?"

"It's the one called 'Braveheart'. I saw a bit of it on youtube. The battles look well wicked."

Oh, Frankie, my sweet Frankie.

Oh, Frankie, my love.

Happy birthday.

Corruption? Degredation? I'm not sure. Beauty? Oh, yes, beauty. I'm looking at a photograph of Frankie. Getting ready for bed. He isn't wearing a top. He never does. The elastic on his white briefs is folded back on itself, low down below his hardly-existent hips, exposing the ivory of his pubic area. He has a slight tan, all over, since Frankie has no qualms about stretching out naked on the beach when he can get away with it. He is slim but not thin, slender but not skinny. His skin is flawless, immaculate. He is in mid-step, and even in a still photograph, one senses the fluid grace with which he moves.

Frankie has flicked his fringe back from his eyes. It's difficult to describe his hair; not blond, not gold, not chestnut, but a mixture of all three; straight but with soft waves that curl onto his shoulders. His eyes, hazel flecked with gold, are startling. His chest is perfectly formed, his nipples are pert brown cherries that set off the porcelain of his skin. His chest narrows towards a V as it reaches his hips - waist so small that I can wrap one hand round it. Tummy button an innie I've explored with my tongue so many times, and each time afresh.

Yes, Frankie is beautiful, and yet there is nothing feminine about him. Frankie is a man's boy.

We continue to reach compromises. We can share a jacuzzi but not a shower. We can lie in my bed while I'm reading a story to him, or him to me, but he can't sleep overnight in my bed. I am to suck him off two times before a DVD but not three times - "My dick starts to get sore," - the boy explains. He sucks me off but I've got to tell him when I'm going to cum -"I hate when it comes down my nose," he explains. He can go around the flat naked when the central heating is running riot - the caretaker is not quite the genius I took him for. I've got to come and watch him in 'Robin Hood' -Frankie plays Robin - and any other school plays or pantomimes he is in (as if he could keep me away!) And I've got to come to Parents' Evenings because "Mum doesn't understand shit about education." - for which remark Frankie forfeited a a DVD session.

And, finally. Frankie has the right to watch any of my DVDs; his demand not mine, and I resist nobly for a couple of weeks but then weakly give in.

We see less of Amy. She has a steady boyfriend, Norman (!), and Norman does not like children, in particular, he does not like Frankie because Frankie is as bright as Norman is thick, and that takes some doing. But Norman, to give him his due, (Norman can have anything he wants except Frankie.) is genuinely fond of Amy. He is bourgeois middle-class, assistant bank manager, own flat, nice car, and his intentions towards Amy seem honourable. But like many young men he doesn't have much time for kids, and certainly not for a precocious, gob-smacking little beauty like Frankie. So we see less of Amy, and very little of Amy and Norman, and that suits me. It suits Frankie less, but as he has been spending most of his weekends with me, he shrugs his shoulders and comes to terms with the set-up.

One night, as he is stretched out naked across my lap (second suck), I hear him ask, "Wonder if Mum is doing this to Norman." Minutes later, as his tremors subside, I turn him over and playfully smack his backside, though I make sure it hurts a bit. "Don't you be rude about your mother," I say. "I'm not being rude," I hear from protest from beneath me. "I was just wondering. And - Ouch! - do boys suck girls? - Ouch! - They can't, can they? - Ouch! - I mean girls don't have anything to get sucked. - Ouch!" I realise I will have to extend the range of DVDs Ocsar is watching.

Rarely does Frankie give me cause for anger, but I recall one occasion when he thoroughly deserved a good spanking - if I'd been able to bring myself to administer one.

It's Saturday evening. We're going out to the cinema, but first I've got to get a few domestic chores out of the way. These include dumping Frankie's school shirt, socks and trousers into the wash. I'm emptying his trouser pockets when I find a crumpled £5 note. At first I assume Amy gave it to him after school on Friday. Then I remember I picked him up, and Amy hasn't seen him since Friday morning.

I walk into the salon where Frankie is completing a jigsaw. I hold out the £5 note and ask: "And where did this come from?"

As soon as I see Frankie's reaction, I know that something is up. The boy's lip trembles. There are tears in his eyes. His cheeks are on fire. Frankie has a problem. He is congenitally unable to lie, at least to his mother and me. He has the tiniest of speech impediments that only emerge when he is under stress.

"A m-m-an gave it to me."

"A man?" I echo.

I sit on the couch and pat a space next to me. Frankie pulls himself up off the floor and sits next to me. I turn his body to face me. I raise his chin so he is looking into my eyes. God, they are beautiful even when full of storms.

"Who? Where? When? What? Why?"

This is the formula I have taught Frankie to use when he is writing stories at school. He understands by asking and answering these questions, he'll never be stuck on "what to write about next."

"Take five deep breaths, and then tell me."

The boy follows instructions and...

"After school on Friday. I didn't come straight home." He puases, expecting a lecture. I say nothing.

"I was coming straight home. But I stopped in the toilets, you known the ones in Albert Street. I really need a piss - a wee," he corrects himself. "I was having a wee. A man stood next to me. He pulled out his cock, his penis." He pauses aagain. "I took a peek. I should've put mine away, I know, but his was so big. I kept on looking. It started getting bigger. And he wasn't really peeing. Just sort of playing with it. I started playing with mine, not much, just squeezing and pulling a bit." Frankie frowns and looks at me. "I was feeling, you know, horny." This is not a word I've taught Frankie. Damn those DVDs.

"He was a very nice man. Not dirty or smelly or anything. And there was only us two in the toilet. His penis was standing straight up. I could see the hair sticking out of his flies. Then he said, "Like what you see, young man?"

"And you went with him into a cubicle."

"No, no," says Frankie, "we went in his car."

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Frankie..."

The boy can't resist a giggle. "Watch your language," he mimics me so accurately, sees my scowl, gulps, and goes on with his confession.

"We went up to the park - Cornwallis Park - and he drove up one of those side roads. It was all shady but still warm. Then he stopped the car." (Frankie paused and gathered himself.) "He pulled out his wallet and took out that £5 note. 'That's yours, he said. If I can...'"

Frankie was getting into the story now.

"suck my willy"

"I finished the sentence for him. But it wasn't the right finish. ---- He wanted to suck my bumhole."

"Are you making this up?"

"No, honest, I'm not. He said for me just to hang out of the car window - with my bum stuck up. That was easy, and I love it when you do it... and I really wanted the five pounds, but..."

"But what?"

Frankie blushed.

"I was needing a pooh - a shit - I could feel it inside me. So I told him. It was rude not to tell him, wasn't it?"

"Go on."

"So I told him, but he just smiled and said 'That's even better.'"

"And that's what you did."

"It was like he was sucking my insides out. He used his thumbs like you do - to open my up. I could feel his tongue right inside me. The - What do you call it?"

I helped Frankie out.

"It's called a turd."

"That's it - a turd."

Frankie was animated now. He'd forgotten he was telling me a story about himself. To him this was another boy, having an adventure.

"I tried hold the turd inside me but can't once it's really started, can you? I could smell it. But it wasn't that real stinky smell you get when your shit's all wet and sloppy. It must have been a hard one. It felt like a hard one. And do you know what the funny thing was?"

"No, what was the funny thing?"

"Well, the man licked my bum clean. He wiggled his tongue inside my bum and licked all the bits outside. Then he pulled my underpants and shorts up. And - listen to this - when I turned round the turd was completely gone. It must have gone inside him! Straight down and into his tummy. Think of it. My turd out of my bum and straight into his tummy. Some people are really weird."

"And that was that?" I ask. "He dropped you back at Albert Street."

"Well, no," said Frankie who'd forgotten he was in deep shit.

"He took me for a Big Mac. You know the place in Harbour Street." Which explains why Frankie had such a poor appetite on Friday evening.

"And then he dropped you at Albert Street?" I ask hopefully.

"Yep," the boy says confidently. "He gave me that £5 note... and asked me what school I go to." (pause) "But ha, ha, I told him a different school." Frankie says this as if it answers everything. It doesn't.

We are quiet for a few moments, then...

"Frankie, do you know why you went to the toilets? Why you let that man...? I know you were feeling 'horny', but..." and this is hard to say... "couldn't you wait till you got home?"

We are quiet for a few moments more, then...

"'Cos you won't let me try stuff?"

"'Stuff?' What kind of stuff?"

It's Frankie's turn to find the right words.

"You know... man-stuff, sex-stuff."

"Frankie... I didn't know... I thought that... You can always ask me. You know that. What is it you want to..."

Fifteen minutes later - and I find this incredible even as I write it - I am lying naked, stretched out, face down, on the double bed. Frankie is sitting, naked, half way down my body, pulling my legs ever wider apart. His fingers wiggle through the hair until he finds my anus.

"It's like a little door," I hear him say. "You've got lots of hair."

I imagine I feel his breath on my arse hole. Surely not. Then I feel his middle finger stroking the length of the opening. "It's like a little mouth," he tells me. "Can I get my finger...?" I feel the pressure against sphincter, Tension keeps it tightly closed. But Frankie is relentless. He presses and probes, until 'pop' his middle finger is in to the first knuckle. Then unceremoniously out it pops.

"I know what's wrong," he announces. I hear him clambering from the bed, pattering across the bedroom, clinks from my dressing table, and he's back on the bed. "Here, this should help," he tells me, and there's the sudden shock of cold cream on my arse hole. I think I should say something, but for the life of me I can't think what. I can imagine the look of solemn concentration on Frankie's face as his fingers, first one, then two, twist and turn against my hole until the muscles give way, and his fingers are in as deep as they can go.

I can feel the boy's fingers - digit and middle -pushed into the knuckles twisting, turning, circling, stretching as I loosen up for him. That must be a third finger because for the first time there is a little discomfort, but most of that is cancelled out by the sheer erotic intensity of the experience. A youngboy is triple-finger-fucking me with ruthless intensity. My prick is so hard I think it might break. I realise if Frankie tries to jam his little fist right up my arse, I'll do nothing to stop him.

Damn it! His fingers are gone. I suddenly feel so empty.

"Up, up, please, Uncle Dan," I hear him whisper as he pulls my hips upwards. In response I get half on my knees, my face still burrowed in a pillow, lavender-scented. Once again I feel him probing at my entrance. I try and relax and will myself to open for him. It's a shock when I realise it's not Frankie's fingers - it's his hard little cock - not so little at just over four inches, but he's fucking kid, for fuck's sake! A kid is trying to fuck me, and I want to help him. I reach behind me, grab my cheeks and wrench them as wide apart as I can. I can hear Frankie grunt, but I'm not sure what the grunt signifies.

He's inside me! Really inside me!

And he's not finger-fucking me, he's fucking me for real - and I can hear and feel his little belly bouncing off my buttocks.

I try to help by pushing back but realise he's not going to bottom out on four inches. I only wish I could see his face, see his fringe flopping onto his face, see his slim arms hang onto my shoulders, watch his belly bounce against my bum, and, above all, watch his four-inch shaft sliding in and out of my hairy hole.

Although I can't reach my own straining cock, I realise an orgasm is building. It's hard to believe I'm going to cum without anyone touching my erection; it's just as hard to believe I'm not going to cum if Frankie keeps this up. And he does. Holding on tight, he pushes in and pulls out faster and faster until I feel like a bitch in heat being fucked by a randy, unforgiving mutt.

At last, with a yelp, Frankie gives one final push, holds himself inside me, then collapses onto my back. I collapse beaneath him, feeling cum spit from me onto my freshly-laundered duvet cover.

We both lie there, man and boy, still joined - satisfied, satiated, dead to the world... until...

"Uncle Dan, Uncle Dan," I feel him, or think I do, pulling out of me. "Are you okay? I didn't hurt you, did I?" I grunt non-commitally. "Remember we're going to the cinema. We'd better hurry up. Don't want to miss the start of the show."

Half an hour later we're sitting in the cinema. Frankie turns to me. "Please may I have a choc ice?" I reach in my pocket and pull out a £5 note. "Make that two choc ices," I say.

"Hey, that's my £5," he says.

"No, young man. That's MY £5. Unless, of course, you'd rather have the good spanking, you deserve?"

There's no answer. But as he squeezes past me, Frankie leans over, kisses me on the cheek, and whispers, "It was worth it."

If you are thinking Frankie and I were leading a life of unbridled lust and sexual activity, you're wide of the mark. In fact, most of the time Frankie led the life of a fairly typical boy, though it might strike some as odd that Frankie spent as much time with me as he did with his mother. Amy went happily along with the fiction that I was Frankie's uncle and hence her older brother. She took some pride in introducing me as "my elder brother, Dan, Frankie's uncle, the deputy headteacher."

Do I think she knew about our 'extra curricular' activities? The answer is a categorical 'no'. Amy loved her son, but accepted he was getting a better deal with me than he ever could if he'd continued to be raised by her alone. We did have several heart-to-hearts; she did worry whether or not she was spending enough time with Frankie, but he was 'as happy as I've ever seen him' and so the arrangement suited everyone, including Norman, her beau, the assistant bank manager.

And Frankie? He struck me as a very happy boy, especially as I'd widened the parameters of our relationship. Not only did Frankie have his own key, but he was permitted to bring friends home with him as long as (a) his friend's parents knew where their son/s was/were, (b) I was home, and (c) the boy/s was/were collected by at least one parent. Surely some parents were suspicious? About what? They usually knew Frankie's mother, they knew I was a senior teacher of some sort, and Frankie was on his most solemn word never, but never, to mention or allude to anything sexual. Which raises a very interesting question?

To what extent did Frankie regard what we did as 'sexual'? Did he have a genuine understanding of what 'sex' is? I'm inclined to think not. I'm inclined to believe that sex was something that gave him pleasure, gave me pleasure, and brought tangible rewards - usually more than a £5 note! But I'm pretty sure he put it on the level of his Playstation. In fact, I'm inclined to believe he got more lasting, and certainly longer pleasure from an hour on his Playstation, particularly when playing with school friends, than he did playing with me. Frankie, it is true, loved having an orgasm, but after a couple of them his dick got sore and he got bored, which to my mind is exactly as it should have been. I'm sure I got almost all the pleasure when Frankie was playing with me, though his natural curiosity made him more adventurous than most. As when...

"Does it hurt now, Uncle Dan?"

I grit my teeth and whisper, "No, not yet. Push harder... but go slow."

Of course it fucking hurt. I defy you to take a boy's hand and wrist up your arse and not feel any pain. Of course it fucking hurt. At the same time it was so erotic that pain and pleasure became inseparable, indistinguishable, the one fading into the other until they became part of the same sensation coursing through my body.

"Flex your fingers," I grunt.

"What's 'flex' mean?" comes the unbroken voice.

"It means open your fingers up, but slowly. Fuck it, Frankie. I said 'slowly'. Yes, that's it. Right there. Further. Push up further, far as you can go."

I'd fitted a mirror. I could see Frankie was in me up to his elbow. Thank God, for Vaseline.

"Now fist-fuck me... not too hard... not at first... then, when I tell you, really hard."

You might legitimately ask what a Deputy Headteacher was doing, on the bed, on all fours, his arse jutting out, as he watched the slender arm of a young boy pumping in and out of his bowels. Fucked if you'll get an answer from me. I saw it on a clip from a movie called 'Mysterious Skin', and I couldn't relax until I'd tried it. I had an arsehole, I had a boy with a small fist, long fingers, a slender wrist and arm. That was the mountain. It was there. I had to climb it. That's a very imperfect analogy. In truth, I was an alcoholic, but it wasn't alcohol that hooked me; it was sex - sex with boys, or perhaps sex with one boy, with Frankie. Don't think I wasn't ashamed - I was, now and then. But I was like the alcoholic who swears off liquor but stashes one last bottle, just in case.

I loved watching Frankie play with his school friends, especially with Theo and Oscar, both red-heads, both long-haired, both cute, and both with happy, well-balanced personalities. Both were wary of me at first; after all I was a deputy head, I could silence a school assembly with a look, but as they realised I was just something in the background, just Frankie's uncle, they let their hair down, so to speak, sprawled across the carpet, and squabbled like blackbirds over a worm.

Me, I was just someone who supplied the pizza slices and plastic cups of juice, with ice! And I never asked about school, never asked about their hobbies, the movies they liked, or any of that stuff which may be of great interest to kids, but should be of no interest to adults. I became so accepted that occasionally, just occasionally, I was invited to make up a two-versus-two teams as we battled alongside Captain America, swept through Ultra Mini Golf in 3D, or blasted an unbelievable assortment of aliens into oblivion. Make no mistake. Frankie was not spoiled. He had three Playstation 3 games, but his friends had a seemingly inexhaustible supply and were at their happiest when Frankie allowed them on his set up. Frankie was a natural leader, but he didn't need to assert himself, and often seemed happier when he was letting others take the lead.

Me? I was content to sit on the couch, doing marking (not much), completing forms (endless), scanning the evening paper... and rejoicing in the bums presented before my uninterrupted gaze. God bless the Age of the Saggers, when boys of all ages are only content when their jeans or trousers are hanging halfway down their arses. And God bless mothers who do not cover up the beauty of their boys' bums with those tedious boxers that frustratingly conceal so many charms.

Of course, in an ideal world, I'd be able to sit on the carpet between the legs of each boy in turn, slip down his trousers and underpants, part his buttocks and slide my tongue up and down the tiny, unblemished slits. No doubt each boy would wriggle a bit, but it's amazing how much concentration a boy has when engaged on a Playstation. I'd masturbate happily, and as I felt myself coming, I'd prise open the tiny mouth to make sure I could squirt at least a spurt or two into his pink hole. There would be the problem of ejaculating three times within the time available, but I'm sure I could improvise if I had to.

Dream on!

Dreams came partly true when the central heating went wonky and the temperature soared. Theo, the more assertive of the boys, decided these were ideal conditions for a wrestling contest. My apartment leans towards minimalism in style. The salon, in particular, hasn't much more than the couch, one armchair, bookcase, computer area, TV screen, and a huge biscuit-coloured carpet. Off came the school shirts, socks, and before I could stop them, school flannels, all flung haphazardly onto the couch. I, naturally, was designated referee, and as such was able to lay down pretty strict rules. I hardly wanted a parent to arrive and find a sweaty, semi-naked boy with a broken limb. It still amazes me how unselfconscious younger boys are about their bodies; it's only when the teen years strike that embarrassment about shape, size and colour come into play. So there I sat observing three semi-naked boys, striking poses across the carpet.

It was difficult to decide who I wanted to fuck most at that moment. No doubt Oscar was slightly over-weight but his bum was so large, so round, so perfectly curved, the thin white fabric so tightly stretched across the cheeks, the crack so blatant, that it was all I could do not to grab him then and there, pull down his underpants, pull his buttocks apart and jam my already- throbbing seven inches into his guts. Down, boy, down!

Then there was Theo who gave the appearance of being frail but who turned out to be wiry, cunning and indefatigable in the clinch. The bulge in Theo's briefs also promised that his 'frailty' was more than balanced by a cock he'd already moved up his tummy. Or was this an incipient hard-on? The prospect of battle will do that to a boy. Then there was Frankie, my Frankie, so elegant, so serene, so untroubled you might have suspected the contest was fixed in his favour before it began.

The contest was not fixed. Before I'd counted out the mandatory 1 - 2 - 3, Theo was on Frankie like a ferret on a rabbit, both then flattened beneath Oscar who straddled Theo's back pressing down his arse onto the boy's spine.

Frankie wriggles free and throws himself sideways at Oscar, dislodging him onto the carpet. Down Frankie goes, determined to pin Oscar in a quick fall, only to find Theo is riding him, sitting across his back, careless that his underpants have ridden down his skinny hips to his knees. Theo makes a desultory attempt to pull his underpants up, but almost immediately abandons the attempt in favour of flattening Frankie who...

This could not go on long. Within ten minutes, all three boys were sprawled on their backs, sweaty, slippy, panting, trying to laugh but breathless. And yet everyone demanded Round 2, which I denied them. Quit while you're ahead, I decided, and declared the contest an honourable draw, and silencing protests by mention of frozen lollipops in the freezer. A scamper of bare feet. Banging of the freezer drawers. Squabble over flavours. And joyful screams as each boy tried to push his lolly down the front of each other's underpants. But soon I had them on their fronts again, arms on huge pillows, lapping up the great battle scenes in 'Lord Of The Rings', and licking their ice lollies with a lasciviousness that would put a Parisian whore to shame. I confess I had to retreat to the bathroom for a while where my imagination played riotously on what I'd like to do with these boys and their lollies.

As I wiped the semen from the bathroom tiles, I reflected on how wonderful life was. O, dear reader, never tempt Fate. It is true that all was well in our world... until I discovered by chance that Frankie was breaking not one but several of our 'man-stuff' rules.

God bless the boy.

It is Friday around 5 o'clock when I get home from school. The meeting went more quickly than I'd anticipated, probably because it was a Friday and everyone wanted home and into the weekend rather than spend time on duties, schedules, time-tables, and the ever-present threat of an OFSTED inspection. I wound up the meeting early and hurried home, not because I'd any worries about Frankie. He was nine now and perfectly capable of entertaining himself till I got home at the expected hour of six o'clock.

I turn the key in the lock and step inside. It's the silence I notice first. It doesn't surprise me. Frankie sometimes takes a nap after school. I slip off my jacket, tie, shoes, slip into slippers, and pad across the salon. Quietly I peek into Frankie's room. Nothing. Nobody. Quietly I open my bedroom door and peek in.

There are two boys on my double bed. Both are naked. Though I see him only from behind, I recognise Frankie immediately. How often have I kissed these shoulder blades, nuzzled the nape of his neck beneath the thick tumble of chestnut hair? The other boy I don't recognise until Frankie half turns to me, puts a finger to his lips, and goes 'Shhhh...'

The other boy is Oscar.

Oscar is lying on his back, his hands folded on the pillow beneath his head. His eyes are closed. Frankie sits facing Oscar. Frankie has placed his legs under Oscar's bottom and pulled himself forward so that his legs, one on each side, are stretched alongside his friend's naked body so that his feet rest on the pillow, one white-socked foot on either side of his friend's head. I step forward and with a shock see that Frankie's penis is half-buried up Oscar's anus.

Frankie beckons me, and, as if in a trance, I move forwards to sit on the edge of the bed.

Frankie's hard-on, at least two inches of it, is embedded inside Oscar. Oscar's skin from the bottom of his ball sac is a creamy ivory, divided by the thin red seam that runs round to his anus. His out-stretched legs are the same creamy ivory, not a flaw, not a blemish, faultless. His ball sac, ever so slightly wrinkled, looks as if it's been planted as an after-thought, and above it, his little cock, still sheathed in its foreskin leans away at an angle. I look up Oscar's body, see his strong little chest, his slender arms, his armpits like freshly-polished chalices, his lips red rather than pink, his cheeks blushed, and his thick eyelashes highlighting the curve of the lids. A small gold earring winks at me from his right earlobe.

Frankie jerks his hips forward a little to drive a little more of his cock into Oscar.

"Ooof," I hear; then, "Not so hard. That bit always hurts."

I can't help myself. I reach out and stroke Oscar's tummy. It flutters under my fingers.

Frankie jerks his hips again, and I see another inch disappear into Oscar, stretching the gap on either side of his hole. The boy's eyes fly open. "Fuck... that really hurts." He sees me. I expect him to panic or at least show signs of distress, but Oscar smiles weakly and says, "It really does hurt when he does that." I make soothing noises and continue to stroke his tummy, his chest, his nipples, his lips.

The boy open his mouth. I slip in a finger and he sucks on it. Frankie begins to fuck his friend, jerking his hips gently back and forward, penetrating just a little more each time until bottom meets bottom, and he can get no deeper unless he changes positions. I lower my face and begin to such Oscar's three-inch prick to full erection, pushing back his foreskin with my tightened lips.

My 'nephew' and I are a team.

As Frankie speeds his fucking up, I speed up my sucking, matching my rhythms to his. Oscar's body begins to turn, twist and wriggle in time with Frankie's thrusts and trembling body. The boys cum together; it is a dry cum but it shakes them just as hard as spurting semen would.

As Frankie collapses over Oscar's body, Oscar thrashes from side to side, and I gently release his hot, hard, swollen penis. It collapses almost immediately. I look up to see Oscar is shielding his eyes as if he is ashamed of the amount of pleasure he has given and taken. Frankie slides up alongside Oscar and whispers in his ear. There's an almost imperceptible nod and Oscar rolls forward onto his front. No words are required.

I slide onto the bed, part Oscar's gorgeous cheeks and inspect his freshly-fucked hole. There's a distinct redness around it, but no real signs of bruising, and no signs of damage, though the rosebud of his hole is larger and browner than Frankie's. I lower my face and lick the brownish skin tenderly. The skin is a deeper shade of brown immediately around this entrance to the boy's body. I raise his legs onto my shoulders - ah, the flexibility! - part them as wide as is comfortable for the boy, and fasten my lips against his hole. The tip of my tongue pushes and probes, and I'm almost immediately awarded by its opening to admit a fairly large part of the tip. I can, for the first time, really tongue-fuck a prepubescent boy. The smells are intoxicating.

Shit, yes, but it's so mild it seems to be swallowed by the other smells. I could almost swear I can taste Frankie. He isn't old enough to cum, but has he begun to produce pre-cum, or some such bodily fluid. I don't really care what makes up these tastes. I want them whatever they are. And one of them is a turd!

I feel the tip of my tongue blocked by something that can only be a turd. I stifle a reflex to jerk by tongue out and leave the tip in contact with Oscar's turd. Shit, yes, but it's Oscar's shit, it's part of him, perhaps the most intimate part. I understand what the guy who gave Frankie a fiver felt. I'm not sure I'm ready to swallow a turd yet, but I stretch Oscar's bum as far apart as I can without hurting him and fasten my lips round his tiny lips. I suck and wiggle my tongue at the same time. I can feel Oscar pressing back in response. He knows what I'm doing and he wants what I'm doing. But Frankie's there and I'm not sure what he'll make of what I'm doing so...

Satisfied, but unsatisfied, I stand up and consider ejaculating into Oscar's bowels. He is so open I'm sure he could take at least the head of my cock, but a glance at the bedroom clock brings me to reality. How can half an hour passed so quickly? Abruptly, I change from crazed boy lover to sensible teacher.

"Right, boys," I say, "into the jacuzzi with you. You've got fifteen minutes in there. First out gets double ice-cream."

Squeals of delight from the boys.

There are times when boys don't need men, and this is one of them.

"Lift your bum, Oscar. I want to see it going all the way in and all the way out."

I feel rather than see my cock sliding out of Oscar's anus because the only thing I can see is Theo's belly button, and only that for a moment as Theo pushes himnself back into my mouth, my throat, and continues to face-fuck me aggressively. Theo may only have three inches but his cock is thicker than those of the other boys, and I can feel my lips slip and slide along his shaft.

"Wow, Oscar, doesn't that hurt?" Frankie's voice is enthusiastic rather than solicitous. "You're sitting right down on Uncle Dan's hairs when it's all the way in."

"Yeh, it hurts," says Oscar, and his voice is so tiny I remember just how young he is. "But... ooof - when you get used to it, it feels good. Is it really stretching me now?

"You bet," says Frankie. "Your hole is like an elastic band stretched round a... a..." The boy struggles to find an apt comparison. "...stick of Brighton rock," he adds triumphantly. "Lift up again. I want a close-up of about six inches so you can see the head of his cock."

It's a little discomforting to hear Frankie discussing me in the third person, but he's the director as well as camera boy so I guess he is being professional. To tell the truth, I haven't much time for discomfort as sensations rush through me,

I manoeuvre Theo up and forward until my face is fixed between his wide-spread buttocks. Being on the skinny side, Theo is easier to shift than the others, and he is co-operative though he could be cleaner down here. I feel his fingers wrapping my hair round his dick as he wanks happily away. I use my thumbs to loosen his sphincter muscles, prise open his hole before pushing my tongue inside as far as I can. I don't care what these juices are; they are a a boy's juices and I want as much as I can get.

Why do I enjoy licking - rimming - a boy's hole so much? Not so long ago I would have thought the practice - analingus - pointless if not disgusting. Now I can't get enough of it. Oddly enough, I'm not that keen on being rimmed, but offer me any reasonably attractive boy and I'll happily rim him all night long - and all day, too, if he isn't at school.

Men?

They don't attract me, men have never attracted me, though there may be aesthetics involved here. A boy's anus can reasonably be described as a rosebud... or a little mouth waiting to be kissed, licked, sucked, worshipped. And, of course, there is the pleasure of introducing a boy to sexual pleasure he'd never suspected existed. Analingus feels erotic for the same reason that anal play in general is arousing. The anus and surrounding tissue are richly endowed with nerves highly sensitive to erotic touch, which is grand for the receiver, perhaps less so for the giver.

Rimming is a way, I guess, for the rimmer to say, "I love all of you. There's no part of you that I don't want to have. In turn, it's a way for the boy being rimmed to say I trust you, you know what you're doing, so there's no part of me you can't have. This is true for boy lovers. Boy lovers don't simply love their boy-of-the-moment; they worship them; if they could, they would devour them, swallow them whole, and keep them forever. Of course, if the futile silliness of worship can give way to genuine love, the man will put the boy's needs first, even if the boy's gain means the man's loss. All of which wasn't particularly relevant as Frankie directed Theo to sit facing the other way while continuing to grind his hole against my lips, for which I was duly grateful.

"Now, Theo," instructs Frankie, "start jerking Oscar off... but don't let him cum... and if you can, lean over and kiss his dick. No! Don't suck it. Just kiss it lots and lots. I'm gonna walk round and take shots -they're called 'establishing' shots, so that everyone can see exactly what's going on." (pause) "And, Uncle Dan, raise Theo up and down a couple of times so we can see your tongue licking his actual hole." (pause) "It'll look like Theo's gonna take a shit," (collective giggle) "but don't worry, he's not gonna do that... in this movie."

When had Frankie fallen in love with making movies? His interest had become an obsession. I'm inclined to think it's when we watched 'Wild Tigers I Have Known' together. For the first time, Frankie realised you could tell people what to do, they would do it, you could record it, and what you did could be beautiful. In making his 'porno' movies, Frankie was not simply interested in the sex, nor the feelings of power it gave him. He was genuinely interested in the aesthetics of the images he captured, though he didn't yet have the conceptual capacity to describe what he was doing in these terms. But he would capture trickles of sweat running down a boy's back, the expressions on a boy's face as he came, the blush that ran from my chest to my neck... even the whorls of hair that ran round my arsehole, for Chrissake!

I'd bought a Sony HDRCX115EB High Definition Handycam Camcorder, and we'd agreed that, for the record, it belonged to me, thouugh in reality Frankie was the proud owner. It wasn't terrible expensive, but I'd made a point of not spoiling the boy, as far as Amy was concerned I was encouraging her son in a new hobby.

To tell the truth, Frankie quickly outstripped me in using the camera, and the 101 magical tricks it could perform. I'm not here to sell the CX115 to you (LOL) and will only mention if you connect your camcorder directly to an HD Ready TV you can view your video in spectacular HD on the big screen. Frankie's bumhole, beautiful in real life, was positively ethereal in High Definition on a 42" screen! What next - 3D?!

"Turn round again," instructs Frankie. Theo duly obliges and sticks his hard-on back in my throat. "Oscar, ride Uncle Dan faster... but, Uncle Dan, tell me when you're gonna shoot. Then you pull it out... but don't shoot till I take a shot of Oscar's hole wide open. Then, when I tell you, shoot your cum right on Oscar's hole." (pause to plan) "Then suck Theo faster and faster. But don't cum in his mouth, Theo. When you're gonna cum, tell me, so I can get a big close-up of the cum shooting right out of your pee-hole and into his mouth. And fire some on his face as well. That should do it."

Frankie completes his movie by having the boys slide up my body to lick the cum off my face before snuggling down like contented kittens in my arms. His closing shot is Oscar's bumhole, breathing as my cum trickles from it. Plastered across the shot is: That's All Folks.

Was I insane? Not one, but three prepubescent boys performing sex acts that would make a bishop blush. Yes, I was insane - insane in the way that alcoholic or a junkie is insane. I knew that the dangers were; I knew the risks; I know the consequences of discovery would be catastrophic? Why then? Oh, why? Take the last drink, take the last fix, then run, run like Hell. But I couldn't. Not quite yet. Not quite now.

I'm not sure when Frankie discovered porno sites but when he did he found extreme sites I didn't even know existed. I'm not sure when he set up MSN and Skype. And I have no idea when he began 'performing' for perverts around the world. I'm smiling at my use of the word 'pervert' because I know I would happily sit in front of a screen watching a beautiful 10-year-old fuck himself with a home-made dildo as I tried to keep it going before my cum splashed its way messily over the keyboard. A beautiful, pre-pubescent boy pleasuring himself for your pleasure - would you sit and watch that?

Maybe you would, but would you sit and watch this?

"Dan, Dan, come here and watch this. I can't understand some it. You'll have to explain to me. I'll pause at the bits I don't understand. Look, look, that man's insides are coming out."

The scene seemed to be taking place in a basement. There was a guy, naked, in mid-twenties in a sling suspended about three feet above the floor, his legs pulled up but spread wide. There was a boy, naked, around 13 or 14, standing by the sling, his hard-on pointing between the guy's legs. The track was a bit blurry but I could make out the name 'Coach Morgan'.

"Can you push it out again?" said the boy, his voice confirming he wasn't much past puberty. The camera zoomed between the guy's legs and caught the lips of his anus flutter, open, open wide. Then the guy grunted as he prolapsed and his insides - scarlet, ruby-red - began to protude - one inch, two, three - red, wet, slimy...

"What's that? What's that?" whispered Frankie.

"Shhh... just watch. I'll explain it all later."

"Can I touch it?" said the boy.

"Be my guest. Do what the fuck you like?" (pause)"But first do what I taught you to do. Puke, but this time puke right into my rectum. Spit it in."

The boy pushed two fingers down his throat and made a gagging sound. He knelt in from of the man who ran his fingers around inside the doughnut of his prolapse. "Ready, Charlie?" The boy gurgled. The camera zoomed close in, and Frankie and I watched him spew directly into his coach's anus and rectum. He stood up and wiped most of the vomit from his lips and chin.

"Uh Coach? Can I push my dick into that....?"

"Prolapse. It's called a prolapse," said the man.

"Yeh, into that... thing."

Charlie stepped forward. The camera zoomed in again. Charlie had an idea. "Can I push my dick inside you please?" he asked.

"Yeh, that'll make an even better movie," grinned his mentor.

The boy spread his fingers round the huge, doughnut shaped prolapse as his sports coach breathed deeply and pushed out the moist, bright-red, concentric rings of the fleshy rosebud even further as the rectal wall slide out through his anus.

Charlie squatted lower and pushed the head of his engorged penis into the hole. His solid four-inches slid all the way in and, without thinking, the boy pushed in his low-hanging balls as well. He then began to rock backwards and forwards, not easy, but persistence paid, until he was fucking a grown-man's prolapse rhythmically.

"Yeh, yeh," whispered the man, "I'm going to suck all of you inside me," and using his rectal muscles that's exactly what he did. The boy lost what control he had and began fucking the man harder and faster until his hard breathing told the man he was going to cum.

"Hey, champ," laughed the man. "I don't want you to cum yet. I've got more things for us to do, and I want them all on camera."

"But I've got to, I've got to," grunted the boy.

"Hey, kid, I'm your teacher. What I say goes? Now get the fuck out of me."

Charlie, a polite, obedient boy, did as he was told and slid himself reluctantly out. His penis and testicles glistened with a a coating of golden mucis and debris from the man's bowels.

"Uh Coach? Is it ok if I taste your stuff down there?" The boy's cock was aching, heart was racing.

"Yeah, get down there and help yourself."

I glance and Frankie. He is leaning forward. His big eyes are huge.

The boy - Charlie - squatted down again. The camera followed him. He stuck out stuck out a long, pink tongue and took the first, gentle lick along the thick, swollen anal lips. The huge rosebud emerged again and the boy's lips surrounded ruby-red flesh and began sucking. His tongue followed the prolapse as it contracted into the rectum, then emerged again to let the boy suck off the salty mucus. The slurping and smacking of lips was as erotic as what Frankie and I were watching.

After around five minutes, it was the coach's turn to grunt: "Enough for a moment, Charlie, I need more than your tongue." Eyes glazed, the boy withdrew and stood up, the camera panning over his naked, glistening body.

"Time you learned the art of fist-fucking, boy. Do exactly what I say. Cross your fingers over each other - yeh, those three. Now work them up my ass. Go on. It won't hurt me. ...... There, good boy, that's it. ...... Now thrust in and out. Yeh, you got it. You're a smart kid. ...... Now use four fingers and cup your thumb in behind them. ...... Fuck, that's good. ...... Now saw in and out. ...... Push in now, but take it gently."

The man's rectum swallowed the boy's hand all the way to the wrist and beyond. The boy pushed forward feeling the rectum pulsate as he got half-way to his elbow before running into resistance. Back and forth, sawing in and nearly out of his coach's bowels as he arm-fucked the man.

"Feel that second ring deep inside me? You're way up my colon."

Charlie grunted and wiggled his fingers deep inside.

"That's my second sphincter. Work your arm in and out of my gut. Start punching. But take it easy at first."

Charlie obliged, then rapidly began gut-punching his coach.

"Hey, boy, take it easy," laughed the man, who then turned to whoever was operating the camera. "Make sure you get all of this. You can have Charlie later."

"Right, coach," came the reply, and I knew from the voice this was another boy, or maybe a young man. Whoever he was, he knew exactly what he was doing with the camera."

"Right, Frankie that's enough for now."

"No," protested Frankie. "I want to see..."

"Nope. That's enough for now. We can watch the rest before bedtime, but you, young man, have got homework, and homework comes before anything else." I flicked the remote.

"Okay," said Frankie, "but promise..."

"To the table, boy, and get out your Maths book." And Maths is what we did.

Like many modern computer-savvy kids, especially boys, Frankie knew more than I did about the magical mysteries of cyber space. I wasn't even aware he could set up a separate account on my computer of which I was completely unaware. Later, when I mentioned this to him, he protested: "But, Uncle Dan, everyone has their own account. And it's private. I wouldn't look into your area without your permission. That's invasion of privacy."

At the time, Frankie's middle finger was trying to locate my prostate - with my full permission.

I discovered what was going on by accident. When it comes to boys, parents find out most things by accident. It is not that boys try to keep secrets from their parents; it's just that they feel much of their lives has nothing to do with adults in general and their parents in particular. From around the age of 11 onwards, the real lives of boys take place in their heads, in their bedrooms, and in the company of their peers.

Watch a group of boys as they come out of school at 3.30. Watch them as they change into their street gear. Watch them as they meet up with their friends in pre-designated meeting places. Within half an hour, they are different creatures entirely, and, if one did not know better, one would imagine they were feral pack animals, set on carrying out as much mayhem as they can. Not true. Their aim is not mischief, though recklessness can lead them into it; they are pack puppies, playing follow-my-leader, out to find excitement or create it when they cannot find it ready-made.

I've no idea how I broke Frankie's password. I was merely fiddling around trying to remember my own password which does begin with FRANKIE... when an entirely new planet swam into my ken, and I sat silent, staring at the Pacific as Frankie's private world - FRANKIESWORLD - opened up to me. Folders neatly organised: 001PICS - 002VIDS - 003STORIES - 004CHATS.

CHAT 31

LEO69 Hi, Frankie. You're looking hot, Had a good day at school. OSCAR Hi, Dan. Yeh, not bad. U? LEO69 Pretty good. Some of the customers are dumb shits, but as long as they pay on time, I don't give a fuck. OSCAR Sorry 'bout yesterday. Uncle came home a bit early. Just got off in time. LEO69 No worries. I saved it for this session. OSCAR You didn't cum then? LEO69 Nope. No point cumming if I'm not looking at you. I like to see your sweet little mouth when I'm cumming Even better is when I'm staring your cute little hole. OSCAR Wanna see it again? LEO69 No hurry. When's your uncle getting home? OSCAR 'Bout 5'clock. What you want me to do first? LEO69 That's my boy. Stand up. Pull your school shirt out. Rub your fingers over the front of your trousers. I want to see that bulge. I want to see your stiffy outlined under those flannels. That's it. Take your time. OSCAR Like that? LEO69 Yeh, just like that. Get closer to the cam. I want to kiss you right there. And tell me what you do to your Uncle again. That sounds really hot.

(I leave this out. Frankly, I'm embarrassed to relate Frankie's description of what we do in the privacy and intimacy of our love-making.)

LEO69 Shit, your uncle's a lucky bastard, baby. Now work your trousers and underpants down your stomach. But don't let me see you dick, not yet. Yeh, that's it. Down a bit more. Right there. Get closer to the cam again. My God, your skin is so beautiful. Stop giggling. I really mean it. OSCAR What would you like to do? LEO69 I wanna lick and kiss your tummy. Suck your belly button. Push down those undies with my tongue. Lick the head of your sweet little dick. For fuck's sake, Frankie, push them down to your knees. OSCAR Look the way it jumps up! LEO69 Work your foreskin back. Yeh, like that. Shit, I want my lips round you. Get those fucking things off. OSCAR Give me a min. Got get my shoes off first. Hold on. I'm gonna sit on the couch and get this school shit off. LEO69 Fuck it. Every time I see you I can't believe you're for real. You're so f-u-c-k-i-n-g gorgeous. OSCAR Dan... can you put your cam on, please? You can keep your clothes on. I just wanna see you. LEO69 Sorry, kid. No can do. I'm on my work laptop. No cam. OSCAR You're always on your work laptop. How old are you really? I don't care. Just want to know. LEO69 Turn round. Bend over. Lift your shirt. Pull your cheeks open. Finger that sweet little hole of yours. And when I tell you, go get that dildo. The big one.

(If I don't go any further, it's pure embarrassment. And also because the scripts in the end became repetitive. There's only so many things a boy can do with his body when limited to a camshow.)

I learned later that the term for Frankie is a 'cam whore'. Frankie loved performing on cam. There were few things he wouldn't do if asked politely or persistently enough. To his credit, he refused to take a shit on cam. I was surprised by the number of men - I'm assuming they were all men -desperate to a close-up of a ten-year-old boy's anus as shit made its exit.

Lots more wanted to see Frankie pee - he duly obliged - though only a minority expressed a desire for the boy to piss directly in their gulping mouths. I must admit reading the scripts opened up a whole new world of sexual possibilities, but many of them I wouldn't touch with a barge pole; these were mainly of the sado-masochistic variety, which had limited appeal for me. (Oh yeh? And you with little Jack up to his elbow inside of you last Tuesday.)

What did intrigue me was the offers of reciprocal sex-shows 'starring' men and little boys - a variation of 'you show me yours, and I'll show you mine' I hadn't thought of. When I tackled Frankie about this, he was his usual forthright self.

"Would you do it, Uncle Dan? Would you? I would... but only with you?"

There's a note of excitement in the boy's voice that takes me by surprise. Only fifteen minutes ago, I'd been giving him hell about the whole cam/chat business, and here he was trying to persuade me into taking part with him. First things first.

"Now many men have you been on cam with?" I ask.

"Mmmm... do you mean one at a time or when there's a crowd of them?"

"A crowd of them?!" I'm horrified. "Do you mean more than one man can watch you at a time?"

"Yeh, lots." Frankie sighs. "You don't know much, do you?"

"Never mind how much I know. How many?"

"Well, one afternoon on Tiny Chat I had 202 viewers."

"Tiny Chat? Viewers."

"Yeh." He sounds a little exasperated. "Tiny Chat is one of them sites where anyone, everyone can just visit and open up their cam. We all do it. But I set up my room - chat room - and then invite viewers. Nobody can watch if they're not invited."

The learning curve is steep but I'm getting there.

"On Blog TV you can get hundreds of viewers."

"Hundreds!"

"Yeh, but they're very strict there. You get booted off if you try any rude stuff. The girls get most viewers 'cos they show half their tits, and roll round on the carpet, and do handstands and stuff. Just think of all them boys - and pervs - sitting wanking, watching them." He giggles, then goes on. "But things like Skype is much better for one-to-one. The picture quality is a lot better and it's really private."

"And you know some guys - with boys, I mean - who would...?" I don't know how to finish the sentence. I don't try.

"Oh, yeh, it's easy." He thinks. "What kinda boy you want? I mean, what age? Want a black boy?"

I'm flustered.

"Mmmm... I'll leave all that to you."

"What day is it?" The question is addressed to himself. "Friday. Good. I'm staying here this weekend. That makes it easier. What's time now. Five. Mum won't be here for an hour. Let me show you some of the vids I collected. Some of them you won't believe. Some of them are really... dirty."

And they were, though none quite reached the depths of 'Training Charlie'. I'd promised Frankie. Never make a promise to a kid you can't or won't keep, so here goes.

"My arm's getting tired," said Charlie.

"Okay... I've got something else in mind. Slide your arm out. Take it easy. Slowly... slowly. Here, stretch out your arm to me." Charlie did that and watched as his favourite teacher licked the shiny slam from his arm, grinning "Nothing tastes better than your own insides - except perhaps a boy's"

Coach Morgan slid himself out of the sling and stretched out on the floor.

"Now squat over my face, boy. Get that sweet hole right over my mouth and give me what you've got."

Frankie squatted giving his coach an eyeful of his skinny body, angel hips and bruised anus. Facing the man's crotch, he hunched lower until his hole was a couple of inches above Coach Morgan's wide-open mouth. He tongued Frankie's arsehole as the boy pushed it out.

"Here it comes. It feels wide-open now," the boy strained. Two inches of solid turd bullied their way out of the hole. He held it there, as instructed earlier by his trainer who began giving the shit-log a blow-job until it began to dissolve and break up. At the same time, squirts of urine spit out of the man's semi-hard cock.

Frankie bent down quickly, grasping the fat, hairy cock and aimed it in his mouth. He swallowed Coach's urine as the squirts turned into a fountain of yellow piss. He couldn't hold the turd in and four more solid inches dropped into the man's hungry mouth, sliding down his throat and into his belly. The boy felt his belly swell too as the seemingly endless piss filled it up.

The man swung the boy around, pulled him down face to face, and began French-kissing him hungrily as he shared what was left of the turd. The man used his tongue to break up the shit and spit the pieces into the boy's mouth. They chewed and swallowed their share of the shit. Then, laughing, he pulled Frankie against his chest: "Maybe a little break now, eh?"

"Yes, sir, please, sir," and Franke let himself collapse happily onto the man.

Coach Morgan turned to the cameraman.

"Put that camera down and come and join us, Robert. I'll film you fisting Frankie later, or you two can double-fist me. Two thirteen year olds... mmm... the customers will like that."

I heard the boy's voice: "And can I bring Rocky tomorrow, sir? He's a fucking big dog, but I've trained him what do do."

"Course you can course you can," came Coach Morgan's much deeper voice. "And bring your little brother too. Those pedos like them really young."

The screen went dark.

Saturday evening, couch pulled up close to the computer and web cam, both of us in our bathrobes, mine green, Frankie's a fetching blue, both naked beneath, Frankie perched on my lap, adjusting himself to make room for my hard cock between his buttocks. He is absorbed in rapping the keys.

Suddenly they are there on the screen, a man and a boy, gazing back at us.

"Hi, there," comes a voice. The accent is antipodean, Australia or New Zealand, I'm not certain. "I'm Ray, and this is Ben." A small boy raises his hand and waves tentatively back. They are both naked. Ray seated on a what looks like a high-seated green armchair, the boy Ben seated on the man's knees.

"Hi, there," smiles Frankie, waving back. "I'm Mikey, and this is my dad Adam."

"You new to this?" asks Ray.

Frankie nods.

"Well, we'd better show you. Here's a little tour to get started.

Ray lifts Ben and balances him on his knees. The boy stands there precariously, his belly, hips, and genital region filling our screen. "As you can see," says Ray, "Ben is a well-built boy for his age. Look at that little pot belly. Look at his sweet little button. And look there, not a single pube, and not likely to be for some time."

Ray laughs while he speaks; already he sounds like some demented commentator at a dog show. "Watch how he gets hard, really quick." Nicotined fingers that seem huge in comparison with Ben's small-boy penis begin to play with the child's cock and balls.

"Not much there yet," says Ray, "but watch," and we do as the blood pumps into the boys penis, and we watch it swell from all of two inches soft to three inches erect. "Not much in the way of balls yet," (Ben's balls are little acorns in a slightly wrinkled sac.) "so don't expect much in the way of cum. In fact, don't expect any, but I'll make up for that when I rub mine all over him."

That laugh again.

"Really sweet on this side, too," Ray continues as he turns the boy round to give us a full-screen view of his buttocks. The nicotined- fingers part the cheeks, and the boy is pushed forward so that the immediate area his anus fills the screen. "Sweet ain't it? And well broken in to."

The bruising round the boy's hole is obvious, and the reason becomes clear as the tip of Ray's middle finger brings to stroke the opening. "Look, guys, no lube needed. I'm beginning to think Ben likes it this way - doncha, kiddo?" The finger tip corkscrews it way into the boys hole that opens up like a tiny flower. From the loudspeakers comes the unmistakable sound of whimpering.

"Aw, for Chrissake, you've had a lot more than that up inside you, you little faggot." That's to Ben.

To us it's, "Ain't amazing how easy the stretch when you keep at it?"

Suddenly there's a flurry of flesh on the screens and...

Ben is being held upside down. Naked, he is facing a naked Ray. The boy's face and mouth dangle above a belly thick with black hair, a huge pubic bush, and gnarled, veined shaft of flesh topped with a head that looks like a small peach.

Hips are raised along with Ray's voice, "Open wide for daddy," and as Ben makes a big oval with his lips, the huge head is pushed into his mouth, and the hips begin to rise and fall in piston-like movements. In the background we hear Justin Bieber - "one of Ben's favourites," Ray tells us between breathy gasps. The cam pans upwards to find the man's face jammed tightly between the child's buttocks.

"Fucking hell," comes Ray again, "this beats a big Mac anytime". The cam pans backdown and focuses on the boy's face - his eyes are teary, his mouth stretched to the limit by a cock that must be bouncing off the roof his throat. The boy is gagging. Something flashes on the screen for a moment, and Frankie whispers, "They're filming it. They pay if you let them film it."

"Ooops a-daisy," sings Ray. Ben is upended and planted back on his lap facing the cam. "Let's try this end now," he croons.

The cam gets in so close you can see the bulbous head of Ray's penis pressing against Ben's hole. There isn't much resistance, at least for the first two inches but it's hardly credible that tiny bottom can take 8 or is it 9 inches of swollen, hardened flesh. Ray's hips rise and fall as screw his cock into the boy. The silence from the boy is unsettling. The cam pans back to his face. The boy's eyes are glassy, his big-eyed gaze unfocussed. The cam pans back down. Seven inches at least are bedded inside the boy.

"Sometimes they need a little help," laughs Ray, "but when they snap out of it... that's when the real fun begins." (He paused.) But the real fun will be on Friday night, same place, same time."

The screen went dark.

I tell myself I won't be there on Friday night. I lied. I'm there. But Frankie isn't. Despite his protests, I ask Amy to keep him till Saturday morning because I have to be overnight in London. It's a lie, but I'm hooked on what Ray consider is the 'real fun'.

The screen lights up.

Ray's grin meets pervs and pedos around the world. I'm one of them. Ben is stretched out on a double bed. He is naked. He looks tiny. The camera zooms in on his face. Christ, but he is a gorgeous kid. His eyes are wide open.

"Ah, poppers," says Ray. "Nothing quite like them to keep a kid healthy, happy and horny." He laughs. He holds up a small brown bottle. He unscrews the top and holds the bottle under Ben's nose. The reaction is almost instant as the boy's blood vessels dilate, his blood pressue drops, and his heart rate speeds up. His face is flushed.

"Now let's see what we have here."

Ray raises the boy's legs and bends them back over his head. The boy, drugged as he is, is flexible. The camera zooms in on his anus. It is bruised and swollen. Two fingers appear on the screen. They look huge against the tiny bottom of the boy. They work their way in and finger-fuck the boy, withdrawn and then a third finger is added, then a fourth. The boy's hole looks absurdly big now as the four fingers make circular motions stretching it wider and wider.

"You ain't seen nuthin' yet," comes Ray's voice, and now half his hand is inside the boy who begins to twist and writhe. "Hold still, you little fucker," and the whole hand pushes its way inside. A small boy is being fisted by a grown man. The boy's whimpers fill the room.

Ray lowers the boy's legs till they are flat on the bed. "Watch this." The whole hand is inside, then the wrist, then the arm. This can't be happening but it is. "Look at his belly." Men across the world are gazing at the huge, long bulge in the boy's belly. The fist and arm are way past the boy's rectum - deep inside his large intestine - fucking him in the very depths of his tiny body.

I'm sickened but I can't look away.

Ray fucks the boy about five minutes. He withdraws his fist, hand, arm, and hold it to the camera. It's covered with slime, mucus and shit. "You might not want to watch the next bit," he laughs. "It gets a bit messy."

The last thing I see is Ray's leering grin.

I hit the remote.

I sit there stunned.

Is this what I want?

Is this where I'm heading?

Is this where I'm taking Frankie?

I must be using by teacher-voice because Frankie follows me with no protest.

"Delete all of your folders," I instruct.

"All of them?" he enquires.

When there is no response, he carefully highlights each folder - 001PICS -002VIDS - 003STORIES - 004CHATS - and deletes each one of them with a stroke of the key. Then he goes to the Recycle Bin and deletes all of them. He looks at me. I nod. He selects the programme ERASER and sets it to write over the unused space on the C:drive seven times. By morning, it will be gone, all of it, forever.

"Delete any accounts you've got, wherever you've got them."

He deletes them.

I sit on the couch, call him over and pat the space beside me. He looks full into my eyes.

"Frankie," I say, "do you want to stay here and watch some of the things we've watched? Or do you want to have fish and chips, and then go and see 'The Karate Kid'?

"'The Karate Kid, of course,'" he says, adding, "Who needs that perv shit?"

As he skips off to get his jacket, I think, "You don't. And here's hoping I don't."...

Every boy should have an obsession, and soon after his 11th birthday Frankie found his. But it was not the one I expected. His skill and devotion to his Sony CX115 made me suspect I had a young Quentin Tarentino on my hands, but that obsession was nothing compared to what Frankie found one sunny Saturday morning, though this obsession, too, could be summed up in a single four-letter word, and the word was GOLF.

This is what happened.

I was leading a Saturday morning seminar and expected Amy would look after Frankie until lunchtime. I was surprised and not a little upset when Frankie's mother announced she couldn't possibly change the plans she and Norman had made to spend the weekend in Brighton. My upset was not having to change my own plans - it was the casual way in which Amy put her plans before Frankie's needs. This was not the first time, and sadly it was not the last, as Amy had become less and less involved in her son's needs.

I was on the point of abandoning the seminar when my deputy - yes, deputies have deputies - stepped in. Though Ryan carried the title Assistant Head, he was in effect my deputy. I had a lot of time for Ryan; he was kind, considerate and damn good at his job. He also had two sons, twins, Sam and Eric, often address jointly for the obvious reason as Sam'nEric. They were 13, so Frankie was within their range of acceptability. Amongst the young, hierarchies are strict.

"Look, it's no problem, Dan. We'll look after Frankie," he promised. "We're going Morton Golf Club. Sam'nEric bash their way round the nine-holer while I'm making a full of myself on the 18th. If you're finished around lunchtime, we could meet at the 19th and find something to celebrate."

Once Ryan unravelled the mysteries of what he was talking about, I texted Frankie with the invitation. Back came one word: FINE.

To say the seminar was tedious would be a useful short-cut but it would not be true. It was fascinating though I doubt you are much interested in the science, or is it voodoo?, of phonetics. I'll spare you the details, only because of what happened at the 19th over a table groaning with pizzas and assorted drinks, including Irn Bru to which Frankie has taken an inexplicable fancy!

"I'm telling you the boy's a natural," says Ryan, taking a moment to cuff Sam'nEric who are squabbling over who'd taken the bigger slice of Pepperoni Feast, with double pepperoni and extra mozzarella cheese. I'm silently proud of Frankie who's quietly carving up his Veggie Sizzler, with green chillies, jalapeños, mixed peppers, and onions into mouth-sized portions. (Have I mentioned Frankie has become a vegetarian?)

"I'm not joking," continues Ryan. "You sure Frankie hasn't taken lessons?"

I finish a mouthful of my Meat Machine, with pepperoni, ham, steak, spicy minced beef, spicy pork sausage, chicken. (Have I mentioned I think vegetarians are fucking nuts, present company excepted?) and repeat, "Frankie has never held a golf club in his life."

"Crazy golf."

"What?" say Dan and Ryan simultaneously.

"Mum let me play Crazy Golf when we were in Brighton."

"Fuck Brighton." That's me, but only in my head.

"How did you do?" asks Ryan eagerly.

"Don't remember," says Frankie, swigging a mouthful of Irn Bru (so much for his manners). I was only 5 at the time.

Ryan turns to me again. I point at his Piri Piri, crust packed with piri piri, reputed to pack a fiery punch, and say. "Eat." He does so but it doesn't stop him talking. I glance at Sam'nEric, they, mouthfuls, are engaged in an intense, whispered conversation. At least there's Frankie. I glance at Frankie, Frankie my love. He has three, or is it four?, mouthfuls jammed in his gob, and is trying to squirt in a topping of Irn Bru. (What the fuck's in that stuff anyway?)

"It was Sam'nEric who brought Frankie over to me. Said they didn't want to play with him. Said he was taking three or four shots when they were taking eight or nine. They weren't upset, just didn't want to play with him." (Munch, munch) "I took Frankie into my game. I thought, couple of holes and we'll let him caddy. Don't worry. We'd hired an electric golf trolley." (Crunch crunch) "Well, bugger me..." (Not an invitation I'm likely to accept, but Sam'nEric... now there's a thought: two 13-year-old identical twins. I began to wonder how identical they were. I felt a touch on my arm.

"Pay attention, Dan. I'm being serious." (Sam'nEric... so was I.)

"We're on the fourth tee. We take our shots. I shank. Donald hooks. We make way for Frankie. I know he's a tall boy for his age, but you've told me he's never played golf in his life. Donald and I stand a bit behind him. Don't want our smiles to put him off. Up steps Frankie. he puts his ball down. Doesn't even use a tee. Steps back, takes a swing, and..."

"And?"

"And belts it straight up the middle of the fairway. 250 yards! At least. Fuck me." It's Sam'nEric's turn to cuff Ryan. "Sorry," he says, then, "I asked Frankie where he'd learned to do that. 'Don't know,' is his answer. 'Just did it.'

"Of course it's a fluke Donald and I tell each other. We hit our balls -the golf ones - then stroll on to where Frankie's ball is lying in the middle of the fairway. He doesn't say anything. Doesn't ask if he should use a different club. Steps up to the ball. Looks at the flag. Looks at the ball. Step backs and... swing. Up she goes, down the comes, tippy toe, tippy toe, and rolls... Well, we're not quite sure, but when we get to the green. there it is - five feet from the hole. 'Bet the little shit can't putt,' whispers Donald. He loses his bet. Up steps Frankie. Looks at the hole, looks at the ball, looks at the hole, gets his head over the ball, and... pings it into the hole, dead centre. Hey, your Frankie used a putter -he might be a freak but he's not a magician."

I like the 'your' Frankie, but I'm not so sure about the freak.

"So he played a hole really well," I say, swigging Peroni straight from the bottle, thus reducing myself to that of the present company.

"You don't get it yet, do you?" I admit I don't.

"Your Frankie played all the holes like that. He made 10 pars, 4 bogeys, and double bogey."

"Dad makes lots of them. Double bogeys, I mean." That's from Sam, or it might be Eric. Same difference. Ryan ignores him, or them.

"What's a bogey?" asks Frankie.

"That's a booger, only bigger," says Eric. I know it's Eric because Ryan names him and cuffs him simultaneously.

"A bogey is when you take one more shot than par," explains Ryan, "so a double bogey is..."

"It flew right in the pond," interrupts Frankie. "How'm I supposed to play it out of a pond?"

We both ignore Frankie. In fact, we both ignore all three boys. They don't seem to mind in the least. Sam'nEric invite Frankie to come and watch people teeing off on the first hole. Frankie looks to me. I wave him permission. They disappear like meerkats down a burrow,

"Go on," I tell Ryan. He has piqued my interest.

"Well," he continues, "I think you're Frankie's something special." (Tell me about it.) "Would you mind if he comes with us next Saturday morning? I'd like the Morton golf pro to look him over. We wouldn't any pressure on him. To Frankie, it'll be just another game."

"It's up to Frankie," I tell him. "If he wants to play, it's fine by me. If not..." A shrug of my shoulders completes the thought.

Ryan beams.

"Frankie says it's up to you. He's really keen to play, but he says 'it's up to my Uncle Dan. He knows what's best for me.'"

If I weren't a Deputy Headteacher, and Ryan an Assistant Headteacher, I know there would have been tears in my eyes.

"That's that fixed then," I say, "but remember - no pressure."

Ryan reaches, takes my hand and shakes it: "No pressure. He's only 11."

And that's how one obsession began and one ended. The obsession is Frankie's; the addiction was mine.

To be blisteringly honest, I'd been working hard to end my addiction for months. I suppose I have to name my addiction, though you already know what it is. I was addicted to small boys, and only the shock of watching Ray and little Ben had jolted me into accepting I was as addicted to small boys as alcoholics are to alcohol, as junkies are to junk. Those afternoons with Frankie, Theo, Oscar, little Jack, and the others showed me I was as far from the Yellow Brick Road as I could be. The first law is 'Do No Harm', but I'd convinced myself I was only giving these little boys what they wanted; that their pleasures, needs and desires were identical to my own. That was a lie, but I was prepared to live that lie. Remember, tell yourself a lie often enough and you'll end up believing it's the absolute truth.

It wasn't easy. Never let them tell you it's easy. No addiction is easy, and the more harmful it is, the more difficult it is to give it up. But I had one thing that helped me through - Frankie. The boy simply stopped. He made it clear he was there for the taking, but when I didn't take it, him, he smiled and got on with boystuff rather than manstuff.

When he mentioned Theo and Oscar, I murmured, "Maybe next time..." which he interpreted as an absolute no, and got on with more boystuff. When I asked him if he'd made or collected any more vids, he smiled and showed them to me - every one would easily have found a place on youtube. When I asked him if he still used Skype and MSN, he smiled and showed me his computer area. He no longer used a password. Everything was as available to me as it was to him.

When all my porn DVDs went missing, Frankie explained he'd wiped them by mistake. They were damaged beyond repair, but not to worry, he'd used his pocket money and bought me 50 new ones from the £Pound store - total £7.50p. We no longer watched TV or DVDs naked under our bathrobes. We watched TV together, we cuddled, we wrestled... Frankie struggled as I tried to lift him, carry him, and dump him in his bed at bedtime, with never the suggestion he could sleep in mine.

And then came the day that changed everything. It was time for Frankie to go to secondary school.

"Frankie might as well go to secondary school in Brighton," Amy tells me. "Norman and I are moving to Brighton in August. He might as well come with us."

I am stunned.

"But he sailed through the test," I say. "He'll sail through SATS. He's already got his place at grammar school. He won't have that chance if he goes to school in Brighton." Amy shrugs her shoulders. "And what about his golf? He's making terrific progress. He's already winning competitions."

"It's only a game," says Amy. "He'll get over it. We all have to get over stuff. That's the way life is."

I play my last card.

"And Norman... what about Norman? He doesn't even like kids very much."

"Can't stand them," confirms Amy. Then adds, "But Norman's got this promotion in Brighton. He can't pass it up. And I'm not leaving Norman. I can't pass him up."

I'm drowning, not waving.

"Mind you," says Amy. "Naw, you wouldn't be interested?"

"Interested? Interested in what?" I ask. I'm too miserable to be interested in anything.

"Interested in taking Frankie on," she says. "You've got him half the time anyway." she continues. "Frankie lives with you. He goes to your precious grammar school here. He comes to us, in Brighton, say one weekend a month. Maybe when he's older Norman will start to appreciate him... but I doubt it. What do you say?"

I can't say anything. I'm struck dumb, lost for words, literally speechless.

"Aw, come on, you're a teacher. Teachers are supposed to have all the answers. A simple 'Yes' or 'No' will do."

I can form the word in my head, but it's caught on my tongue.

"Shit, I'm going to take that as a 'Yes'."

Amy turns and opens the door of the apartment.

Frankie is standing there. He looks so young, so vulnerable.

"I think it's a 'Yes', kiddo," says Amy.

"Yes! Yes! Yes!"

That must have come from me.

Frankie runs across the room. He throws his arms around me. He hugs me so tightly that I'm even more breathless. He is crying. Amy is crying. I am crying. Then we're laughing. Then I'm whirling Frankie round in mid-air. His long legs make it look as if he's flying. I'm flying, though my feet remain on the ground.

That night, as I tuck Frankie in bed, I whisper, "Good night, sweet prince. Good night, Frankie. --- Frankie, my love."

And I hear Frankie whisper back, "Goodnight - Dad."

THE END OF THE BEGINNING