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K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N
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Archive name: boy.txt (mf, voy, exh, ped)
Authors name: DVC
Story title : Boy on the Bank
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This work is copyrighted to the author (c) 1999.
Please do not remove the author information or make
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Boy on the Bank (F/m, pedo, reactions welcome)
by DVC (dvc1284@pacbell.net)
--- CAVEATS ---
1. This is, in all likelihood, a complete fantasy.
There is no "Deborah", and none of this ever happened.
2. The following story involves a pubescent boy and
an adult female, and includes some explicit language.
If that's not your thing and/or you're under the age
of consent where you live, then don't read it. This
is intended only for people who are adults and who wish
to read such stuff.
* * *
Boy on the Bank
by DVC (dvc1284@pacbell.net) (feedback welcome)
*
"You think his pubic hair's come in yet?" From her
expression, she obviously found that an amusing
question to ponder.
"Maybe. Wouldn't be much though. Probably not."
"Suppose he masturbates?"
"I wouldn't be surprised. I'm sure I was by that age.
He's probably still shooting blanks though."
*
Deborah and I were seated at a park bench, taking a
break after four hours of driving. Through the trees
we'd spotted a young boy who was fooling around down
on the lake bank. There was a fishing rod, apparently
belonging to him, that was set out on a small wooden
pier. He was busy skipping stones off the bank instead
of fishing. A bicycle was leaning up against the pier's
railing, presumably his as well.
Deborah had a thing for boys around the age of puberty.
I'd call it more of a curiosity than a fetish. Perhaps
because she'd been a late sexual bloomer herself, she
wondered about the years she'd missed. Who knows.
One of our many private little jokes was that she
should become a professional baby-sitter for pubescent
males -- insist on giving them their baths, tucking
them into bed. Plus the occasional hand-job, et
cetera, of course. It wasn't really that funny of a
joke -- if there'd been a way for her to have actually
done something like that, I don't doubt she would have.
By then she'd become something of an expert on the
various stages of male puberty, so there was no need
for me to explain what I'd meant by "shooting blanks".
She knew young boys start getting spontaneous erections
and having little orgasms well before they begin pro-
ducing the various stuff that goes into a proper male
ejaculation.
She made this particular one out to be eleven or
twelve. But it's hard to tell. He was definitely
over eight and under fourteen. Not all that short,
but certainly not grown. Not at all filled-out. A
"prime cut", to borrow a phrase she once used.
*
"You know, my dear, if you ever want to try your luck,
this is probably the best chance you'll ever get."
She grinned. Apparently I was giving voice to her
thoughts. We did that kind of thing a lot with each
other.
And what I'd said was true. Unless she somehow got
caught in the act, there was no way she could get
busted. Almost no way, at least. Close enough to no
way? At least close enough for me to delicately tell
her that I wasn't going to flip out if she wanted to
try something with the kid. We'd been in some strange
situations tegether before, but never with a young one
- so giving her permission like that seemed appropriate
somehow.
For that matter, we'd never been in a situation that
could involve anything quite this seriously illegal.
Whatever it was that Deborah was contemplating in that
busy little brain of hers, in the eyes of the law it
was almost certainly some form of child molestation.
"How would I approach him?"
"Very carefully, I think. Not like he's some thirty
year-old guy. I'd probably just try to make friends
with him first. See if you can get him talking. Maybe
skip stones with him."
Deborah lit a cigarette. She was stalling. Stalling
and thinking at the same time. If her juices weren't
starting to flow a little by that point -- literally --
then I'm somebody other than who I am. She has excel-
lent people skills when she wants to switch them on,
and I'm sure she felt confident she could get that far
with the boy. Good choice of words on my part.
"Then what?"
Then what, indeed...
"Maybe see if you can get him to talk about sex. Just
try to broach the subject with him."
"How?"
"No idea. Ask him if he uses the internet? If he has
sisters?" I was groping for a good answer and not
finding it.
"What would you have wanted back then?"
"Mmmmmm.... More than anything, I would've liked to
have just seen between a girl's legs."
That answer seemed right, so I continued along that
line. The boy was still energetically skipping his
stones, but I figured he'd be long gone by the time
Deborah finished this. She's quite willing to take
risks at times, but she always likes to carefully vet
them over in her mind first.
"At that age, I vaguely knew that girls have holes
down there, but that's about all I knew. I didn't
even know where the holes were located, much less what
they looked like." Deborah and I had had variations
on this conversation many times before, but I pressed
it a little further this time. "Offer to let him have
a look at you."
Exhibitionist though she can be at times, she didn't
seem to like that idea. "Suppose he already knows
about all that?"
"He doesn't. Guys never do."
My response was technically accurate, but she was still
correct. If the boy had a younger sister or had played
show-and-tell with one of his little girlfriends, he'd
know a lot more than I did when I was that age. A
*lot* more. And these days, kids probably did know a
lot more.
Still, I tried to rescue myself by saying: "I would
love to have been given a live tour of the female body
by someone. Basic stuff, 'pee comes out here, babies
come out there.'"
"Poop comes out here?"
I laughed. "Sure. Penis goes in here would be good.
Teach him the facts of life. Show him your hot-button.
Labia minora, labia majora." Thinking, not for the
first time, that Deborah's labia minora would be worthy
of Robert Maplethorpe's photographic attentions.
Assuming he were still with us.
"If you were him, would you have done that? With
someone this much older?"
"It probably would have scared the shit out of me if
anyone'd ever offered. I got embarrassed easily when
I was that age. Peeking at somebody through a window
would have been better. I would have done that in a
New York heartbeat."
Deborah sat silently for awhile, presumably thinking
things over.
While she was thinking her thoughts, my own wandered
back to a teacher I'd had a serious crush on when I
was about the age of this kid. She would have been
about the same age as Deborah. As much as I liked her,
my circuits would have totally shorted-out if she'd
ever invited me to stay after school to have a look at
her private parts. Things like that just didn't
happen. And if they did, you'd never be ready for
them to happen. At least I wasn't.
Most likely the boy down there was nowhere near ready
for whatever it was Deborah was thinking she'd like to
do with him. Which was probably precisely why she was
so curious about him; he was both an item of curiosity
and a challenge, all rolled up into one little person.
One currently very unsuspecting little person.
Keep skipping the rocks kid, I thought. Deborah needs
some time to think about this...
*
While she smoked and we bandied about various ways that
she might be able to entice the lad, another subject
came up which was about the law.
"At what point would I be breaking the law?"
I hesitated a moment before answering. Obviously any-
thing involving any sort of genital contact would be
illegal, but I knew that wasn't what she was asking.
The line had to be closer than that. Where? She wanted
to exactly know where she'd be crossing it.
"Good question. I can't see how just talking to him
could be illegal, even if it's about sex. Adults talk
to kids about sex all the time. I'm not even sure it
would be illegal for you to take your clothes off in
front of him.
"Whether he consents to anything doesn't matter." I
started to tack on a qualifier to the effect that she
still better not try anything with him that he didn't
consent to, but I knew she wouldn't do that anyway.
Deborah is only into consenting activities.
After some reflection, I added: "I take back what I
said about talk being legal. Suggesting sexual con-
tact must be illegal. Something like 'soliciting a
minor' or something. It's probably not as bad as
touching, but that's probably where you'd be arrest-
able."
"How about inviting him to watch me go pee?"
"Damn. I like that one." I did, too. Deborah was
no dumbie, that's for sure. So that's what she'd been
thinking.
I babbled out my reactions: "That's good. He has to
be curious about that. Especially if he doesn't have
any sisters. But even if he does. It's totally non-
threatening to him. It's not even directly sexual.
If he says yes, his ass is yours for anything else you
want to do with him. If he says no, that may not even
have been anything illegal to have suggested." I
laughed again. "If you got caught, you'd still get
arrested, of course."
What I didn't say there, was that it also fit Deborah
to a tee. She was anything but modest when it came to
her bathroom practices. At her suggestion, we'd even
gotten into having "wet sex" in the back yard some-
times. Very wet.
"Maybe we could have a distance contest."
I laughed again. "You'd win."
She would win too, but he wouldn't know that going in.
He'd think he could beat her. Wrong. And she'd at
least get to see his dicklet in the process. She'd
definitely been sorting this through.
And I felt myself starting to get an erection.
*
"So. What's the worst thing that can happen?"
The first response that came to mind was, the worst
thing that could happen would be that you'll finally
decide you want to do something here, and the fucking
kid will go get on his fucking bicycle and ride off.
I held my tongue on that. If I'd said that, she'd
probably have told me to go screw myself and marched
off back to the car. Pressuring Deborah on anything,
no matter how trivial, is virtually always guaranteed
to get the opposite result.
"Worst thing? Worst thing would be that he's got a
cell-phone in his backpack. He gets a description of
you and the car. His dad is the local sheriff, and
he's parked on the shoulder, two miles down the road."
That just rolled out, but it sounded well within the
realm of possibility as I heard to myself saying it.
Shit does happen.
She looked back at the boy. "You think he might really
have a cell-phone?"
"I think if I were you, I'd make damn sure he doesn't
before I got into anything with him. Ask him."
"I could do that."
"While you're at it, you may as well ask him where he
lives. How far away. He probably does live back in
that little town, but we could be wrong about that."
"What if somebody comes along?"
"I can wait in the car. I'll honk the horn three times
if anyone drives in. If someone walks up along the
lake, though, you'll be shit out of luck. Better get
him off in the woods first."
"I would anyway."
I was getting on a jag now. "Don't let him see the
car if you can help it. And don't give him any ac-
curate information about yourself. Tell him your
name's Lola. You're traveling by yourself in a yellow
Volkswagen bug. You live in Washington. Don't tell
him anything honest."
"You can stop now."
Ooops!
We sat silently for several moments. Amazingly enough,
the boy was still down there, still skipping stones.
I wondered what his "equipment" looked like, and it
crossed my mind that that was probably the exact same
thing she was thinking about. Maybe not.
Perhaps sensing my impatience, Deborah casually lit
another cigarette. I wanted to tell her that she'd be
smart not to smoke around the kid, but I managed to
keep my mouth shut.
*
Finally...
"Okay. The plan is that I go down there and make
friends with him. While I'm doing that, I ask him
three questions: If he has a cell-phone, if he has
a younger sister, and how far from here he lives. If
he answers all three questions the right way, then I
play it by ear after that. Sound good?"
"Yep."
"What time is it?"
I looked at my watch. "Two-thirty. You can take your
time. Even if we don't leave here for a couple hours,
we'll be fine."
"Any final words of advice?"
"Just don't let him see the car if you can help it.
And if you do do anything, try to make sure we can get
at least a fifteen minute head start before he can
tell anybody. The freeway's only about five miles
from here."
"Think he'd tell anybody?"
"I'd bet on it. Assume it'll get back to the cops
somehow, one way or the other. Just make sure we can
get a good head start."
"Okay. Go sit in the car. Go read your book or some-
thing."
*
Contrary to what I expected would happen next, Deborah
walked back to the car with me. I didn't ask why.
When we got there, she popped open the trunk and took
out the canvas bag that contained our raggedy old
picnic blanket. That was interesting. Maybe that was
some part of her plan, or maybe she was just getting
herself prepared for anything, like a good Girl Scout.
Probably the latter.
We kissed quickly.
"Good luck."
***
Waiting was not the easiest thing I've ever done. I
couldn't bring myself to actually sit in the car, but
I stayed close to it. Expecting twenty police cars to
roll in any second, in a cloud of dust with sirens
blaring and lights flashing.
I'd get arrested too, of course.
At a minimum, I expected some old couple in a motor-
home to wheel into the parking area and immediately
trot their asses down to have a look at the lake. And
they *would* have a frigging cell-phone. They'd also
have gotten a good look at both me and the car.
Fuck me. Why did I encourage her anyway?
To distract myself from thoughts of the impending
apocalypse, I made up a mental time schedule for her:
If she came back in the first five minutes, she'd
scared the boy off. Or he'd just left anyway. Time
for him to go home.
If she was still gone at the twenty-minute point, then
she would have at least succeeded in getting friendly
with him. They'd probably be chatting about bullshit
and skipping stones together. Talking about the local
fishing conditions.
Assuming she got that far, that phase would probably
go on for longer than twenty minutes. Deborah isn't
one to hurry something like that; she'd savor the
situation.
By the one hour mark -- assuming it got *that* far --
she'd try something. But that wouldn't mean it would
work. If she came back after one hour, she'd probably
tried something and been rejected.
An hour-and-a-half, something would be happening. Two
hours, and something would definitely be happening.
Five minutes had already passed. At least the boy
hadn't ridden off the moment she walked up. But she
may not have tried to talk to him yet. He might not
even have noticed she was there yet.
The more interesting question was what she was hoping
to do with him. I'd wanted to ask her about that, but
I knew better; she tells what she wants to tell, when
she wants to tell.
I was sure she had a specific goal, though. She sets
goals, and she doesn't like failing to achieve them
once they're set. Which is one reason it's best not
to ask her what they are.
Ten minutes. They must be talking by now. Probably.
A couple more cars drive by.
I was sure I looked like an escaped felon, casing-out
a car I was planning to steal. Or to break into. They
were probably calling me in on their cell-phones
already. I should go back to the table and pretend
I'm reading my book. Just a guy taking a break.
But I shouldn't get that far from the car. Plus, for
all I know, the kid might see me and panic. Stay calm.
I let my mind wander again to what she was hoping to
do with the boy. If he answers the three questions
correctly and then goes for whatever initial proposi-
tion she makes to him -- watching her take a leak,
whatever -- how far does she want to go with this?
I couldn't see her wanting to have intercourse with
him. He's too young, and that would be too much.
She *would* want to see his cock though. Handle it,
if possible. Get him hard, and touch it. Probably try
to give him a little boy orgasm. A boy-gasm. Knowing
Deborah, she might even be able to accomplish that.
She could probably get all of him in her mouth, little
erection and testicles included. She might do that
too.
We hadn't talked about anything involving her tits.
In retrospect, that was an oversight on my part. If
she did get into showing him her body, she should
definitely show him her boobs. How her nipples work.
They'd probably already be hard, but she could pull at
them and make them harder. Explain things as she did
that. All very clinical. At first, anyway.
He'd like that. Fuck, I'd like that.
Get him to unfasten her bra. If she gets into teaching
him girl-things, she should do that. The kid would
undoubtedly have to wrestle with the hooks. Let him
study the back for as long as he wants, and then turn
around and ask him to reach around and try to unhook
the fucker from the front. With your lace-covered
boobs right smack in his face. That'll get him hard.
After it's off and you've given him the tit-talk, ask
him to suck on a nipple. Please. Tell him you'd like
that. Which is true. Sit on the picnic blanket and
cuddle him to your breast. Anyone would like that.
Just make sure he thinks he's doing it as a favor for
you. Secret favor, just between friends. At least let
him touch you there.
She'll probably think of some of that. She likes her
tits.
Did she have a bra on? Think so. Maybe not.
Just don't go too fast, and don't go too far. Don't
scare the little shit. You may think this is a game
-- he won't. No scars. Do be gentle with him.
*
A few more cars whiz by. Twenty minutes are up now.
How are you going to get him to show you "his"? I
know you need to see. Ideally, to see and touch, both.
The pee idea was good -- too good. It isn't going to
work. The kid will think that's gross or something.
What's the fall-back plan? There is none.
Maybe he'll be easier to play with than I would have
been back then. The first person I ever consciously
exposed myself to was another guy. My version of same-
sex puberty rights. Looking back on that, we did
nothing. I wish we'd done a little more. Not a lot
more, just a little more. He was probably willing.
But this isn't the same thing. This is my female
teacher inviting me to stay after school to "have a
look". And to ask me to show her "mine" in exchange.
Would I have done that? Hell no. But if I had done
it, I sure as hell wouldn't have run home and told my
mother. I probably wouldn't have told anyone. Not for
years. Especially not if I'd refused.
The kid's probably a Seventh Day Adventist or some-
thing. He won't react the way I would have. He's
probably not even the little virgin Deborah wants him
to be. Little shit's probably fucking his sister.
At that age, I don't think I would have agreed to do
anything. Stupid. I didn't even know erections were
normal things to have happen. I thought my cock was
broken. Weird. My male friend telling me he got them
too was a real eye-opener.
*
Zing. Another car. Also calling this into the police,
of course.
But I'm calming down now. Starting to, anyhow.
I hope she treats him nicely. She will. She's re-
markably sensitive when she wants to be, and whatever
she's doing is as big a deal to her as it is to him.
No. It's a bigger deal to him. Much bigger. I hope
she knows that. She does.
I got into second-guessing myself on the morality of
what I'd just encouraged her to do, and my reactions
to it.
My reactions formed a tent in the front of my pants.
Why? Kids that age aren't my thing. If the situation
were reversed and that was a little girl down there,
there'd be no way I'd go down and try to get her into
doing something sexual. Maybe if she were sixteen.
But I still wouldn't do it - I'd just like to do it.
Maybe I'm picking up on her energy on this. Or maybe
I'm relating to the kid, thinking how much I would have
liked to have met someone like her when I was that age.
I would definitely have been embarrassed, especially
at first.
Don't ask him too many questions, Deborah. Just lead
him along, gently. See if he wants to follow. If he
doesn't, that's okay. Just let it go.
Say yes, kid. Don't be dumb. Deborah's really very
nice. You'll remember this for the rest of your life.
Good memories. You're not going to meet many women
like her, no matter how long you live.
*
Zing. Zing, whiz, zap. Thirty minutes.
My how time doesn't fly when you're having this sort
of fun.
I wanted to go look. Deborah's the exhibitionist, I'm
the voyeur. At a minimum, I wanted to see whether they
were still on the bank, just being "friends". If they
weren't there, then...
Don't doooo that!
I thought about moving the car. Get it where it would
be harder for the kid to get the license plate number,
and where it would be faster to drive off. It probably
wouldn't matter if he did see the car, so long as we
could get a good head start. The faster the better.
But if I start the car, they might hear it and panic.
Do nothing. Wait.
*
Just short of the one-hour mark, Deborah came walking
out of the trees. Walking quite briskly, with a big
shit-licking grin on her face, swinging the blanket
bag.
Something *had* happened. Now let's get the fuck out
of here.
I got in the car, she got in the car, I started the
car, and I drove out of there as fast as I could with-
out fish-tailing the car or making gravel fly.
Deborah didn't say a word. She lit a cigarette
instead. I looked over at her - she was smiling and
ignoring me. At a minimum, she'd tried something and
was feeling very proud of herself.
*
We drove for almost a half-hour in complete silence.
Not even the radio. We made the freeway, and many
miles after that. We were getting lost in freeway
traffic, and there still weren't any sirens or red
lights in the rear-view mirror.
It got past the point of getting away from the scene
and politely allowing her some time to digest whatever
had happened. She was teasing me.
So, I finally asked: "Well?"
"Well what?"
Manx. At moments like that, I could strangle her.
"C'mon, gawdammit."
"Guess."
"Don't play games with me. I waited for you for an
hour."
She looked at me and smiled. "I just fucked and sucked
a twelve year-old."
Fucked???
"No shit?"
"No shit."
- END -
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
This story was written as an adult fantasy. The author
does not condone the described behavior in real life in
anyway shape or form. Anyone tempted to act out any of
the scenarios in this story; should seriously consider
seeking professional help.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Kristen's collection - Directory 9