How to Create a Fuckboy

Things are finally the way I hoped for. I have a career that is satisfying as well as lucrative, a home that is spacious and comfortable, and a family that is loving and attentive. But it wasn't easy getting to this point.

People who meet me think I live a life of leisure. They figure I've found the goose that lays the golden eggs and I'm just sitting back reaping the rewards of the goose's hard work. They may even think it is grossly unfair, that I don't deserve what I have. Well, Mister, they'd be wrong. I worked and struggled fuckin hard for what I have now, and I'm not about to relinquish my claim.

The goose? Well, that's Tom of course. Good little obedient subservient submissive anxious to please Tom. Sweet permanently young baby faced smooth assed Tom. You think my fuckin nephew was always this way? Shit, no way, no how! His mom, my sister, and the phantom father may have given him life, his unique combination of genes and chromosomes, his brown hair with the untamable cowlick, his sad hazel eyes, the miasma in his front teeth, his sexy little feet, the dimples on his buttocks,--but it was I, and I alone, who took the promising raw material and sculpted him into the enticing boy cunt he is, a quality commodity much in demand. Even I was surprised at my own ability. Twenty years ago, I didn't know I even had this talent in me.

In fact, my high school teachers doubted I had any potential. Oh, they knew I was smart, all right. I just had to learn to "apply" myself, they said, as if I were a gallon of Sherwin Williams flat enamel! I was a quick learner, I remembered every fuckin thing I read, and I was a clever writer; I kept a journal where I could write whatever I damn well pleased! I just didn't feel like playing their games, like tests and homework.

I hung out with a bunch of losers. Furthermore, we were faggot losers. Shunned by the majority, abused by the few, we found solace in our own tightknit group. We had our fairies, drags, pussies and bois, but we also had our Butches, Doms, Masters and Daddies. The line between the two groups was etched in stone; we couldn't even spell versatile. I was in the Dom group. I fucked the others good and hard with gusto. Each fall would bring a new crop of little virgin freshman asses for me to deflower. And when I figured I'd exhausted that source, I went to the middle school. Then on to the playgrounds, beaches, parks and malls, for younger chicken asses. Hell, I would have gone to the kindergarten if I had half a chance.

Mike was also a Dom, at least a Dom in training because he took his lessons from me. Often we'd go trolling together at the mall. There was one type of lad we particularly set our sights on, the kind that would kowtow to us. We called them "kows." I'll give a typical example: one Saturday afternoon, Mike and I were sitting across from Barnes and Noble when I spotted one. The way he hung his head, shuffled his feet, and didn't make eye contact with anyone, I knew. I said to Mike, "Moo, Kow at 11 o'clock" and when he spotted the prey, I said "Now watch and learn." We got up and blended into the throng of shoppers. I approached the kow and convinced him to come with me. He offered no resistance, only nervous concern. We went into the mens room and took the handicapped stall, so there'd be room for all three of us. I opened my zipper and made the kow kneel on the sticky floor. I explained that the sole purpose of his miserable existence on this planet was to service the cocks of real men. He learned quickly as he began licking and stroking and kissing my tool. When he opened his mouth, my cock jumped inside. I grabbed the sides of his head and turned his teary eyes up to look at his new god, as our audience Mike rubbed his crotch. I spit on the kow's face, then fucked his mouth vigorously. His arms were flailing, but his hands soon came to rest on my ass. Unconsciously, he was holding me there for he knew this was what he had to do. I felt my ballsack tighten and then that glorious spasm spreading from my nads throughout my whole body. I pulled out and gave the kow a cum facial. I let go of his head but he was almost reluctant to release my ass. I nodded to Mike, who came over to finish the leftovers.

I certainly had the smarts for college, but knew I didn't have the discipline, and neither my parents nor my grades encouraged me to go, so after squeaking through graduation June '95, I got a job apprenticing a local painter, and a friend let me crash in his basement 'til I found my own place. I managed to find more young boy cunts to keep my cock content. I despised following orders, and delighted in trying my boss's patience. Somehow, I knew I was meant for better things in life than masking moldings and rolling semi-gloss on the middle class walls of families whose kids never gave me the time of day in school. I just hadn't found my true calling yet. But I succeeded in keeping my job, paying the rent, and feeding myself, without having to sponge off Mom and Dad. I was no Donald Trump, but my parents were satisfied that I could survive. However, they soon had other things to worry about.

In November, '98, my sister Vera dropped out of school in her last year. Her grades had been straight A. The kind of student who did all her assignments dutifully. You know the type. Miss Goody Two Shoes. Miss Brown Nose. Whatever someone told her to do, she did it. The counselors couldn't believe she fell from the same family tree as her rebel brother. So why the hell did she drop out? Well, it was obvious to anyone who took one look at the watermelon growing under her ample teen breasts. Like I said, whatever guys told her to do, she did it.

By my calculations, the impregnation took place in May, around the time some senior took her to the prom. Of course the sperm donor disappeared fast. No one laid claim to the kid. There were probably half a dozen candidates, but Vera wasn't the kind of girl to go on Maury Povich, and make the deadbeat daddy pay his dues. Bastard Tom Thorndike was born Wednesday, February 10, 1999. "Wednesday's child is full of woe." Vera found a job as a waitress at Hooters, and made enough on tips to move out of our parents' home and into a flat for herself and misbegotten Tom. Mom baby-sat when Vera went to work.

Meanwhile, I was enjoying happy bachelorhood. The work, while boring as hell, at least was steady, which meant I could keep my own apartment. Built over the detached garage of Mrs. Whittaker's victorian house, it wasn't the Taj Mahal, but it was fairly private. That meant I could bring a boy home if I wanted to spend more time with him than just a quickie in the mall john. If the kid was a screamer, and most of them were, the landlady never heard, especially since the CD was playing so loud. You see, I always like to have music playing during my fuck. Not just any music, mind you. It had to be something that keeps building, crescendo after crescendo, until it reaches a climax, ideally with plenty of cymbal crashes. With a twelve-year old virgin ass gripping my cock and Wagner's Ride of the Valkyries assaulting my ears, I could really achieve a fantastic orgasm!

When my nephew was five, Dad died of a massive coronary. There were only four of us at the funeral. Dad had no siblings, though he had sometimes talked about a cousin Hitty somewhere in the midwest.

On her own now, Mom couldn't cope and went into a nursing home, that quickly ate up the insurance money and the proceeds of the house sale. Looked like Vera and I weren't going to get any more from our folks. I figured, Hell, I can put up with my stinking job if I have to. Vera had to spend most of her tips on baby-sitters now.

Just then, the economy took a fuckin nose dive. People stopped buying cars, stopped taking vacations, and stopped spending money on their fuckin houses. My boss's commissions started to dry up. Apologetically, he told me he had to cut back on my hours. Yeah, fuck, he was sorry!! A lot of good that did me. I tried to find other work, but nobody was hiring.

Next: Moving Day