How to Create a Fuckboy

The lad came out of my bedroom, his mouth clenched, his eyes wet, his brow furrowed. He banged the wall with his fist hard enough to bruise, then began to pace up and down the hall, muttering "I hate him." His lovely bubble butt was red. I knew he wanted to scream, but with neighbors on the other side of the wall, we all had to keep our voices down. I caught his eye and nodded for him to come. He tromped over with two tight fists. I picked him up and held him tight against my breast and tenderly rubbed his buttocks. Neither one of us spoke.

Three minutes earlier, Omar had come out of the bedroom. I knew Omar from the Boot: fortyish, tough, ornery son-of-a-bitch with a lot of anger. He basically hated the world, everything and everyone in it. He had two ways to release his internal tension: hard booze and hard sex. He dressed in leather and like me knew that most assholes were put on this earth for our pleasure, to use however we fuckin well wanted. He flashed a satisfied grin, and promised to be back next week same time. He'd gotten what he needed to deal with this fucked up world a few more days.

The business had begun to take off, and the slave performed his duties obediently but not always cheerfully. In absolute loyalty to me, he did whatever the men asked. He learned to rim and get rimmed. He learned to drink piss and give it. He learned all sorts of new fuck positions: leapfrog, kneel, reverse mish, cowboy, butterfly, spoon. Every john had his favorite. When the clients were gone, he was glad to service me again. I knew he was only fucking the others to please me. His worship of my cock was now heartfelt and sincere. Even Vera seemed to recognize her son was now willing to do anything for his uncle. She would never admit it but I think she was harboring a pride for the way her son took to his new lessons so readily.

To protect my investment, I had already tightened the agreement with the clients. Whereas previously they forked over their dough for the right to "use him any fuckin way you want. Just return him in one piece," now, there were other exclusions: "no bareback, no scat, no scars, and of course, no photographs." The fuckboy,--I began using this more descriptive term in lieu of "slave,"--kept a supply of condoms by the bed and learned to roll them on efficiently and sensually. I took some compromising photos of all the clients naked with the fuckboy in case they ever tried to pull a fast one on me. I also amassed a nice set of kiddieporn photos that hid both the face of the john and the kid. These provided a nice secondary income.

But Fuckboy's lack of enthusiasm concerned me. I didn't like to see him get so angry. He had to learn it was bad for business. The lad didn't exactly grumble when some stranger took him into the toilet stall at the beach, but he never granted him a smile either. Just went in, knelt down, opened his mouth, and blew him off. Afterwards, he wiped the cum off his face with toilet paper, went back to the sand and played forlornly as we waited for the next customer.

The evening appointments tended to be regulars. They would arrive, greet me, pay up, and walk into the bedroom. They'd say things like, "Hey, Little Man. How's my favorite asshole today?" or "What a pretty little cum bucket you are!" or "Time to pay your devoirs, Kid." or "Are you ready for Daddy's big meat, you fuckin little whore boy?" But, whether they were nasty or jovial, the fuckboy's disposition was usually unenthusiastic. He answered them, "Yes Sir," and presented his two holes for them to use however they wanted. Most men were easier to tolerate than Omar, and gentle or rough, he always did his duty. I tried to explain the importance of his demeanor for business. I thought about trying to improve his attitude with the belt, but decided that would be counterproductive.

There were a few exceptions, some clients Fuckboy was genuinely fond of. One was a guy we called Doc. Seemed like a nice grandfather-type. He came every Thursday at 9, and never seemed to be in any rush. Took his time and talked to the kid a lot. A gentle old fucker.

Another was Mr. Jennings. He came Fridays at 11. He made Fuckboy laugh out loud. I once asked Fuckboy why Jennings gave him the nickname Squirrel. He laughed. "It's 'cause I can put both his nuts in my mouth at once, hehe."

Then there was Carson, fresh out of college, our youngest customer. He arrived like clockwork Tuesday evenings at 11. I knew he was a junkhead the first time we propositioned him at the beach, and whenever he came to the apartment, he always had a joint in his mouth and would give me a few hits before he went into the bedroom. He wore designer clothes and a Vacheron Constantin watch, so I figured his folks must be bankrolling him, which was a good thing because he now had two expensive habits to support.

What was odd was the effect he had on the fuckboy. The boy seemed to like Carson. With most of our clients, he was perfunctory, but young Carson he actually seemed to enjoy. At breakfast one Tuesday, he asked, "Is Carson coming tonight?"

"He's booked for 11, Fuckboy. If he doesn't come, he still has to pay, so I expect he'll be here." I noticed a little grin before the boy went back to his Cheerios. "You like Carson, don't you?"

"Hmm, huh," he mumbled with a mouthful of cereal, then he swallowed and gave a proper reply, "Yes Sir." I looked at him and cocked my eyebrow. He knew I was waiting for a fuller explanation. Vera brought my breakfast over and stood waiting. She too wanted to hear more about this particular client. In the past, I'd caught her eyeing this young stud. Apparently noone explained to her hormones that she was forbidden to have sex.

Fuckboy continued, "Carson's real nice to me. We have fun."

"You do suck him, don't you?"

"Shit, of course, Sir. And he fucks me too, just like all of 'em do. But he does it nice. He ain't rough like some of 'em." I saw Vera wince.

I knew there was something else Fuckboy wasn't telling us, but he went back to finish his cereal.

Back in my room as we got dressed for the beach, out of earshot of Vera, I decided to press him for the rest of the story. "You know you can't have any secrets from me, Fuckboy."

"No Sir."

"Then what else do you have to tell me about Carson, Fuckboy? I can tell you were holding back in front of Vera."

"Yes Sir. I didn't want her to know Sir."

"Know what, Fuckboy?"

"Well, like I said, Sir, Carson is real nice. He comes in and he sits with me and he kisses me and he's in no hurry to take off his pants."

"Go on."

"Well, do you know what shotgun is, Sir? He likes to take a shlook and then kiss me, Sir, and he like will blow some smoke into my mouth, Sir, and well, I kind of like it, Sir. It makes me feel sorta relaxed like, Sir."

"I see, Fuckboy." I was about to tell him he was a good boy for telling me, but damn he wasn't finished yet.

"So, last week when he came, Sir, he ask me do I want to share his toke? And you tell me I should always do what they say Sir, so I say yes. So he lets me hold it and shows me how to hit the hay without choking. It's a lot like giving a blow job, Sir. And we spring it back and forth and I start giggling. It was fun Sir."

By this time, I was almost giggling myself at the thought of an eight-year old lad sharing a goof butt with his john. It's true, I always told the kid to make the client happy, do whatever he tells him.

Tom still had more to say. "Sir?"

"Yes Fuckboy?"

"Sir, Carson gave me an ace so I could go loco this week before he come back."

I knew what that meant. The stoner wanted to get the kid hooked. "I see, and did you Fuckboy?"

"No, Sir."

"Why not?"

"Well, Carson say it ain't nice to be a parker and bogart your joint." The lad certainly knew all the terminology.

"That's true, Fuckboy. I'll let you spring it with me on the ride to the beach."

"Thank you Sir." He went over to his dresser and took the neatly wrapped joint out of the top drawer. As we rode to the beach, we passed it back and forth in silence, simply smiling at each other. He took long drags like an expert.

As I sat on the sand, waiting for men to start hitting on the boy, I had a lot of thinking to do. Did I really have any reason to put the kabosh on this? Carson was still a good customer. But was he going to try to pay his fee in maryjane? It was good to see the Fuckboy in a good humor for a change. Maybe if he started smoking weed regularly, he'd be even more compliant. Would it stunt his growth? Hell, it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world if he could pass for a little kid a little longer.

That night, after the ten o'clock client left, Fuckboy came out of my room and happily skipped about the living room. When the doorbell rang, he ran and opened it for his friend Carson.

"Hi there, little Viper!" Carson grinned, taking the joint out of his mouth. "I got a present for you." He took his other hand out from behind his back revealing a white box tied in red baker's string.

"Wow! What is it, Sir?"

"Now, now, I told you to call me Carson. Sir makes me feel old. I'm just a kid like you, Tommy Boy." Carson got that right.

"Sorry, what is it, Carson?"

"It's Alice B. Toklas, Tommy Boy. Go on, open it up."

Fuckboy tore at the string and flipped the lid. "They looks like brownies." He took a big bite from one. "Wow! These is the best brownies I ever eats, Carson!" I could see the junkhead liked watching the naked kid devouring his present. Fuckboy was well into into his second brownie when he stopped, wiped his lips on his bare arm and said, "I'm sorry, I don't wants to be a parker. Here, Carson. Here, Sir." He passed the box to both of us and we each took one. Shit, I hadn't tasted laced brownies since high school. They were fuckin good. "Sir, should I go give some to Momma?"

I thought about it. I didn't think Vera had to know her son was becoming a junkie in addition to being a whore. "Hmmm, no, I don't think so, boy. Vera really ought to be watching her weight."

"Yeah, you're right, Sir. She does have a big fat ass."

Carson laughed out loud!! "Well, I know someone who has a sweet little ass. A sweet little fuckable ass." He grabbed Fuckboy up in his arms and carried him laughing down to the bedroom.

Next: Crazy Days of Summer