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Casting Call [mm, pedo]
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
WARNING! DANGER WILL ROBINSON!
This story contains descriptions of consensual sex between a man and a boy.
If this offends you seek shelter with your own kind, but leave me out of it.
DISCLAIMER
This story is fiction. The characters are fictional. The events are
fictional. Any similarity to any person or event is, like, a humungo
coincidence, dude.
AUTHOR'S NOTES
This is the first man/boy story I ever wrote, recently unearthed in a shoe box
of 10-year-old papers. To the best of my knowledge it is the only surviving
story from that era. Isn't it exciting to have such a sense of history?
Please pardon the ancient references to TV, movies, commercials, etc. Think
of it as Nick at Nite meets NAMBLA.
As always, this story is not copyrighted, so you can rip me off if you want
to. Please don't. You may copy and distribute all you like with credit to
the author and introductory material intact. I won't get mad, honest.
As if the average reader cares, I'll dedicate this one to my new friend Jason.
CASTING CALL
by Gamin Paramour
OK, so I admit it. I agreed to do the series of commercials mostly because I
knew I'd be working with a whole gaggle of little boys. Just the right age
group, too -- 9 to 12. But what the hell? Somebody had to direct those
spots, and I'm a pro. I can sell overpriced fruit juice in a bottle shaped
like a mackerel as well as anybody else. And if I happen to grab a little
fringe benefit along the way, so what? Still, when the whole thing started I
had no idea how beneficial the fringe was going to be!
I knew the fish-bottle motif would mean shooting at the beach (I guess the
bottle is really supposed to be a shark, but it looked like a mackerel to me)
and I thanked my fairy godmother for the prospect of all that young skin
staring me in the face 12 hours a day for a week. But all I ever intended was
to catch a few peeks, die-hard voyeur that I am. I never thought the casting
call would get so out of hand.
I had a series of five spots to cast, with speaking parts for nine boys, seven
girls and four or five adults. I was totally unprepared for the hundreds of
resumes that poured in in response to open-call ads in Variety, Backstage and
other trade rags, and I was even less prepared for the ways of stage mothers,
particularly one Mrs. Wanda Furth.
Master Furth was perhaps the thirtieth young hopeful to parade into my office
in pursuit of celluloid immortality in the past three days. The earlier
interviews had been mostly uneventful, consisting of quick glances through
skimpy credits, the usual portfolio of 8-by-10 glossies, a quick reading of
Leave-It-To-Beaver dialogue, and repeated suggestions from Mother like, "Show
the man how you tap dance, Gilbert." The kids were mostly cute enough, and
I intended to hire a few, but no one had exactly bowled me over yet.
I had not yet even released the intercom button after summoning the next one
when the door burst open and the entire room was taken over by the commanding
presence of the most dominating woman I had ever seen. If my desk had been on
fire I think she still would have had my attention. A large woman, she swept
into the room with all the intensity of a middle linebacker, and I was
evidently the enemy quarterback about to be sacked. Following behind with an
embarrassed, "Not again, Mom" look was an absolutely gorgeous boy about ten or
eleven years old. My survival instinct screamed at me to keep my eyes on Big
Mama, but quite another sort of instinct drew my gaze to those fantastic blue
eyes that seemed to be walking in all by themselves, dragging a perfect little
body along almost as an afterthought.
I ordinarily rise to shake hands at this point in an interview, but my Calvin
Kleins were already pulling tight around the zipper, and standing may well
have proven painful. Struggling to close my gaping mouth, I gestured stupidly
for the two of them to have a seat. The huge, imposing woman was saying
something I probably should have been listening to, but I was falling
helplessly into those twin seas of deepest blue, broken occasionally by the
flutter of long, soft, gossamer lashes. It was only when the boy made an
effort to break the eye contact that I was able to drag my consciousness
reluctantly back to the real world. I then also realized that he had been
staring back at me as well.
"...in the chorus and understudied the role of Patrick in a touring company
production of 'Mame' last year," Big Mama was saying. "Plus one line in a
'Little House' to air next month. He can do drama, comedy, he sings like a
little bird..."
"Mrs. -- uh -- Furth," I began, noting the displeasure she registered at being
interrupted. "We don't need any little birds right now." The boy stifled a
giggle and she shot him a sharp look. "What we do need," I continued, "are
real, all-American kids who can deliver a line while pretending to like this
fruit crap we're selling. I'm not looking for Sir Lawrence Olivier, Jr."
That sort of condescending treatment puts most people on the defensive and I
end up signing them for a song. They're usually glad just to get the part,
but not Big Mama Furth. Instead of slinking away she launched into a lengthy
diatribe about how lucky I should consider myself to have a chance to sign the
next Ricky Schroeder, only better. She went on for five minutes without even
pausing for breath, going over every part the kid had done since he played one
of the four basic food groups in the first grade, complete with an 8-by-10
glossy of each one. I had to admit, little David had a pretty fair background
and had played a wide variety of roles. In fact, I had been sold on hiring
him the minute I saw those eyes of his, but I hated like hell to let his
Amazon Mama think she had bullied me into it.
I almost hoped the kid would botch the reading so I could dismiss him after
all, but he really did read like Olivier, Jr. He had a terrific natural
quality and a clear, high voice that I knew would record beautifully. And he
was so damn pretty I couldn't stand it. I latched onto the last objection I
could think of not to hire him on the spot.
"I see no photograph of David in swim wear," I said, rifling through the
portfolio. "All of these spots will be done at the beach, so I'm afraid I'll
have to see a picture in a bathing suit before I can make any firm offer."
Considering the tightness in my jeans I thought the phrase "firm offer" to be
appropriate. I wrenched a halfway plausible reason for such a demand out of
the deep recesses of my brain. "Some kids just don't look good in a swim
suit. You know, ribs sticking out like a Cambodian refugee, big splotchy
birthmarks, that sort of thing." I stepped around the desk and tried to usher
the woman to the door. "You understand, don't you? Just have that picture
made and send it to me..." but the words 'and I'll get back to you' never made
it past my lips.
She spun deftly away from me and strode purposefully back into the room,
digging into her massive black purse like a hog rooting for truffles. "What
an amazing coincidence!" she said. "Mr. Furth and I just took David and his
sister to the beach yesterday and I think I still...yes! Here it is!"
I was dumb struck when she produced a small blue Speedo-type bathing suit out
of the bag like a rabbit out of a hat. David seemed as incredulous as I was,
but the boy apparently knew from experience that it was fruitless to argue
with his mother. With a sigh of resignation he stood and began to peel the
bright green Izod shirt over his head, while my jaw dropped even further. Yet
another bolt of lightning struck when Mrs. Furth suddenly announced that her
Polaroid camera was right outside in her car, and she knew I'd need a
photograph for the file, so she'd be right back. Then she was out the door,
leaving me and her rapidly undressing son alone.
I felt for my pulse to be sure I hadn't died and gone to Heaven, but I
couldn't find it in my wrist. The blood pounded heavily in a somewhat
southerly direction, though. I didn't even have to pretend I wasn't looking
at him, since looking at him was supposed to be the whole point, after all.
Bare-chested David was just straightening up after removing his stylish Pony
athletic shoes and white socks. He looked like no Cambodian refugee I ever
heard of. His smooth, bronzed chest was just slightly filled out by the
remnants of baby fat. His shoulders showed the promise of muscular
development someday, but for now were soft, round and somehow feminine.
Still, he looked every inch a real boy. His smooth, brown belly was trim but
not skinny, his cute little navel was neither an "innie" nor an "outie", but
tied just flush with the line of his stomach. It occurred to me his
obstetrician must have been a fisherman who tied his own flies.
The boy gave me a conspiratorial little look as he unfastened his belt and
slipped his designer jeans to his ankles. I immediately knew why when he
stepped out of them and straightened back up. The pouch of his little BVDs
was stretched beyond any hope I might not notice. He looked embarrassed and a
bit scared as he figited a little, avoiding my eyes. But he didn't have to
worry about eye contact because my gaze was super-glued elsewhere. He gave a
little "here goes nothing" smack of the lips, then pulled the brief cotton
shorts quickly to the floor.
I was too absorbed to be surprised when he didn't hurry to put on the bathing
suit and again cover his stiff, straining little dick. My eyes were riveted
in place, watching the young penis bounce slightly before coming to rest at a
jaunty angle, pointing back up his flat belly like a flower straining toward
the sun. It was good sized for his age, not all that long but thick and
substantial. His obstetrician had truly been an artist, as evidenced by the
perfectly symmetrical circumcision scar that left the organ looking almost as
if the operation had never been done at all, and the boy had simply been born
already circumcised. The bright pink of its engorged head contrasted sharply
with the alabaster white of the shaft and surrounding skin. While the rest of
his beautiful body was a robust tan from uncounted hours in the California
sun, this most private part of him remained the milky white he had been born
with. The tan lines were sharp and distinct, as if he had one favorite
swimsuit worn eternally. His tiny, perfectly hairless balls hung loosely and
confidently beneath that proud boner, unshrinking even in the air
conditioning. The boy stood with his legs slightly apart and his hands behind
him. It was only then that I realized he was deliberately allowing me to
examine him.
Looking up to his face I saw nothing of the vaguely frightened and embarrassed
child of a moment before. Now there was a confident smile that clearly told
who was in charge of the moment. It wasn't a challenging or defiant smile,
just a comfortable one. His eyes led mine down my own body, down to the
realization that my own jeans looked like a large reptile was trying to escape
down one leg. It obviously pleased him to know he was coming between me and
my Calvins.
My mind raced as I tried to think of what to do or say. Was I reading the
situation correctly? You hear about the Hollywood casting couch all the time,
with young starlets sleeping their way into their roles. Is it so outrageous
to think a beautiful little boy might try the same thing?
David's hand was on his chest now, tweaking one tiny, erect nipple. He
pinched and twirled it between thumb and forefinger until it seemed as sharp
as a straight pin, while I could do nothing but gulp and tremble like an
imbecile. His hand began to trace down and down, across the bronzed stomach,
pausing briefly at the extraordinary belly button, past the glaring tan line
and into Never Never Land. With one finger he pushed the tip of his burgeoning
member downward, straining its natural bend and making its translucent skin
pull even tighter across it. Finally, when it reached the apparent breaking
point at nearly a 90-degree angle, he held it there an excruciating second
before letting it snap back to its upright position like some medieval catapult
of living flesh, slapping loudly against his abdomen and causing a bouncing
quiver to reverberate through his loins.
For a second I thought I would stain my jeans. I let out a soft, "Oh, God!"
and David laughed. My mind raced, but was at the same time completely blank.
I was scared to death that Big Bertha would bust in any second and treat me
like a front bumper in a demolition derby, but at the same time uncaring about
anything but this incredible specimen of boyhood before me.
Just then David turned on his heel and padded naked toward the office door,
reaching for the knob. My heart leaped into my throat, and would likely have
escaped entirely had my mouth been open at the time. I had an outer office
full of stage mothers and their precious offspring out there, and a naked kid
was about to step out and show them just what kind of audition I really run.
But even while contemplating my imminent ruin and possible incarceration I
couldn't help but admire David's fantastic, dimpled butt as it wiggled away
from me. It was round and smooth and looked firm as a ripe cantaloupe. The
roundness of that ass was a perfect natural continuation of the gentle curve
of his thighs; a study in mathematical precision. Like a Greek statue,
everything was in perfect proportion. My cock was doing the Tango in my
pants.
When David arrived at the door he didn't fling it open and scream for the
constabulary. Instead, he deftly and quietly snapped the lock, turning back
to me with a sly smile. This kid was full of surprises, and once again he
switched gears on me by not padding softly back across the carpet, but
suddenly and unexpectedly SKIPPING back with a wide grin, humming some sort of
nursery rhyme and delighting in the way I couldn't tear my eyes away from his
bouncing dick and balls.
He stopped directly before me, standing with legs wide apart and hands on his
hips. Everything said all pretense was over, from the no-nonsense look in his
eye to the steely throb of that ready cock. I'd made love with plenty of boys
before, but this was the first time I ever felt like I was about to be raped.
Still grinning he asked, "How long has my Mom been gone?" It was the first
time he'd mentioned Big Mama since she'd gone.
I tore my gaze away long enough to look at my watch and strain to recall what
time she left. "Ten minutes," I guessed.
"Then we still have twenty minutes to mess around," he said, stepping close
enough to take into my arms. Again I was thunderstruck to realize that Big
Bertha was in on the whole seduction plot! She was pimping her own son to get
him into show business! You live in Hollywood a few years and you think
you've seen it all...
I spent that twenty minutes tasting every square inch of Master David Furth, a
delicacy fit for the most discriminating gourmet. His supple young skin was
warm and tender, his lips soft and moist, his touch firm but gentle. It was
definitely not his first time, of course. He was aggressive, but at the same
time accommodating. He had a natural sense of what was working for me and what
wasn't, and while he never rushed he never overstayed his welcome in any one
position, either. Sure he was a hustler, and he was peddling his ass to me
just the same as if I had picked him up on Santa Monica Boulevard somewhere.
But he was so good at making me forget that I was just a stepping-stone to a
TV commercial that I didn't care. It was "Lover-Mania": not really a lover
but an incredible simulation.
After helping me undress and making with the usual oohs and ahhs over the size
of my dick, David climbed on top of me face to face, cock to cock. He ground
his little one against my big one and craned his face up to me for a kiss.
The instant our lips touched his tongue darted past my teeth and began a
spirited game of tag with mine. The French kiss was deep and soulful, first
in my mouth and then his. All the time our dicks mashed together and my hands
roamed every accessible part of his soft young body. If I outlive the
mountains I'll never get over the incredible sense of reverence I feel when
I'm touching a perfect young boy's exquisite body. It's as if I'm sharing
something of the universe. I can't imagine anything more perfect.
I easily nudged his 70 or 80 pounds a bit higher until our mouths were more
nearly even and his pulsing pecker jabbed hotly against my belly. My aching
cock slid up between those silken thighs and against the tender cleft of his
butt. He knew to clamp his legs tightly around my towering prick and ride it
like a hobbyhorse. I was in ecstasy as the warm velvet of his soft inner
thighs engulfed me. My ultra sensitive cockhead poked once and again at his
tiny asshole, and he rocked gently back and forth in rhythm with our probing
kisses, rubbing his rosy rectum against my dick tip most provocatively. I
could feel that his hot butthole was completely relaxed, and I was just
thinking of possibly pushing through that tight ring when he put his lips
right next to my ear and said so softly I barely heard him, "You'll need
Vaseline for that." He pulled back and smiled lovingly into my face, mouthing
the words, "Next time." A bolt of electricity shot through me as I realized
there would be a next time!
He resumed his wet and deep kisses, tiny moans escaping from the back of
his throat every once in awhile. His eyes were mostly closed but now and
again we would lock our gazes together and again I'd be lost in that pair of
blue lagoons. A shock of sun-bleached blond hair fell over one eye and I felt
its feathery softness against my own brow. If I could have bottled that kid
I'd have made a mint.
My favorite part came next, where I put him on his back in classic blow job
position and proceeded to suck that little stiffie like there would be no
tomorrow. I trembled as I knelt and approached it. It seemed too good to be
believed. I leaned forward like slow-motion in a Sam Peckinpah film. With
every inch closer I grew even more excited. I noticed the texture of the
taut skin; the coloration of the veins running the length of the small shaft;
the slow, easy rise and fall of that beautiful dickhead with every breath he
took. Even closer and the wonderful aroma of clean boy filled my nose; closer
still and the pulsing of his heartbeat showed in tiny quivers of the head;
closer yet and the heat of his sexuality fell on my lips and cheeks.
And then I was there! It suddenly seemed important to have it fully, to
possess it to the hilt, so I slid my searching lips all the way down to its
base in one thrust. I felt a sigh escape from him I'll swear was not faked,
and it helped to know for sure that he was genuinely excited, too. The boner
felt so comfortable in my mouth it was like we were old lovers doing it for
the hundredth time. It was a fine little mouthful, small enough to take all
the way to the balls and still run my tongue all around it. The taste and
feel were fantastic, but I think I most enjoyed the sensation of being as
intimately involved with him as a person can get. My chin was pressed against
those silky balls, because of the angle of his erection my nose and forehead
were jammed against the softest belly I ever felt, and that sturdy young
hard-on was thrust as far into my mouth as it could go. You can't get any
more intimate than that.
His legs came a little wider apart and his hips thrust upward a bit, making
sure the last possible millimeter of dick was in my mouth. My tongue swirled
around its fleshy stiffness, drinking in that musky, slightly salty flavor. I
sucked firmly and steadily, pulling back only for a second now and then to
swallow. Every time I slid back down that throbbing piece of heaven I made
sure my lips were pressed tightly around the sensitive head, giving him a
sensation of penetration each time. When he moaned in appreciation I began to
pump up and down in a slow, steady rhythm, fucking his lurching little cock in
and out between my lips. His breathing cam faster then, his golden thighs
coming together to hold my face like a satin vise and his hands coming to the
back of my head to help set the rhythm and run sensuously through my hair.
I never wanted it to end. I doubt if anything can top the remarkable feel,
smell and taste of an erect young penis. It's soft and tender, yet hard as
stone at one and the same time, like an iron bar padded with foam rubber and
silk. And the reassuring warmth of his presence was never stronger than when
my face was buried so totally in his softness.
We switched positions far too soon for my taste, though I'm sure the
businessman in young David had one eye on the clock throughout our lovemaking,
making sure I went off before the alarm did. I've always tended toward giving
pleasure rather than receiving, deriving my pleasure from the tremendous
physical pleasure I know I'm giving and from the sheer joy of being allowed to
worship at the altar of youth. But his hot little mouth on my cock quickly
made me content to be right where I was.
He surprised me with his aggressiveness and his capacity to engulf my entire
organ. I'm not much into adult cocks myself, but I doubt I could take one as
big as mine the way this little boy did. He seemed to really enjoy it,
periodically allowing its head to stab into his throat for just a second, then
drawing back to do unheard-of things with his tongue on my sensitive cockhead.
As I looked down at his golden curls bobbing up and down and felt the brush of
his pert little upturned nose into my pubic hair, I suddenly felt a moment of
despair that this wonderfully loving boy, so open and giving and so talented,
was selling himself for the price of a few days work in a fruit juice
commercial. I also despaired that I was low enough to buy what he was
selling. Not that I would have pulled his moist lips off my cock for anything
in the world, mind you. A stiff dick has no conscience.
Suddenly he spun gracefully into a 69 position, that now-familiar three
inches of steaming boy boner poking me urgently in the face. Because of its
peculiar angle I had to crane my neck to take it again between my lips, and
when I did those hairless balls fell loosely across the bridge of my nose and
against my eyes. His little-boy odor was the strongest yet in that position,
spurring me to suck with renewed intensity. An image came into my mind of
those sweet testicles some two or three years hence, covered with the first
silky wisps of puberty, and I silently mourned the inexorable passage of time.
If only this one beautiful boy could be spared, and stay this beautiful
forever!
I looked up past those lovely nuts and saw his tiny pink-brown asshole winking
at me from the wide-open crack of his flawless butt. It didn't look big
enough to admit me, Vaseline or not. David's little weight felt nice pressing
down on my face as his satiny thighs caressed my cheeks. I reached around
and gently fondled the jellied roundness of one little ball, and felt him
duplicating this on me. While I couldn't pump his cock this time because of
our position, he was pumping on me like crazy and seemed to sense my climax
was near.
The orgasm approached like a lone horseman far off in the desert, who can be
seen for miles but never seems to get any closer until suddenly he's right on
top of you. In that instant when it transformed itself from a faint stirring
in my guts into a tidal wave of otherworldly proportions I felt a moment of
concern over firing my jizz into the boy's mouth, knowing that most boys his
age don't like that. But I also knew David was nothing like most boys his
age, and that making me come seemed to be the whole point. I also realized
that I couldn't have stopped it at that point even if I was inclined to. My
concern was unfounded, it turned out, as the boy took it like a pro -- a
little too much like a pro, actually. Still, a soft small mouth clamped
around my pulsing, shooting cock while his throbbing little hairless prong
lurched and strained in my mouth...what's not to like?
So of course I gave him the job. In fact I used him in all five spots and
made the kid a small fortune. He even did a good job, so the fruit juice
people got their money's worth.
We made love twice in my motel room on location. It was much more relaxed and
lasted a lot longer than the first time, but it wasn't nearly as exciting even
though he kept his promise of allowing my Vaseline-slick cock inside his tiny,
tight butthole. It was great, don't get me wrong. He had the tightest little
ass I've ever been in, bar none, and he took it like it was his favorite thing
in the world. But there was something missing, I guess because I knew ahead
of time that it was going to happen. That first time was like entering the
fucking Twilight Zone.
I haven't seen him now in about six weeks, but I'm trying to get a job
directing an Afterschool Special, and maybe I can cast David again. I hope
so. I sure miss the little guy.
THE END
Boys know truth from counterfeit as quick as the |
chemist does. They detect weakness in your eye | Ralph Waldo Emerson
and behavior a week before you open your mouth. | "Education", 1865
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