Title: Silent Service
Author: Shadey Grey
Story Codes: Mb(8), cons, mast, oral, anal, preteen, pedo, ped
Synopsis: A young boy is sent to search for a job from the
neighbors and ends up serving a man with high expectations and
very specific needs.

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   The Story:

   My front door opened and was closed quietly.  There were
shuffles in the
front entryway.  And then a knock on the empty doorframe leading
to my
office.  I turned around in my chair to find a nine year old boy,
brown
hair slightly disheveled, looking at me silently.

   "Did you finish the weeds?"

   The boy nodded, expressionless.

   "And cleaned up around the sidewalks?"

   Again, he nodded.

   "Good.  Go into the kitchen.  There is a glass of lemonade for
you on
the table.  Don't spill it."

   Without response, the child turned and headed towards the
kitchen.

   The boy came knocking on my door a while back.  I'm not much
for
solicitation or being bothered for anything.  The boy looked to
be around
eight or nine years old, so I didn't expect him to understand
what "No
Solicitors" meant.  And a quick peek through the glass told me
that he was
not selling candy for an instrument or cookie dough for some
cheap prize.
That he was at my door during school hours was even more
interesting.

   So I opened the door.  The boy waiting on my front step was
dark
skinned. Maybe half-Latino or just tanned.  So hard to tell these
days.  He
wore a pair of shorts that were perhaps a decade out of style for
children,
ending above his knees and looking almost like they were made of
swimming
trunk material.  A shirt a bit too large for him hung over most
of his
shorts, ending almost as far down.  Brown eyes looked up at me
from beneath
brown hair.

   Since the boy was too shy to pipe up on his own, I quickly
took control,
demanding why he was bothering me.  The boy explained to me that
his mother
sent him out around the neighborhood asking if anyone would pay
him to mow
their lawns or pick weeds.  Or anything, really.  There was
something
rather amusing about the request.  I wouldn't entrust a lawn
mower to an
eight year old child unsupervised-- especially not modern ones
that self
propel.  This was something twelve year olds did.  The money, the
boy
further explained, his family needed.

   I hardly needed help.  And while I did not have any interest
in charity,
there were plenty of other needs that a boy such as he could
fulfill that
would be worth paying for.  So, I explained to the boy that a
deal could be
made and brought him in.

   There were rules and expectations, I explained.  The boy would
do
whatever I asked him to do in exchange for fifteen dollars a day
and he
would be expected to be present for two hours a day.  That was
about
minimum wage and gave him the opportunity to work elsewhere. 
Tips would be
given if he did everything right.  But for every rule broken, he
would lose
five dollars.  The rules themselves were fairly simple: do not
speak unless
I asked, do everything I instructed him to do without complaint
or
resistance, take off shoes when walking into the house, do not
touch
anything unless instructed, etc.

   The boy agreed to these terms.  I further drafted a letter to
his
mother, stating that her son would come work for me daily and
receive the
compensation agreed upon.  If, however, the child receives less,
it was due
to misbehavior and would be her loss.  Should things go well,
however, I
noted that the boy would get a raise or perhaps more hours.

   With that, I sent the boy home, telling him to report here the
next day.
That was a few months ago.

   A few minutes after I sent him off to the kitchen, I followed
him in.
He stood next to the kitchen table, knowing full well that he
could only
sit if invited to.  Next to his glass sat five five dollar bills.
 The boy
received his raise a month ago.  I always left it there to remind
him of
what he would get if he behaved.

   As the boy finished his lemonade and replaced it on the table,
I came up
behind him and wrapped my arms around him, my hands falling
gently onto his
hips.  "You've been doing well today.  And all week." One of my
hands
pulled up his shirt a bit while the other tugged free the metal
button on
his shorts.  My thumb ran over the soft skin, getting caught in
his belly
button and gripping his round stomach with it.  As came to be
expected,
this boy allowed me without complaint.  The little zip opened up
and my
hand climbed in.

   I fondled the little bulge in his old underoos for a few
minutes,
luxuriating in the warmth to be found there, but I didn't need to
give
foreplay with my little gardening assistant.  Tugging his shorts
past his
square hips let them fall to his ankles, I returned my gaze to
the child's
face.  "Mom has been buying you new clothes.  I see that money is
coming in
handy."

   Without the usual dramatic affair of childhood revealings, I
hooked the
boy's underpants and slid them down to middle of the way down his
thighs
before returning to the first part of my purchase.  My finger and
thumb
trapped the tiny, limp head in its grasp and began to roll it
about, adding
the occasional tug to make him jump a little.  The boy's darker
skin tone
extended to everything, making a lovely contrast between my stark
white
hands and his pink and mocha boyhood.

   It took a minute or two, but eventually, the boy's primary
tool rose to
the occasion, growing to two-and-a-half inches of stiff boy
flesh.  I
leaned forward, my lips right next to the little boy's cheek. 
"Look at
your little dick," I said, stroking him slowly.  His eyes cast
downwards,
watching the source of strange feelings he was unable to
understand.  I
began to pick up speed, drawing heavier and heavier breathing
into him.
Behind him, my own hard on was pressing into his back.

   I added my middle finger, jacking the entirety of his length
with every
stroke.  My other hand grabbed him in the space between his legs
and
massaging the flesh there.  In minutes, his legs were so weak
that I was
holding him up.  Hunched forward against my arm and hanging, he
whimpered
ever so quietly.

   The sensations were getting to him.  What was once a little
nub, barely
poking out of him now stood straight and pulsed in my grip.  His
breathing
became uneven and his stomach spasmed against my arm.  The head
of his tiny
cock was a vivid red, straining against my fingers.  Each stroke
puffed it
up a little more until it looked like it might pop.

   He closed his eyes tight, bit his lip, and sucked in air.  His
back
locked up and the whole little body in my arms rippled.  The
crown of brown
hair atop his head fell back against my chest as I drew out an
intense dry
orgasm from him.  I eagerly leaned farther forward to watch his
little slit
wink, trying to push out fluids he didn't have yet.

   In a few moments, it was over and all the muscles in his body
relaxed in
the afterglow.  I could feel the blood leaving his pricklet, the
boyhood in
my fingers once again soft and pliable.  "Very good..." I said,
my eyes
still drinking in his half-dressed, flushed body.  When I was
confident he
was capable of it, I let him carry his own weight and stood up
again.

   My pants were opened up in a hurry.  I barely gave the kid
enough time
to stand up straight before I turned his face to my
six-and-a-half inches
of straining cock.  One of the things I liked most about this
child was
that his face was at fly level.  And it only took a few goes of
this before
I didn't have to spell this particular act out to him.

   With my hand at the back of his neck, I guided his willing
mouth onto
me. The heat and slickness of his mouth surrounded my member.  I
made him
pause after the third inch, close to where the boy's mouth
bottomed out,
and held him there.  His little tongue squirmed against the
underside of
me, unable to fit around it much at all.  Watching the
cinnamon-turned-pink
lips stretched tightly around my cock try to open any further is
a joy I
have never gotten tired of.

   I drew the boy's head back to the tip and back down again.  I
kept
complete control, making the boy bob on my cock at my speed.  He
rarely
could do it right on his own, but I didn't mind helping him earn
his keep
on this task.  Soon, he was carrying most of the motion himself,
driving
four inches of me into him with every thrust.

   Even with the novelty of having a little boy to provide
blowjobs, this
one wasn't that good at it.  His small lips helped, but his
technique was
lacking.  No student was perfect.  If one thing was given in his
favor, it
was that, over time, I could tap the back of his throat without
dramatic
gagging.  Gagging lost him money.

   I pulled his face away from my cock, watching it and the boy's
lips
glisten with a mixture of saliva and natural lubricant.  I
stroked it a few
times casually, watching him gather extra breath.  I thought
about jerking
off into his open mouth, about watching it pour over his tongue.
I
imagined closing his mouth until he swallowed it, then presenting
the
proof. I decided that I wanted more.

   I shucked the boy's undies to the floor.  Dropping a foot on
the pile of
cloth bunched up around his ankles, I pulled him up by his
armpits,
abandoning them to the carpet.  I brought the boy to my dining
room table,
which stood low.  He landed in a sitting position, but I
practically
knocked him onto his back as I pulled his butt over the edge and
threw his
feet in the air.

   My cock found its target, a tight ring snugly hidden between
two pert
globes of flesh.  For a moment, the image before me stood out. 
The smooth
little latin boy, laid out on my table, shirt hiked up near his
neck.  His
stomach rose and fell quickly, leading down to his immature cock,
barely
more than a head poking out over a tightly constricted sack.  And
one adult
manhood, pressing urgently against his smooth rear.  And it was
as quiet as
a photo, no crying or whining.  Perfect.

   Taking each of his ankles in my hand with his legs all the way
in the
air and spread, I pushed forward.  At first, it didn't feel like
there was
any hole there at all.  But, eventually, my slick cock broke
through.  With
a sudden slip, my head stole into the boy.  My little servant
arched his
back without a word, not daring to even gasp.  His dedication was
inspiring, I thought, as I pushed deeper into him.

   I fucked the boy slowly at first.  Drawing myself out gently,
then
driving myself in firmly.  It was a necessity, as his ass was so
tight as
to make it difficult to accomplish speed.  But with every
repetition, his
muscles relaxed.  Slowly, but surely, his back settled back down
onto the
table beneath him.  And the grimace on his face dissipated,
replaced with
fatigue and slack-jawed stimulation.

   Soon, the pace had been set.  I drove my cock through him
roughly, going
deep enough to feel his ass cheeks against my pelvis.  Each new
thrust
reverberated through his torso like a wave, making first his ass
bounce,
then his little dick, then his stomach, chest, and head.  I
gripped his
legs like the arm of a pump, using them to get leverage and fuck
harder.
Looking down to see my rod pump into his tiny passage, I was
mesmerized.
When I thrusted, it looked like I was pulling his entire rump
down into his
asshole with me.

   An idea struck me, a final image I wanted for the end of my
day.  It
drove me wild with the thought.  I started slamming into the
boy's ass,
fucking him as hard as I could.  My body started to shake with
euphoria.  I
wasn't sure if the muscles in his legs were shuddering or my
hands were.  I
felt the ecstasy hit its peak and pulled out.

   The first jet of cum fired as if from a cannon, splashing
across the
panting chest and nipples of him.  The second fell across his
stomach,
pooling into his belly button.  The final burst and ending cock
drool
poured across his now half-erect dick and sack, still shaking
from the
thrusting.  I drank in the image of this child, sprawled across
my dining
room table, covered in my white essence.  And even as he calmed
from it
all, his anus still twitched, as if searching for something to
continue
where it left off.  A fine mental souvenir.

   At least, I let go of the boy's legs and let them hang almost
lifeless
over the edge of the table.  Even in afterglow, I heard not a
peep from the
young employee of mine.  Just his breathing and mine.  There was
something
peaceful in that.  And peaceful was a most deserving adjective to
promote.

   Putting away my shrinking shaft, I left my companion there and
went into
the other room.  When I returned, he was sitting up and, having
let down
his shirt, now had stained his.  I handed him an old undershirt
of mine,
having predicted this eventuality.  "Tell your mother that she
will get
that shirt back tomorrow, as your work got messy today."
Obediently and
quietly, shirts were exchanged.

   Dazed with the events of the day, the gardening assistant took
his time
climbing off of the table and retrieving his pants and underwear.
 It
seemed a cautious dance he did to manage it without losing
balance.  And,
for my part, I never enjoyed watching a little body disappear
under the
confines of clothes.

   At last, he reached for the pile of money on the end of the
table, but
my hand came down on it suddenly, stopping him.  "Not quite,
young man."

   The face of this young thing looked up at me, still flushed
from being
molested in every way.  His expression was one of astonishment
and fear.

   "For your performance today," I said evenly, pulling the pile
from his
reach and into my hands, "this is not the correct amount." I
counted it
over again.  Then I reached into my pocket and pulled two more
five dollar
bills out.  "You did everything correctly today, even the most
difficult
parts.  Good work." Even I am not a heartless man.  Tips, I have
always
believed, are earned when deserved.

   As the collection of bills was placed into his hands, the boy
smiled at
me.  I doubted that he really understood what we were doing.  I
certainly
never explained it to him.  Or that it was the only reason I paid
him.  But
regardless of how much I took advantage of him, he still seemed
to find
some level of pride in his work.  I liked that about him.

   This arrangement continued for some time, but eventually
stopped after
two years.  His family left, the house they lived in labeled a
foreclosure.
I tried to hunt the family down, but to no avail.  It wasn't
until the boy
was gone that I realized how good my garden used to look.

-Fin

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