Message-ID: <14671eli$9808222300@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: <URL:http://www.qz.to/erotica/assm/Year98/14671.txt> From: "Edward Bangor" <eb@worzel.force9.net> Subject: ST: "The Paperboy" (Version #1) (M/b spank gay-sex) Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,soc.sexuality.spanking Abort: moderated crosspost Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Content-Type: text/plain; charset="iso-8859-1" Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: <usenet-approval@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded <story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Story-Submission: <story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Original-Message-ID: <6rm68q$g3m@news3.force9.net> The Paper Boy (Version 1) Edward Bangor Story Code/s: M/B spank Publication History: First Appeared in: "Barely Legal" (edited by John Patrick) Published By: STARbooks Press Publication Date: May 1995 Publisher Contact: http://www.gayweb.com/starbooks/ This story has also appeared on the audio cassette also titled "Barely Legal" by Prowler Press: http://www.prowler.co.uk/ Comments/suggestions to: edbangor@hotmail.com Further works by the author can be fond at www.nifty.org & www.assgm.com WARNING: This story may contain descriptions of sexual acts between boys of various ages and/or men and boys. If this is not to your tastes, please leave now (unless you want to be educated and have an open mind that is!) This is a newly re-edited version of the original story and may differ from the published version mentioned above. The story is copyrighted by the author. A single copy has been placed in the Nifty archives for your enjoyment. Please do not distribute it to any newsgroups and/or other web-sites without permission of the author. You may, however, send it to your friends in any form you wish, as long as payment is neither requested or received and no changes are made to this file. The story is fiction. Any resemblance to any individual, alive or dead, isn't intended but is a nice idea... ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------- THE PAPER BOY by Edward Bangor It was soon after I'd reached those magical teenage years that I was initiated into the adult' world I so longed to join. Up until that fateful evening the most pressing part of my life was deciding what to buy with my birthday money. The problem being, I didn't have quiet enough for what I especially wanted, plus all my usual expenses. Although these were not great it still bothered me I'd have to go without something in order to buy the new Saxon live album, The Eagle Has Landed . I suppose I could have borrowed the money from my parents, but Father had placed limits on my borrowing and insisted I repaid not only promptly but with interest, in order, he said, to teach me the value of money. So, I'd decided only to borrow for emergencies and leave buying records by long haired young men whose genitals were barely contained by sprayed on trousers - my current fad - to my own money. Obviously something would have to go, but what? Difficult one. In the end I came to a conclusion. A way in which I could have everything I wanted. Instead of simply buying everything I would steal one - the easiest - my Heavy Metal magazine from the newsagent. By the time I got to the newsagent it was fairly late on a late September Thursday in 1983. Thursday being the issue day for my magazine, and Heavy Metal bible, Kerrang! which was then in its early days and is still going strong now. In fact it was already past dusk on the autumnal night, but the dark was necessary. Not because I had to wait until after school, though I did, but because this was the only way I would know it would be possible to lift a magazine without a gap showing on the shelves, and then escape into the night without being seen. The shop itself was small but crammed to the rafters with, at least, one of everything imaginable. Every wall, including the one behind the counter, was shelved out in racks. Every single inch of the available floor space was similarly stacked, with barely enough room left for customers to pass from the front to the back. Yet, one entire wall was given over to the immense array of magazines available in the early 1980's. In those days, and much the same now, you could get a magazine on practically anything, and then some. Did you know that the English read more magazines per head of population than any other nation? Well, you do now! Hanging around these racks - as kids my age often did - I calmly selected Kerrang! and lent back against the shelves, apparently to read through it, as casually as I could. My feet resting on the bottom of the centre island of various babyhood items completely blocking the narrow passageway. Mr Courtney, the newsagent, didn't know me from Adam, which, of course, is why I'd picked his shop, far away from my usual hang outs though I had been here before. You see, this was the only shop in my part of West London where the limited supply of skin magazines were still within reach of my five foot frame. However, unlike the majority of my friends I wasn't interested in the girlie magazines. I already know what I liked and it certainly wasn't girls. No, what I liked was men, well, males of any age really, and what they had in the centre of their bodies, especially at the front. Mr Courtney didn't carry any gay magazines - I don't even think there were any in those days - what he did have though were naturist magazines. This I soon found was the only way I could get to see full colour plates of naked men. Unfortunately most of the men depicted weren't attractive; being over weight but there were often, mixed amongst the offal, one or two, hard bodied late teenagers or men in their early twenties, whose swinging willies and goolies I had serious trouble keeping my impressionable eyes off. On each of the previous occasions I had popped into Mr Courtney's to look at such things I needed protection over tell-tale lumps and stains appearing in, or on, my jeans. This involved wearing over-tight underpants over baggy trousers in case Mr Courtney guessed my intent. He never did, at least, I don't think he did. Though now I suspect he knew all along, but was trying to give the impression he was ignoring me, for my own sake. In reality he was keeping a real close eye on what I was doing, as if he knew exactly what it was I was thinking of doing. Just waiting his moment. That moment had arrived. I suppose I can't really blame him. Looking back now at pictures of me from that period I can see the attraction and I'm not being overly modest either. I was good looking: Light brown, almost blonde hair; blue eyes with just a hint of green; a small but sturdy figure and a full round, apparently typically English face. On that day though I had abandoned my regular boy-about-town look for something more suiting to my operation, unfortunately this made me look like something of a teenage tearaway. Sounds a bit obvious and maybe it was but it did make the beginning of my transgression from little kid to teenage Headbanger - that is, someone who likes Heavy Metal music. I didn't have any of the stereotypical Heavy metal, leather or denim, clothes yet, instead I had dug out the oldest clothes I could still get into. Old faded and ripped jeans, slightly flared but not embarrassingly so, though they were uncomfortably tight around my boy parts, and an even older windbreaker, over a plain black T-shirt. Several minutes pasted, each one feeling more like an hour, while I got myself settled in for the right moment. Meanwhile Mr Courtney continued with his regular closing time business, counting up that day's unsold newspapers for returning to the distributors. The last regular customer had long left and we were alone. With the heavy set, broad chested, man engrossed in his ledgers I took my chance and folded Kerrang! into a half moon, ready to slip it inside my jacket when a ringing bell announced the door was opening and a head popped around it. "Do you sell maps?" A woman motorist asked. The open door of her car, standing alone under the street lights, sending a wave of light classical music into the shop. "No we don't, luv." Mr Courtney walked down the remaining aisle towards the door. His rough voice betraying his working class routes, so mismatched with the more polished surroundings I'd grown-up in, and in which his shop was located. "Try the Information Centre down the street aways, inside the Library. They're open late on Thursdays." I watched, silently listening to the given directional instructions and took my moment. My eyes remained fixed on the back of Mr Courtney's head as I slipped Kerrang! into the purposely left open zip of my jacket. A quick jiggle had it flattened out and secured under the waist band of my jeans. Pulling the jacket zip back up to my chest had it completely covered, just as the overhead bell jingled to denote that the door was, once more, closed. Turning on his heels Mr Courtney looked right at me. I shivered. "All juvenile thieves should get a good whipping." Mr Courtney spoke to me, carefully. Very carefully and with great, controlled, purpose. Unnerved, my mouth hung open. Then I held my shaking hands out to show they were empty. Mr Courtney said nothing. His hands came up to turn mine over as if doing a finger nail inspection. Then looking me directly in the face again he ran the zipper on my windbreaker until it parted to reveal the evidence tight against my shirt, held there by my jeans. The leering face of Steve Harris, Iron Maiden's, bass player right over my belly button. His multi-coloured Lycra trousers hidden by my own, giving my crutch an oddly symmetrical appearance. "I'll give you the money for it." I offered when my voice finally returned, knowing I didn't have it but just trying to buy some time. "I don't need no money from yer, boy. I could report yer to the pigs and yer know what would 'appen then don't yer, my laddo? What would yer folks think of that then?" I was really trembling now. Sweat gushed from every pour in my body as my mind worked through all these terribly punishments I naively thought the police could impose. Over the lap spankings, over a chair canning, and strapped down whippings, all ran through my mind with me bare arsed in each and every one. Then there was the violent rape I would be forced to endure in Borstal as part of the governments Short, Sharp, Shock plan. Of course my Father would never allow anything like that to happen to me, even if I wouldn't have been overly upset. "However," Mr Courtney continued switching the sign on the shop door to closed, pulling down the shade and snapping the dead bolt, locking us in, "I could do with some 'elp in the shop." "I'll help you Mister, honest I will. I'll do anything for you." I nearly sung sounding like Jack Wild from a badly recorded Oliver! soundtrack album. "Anything you want me to. I'm strong, honest. Stronger than I look." I flexed my right arm trying to crack a barely existing muscle which Mr Courtney duly felt through my coat. "I can see yer big, my laddo, but that ain't the sort of 'elp I meant. Yer see I could do with some relief and I don't mean in the shop, neither. Yer get me drift, boy?" His hand moved firmly up my arm to my face, and gently stroked my cheek, then the soft dark fuzz sprouting on my upper lip. I didn't understand at all. "I'll do any job you want me to." I repeated, parrot fashion. "I thought yer would. Yer looks the type. Same as last time." His hand moved again down my neck to hook a thumb into the collar of my windbreaker and ease the jacket from my shoulders and down my arms, which lowered themselves. Now I caught on to what was being asked of me. Just a second too late to catch my windbreaker as it passed over my hands. "Please, I don't do anything like that. Please," I begged remembering his name from the Off Licence plate over the front door, Robert John Courtney. Licensed to sell intoxicating liquors, for consumption off the premises. Judging by the smell of his breath, there'd been some recent consumption on the premises as well. "Don't lie to me my laddo." Mr Courtney raised one eyebrow and winked the other. "I know yer type. I know what yer wants. I know what yer thinks abou' all the time." My head dropped, shamed. "I've seen you in here staring at that Health & Efficiency and it ain't no woman what yer is looking at neither, is it boy? Tell the truth." I said nothing. I couldn't. Something odd was happening on the inside of my jeans. I moved my hands into camouflage positions and hung my head. "Oh yes, I know yer sort all right. I bet yer want ter do everything ter them , don't yer? Yer want them ter do it back ter yer an' all, don't yer? Why else would yer spend so much time staring at 'em - yer bein' such a big boy an' all. Big and strong like, is just what yer is. I bet yer done it with everyone in yer mind ain't yer. Every bloke anyhow." I blushed. Mr Courtney raised my chin with the back of his hand until I was looking into his kindly face, once more. This time he spoke both calmly and smoothly. "I could give yer a job if yer wants. Delivering papers, evenings only mind." "Please Mr Courtney." I sounded like a frightened mouse if a mouse could talk that is. "Yer'd be me paperboy?" "Please, Mr Courtney." "That's set then." Mr Courtney smiled. "But before, there's the little matter of yer stealing off me, then I need yer to 'elp me relax, and then we'll talk business." He reached out. I backed into the shelves but he wasn't reaching for me, just the magazine. He grasped the top, his fingers covering the blood dripping letters but he didn't pull it free instead his other hand popped the button, and then the zip on my jeans until Kerrang! was free, only then did he replace it on the shelves, in the wrong place. "Please Mr Courtney." I repeated. I couldn't say anything else. It was as if my mind was frozen in time. "Remember, I caught yer steeling from me shop, plus I gave yer a job, yer owe me." Slowly he lifted my shirt, my arms raised by reflex to allow it to be removed. "A nice big boy!" he added as my jeans were eased down my legs. Revealing my prick as it tried to rip through my underpants, tenting them, the head of my enlarged organ trapped painfully in the slitted opening, twisting it back on itself towards my furry goolies. "Please Mr Courtney." I said yet again, my little voice wobbling up and down its entire breaking range. Still I made no effort to stop him. My hands rested on his shoulders to keep my balance while my feet were raised and the denim was completely removed. My white trainers and black socks following them over to a pile beside the confectionery counter. "A nice big paperboy who wants me to do it to 'im. Who would love for me to do it to 'im." Mr Courtney seemed half asleep or dreaming and I was little better standing frozen to the spot as he stroked his fingertips gently across the front of my swollen underpants. Finding the longer of the two bulges within the plain white garment. He straightened it. He stretched it. He lengthening it. He moulded it. He caressed it. Until it throbbed out over my right hip. He held it in his fingers, as if feeling for the pulse that ripped through my being. His other hand eased the top down of my underpants. Releasing my burgeoning prick for only as long as it took for my last piece of protection to be removed. Then his hand clasped me tightly near the root of my teenage being and made the purple knob swell further, splitting the crown, as he directed it towards his mouth. Pressing the knob to his pale drawn lips he kissed it with great respect, like a priest would a cross. His tongue poked into the little slit driving me to a near frenzy as he rimmed the head of my prick, then all around and down the shaft until it was ringing wet. Dribbles of saliva trickled back into my sparsely decorated pubis, tickling my marble-like goolies before dripping to the floor. Slowly he swallowed me. First the knob, then inch by inch the whole of my length. His breath soft on my bum-fluff covered pubic thatch as he emptied his mouth and formed a seal around my root. Oh God was in heaven. Then he stopped. "Yer like that, my laddo?" It took a while but eventually I stammered: "Thank you." "Then yer'll love this." Holding onto my hips with his wonderfully large and strong hands he turned me around to face the shelves, all the while gently caressing the tender swells of my bum. One hand slid around to my front, rubbing across my goolies, both hands working together as his clothed body covered my back. Then he held my wrists, one on either side. Something long, hard and thick covered in course cloth pressed into my nude buttocks as my arms were raised up to the top shelf. Unable to resist I wiggled my willing bum against him and heard him moan in my ear. Eagerly - scared of falling I guess - I grasped the edge of the second-to-top shelf. My fingers entwined in the elastic holding the girlie magazines and Health & Efficiency. Staring right down at my undressed, pale body was multiple images of a gorgeously hairy man, his genitals concealed by a banner headline proclaiming the legend the magazine to be 'the worlds oldest naturist publication.' Reading this I missed Mr Courtney take up the copy of Kerrang! I had attempted to steal. One hand remained on my prick, gentle frigging my long foreskin back and forth over my crown, keeping me up on my toes. Then he slapped. "OU-CH!" I yelped as the rolled up magazine slapped across my previously untouched rear. "Hold still, yer little thief." The newsagent growled in mock anger. "It's no more than yer deserve." "Yes, Mr Courtney." Well it made a change from 'Please', though I secretly added that word. "My paperboys need to know how to behave." "Yes, Sir, Mr Courtney." I settled down after that. At last I'd found someone whom I could respect. That was more than I could ever do for my father and his wishy-washy ideas on child-rearing. At least, I intended to settle down, but the feel of the magazine rapping across my bum near drove me crazy. It was better than anything I had previously imagined, and that was saying something, even in those early days. After the first two I couldn't hold back any longer. I yelped and cried out, not in pain, you understand, but because of the pleasure of it all, was just too much. Those big strong fingers covered in newsprint rapped around both my goolies-sac and prick making those the only parts of me which didn't move as I struggled against the elastic bonds which held my wrists. Sweat broke out all over my body, but mainly on my forehead, clinging to my long hair, clumping it into near dreadlocks. My virgin bum quickly went blushed red, yet there was no pain to be felt, just an intense burning that was lighting my fire far quicker than any magazine had ever done. And while I tossed and turned spread-eagled against those shelves the friction on my prick was tossing that in a different meaning. Then, just as I was approaching the natural ending. It all stopped. Mr Courtney crouched down. He stroked my legs. Stroked the top of my thighs, opening them. I let him. I knew he'd never hurt me. One hand jammed itself up between my cheeks. I pushed my hips back to meet it. Fingers pushed at the back of my goolies while the thumb pressed first around and then into my hole. He penetrating me with all the easy of the section of broomstick handle I had hidden in my bedside drawer. Without my conscious co-operation my sphincter automatically opened and let him in. With a groan that could have been heard clean across the street, Mr Courtney gave me one great big, thumbs-up sign, right up my bum. Meanwhile his other hand pushed my feet practically under the unit. My toes crunched up on the dusty skirting below the motoring magazines. I was so much on the edge of it all that I couldn't even realise what was going on let alone do anything about it. Not only that but I didn't notice Mr Courtney reaching into the centre isle for the small jar of baby cream, slip his braces off, take down his trousers and coat his newsagent's prick with the cream. I began to come back down onto the planet with Mr Courtney's attention taken so. I peered back over my shoulder and saw the largest prick I'd ever seen. Not that I'd seen that many. Only the occasional glimpse in the school showers and that one time the captain of the upper sixth rugby team had been stripped by his team mates in the middle of the field as a leaving present. That, late teenager had been limp in the trouser contents department, but Mr Courtney certainly wasn't. His prick roared up from the hairiest human body I'd ever seen. There's gorillas in zoos who have less hair than Mr Courtney. They also had far smaller genitals. A good ten inches long and as near to three around as it was possible to judge. It was as frightening as it was intriguing. One thing was certain though. I wanted to see more of it. However, I didn't get to see anything further for Mr Courtney bent over and stuck his face right smack in the middle of my little bum. Right up between the cheeks, in fact. At least his tongue was. The slippery tip pushed right on past my, admittedly, limited defences until it was inside me. Pushing and moving around inside me. I would never have guessed that kissing a boy's bottom could have been so wonderful, yet Mr Courtney was obviously enjoying nearly as much as I was. When Mr Courtney started to wank me off as well I thought I was going to die. "Please." I murmured my voice tracking up and down the register like a choirboy whose voice was breaking. It wasn't the only thing either. My prick, once a soft little tube of flesh, was now a pounding cricket bat of an erection, that sprung and bounced with every movement of my tense body. "Yer love it don't yer?" Mr Courtney said from my bottom, his breath hot, tickling my flesh. "I bet yer loves to get fucked an' all." I never had been but I was hardly in a state to tell Mr Courtney that and, anyway, I wasn't so sure I wanted to. "You're my little paperboy." "Big." "Yes, my big paperboy." He stood. His arms closed around me. One stroked my chest, toying with my nipples like no one had ever done before. The other stimulated my arse hole. A whole finger sliding into me without the slightest hint of trouble. A second joined it. Together the two of them pushed and tweaked around opening me up for what was to come. At one point they brushed over what I now know as my prostate gland. Then, I just knew it made my eyes light up. Mr Courtney pressed his body close to mine. His open shirt rough against my skin. His knees pushed against mine. Electricity snapped across the small divide hoisting up the smaller hairs which covered my bum. I felt him get closer. Felt his body heat. Felt the course hair in which his groin was coated teasing my skin. Felt his fingers raising my nipples until they stood as proud as my prick, still slick with his spittle. But most of all I felt the young man's fingers as they moved around within me. Opening me. Opening me wide. Wide enough to receive him. To receive his gorgeous prick right up my arse. To touch me like a red hot poker. To drill me like a North Sea oil rig. Already it was pressed into me. His fingers guided its path. His knob stretching me wider then I had ever been stretch before. I gasped. "Yer love it don't yer?" Both his arms closed around my chest, then up around my shoulders and behind my head, his fingers interlaced around each other as he pushed himself further and further into my arse hole. Harder and hard he went, and got. His hips rotating until he could get me to swallow his whole length. "I knew yer'd love it. Just knew it. Yer just like all the others I has in here. All my paperboys, loves it." I didn't say much. Don't reckon I could but I did look down. Look down at my own prick as stiff as it had ever been before, if not more so. It twitched and pulsed with every movement from behind and movement there was. Every split second or so Mr Courtney pulled back with his hips and/or bent his knees, then, one or the other, or both, reversed and he rammed himself back home again. Rammed himself so hard that his goolies would slap up into my own immature set. That was the only pain I felt. Everything else was as fine and as perfect as it could possibly be. Everything I'd heard in schoolyard tales about the pain involved in getting your arse fucked was crap. Mr Courtney was giving it to me good and hard and I couldn't feel a thing. Not a damn thing. Least not apart from the wonderful tickling feelings ripped out over me due to his rhythmic pumping. That and only that filled my mind just as it filled my arse. Then the great surge took control of me. For the first time since I had learned about wanking from putting two and two together from the schoolboy jokes and jibes I was going to achieve the one thing I had never done before. I was going to spurt without having to touch my prick. I could feel it coming. Feel it burn through my prick with the subtlety of an express train as it rips from my split eyed prick and splattered all over those magazines, ruining them as my thin spunk dribbled down to pool on numerous shelves. Simultaneously my once virgin sphincter clamped onto the intruder and milked the newsagents life blood right out of him. Mr Courtney screamed and hollered far more than I had ever done. He pounded against me as if he were a jack-hammer and I was the concrete he was trying to impregnate. His hands dropped from the back of my neck and fell, uselessly to our joined sides. In the end it was up to me to draw the manly sperms from their home and into my rectum. My sphincter working overtime on the shaft taking all Mr Courtney could give me and then returning for more. As it did my prick dribbled some sort of clear liquid and then shot a second, third, forth time until the front of the motoring magazines crinkled under the damp I had newly created. I worked for Mr Courtney for nearly three years before the newly empowered child welfare intervened. You see, what he'd said during the height of our passion was perfectly correct. All his paperboys, did love him, and it. Unfortunately Mr Courtney was such a nice guy he just couldn't refuse any lad a job, even if some were under the lawful employment age and that's why they closed him down. No one ever mentioned the other things which went on in his shop after hours, or just why he needed so many paperboys. In fact he was so over staffed it was a joke, all over town. You see, there was only one evening paper round but there was a total of six paperboys attached to it. We took it in turns. One would deliver the papers while the others... Well, you work it out. -- +----------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `--------------+ | <story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us> | <story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us> | | Archive site +----------------------+--------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | <http://www.qz.to/erotica/assm/>----<http://www.qz.to/erotica/assm/faq.html>