Boy Stud-1

WARNING! This is a demented tale created in an unbalanced mind. However, it is just that, a tale. A Fictional Story, wrong and sick as it may be, it’s still only fiction! Not one single person was hurt in the production of this story. This story contains Dark Themes. Slavery and Rape among others. If this isn’t your cup of tea, then Don’t Fucking Read It!!! (Don’t you people look at the tags when you choose a story to read?) There’s plenty of plain-vanilla lovey-dovey stories out there for you! Don’t fill-up my inbox with a bunch of messages telling me what a sick pervert I am. I already know that! I also know the difference between Reality and Fiction! Do you?
That being said, if you’re as depraved and twisted as I am, go ahead and read on… I hope you enjoy. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!!!
Yours Fictionally,
–RogueRambler
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I had a normal childhood I guess. I mean, it was just Dad and me (and Greta, our housekeeper). My mother died giving birth, which I just somehow always knew, even if no one ever talked about it. At least they didn’t talk about it around me. And I guess I always did think that there were lots of things that they didn’t talk about around me, but… My life was all I knew, and I’ve always said that I had a great childhood. I had a great adolescence too. Yet even back then, I knew that my life was anything but normal. But I sure as hell wasn’t going to complain, like I said, it was great, if not a somewhat strange. It all started one night at dinner, a few weeks before my twelfth birthday. We were sitting at the table, Dad, Greta and I, talking about our day, when Greta says, “I watched Adam here…” that’s me by the way, Adam Stone, I took a bite of potatoes, curious about what our housekeeper saw. She gestured my way, though it was clear that she was speaking to my father, “…down on his knees, sucking that boy, Billy’s dick like a two-bit whore.” I was horrified. I thought sure I’d locked my bedroom door. “Tommy,” (Greta was the only person I’d ever heard call my father Tommy, rather than Tom) “ I’ll tell ya, he didn’t spill a drop, or that Billy boy don’t pop a real big load yet, but which ever way it was, your boy sure did love drinking down whatever he got.”

I wanted to die. I couldn’t believe it. Nothing could have been worse. I stared at Greta, in shock, and even though everything inside me was telling me to look at my father, to see what his reaction was, but I just couldn’t look at him. There was a moment of silence. I finally did tear my eyes off Greta, but I looked down into my lap rather than at Dad. It was my dad’s voice that broke the silence. “Greta,” he said and by his tone, he meant business, “go to your room until I come and get you.” I could remember very few times when I heard Dad speak to our housekeeper in such a tone. And I’d never heard him order her to her room. He’d asked her to leave the room a few times, but never treated her so child-like, by sending her to her room. It took her a moment to stand, but she finally did with a, “Humph!” I knew was full of meaning.