The doorbell rings. Michael nearly jumps out of his skin from where he’s seated at the dining room table. He exchanges a nervous look with his wife, who smiles at him, eyes sparkling. Together they stand up and make their way to the front door.
A man and a boy stand on the front stoop of their two-story suburban home. The man wears a dark suit and dark sunglasses, with a no-nonsense haircut and an official air about him. The boy, by contrast, looks lost and withdrawn. He is slim, young: pre-puberty. His hair is a messy brown mop and his ass is surprisingly large and round for his age; enough to be a noteworthy feature of his appearance. Exactly as requested. Michael’s heart hammers in his chest.
“Good afternoon,” says the man. Michael’s attention returns to him from where he’s practically drooling already at the sight of the boy. His wife has already knelt down in front of the child and is smiling up at him, holding one of his small hands in hers.
“This is Charlie,” the man continues, unnecessarily. They’ve already known that he was coming for a week.
“Welcome, Charlie,” says Julia. “We’re pleased to have you with us. We’ve got your room all ready for you. Why don’t you come upstairs and see?”
She leads the child into the house. Michael stays where he is, but watches as the little one hitches his backpack up a little further onto his back and climbs the stairs beside his wife, hand in hers. His plump rear end shifts with each step, clearly visible beneath his pants.
When they are out of earshot, Michael turns back to the man. “Thank you so much,” he says earnestly. “Is there anything else you need from me?”
The man shakes his head. He reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulls out a gold-embossed business card, handing it to Michael. “The paperwork was all signed last week,” he confirms. “When you get tired of him, simply call this number. Thank you for choosing Ganymede Foster.”
Michael nods his understanding and shakes the man’s hand. Without another word, the man in the suit turns back down the front walkway, leaving Michael standing there with the boy’s suitcase. He grabs it and brings it into the house, shutting the door behind him.
He is somewhat at a loss where to begin, so he lets his wife get the boy settled in, watching silently from the sidelines as she shows the boy his bedroom, gives him a tour of the house, and lets him know the basic rules for living with them. He almost feels a little bad about letting her get so attached; he knows the child won’t be living with them nearly as long as she thinks. But then, they’ve both been warned that foster children are often moved around within the system for a variety of reasons outside of anyone’s control. This is true even for real foster care organizations. His wife, of course, does not know the truth about Ganymede Foster.
They get Charlie comfortable and leave him more or less to his own devices until dinner, where they all sit together at the table to eat. The boy shows a remarkable appetite, though he still hasn’t spoken much. This is, they were told, his first foster home. Michael knows that it’s possible to request children from Ganymede with more... experience. But he was adamant about wanting to be the child’s first stop. He smiles dreamily to himself as he watches the cute youth eat.
Afterwards he smiles at the boy, deciding to test his luck and see how far he can push. “Well,” he says cheerfully, “let’s get you cleaned up, before bedtime, shall we?”
He leads the boy to the upstairs bathroom, the one that has a large tub, and begins to run the water. Charlie stands in front of it uncertainly, looking back and forth between Michael and the filling vessel. Michael’s smile doesn’t falter. “Well?” he says expectantly. “Take off your clothes.”
The child does as instructed, standing shyly next to the tub afterwards, watching him. Nude, Michael can see that the boy’s thighs are just as plump and alluring as his cute little radish bottom. His skin is smooth and looks soft, but Michael does not yet dare to touch it to confirm. Instead, he grabs the child under his arms and lifts him, placing him into the warm water. He tips a little splash of bubble-bath in after the boy, causing suds to rise around him. Then he reaches for the soap.
“You don’t have to,” Charlie says quietly, one of the few things he’s said to Michael directly all afternoon. “I’m old enough. I can do it myself.”
“Nonsense,” Michael says cheerfully, kneeling beside the bathtub. “I’m supposed to take care of you, after all. I need to make sure you get properly clean. Gotta be thorough, after all.”
Excuses made, he lathers up his hands and gives in to his desire to touch.
With the pretext of soap, Michael fully indulges himself in touch, running his hands up the boy’s smooth back, his pale chest, his prominent collarbone. He lets his fingers caress every inch of skin, sliding down the boy’s sides and lifting his little legs out of the water to scrub even between his tiny individual toes. Finally, he helps the boy stand so he can get to what he really wants, the parts that have been making him drool. He trails sudsy hands up the boy’s thighs, rubbing circles along the soft skin, feeling the supple young flesh beneath his fingertips. He slips between them, teasing up and down the insides of the boy’s legs, re-soaping his hands every few seconds to maintain his alibi of cleanliness. Finally, he cups a hand over the boy’s cute genitals, giving them a gentle but thorough caress, before sliding back along the crease between the boy’s legs and to the pert bottom that has monopolized his attention.
First he squeezes the globes, one in each hand, reveling in the feeling of their roundness, the soft give under his fingers. He takes his time enjoying them, wishing that he dared bring his mouth down onto them, imagining biting the clean, white flesh. Then, nonchalant, he moves those same fingers to trail casually along the crack between the boy’s buttocks. Charlie says nothing, so Michael re-soaps his hand once more and reaches back to repeat the action.
He trails his soapy fingers up and down the length of Charlie’s crack half a dozen times before working up the courage to push, nudging the very tip of one finger carefully against the boy’s asshole. He presses it lightly, swirling small soapy circles over the tight pucker of muscle.
The boy starts at this, trying to pull away, but Michael’s other hand keeps him in place.
“You don’t need to wash there!” the boy insists, startled.
“Of course we do,” Michael corrects. “That’s the dirtiest place on your body, after all. It’s very important to wash it.”
So saying, he pushes the insistent finger a little harder, until it begins to breach the boy. Not wanting to push his luck, he doesn’t insert it very far. He merely pokes his fingertip inside, barely an inch, and wiggles it around in the boy’s anus for a few seconds. Then, relenting, he draws it back out and allows the boy to sit down once more in the bath, rinsing off.
Other than feeling the boy up some more as he finishes cleaning him off, Michael does not push further. He has time, he thinks blissfully. He can take as long as he wants.
And so he eases the child into his perversions gradually. He has to be careful to avoid scrutiny from his wife, but he nevertheless finds quiet moments to indulge himself over the next several weeks: a pat on the bottom when sending the child off to school, an offhand arm around him when watching movies on the couch. When they are alone doing an activity together, working on homework or playing video games or other such distractions, Michael takes to resting a hand on the boy’s thigh, feigning casualness, occasionally rubbing it up and down or giving it a little squeeze at moments of excitement or emphasis.
He learns how much the boy will tolerate without pulling away and toes that line with exquisite patience. He can tell Charlie is wary, and so works carefully to erode his boundaries, pushing him just a little further each time. As often as he can he sits the boy on his lap, indulges in innocent-seeming touches, and generally pushes back the barrier between casual contact and deliberate groping. He also continues his bathtime fondling, maintaining the excuse of cleanliness to insert a finger into the boy every night, teasing his little hole and thinking dirty thoughts as he slides the digit in and out a little longer each time.
His patience lasts some three weeks before his self-control finally fails him. Deep in the night he slips into the boy’s bedroom, closing the door and locking it behind him. Charlie is fast asleep under his blankets, wearing nothing more than a long T-shirt. Michael silently sheds his own night-time garb and places the bottle of lube that he brought with him on the boy’s nightstand.
Doing his best not to wake the child, Michael slips into the bed beside him. The boy’s pale skin shines in the moonlight from the window. Michael is harder than he’s ever been in his life.
Moving swiftly, Michael manhandles the boy towards him, using his fingers to open Charlie’s mouth. While the child is still groggily regaining consciousness, Michael deftly inserts his cock into the unsuspecting orifice and takes hold of the boy’s head, keeping it steady as he begins to push his phallus down the boy’s throat.
The child wakes up in a hurry after that, struggling and making sounds of muffled protest around the sudden intrusive organ. Michael merely holds the boy in place, petting his hair.
“Shhh, shhh,” he placates. “Don’t worry Charlie. You’re dreaming. Just relax. Relax and enjoy. Nothing’s wrong.”
He’s not sure if the boy buys the obvious lie, but he doesn’t release him to ask. Instead he begins to thrust his cock in and out of the child’s mouth, reveling in the slick wet tightness that encases him, choking the child as he pushes in a little deeper with each motion.
He continues to fuck the boy’s face until his struggles finally subside, leaving him enough leeway to reach behind him for his little bottle of lube. He uncaps it eagerly and squirts the clear gel onto his fingers, slicking them up before reaching down across the boy’s body.
His slimy digits enter the child with ease, two fingers worming their way up the boy’s passage without hesitation, pushing into him. Once again the boy makes muffled noises of protest around Michael’s cock, sending pleasure shivering up his organ. Wanting more, Michael attempts to elicit further sounds by driving his fingers in hard, two digits all the way up to the last knuckle. He’s rewarded with new whimpers for his efforts, and proceeds to finger-fuck the boy in time with the movements of his hips, spearing him from both ends.
Eventually he adds a third digit as well, opening up the boy’s hole as best he can for what is to come. He wriggles his fingers around in Charlie’s ass until he can’t stand it anymore. With a wrench he pulls the boy’s head off of his cock and presses him down into the mattress.
He folds the boy in half, lifting his thick young legs with ease until the child’s ankles are up by his shoulders. Ah, the flexibility of youth, he thinks enviously. With unerring focus he guides his cock to the little divot of flesh between the boy’s rear cheeks. Wiping the remaining lube off on his spit-wet cock, Michael begins to push in and down, spreading the boy open as the head of his phallus sinks into the child.
He cups one hand over the boy’s mouth to prevent loud noises as he slowly forces his cock inch by inch deeper. The child’s hole gives way reluctantly, parting only grudgingly to accept the cock that drills relentlessly deeper, sinking down down down, cleaving him open. The endless slide is torture and heaven at the same time, overwhelming Michael’s senses as he opens the boy up: all softness and heat and tight pressure around him, a velvet decadence.
He begins to fuck the child before he’s even fully seated within him, slamming his hips back and forth in an attempt to drive deeper. He pounds into the boy’s ass again and again, reveling in the soft slapping sound of his skin against the boy’s rear as he finally gets all the way down inside. The lube does its job, allowing him to glide in and out with ease once he gets going. He wishes desperately that he could turn on the light and watch the way the boy’s flesh parts for him over and over, but he doesn’t dare to do so. He must settle instead for other sensations; the softness of skin, the tight heat, the magnificent intimacy of the embrace.
He fucks Charlie this way as long as he can bear, using his weight to hold the boy down against the mattress as he moves his hips. Only when he’s in danger of coming does he finally back off, not wanting his indulgence to end too early.
He pulls out, forcing himself to wait, bracing himself with the cool nighttime air of the bedroom. To buy himself time to calm down, he changes position, backing away until he’s off the bed entirely.
Grabbing Charlie by the hips, he flips him over and slides the boy towards him over the blankets until the child’s legs dangle off the side. He grabs one of the boy’s supple, round buttocks in each hand and kneads them, sliding his cock along the slick cleft between the cheeks and reveling in the soft give of the young flesh under his fingers. His cock wails for the return of that tight heat and pressure, but he takes his time frotting, holding the two mounds together for his pleasure and sliding slickly between them.
Finally he can bear it no longer and spreads them apart, one in each hand, his cock desperately hard enough to need no additional guidance as he once again finds the tight pucker of the boy’s anus with the tip and pushes his way back inside.
It’s just as good if not better this way, allowing him even deeper, letting him sink further and further in until he’s mashing his hips up against those lovely soft little mounds, his cock as deep as it will go inside the boy. With a sigh he takes one hand and places it on the back of Charlie’s head, forcing his face down into the mattress, and begins to fuck him once more.
He can’t last long, but he gives it his best try. He fucks the boy hard, desperate, reaming his ass with the deepest thrusts he can manage. He plunders every inch of the boy’s passage, fucking his lust and desperation into the boy’s flesh as surely as his member. With one hand on the boy’s hip and the other still on the back of his head, he lets loose his every pent-up desire, forcing the boy to accept the depths of his depravity, impressing upon him the force of his desire.
Finally, he comes. With a twitch of his balls and a final thrust, he buries himself deep deep deep and empties into the child, flooding him with every last drop of semen that he can wring out. He holds the position until the shudders die down, until the last electric sparks of pleasure fade from his thighs and fingertips and the softening head of his cock. He lets himself slip out of the boy’s hole, trailing the evidence of his climax, and feels a bone-deep satisfaction that he’s never felt before.
Calmly, his mind clouded with fluffy pink bliss, he cleans up the mess of the boy’s ass and tucks him back into bed. He kisses the boy’s forehead indulgently. “Go back to sleep,” he murmurs. “You were just having some kind of strange dream. You probably won’t remember it by morning.” He retrieves the lube and his discarded clothes and tiptoes his way out of the room.
There’s no way of knowing how the boy will react come morning. But it doesn’t matter, really. If Michael is lucky Charlie will stay quiet, too embarrassed to reveal what has happened to him, and Michael will get the chance to act again, to repeat this sinful indulgence as many times as he wishes.
If not, well... Ganymede Foster has other boys.