Mr. Mack runs a high-end toy store, a small shop with wondrous treasures. He’s owned it for the past thirty years, since he was twenty-three years old, and he’s very proud of it. The neighborhood he’s in is affluent, but even so children don’t usually have enough money on their own to buy the extravagant models, custom stuffed animals, and other expensive merchandise he peddles without the aid of their parents. This means that he doesn’t often get loiterers in the form of lone children wandering his shop. Or at least, he didn’t used to.
The store bell rings sharp and clear on the brisk Monday afternoon. It’s just around the time the local school lets out, and Mr. Mack knows by now who he will see.
This boy was here every single afternoon last week, always with the same routine. The small blond youngster wanders the aisles nonchalantly, his short tousled hair and the top of his blue-and-red backpack all that’s visible as he rounds the back corners behind the low shelves. He comes to a stop in front of a giant model spaceship, almost taller than he is. He stares longingly at it, just standing there. At least he has the good manners not to touch.
Mr. Mack sighs. As the little boy gazes solemnly at the spaceship he does not see Mr. Mack’s gaze as solidly on him. Mr. Mack’s unrestrained eyes flicker across the smooth, rosy cheeks of the boy’s face, slide down the torso (unfortunately covered by a jacket against the chill—he’d love to see the thin, bony lines of the boy’s back and taut young belly) and rest lovingly on the plump curve of the boy’s bottom in his blue jeans. When the boy bounces on his heels, impatient, the tantalizing roundness jiggles every-so-slightly.
“Don’t you have to get home to your parents?” Mr. Mack’s own lack of ability to touch makes his tone grouchy. “Aren’t they worried about you?”
The boy shrugs. “My parents don’t come home until dinner. I walk home by myself. They don’t care if I go to the toy store.”
Mr. Mack’s jaw clenches slightly. Too much temptation is bad for his old heart. “It’s not polite to spend so much time in a store without buying anything, you know” he points out.
The boy huffs. He turns to the counter where Mr. Mack is sitting abruptly enough that Mr. Mack has to look down and cough slightly to hide the fact that he was staring. The boy slouches up to the counter, glancing back over his shoulder at the toy ship.
“How much does the spaceship cost?” he asks, but his high young voice does not sound hopeful.
“One hundred and fifty dollars,” Mr. Mack tells him truthfully. About mid-range for products in the store.
The boy nods unhappily, as though this was what he was expecting. “I want it so bad,” he says, sounding more like he’s talking to himself than to Mr. Mack. “I want it more than anything.”
Mr. Mack stares at the dejected young figure. Then he glances up at the otherwise empty store. He glances back down at the boy. He licks his lips self-consciously. His throat feels a little thick. He clears it.
“Would you be willing to... to work out a deal for it?” Mr. Mack asks, trying to keep his voice steady and casual.
The boy looks up, eyes wide and full of earnestness. “Sure! What kind of a deal?”
Mr. Mack can feel his knees shaking. He walks out from behind the counter and heads to the front door. After glancing out through the window—no one around paying any kind of attention to the store—he locks the door and flips the sign around to read “Closed.” Then he walks back, his movements slow with deliberate control.
When he reaches the boy, Mr. Mack crouches down to be on eye level with him. “I have sort of a weird hobby,” he admits. “You have to promise you won’t laugh at me or tell anyone about it, okay?”
The boy nods, looking curious.
“I really like to put things in people’s butts,” says Mr. Mack. “But I have a very hard time finding anyone who will let me do it.”
The boy smiles and almost starts to laugh, but remembers his promise and puts a hand to his mouth, swallowing his smile. “Okay,” he says instead. “That’s kind of weird. Stuff comes out of butts. You’re not supposed to put stuff in butts.”
Mr. Mack nods sadly. “I know, it’s very weird. Which is why I can’t tell anyone about it. But I’ll tell you what. If you come by after school every day this week and let me put things in your butt, then I’ll let you have the spaceship for free.”
The boy’s eyes go huge and round like saucers. “Really? For free? Really really?”
Mr. Mack nods. “You can tell your parents I’m having you work here part time doing chores. That way you don’t have to tell them my secret. It’s very important you don’t tell anyone though. Otherwise the deal is off, okay?”
The boy nods enthusiastically. “Yeah!” He’s practically vibrating, bouncing in place with excitement.
“So we have a deal?” Mr. Mack asks, holding out his hand.
The boy shakes it, his own hand tiny and soft in Mr. Mack’s old, rough palm. “Deal!” he cries happily in his high voice.
“What’s your name?” Mr. Mack asks him, standing back up.
“Oliver,” says the boy. “Everyone calls me Olly though.”
“Olly,” says Mr. Mack, savoring the taste of the name. “Why don’t you follow me and we can get started.”
He leads the way through a curtained arch behind the counter. The boy looks positively in awe of getting to walk behind the heavy wooden desk and his head swivels in every direction. They cross behind the curtain and Mr. Mack opens a door on the left and flips on the light.
The back room is not large. It’s primarily a stock-room, with heaps of boxes piled three-deep along one wall. On the other side is a large wooden desk with a chair, a lamp, and a wastebasket, and along the back wall are a filing cabinet with the store’s paperwork and a few metal shelves with cleaning supplies.
Mr. Mack eyes the dimensions of the desk. It’s an old, heavy antique thing that he inherited, probably too much for him to move on his own at this point. It’s not quite deep enough, even at a full two-and-a-half feet before it hits the wall, but the longer dimension should give them plenty of space.
“Pull down your underwear and pants please,” Mr. Mack instructs. “And you might want to take off your jacket and backpack.” The backpack is very picturesque, but it will almost certainly get in the way.
Olly slings off his backpack and jacket and throws them in a heap by the door. Then he drops his pants and underwear down to his ankles without an ounce of self-consciousness. He doesn’t even take off his shoes. Mr. Mack’s mouth waters.
“Here, let me help you up,” Mr. Mack says, his voice suddenly tight. He grips the boy under each arm and lays him lengthwise over the desk on his stomach, pointing the delectable little bottom in the air. Oliver’s feet hang off the edge of the desk.
“Is this gonna hurt?” the boy asks. For the first time he suddenly sounds nervous.
“No, no,” Mr. Mack assures him. “We’ll do it gradually, start with something small and work our way up. It might feel a bit weird, but it shouldn’t hurt. Bear with it as much as you can. If it does hurt too much, just tell me and we’ll go back to something smaller.” He smiles to himself, feeling euphoric, almost in a trance. “Who knows? You might even like it.”
Mr. Mack reaches into the bottom drawer of his desk where he keeps some lotion and a box of tissues. Many an evening he’s needed these supplies to make himself presentable before heading home after closing; a day of staring at his younger clientele often leaves him with a rather ostentatious bulge in the front of his slacks.
Mr. Mack squirts more lotion into his hand than he intends, his fingers nervous and shaking. He carefully rubs each digit, coating his entire hand liberally, just in case. He takes several deep, calming breaths and poises his hand over the delightful little mounds of the boy’s bottom. With his clean hand he caresses the fleshy globes, stroking them lovingly. They are warm to the touch, as smooth and soft as he could have ever dreamed.
With his thumb and forefinger he spreads the cheeks apart, exposing the tight pucker that haunts his most shameful dreams. Mr. Mack licks his lips again. “Are you ready Olly?” he asks. His voice is rough. He clears his throat.
“Yeah,” says Oliver. He sounds only a little wary.
Mr. Mack places his pointer finger against the ridges of the boy’s anus and pushes. His lubed digit glides in beautifully, sliding all the way up to the knuckle with nary a whisper of resistance. Mr. Mack has to bite his lip.
“That does feel kind of weird,” says Olly.
“Try to stay as relaxed as you can,” Mr. Mack instructs. “The more relaxed you are, the easier it will be.” He starts to move the finger in and out in small thrusts. The subtle little squelching sounds that accompany the movement make his heart soar. He drives the digit in up to the knuckle again and again—squelch, squelch, squelch—and wiggles it around as much as he can. Olly squirms slightly, but says nothing. Mr. Mack can feel the walls of the boy’s rectum clench around the invading finger and then relax again. It’s beautiful.
He’s so tight that Mr. Mack wonders if he’ll even be able to get anything of any significance into the boy. But he promised they’d go gradually, and so he intends to. He starts to ram the finger in a little harder, curling it a trifle and swirling it around in a circular motion.
He draws his pointer finger out somewhat reluctantly and replaces it with his thumb. The thumb is shorter but wider, and he has more leverage with it. Once more he drives the thick digit into the boy again and again, feeling the velvet softness of the boy’s passage against the roughness of his skin. On one of these days he’ll fuck Oliver. He has the confidence they can work up to it. But not today. Baby steps. Nice and slow.
He rests the rest of his greased hand on Oliver’s pert bottom and squeezes, using the leverage to pry the tight little hole open. Olly is relaxing as instructed, and already he can see the young muscles beginning to stretch and loosen. He repeats the pattern several times: drive his thumb in up to the knuckle again and again and again, then stretch to the side. Release and stretch again. Then again—thrust, thrust, thrust, going as deep as his short thumb will allow, turning his hand sideways to get that little extra inch of depth, and then back to stretching. Oliver’s ass grows more and more pliant with every motion, welcoming the intrusion.
When he’s almost starting to feel loose, Mr. Mack draws out his thumb and switches to both the pointer and middle fingers. To his delight, they slide in with no resistance at all! Oliver’s ass accepts them without complaint, loose enough to accommodate them easily. Mr. Mack marvels at the wondrous pliability and resilience of youth. He stretches the boy’s anus by spreading the two digits wide inside him only twice before drawing out enough to insert a third digit.
Now he’s really making progress. He drills the digits in, twisting them as he goes, watching with delight as the knuckles pop into the hot passage. When they’re as deep as he can get them he spreads them out as much as he can. Oliver lets out a tiny, aborted whimper that shivers up Mr. Mack’s spine.
Mr. Mack casually slides the three digits in and out, in and out, as he glances around the storeroom for inspiration. He doesn’t have anything prepared for this situation; never in his wildest dreams imagined he’d actually get a chance to enact his dark fantasies. He’ll be prepared come tomorrow; he may have to do some shopping. But for now, he’ll have to make do with what’s on hand.
His eyes fall on the metal shelf of cleaning products. Lying on one edge is a blue plastic dustpan that catches his attention. The handle is about the length of his hand, with a rounded, ridged grip of soft plastic. It will do for today.
Before he draws his hand out of the warm embrace of the boy’s passage, however, Mr. Mack adds his pinky to the digits finger-fucking the boy. He tries to keep the tips of his fingers as close together as he can, to minimize their width, but this new position gives him real thrusting power. Now he can use his entire forearm to drive the fingers deep, deep into the boy, getting almost all the way to the knuckles until the width of them stretches the boy’s anus obscenely.
It’s glorious. Mr. Mack almost forgets about the dustpan, reveling in shoving his hand into the boy with all the force he dares. The squelching is less subtle now, lube squishing wetly against the now loose and easy muscles. Mr. Mack rams the hand home a few more times for good measure before reluctantly drawing out to cross the room and grab the dustpan.
As he returns he notices that Oliver’s hands are desperately gripping the sides of the desk, his eyes tightly shut. It’s frankly adorable. Mr. Mack opens the drawer again and grabs up the lube, coating the dustpan handle generously.
“Are you done?” asks Oliver curiously, opening one eye.
“Not quite yet,” says Mr. Mack. “One more thing for today. You’ve been a very patient, very good boy Olly. Does it hurt at all?”
“No,” answers Olly. “It feels really weird though.”
“That’s fine,” says Mr. Mack. “You tell me if it hurts at all, remember.” He finishes slathering the dustpan handle and sets the lube down on the desk within easy reach. Once again he uses one hand to pry the boy’s cheeks apart, and this time uses the ends of his fingers to stretch open the boy’s anus as much as he can. It gives willingly, loose from the insistence of Mr. Mack’s fingers. Delighted, Mr. Mack begins to press the handle of the dustpan into Oliver.
Oliver grunts slightly as the handle slides slowly up into him, opening him up once more. It’s only as wide—or perhaps even a bit narrower—than Mr. Mack’s four fingers, but it’s longer than he was able to manage with the digits and it slides in deeper and deeper. Each inch disappears into the boy’s anus at a slow slurp, like a greedy mouth gobbling it down.
Mr. Mack pushes and pushes with gentle but firm pressure until the dustpan handle is buried entirely inside the boy, the pan’s scoop sticking out of him like some kind of obscene bird’s tail. Mr. Mack leaves it embedded there a moment, enjoying the spectacle.
He reaches down to his own pants and unzips his fly, drawing out his painfully-stiff cock. The boy is deliciously laid out and Mr. Mack wants desperately to fuck him skin on skin, to finally feel the tight velvet walls against his shaft, but he also wants to savor this, to enjoy the view in all its obscenity. Fucking the boy should be a culmination, the height of his desire to be worked towards. No point in blowing it all on the very first day, so to speak.
Mr. Mack takes a moment to grab the boy’s hip in one hand and shove on the dustpan with the other, twisting it and grinding it deep to make sure it’s really embedded as far as it will go. Then he returns to the lube and re-greases his hand, dropping it to his own cock to begin stroking.
At first he simply enjoys the spectacle of the boy laid out for him, stroking and squeezing his cock. His eyes roam over the boy’s rosy buttocks with the makeshift toy nestled firmly between them, cleaving him open for Mr. Mack’s pleasure. He even reaches forward with his free hand and spreads the cheeks one more time to better see the point of penetration, to watch the way the boy’s anus shivers and twitches around its invader.
Finally however, Mr. Mack gives in to temptation. While he continues to stroke himself with one hand, he grabs the fan of the dustpan in the other and draws it out a few inches, then slams it back in. And again a slow draw out and a slamming thrust down. He fucks the boy generously with the dustpan, driving it home with a triumphant force that scoots Oliver slightly forward across the desk.
The boy resumes his grip on the sides of the desk to stop himself from being shoved forward by the enthusiastic penetration, but this only allows Mr. Mack better leverage, more force to slam the handle ever deeper.
He pauses for a moment, both in jerking off his cock and spearing the boy, to coax the boy’s hips up, raising his ass into the air and maneuvering his legs until Oliver’s knees are underneath him in a crouch, hips raised up into the sky and face still pushed down against the desk. Now he really has an angle on it, driving the dustpan handle over and over and over deep into the boy’s rectum.
Mr. Mack tries to make it last as long as he can. He takes frequent breaks from jerking himself, not wanting it to be over too soon. Every time he does he returns a hand to the boy’s hips, gripping and pulling the boy’s hips back against the penetration so he can grind the handle into the boy’s anus like a pestle into a mortar, twisting it and forcing it deep, deep as he can.
But even with these breaks it’s over far sooner than Mr. Mack would like. He comes helplessly against the scoop of the dustpan, dribbling a few messy drops of jizz onto the boy’s lucious cheeks. He slams the handle in all the way to the hilt one last time, imagining as he comes that it’s his own cock he’s buried deep inside Olly’s most private passage.
Finally, breathing heavy, he cleans himself up, putting away his cock and wiping away the incriminating cum. Only then does he draw the dustpan handle slowly and carefully out of the boy’s anus. The pucker of muscle relinquishes the penetration with gratifying reluctance, spasming against it and drawing it incrementally back in several times during the slow withdrawal.
When it finally pops out of the boy, Mr. Mack sets the dustpan aside on the desk and pats the boy gently on his still-exposed bottom. “What a good boy you are,” he says with satisfaction. “Thank you so much. We’re done for today.”
Oliver struggles into a sitting position and pulls up his pants and underwear. He sits gingerly, and Mr. Mack can’t help but feel equal parts satisfaction at an ass well-fucked and trepidation that this might be noticed and get him caught. But Oliver jumps down from the desk with only a slight wince—only enough to notice if you were looking for it.
“So, what did you think?” Mr. Mack asks anxiously. “Are you still willing to hold up your end of the deal? For the spaceship?”
Oliver nods. It’s not as enthusiastic as before they started, but it’s a very clear assent.
Relief floods through Mr. Mack, ending as a pulse in his member. “Well then,” he says, “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow."