---
title: 'Tales From The Mall'
---

### Tales From The Mall

Date: Thu, 14 Oct 2004 17:52:44 -0700 (PDT)
From: gloryhole junkie <ghj_4u@yahoo.com>
Subject: Mr.gloryholeJUNKIE'S Tales from the Mall - 3

Mr.gloryholeJUNKIE'S Tales From The Mall -3
By Mr. gloryholeJUNKIE, Denizen of the Public Toilets
ghj_4u@yahoo.com
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/GHJ_MALL_OF_MALES


Disclaimer & Warning:

These "Mr. gloryholeJunkie's Tales from the Mall" are copyrighted/2004 to
the author and should not be re-posted, printed or published anywhere else
without the author's prior, written consent. Adhere to all legalities in
your area.

These tales are intended strictly for an adult male audience where the
reading of such material is allowed. So if you are reading this instead of
the interactive learning game, "See'n'Say for Elementary Grade School Level
1", that your parents just bought for you (and which, coincidentally, they
think you're up in your room playing), the author strongly suggests that
you instead go to that other "educational" amusement at this very moment!
Sure, we men greatly admire your "precociousness", but you really must get
back to "acceptable grade school basics", such as, "Cows go Moo" and "Cats
go Meow". After all, if you're reading this, apparently your erotic
literature reading skills are excellent (and we men are pretty damn sure
you already know that "Daddies go Awww, son, swallooow it all!").

And if you're an adult male, whether single or a family man, you are
advised to never, ever act upon your deepest and most, er, "pressing"
sexual desire. Instead, it is strongly urged that you milk your daddy
sausage (alone) while reading these tales rather than wandering into your
son's bedroom once again with a huge boner in your Jockey shorts, asking
the little guy if he can help you out like he did the last time. Give the
kid a break - he's already got problems concentrating! Hell, he's trying to
play the interactive learning game, "See'n'Say for Elementary Grade School
Level 1" that you and your wife just bought him!

Instead, if you must, find an eighteen-year-old male who looks
six-years-old (start your search in a German experimental hospital) but
never, ever "sexually couple with" nor put a child in a sexual
position....or into a position that's sexual (gosh, that doesn't sound good
no matter how one writes it)!

You're the adult. He's the child. You're wearing daddy boxer shorts; he's
in Tonka Toy underpants. You're six-foot-three, he's three-foot-six. You
sport nine thick inches; he's boned at less than a third that length. You
earn 200k a year; he feeds the dog for 3-dollars a week. Does a clearer
picture need to be drawn in order for you understand the wide power and age
disparity between you and your target of sexual depravity? Okay, one
more. You can drive...and he's the little guy strapped into the car seat in
the back. Look at him in your rear view mirror and you ought to know why
you shouldn't pull off at the next rest area like you're planning.


Preface:

I suppose I did not have an "ordinary" childhood. But, heck, who'd want
one? I was blessed to have had loads of fun as a child. Even if much of it
came from the fondling, so-called "hardcore molestations" of thousands of
strange men, I still perceived my childhood as great fun.

And isn't most of Reality & Life really just one's own "personal
perception" in the end?

Some men have said, "Poor Kev, you lost your childhood being forced to
service all those total strangers - some of them fifty years older than
yourself at the time!" (Heck, some were SIXTY years older than I was, I
tell them with a smile).

I never saw my childhood in a negative way nor with any sense of
deprivation. It never occurred to me that I didn't have a childhood. I
mean, maybe Natalie Wood didn't have a childhood. But I did. Instead of a
diminished childhood, my "playgrounds" were simply broadened out to include
and incorporate men's rooms and parks, big dicks and squirt-feedings of
daddymilk.

By age seven, I had great fun romping around the suck woods before, during
and after fellating numerous strangers along its paths. It was an adventure
-one that had me foraging through foliage and cresting ridges like an
Indian Scout. And in between that "fort" there and that "wagon train" o'er
yonder, I'd stop and let men play with me. And that, too, was part of the
adventure.

Unlike other boys imagining the Old West, I didn't just wander into the
"saloon", I had actual sex with the many men once I got inside. Let's face
it, some kids can only "imagine" pirates and policemen and cowboys and
firemen and kings and knights...and that's about it. They don't actually
"encounter" any. But I, in a weird sense, got to not merely "imagine" such
men, but got to encounter them quite intimately, if you will. Like other
kids running along a path pretending they're being "chased" by robbers or
Indians or highwaymen...I had actual, live men to play with once I got
behind the "special suck tree". It was quite fun to stand before two or
three men, each soaring much taller than myself, each in different
"costume" (suit or baseball jackets or UPS uniform) and getting to grope
their mighty bulges, to unzip them and have them all play with me.

And after that, trust me, a game of tag on the school playground with your
peers is a bore. Like what's the point in running around "tagging" someone
if you couldn't then suck him off?  It all seemed utterly pointless to me.

But men, on the other hand, always came (cough) through. There was always a
point to the games we'd play together. Sure, their point was to have sex
with me, but they had a point, at least!

So from little up, I always considered men to be extra special. They played
games but always with a goal in mind. Kids my own age just seemed to be
wasting time.

That's not to say I chose sex over other interests or pursuits. I simply
never thought it had to be a choice. Why couldn't I learn how to build a
fire with my ScoutMaster AND suck his daddy cock? After all, I could walk
and chew gum at the same time, so why not that? But even at seven, while
kids my age were content to just, well, swim during swim practice, I never
understood why our swimming couldn't end with a little poolside orgy with
all our dads and coaches. It's not that I didn't love to swim, or wanted to
have sex rather than swim. Its simply that I didn't find swimming and sex
to be mutually exclusive.

When I would swim with men, we'd have fun and swim...and then have sex. But
kids my own age, swam and then...went home. They were, like, USELESS to me
even at age seven!

The same held true for most all pursuits in Life when you're a little
cumkid. I would go into a mall men's room and "pee" but then always have a
sexual encounter with a man or many men. But, if I went to the mall with
other kids my own age, we'd go to the men's room, "pee" and then
they'd...leave. As if we were "done" with what the men's room was designed
for.

Children my own age confused me.

Instead, I was a kid who could cram over third-grade studies in the Public
Library and also suck off men in its men's room. I could go to the Art
Institute of Chicago on a field trip and also suck off a man at the urinals
in its men's room. I could (and did) earn my Cub Scout nature badge by
collecting leaves in the suck woods and also fellate fifteen men (and did)
while on a trail. I could go to Wrigley Field to watch a baseball game with
my dad and also suck off men in the men's room there.

And all before I was eleven-years-of age.

I never saw it as a "this or that" proposition. Sucking off men was just a
natural part of my every day. I did it like anything else in my day. It
wasn't something "external" or "at odds with" or "in conflict with" other
things going on. I was able to fully integrate promiscuous sex with strange
men into my every coming (!) or going as a child. I sucked men on my ninth
birthday but also had cake and ice cream and a, well, not a pony ride, but
you get the point.

And yeah, I had a dad I didn't have to worry about. I mean, some parents
can really put a crimp in an eight-year-old cumpig's "lifestyle". So I had
a definite leg up there as well. But still, until I was thirteen, I daily
had a mother that I had to concern myself with finding out. Yet as many
men, especially married dads out there know, its rather stunning the things
you can get away with right under the nose of some women - whether it be
the nose of a wife or a mother.

And I was a little cumpig child, lets not forget. I wanted to be at the
open zippers of men doing those things - even if I had to rely on an adult
to drive me there. :) Truth be told (aloud), what's a seven-year-old cumpig
to do when he craves daddymilk and only "daddies" make the stuff? Simply
being pragmatic, I had to have sex with adult men in order to get what I
wanted and needed. Had you encountered me back then, you could not have
pulled a big, ejaculating adult penis out of my mouth if you tried (and
very few men tried, oddly enough).

Men ask me, "How come you weren't dead by fifteen? So many kids having that
sort of sex kill themselves."

And, um, I always regard that question as their "curiosity" talking rather
than some annoyance that I'm not dead. I have to say that I had a great
childhood. Sure, it was loaded with tons of sex with strange men but it was
also a childhood full of other wonderful things as well. But, and let's
face it, you fellas beating off to porno aren't quite as interested "in the
rest of the stuff" as you are in that part where a little boy is taking
popshots of cum in the public toilets (funny, how that is)!

My "surviving beyond teenhood" may also owe some thanks to the fact that my
cum lust was embraced by my father. And one's parent is one's whole world
when you're four and six and eight years of age. When you're a little guy,
your dad is your "hero". So I knew it was more than "okay" to love
daddymilk because my "daddy" said it was. In that way, I was allowed to
become a "secure" cumpig. And often a sense of insecurity, rather than
morality, is what drives homophobia or cumpig-shame, even if
auto-homophobia and auto-cumpig shame.

When I say that I was "raised" a cumpig cocksucker, that means more than
simply sucking busloads of cock as a child. It means that I was raised to
allow my true cumpig nature to become a fundamental part of my life and
existence on this planet from little up. It's the same when one speaks of
"having a kid" versus "raising a kid". Any family could have a son who
sucks cock (and most do). But to be "raised" a cocksucking cumpig is
significantly different.

Let's face it, I suppose that's part of the "trick" in being happy no
matter what events may have filled or colored one's childhood. Guys can say
that I ought to be "fucked up" due to having so many perverts ejaculating
into my little body. But you know what? I have encountered way more "fucked
up" guys who, as kids, had no sex at all. And you know what, too? I have
encountered way more "fucked up" guys who are fucked up because they
bitterly hate their upbringing no matter the particulars. Which, I suppose
stands to prove that sometimes its not the circumstances or events in one's
life but the way in which one embraces or "faces" those events

And then there is the fact that most of the men, strangers all, in my
childhood were pretty "nice" and took it easy with me (in the beginning at
least) sexually. Especially very well endowed men - they were always super
sweet and took it easy, concerned that their big cocks might hurt me. So I
have to admit, I wasn't encountering creepy idiots or psychopaths (I have
encounter more of those on the Internet in recent years than ever in my
childhood, quite frankly). As a matter of fact, I was having sex with the
men - the dads, the regular joes - who populate any city or town. Most were
really rather attractive men in their own ways. There was nothing "weird"
about them. In fact, they were so normal, that my experiences with
thousands of them in my childhood and adolescence taught me the "Truth"
about male sexuality (and therefore, also about gender issues, male body
image, cock size, men's insecurities, marriage, what dads really
think/want, homophobia and all the libidinous gears that run most any man's
sexual machine).

I mean, after the five-hundreth married father of three steps up to you at
age ten, unzips and puts his big, hairy erection into your mouth, you just
start to get a sense that there's "something up" with lots and lots of
married dads out there.

And when you're eight-years-old and can go into virtually any public men's
room and come out with a half-dozen loads of spemies in your system or when
you can't go to a health club without doing every guy in the sauna, you
just know there's something about guys that the world never quite imagines
or speaks of. But still, you know it, first-hand, since you're the one
polishing off a hundred cocks a week - even as a kid.

And, of course, we're not merely talking about homosexual sex which is the
biggest open, darkest, most secret yet most known yet least discussed, and
yet most seductive, most berated, most intense, classical, sexual component
in the world, which, continues to both fascinate and scare all of society.

No, more specifically, we're talking men having sex with little kids,
little boys, to be precise. There is something in the nature, the very
essense of male sexuality, which (given its druthers), would, at times,
bask in that sexual outlet to the exclusion of adult male-female coital
sex.

Why that is may be due to "perversion". Or it may simply be what the
ancient Greeks knew of Man - his propensity for self-love and
self-absorption. After all, sex with a "mini-me" is the ultimate "self
centered" sex, if you will. On the one hand, screwing a male tot is having
a sex toy, a cum receptacle, a little sex partner with whom one doesn't
have to concern oneself with "complex" matters. In a sense, as a group of
men ejaculate into a three-year-old boy, he's nothing more to them than one
of those plastic twats one buys at the XXX.

Yet, one the other hand and at the same time, its these men having sex, (as
close as their psychologies can allow them), with their own self. They're
often times "nurturing" and "loving" (yadayadayada) and giving what they
think a little guy wants and needs - things perhaps they wanted or longed
for or lacked in their own boyhoods.

If there is a sexual fascination with "twins", there is certainly a thread
of that in the sexual coupling of men and boys. And even more potently and
clearly in the sexual acts between a father and his own son. And that's why
married men and straight men and gay men alike, no matter their
circumstances, have been found to be fascinated with such sex (whether they
partake in it or not). Their wives or girlfriends are not "involved"; they
are not competition; they are no match for what these men are doing with
their sons and boys. It's a different place, deep within some men, that is
fed through such illicit sex. In a sense, no matter what they may do to
that boy sexually, what sort of sex they have with him - whether aggressive
or sweet - its these men having sex or trying to "bond" with a part of
themselves, and using that little guy as a conduit or tangible reflection
of their own self.

This third mini-collection of completely true tales relates more mall
sexcapades from the author's own actual childhood. But this time, since
some of you wrote to suggest that 'three tales at a time' were just too
much j/o material (I don't know if that's a compliment or not), in this
installment, there are only two. What's "interesting" about these two true
recollections though is that neither fellatio nor sodomy are involved.



Mr.gloryholeJUNKIE'S Tales From The Mall -3


Eden's Plaza, Wilmette, Illinois (Age 7, "The Spittoon")

It was summertime after the first grade, so I was seven and three months
old when my parents took me to spend an overnighter with my mother's
parents in Winnetka. My father's sister had been in some legal battle over
rights to a song she wrote and my parents wanted to be with her in court.

It was always a luxurious change of scenery to stay with my
grandparents. They had an incredibly huge home, a third-story loggia and an
aviary filled with exotic birds. At the time they were in their late
fifties, my grandfather still heading the company which owned a rather
famous bookstore on Michigan Avenue.

At the time, my parents had one housekeeper who would work from six in the
morning until six in the evening. And as such, my grandparents had two
maids who usually left by six in the evening, too. But they also had a
driver, a butler and cook (a married couple) who lived in the two coach
houses at the gated entry. I recall thinking, even when I was seven, 'Why
don't a bunch of coaches live in the coach houses?' (And now, at forty-one,
I, along with millions of other men, could not agree more!).

It was a last minute decision to have me stay with them and so they didn't
have anything planned for us to do on their "entertain the grandchild
agenda book". The first day, I ran around the green lawns and stuck my
finger into the beaks of various birds as my grandfather carefully showed
them to me. But then, like all little guys, I got bored. One understands
Princess Di's "boredom" with certain palatial riches. I mean, the Life
Force, especially of Youth, is bigger than some jumbo gilded dining room,
after all.

So by late afternoon my grandparents knew that we should all go out. They
figured we'd go to Eden's Plaza where my grandmother had, earlier in the
week, seen a sweater set she liked but had to think about. And then we'd go
out to dinner.

We got to the mall at about five in the evening. It was mid-week, so there
were the beginnings of a lot of regular after-work traffic at that time. We
parked and went into the Carson, Pirie, Scott department store.

For some reason, as we entered through the main glass doors, immediately my
grandmother and grandfather went separate ways. It was only five and they
never dined until seven, so we were in no real rush for whatever
reservations we had for the restaurant we went to later. Maybe it was just
my grandparents' independent ways, unable to shop with one another, that
had them part almost the minute we walked into the store.

"I'll be here looking", my grandmother said as she pointed and walked away.

My grandfather had me follow him as we headed directly to the men's room. I
was all excited because I loved men's rooms - was simply fascinated by
them. I loved to look at men's penises hanging out of their slacks as
they'd stand at the urinals. I loved doing that since as early as I can
recollect. I remember going to the Illinois State Fair with my family when
I was four-years-old and being in a sea of adult penises in one of the big
men's rooms. Men at state fairs don't care who they're showing their prize
bull meat to, after all. In fact, many men haunt state fairs just to wag
the meat at little guys!

So I had long been a t-room cruiser, even if just looking at what men had
in their pants.

My grandfather was a tall, trim, handsome man and very much the boss. You,
me, all his employees and half the state of Illinois (as well as I imagine,
some book publishers in NYC) did exactly what he told you to do. If he
hadn't been a captain in the US Air Force in WWII, he'd have made a great
SS officer in Berlin.

We went inside the men's room, which was quiet. I didn't know anyone else
was in there at first. My grandfather stepped up to a urinal and like most
big-dicked men, unzipped as he stood about two feet back from the
porcelain. I was, like, "Ohmygod! Look at my grandfather's huge penis with
the skin on it!" He was soft, of course, but hung several good, noticeable
inches.

His piss was like a steady stream of water coming out of him. Apparently
the man had to take a leak bad and that might have been another reason why
we so quickly separated from my grandmother. I stood looking at him, his
uncut penis just hanging there as he looked at me and asked, sort of
stated, "Don't you have to go?"

I shook my head and just watched him some more. He didn't act as though he
noticed that or cared or whoknows as he continued to relieve his bladder. I
wanted to die when his stream stopped because it meant exactly what he then
did. He tucked his big meat away and zipped up. He came to the sink I was
standing in front of and washed his hands.

We left the men's room. But that, oddly enough, is when it got
interesting. We left the men's room and he ran into a man who was shopping
in the department right next to it. Everyone knew my grandfather and my
grandfather knew everyone. And when you know such people who everyone knows
and who know everyone, it, like a palatial dining room, gets old. I stood
there a couple of minutes, being introduced to the man, a pleasant looking
businessman type in his late fifties. The two men talked and talked and
chortled as I stared all around, bored out of my seven-year-old skull. I
looked at the lights on the ceiling and some Sale sign and even at this
man's crotch, looking at the way a lump made a long bulge along the zipper
line.

When the man said, "Come here, they're right over there", my grandfather
turned and said to me, "I'll be right back, just going to say hello." I
then watched him walk only twenty feet away to greet a gray-haired woman
and two young college aged girls, the man's wife and daughters, no doubt. I
stood where I was left and watched them laugh and talk. I yawned as anyone
would. I looked around and there it was. The men's room sign...on the men's
room door.

The moment that I looked, and maybe it was his movement that first caught
my eye, I saw a man in his late-thirties wearing a suit enter the men's
room. I stood there a bit more and looked at my grandfather's back as he
went on and on with that family about godknowswhat. I then looked at the
men's room door again. It was just ten feet away. Even at seven, I knew,
somehow instinctively, that there was fun to be had in there but it was fun
that one had to be sneaky and secretive about.

So like a panther, a three-and-half-foot tall little white panther, I took
quick, quiet strides to my left and went back into the men's room. I saw
the man who had just entered standing at one of the three urinals. He
casually turned his head to look at me but then looked back at the wall
tiles in front of him. I noticed he was sort of nice looking, fit, wearing
a gray suit and had dark thick hair.

I couldn't tell you much about his face other than it was stern but
attractive. Usually adult men didn't scare me much at all really. But there
was something to his stance or demeanor that was, for whatever reason,
intimidating to me. I hesitated to use a urinal because of that so I
stopped short and instead pivoted to go into a stall. He must have noticed
my change of mind as we seemed to be the only two people in the place. His
head briefly turned as if wondering why such a little guy would suddenly go
into a stall.

I tried to take the closest stall but it was locked. Someone was in it,
which surprised me because it was so quiet and he must have been in there
even when my grandfather was with me. No one but the man at the urinals had
entered since. So I had to go into the only other one next to it along the
far wall.

I went inside and shut the door. I took some toilet paper and wiped the
seat before pulling down my pull-up elastic waist slacks. Although we were
going out to a casual dinner after shopping, nothing much was really all
that casual where my mother's side of the family was concerned. I had on
what was, ostensibly, to me at the time, basically my school uniform - only
in different colors. I recall that I had on a white dress shirt, gray pull
up slacks and a green, gray and white striped tie. It wasn't a clip on, I'd
be shot dead before someone in my family would buy me a clip on
tie. Instead, it was one of those pre-tied, always-tied ties.

It might sound funny but I always loved pulling down my pants around adult
men and especially in bathrooms. I was definitely one of those little kids
who, when I could reach a urinal, would pull down his pants almost all the
way to his shoes before peeing. It wasn't so much just that I liked pulling
down my pants around unzipped men - although I did - but it was also
because when you're four or five or even seven, often times you're "stuck"
in zipperless pull-up pants. And at those ages, you're constantly warned by
mom not to get them messy or anything on them. What's ironic about that is
how the same warning can mean such different things to different people. I
mean, as my mother would articulate the warning, she meant "grass, mud,
chocolate" - stuff like that. But even by age seven, I knew enough not to
roll down a hill eating a Hershey's bar while in good clothes. My take on
or concern for her warning was always that I might get urine or semen on my
clothes - even as a first-grader.

As I stood in the stall, I could see the left shoe of the man sitting in
the other stall. It was what looked to be an enormous dark brown
moccasin-type boat shoe. I had seen many men's shoes by the age of seven
and so, even now years later, I know that he must have worn a size 13 or
greater shoe. At the time, I didn't know what that might indicate but it
was a biggy.

Just as I pulled down my underpants and turned to sit on the commode, I saw
a figure standing outside my door. It was the man who had been standing at
the urinal. He peeped in but then pulled back when he saw me notice. He
walked away but didn't exit the men's room. I heard water running but that
was about it.

I hopped up onto the seat, my legs not reaching the floor. It was an
especially tall toilet for some reason. Didn't these stores know that even
little kids shopped with their mothers...and cruised the t-rooms?

The man next to me may have noticed my shoes as I stood or something but he
could not have possibly seen them as I sat there, the back of my shoes
hitting the lower part of the toilet. And yet he began tapping his giant
boat of a boat shoe.

At seven, I didn't quite know what all the tapping meant really but just
had a gut feeling it was something good. I watched him tap and tap as his
big foot came closer and closer to the partition divide. It was thrilling
to see this anonymous shoe apparently trying to communicate something to
me.

But then it stopped. I was crushed. I jumped off my commode and stood along
the partition and tapped my foot back at him. I may have even tapped both
feet, quite frankly. His shoe came closer and closer and then almost
sweetly, in an oddly paternal manner even, it lightly tapped itself atop my
little shoe and where my slacks were gathered. Without a word, he, or his
shoe rather, was clearly indicating that he recognized that he was
tap-communicating with just a little guy.

And yet he didn't do anything else. In fact I heard him stand up instead. I
looked upward along the partition and could actually see the top of his
head, just the very top. He was tall enough that I could see his salt and
pepper hair. But he had not risen for me. Instead I could hear and sense
some commotion in his stall. I looked under the partition and now saw his
giant shoes facing another pair of big black dress shoes.

Apparently, giant boat shoes man let the other men into his stall. I was so
frustrated! I was like stuck in my own stall while men played. I didn't
know tons about bathroom sex at that age but I knew two things: Men didn't
let other men into their stall normally. And if they did, it was for fun.

I wanted a piece of the "fun", too.

In retrospect, I was quite bold - especially for a seven-year-old - but,
without even pulling up my slacks, I opened my stall door and looked at
them where they stood in the other open stall. Neither looked all that
startled really. I mean, you might think two adult men playing with one
another's penises in a department store men's room stall might be shocked
to see a little fella observing their homosexual play but neither of these
men even flinched.

The man in the gray suit, still not really smiling or anything, turned his
body away so I had a better view of what they were doing. The giant boat
shoe man was very handsome, mid-forties and wore a Yacht club type polo
shirt with a crest emblem on it.

The men were playing with one another's simply enormous erections - let's
just say that their penises fit their shoes (or some such thing). They were
just standing semi-face to face, but now in an "el" shaped relationship as
to allow me to see better. Their penises looked big even within the grip of
each other's very big hands. I recall having a silly mini-epiphany at that
moment as to why maybe, very well-hung men especially enjoyed such fun with
one another: their boners were big and I figured therefore that men must
enjoy being in the grasp of another man's big hand.

And I also noticed that neither man was sucking the other. Even as a little
kid, I never understood how or why certain men didn't want or even like to
suck cock and yet would play with other penises and let other guys, even
little boys, suck theirs. But, like many other men I had played with, I
figured these two were apparently relatively straight men just playing
around some in the public toilets. They let me watch as they mutually
masturbated.

Then the big footed, yachts club man briefly asked, "You like these?"

I nodded as I watched him wag his huge uncut cock at me. "Wanna feel
them?", he then asked as he looked at the other man briefly with a "You
into perving on this kid, too?" sort of questioning look in his eye. He
seemed to be trying to make certain that the suited man was equally up to
being a co-conspirator in molesting a little boy in the washroom. The
suited man said nothing but instead he turned some more as to "offer" me
more space between them in order to feel them both if I wanted.

I was a little cock scamp by age seven and so I think they were both
surprised (finally) as I gripped both their boners best I could at the same
time. I lightly wrapped a little fist around each one. While I looked up at
them, they looked at one another with the most devilish glint in their
eyes. The man in the suit ever so gently ran his large hand atop my head as
I gingerly squeezed the two men's thick daddy penises. They were both uncut
and so thick that I'd have had to have used both my little hands on one to
get around a shaft completely. They stood there, quite rigidly (as well as
erect) letting this little kid play with their man-sized and aroused sex
organs.

The yachts club man had big nuts, like two plums, all dusted in darker salt
and pepper hairs. The other man just had his big shaft jutting out of the
zipper of his suit so I couldn't see his scrotum at all, although it made
for a big lower bulge within the fabric.

The two men took turns stroking the top of my head and down the back of it
to my neck - not unlike men petting a dog, quite frankly. It was at once
very "fatherly and loving" and yet at the same time, asserting some
authority over the "child servant" playing with their penises.

As I was all lost in playing with these men, their heads more than two feet
above me, the yachts club man said to me but still looking at the other
man, "Open your mouth, okay?"

I was seven and trained to listen to men. And I loved sucking their penises
so I opened my mouth wide. But instead of one of them putting his erection
into my mouth, as I expected, the yachts club man stood a little closer and
just beat off, near my open mouth but never putting his thick, big cock
into it. In a few seconds his knees spontaneously bent and he was
ejaculating - his long shaft sort of spitting daddymilk into my open
mouth. Because of its force and his slight distance, it felt like warm,
heavy shots from a water gun hitting my tongue and the back of my throat.

He was as casual as could be about what he was doing, just standing there,
looking at the other man as he blew seed into my mouth like he was out
watering his lawn.

And again, without even much looking at me, he said, "Stay like that...keep
it open."

With that, the suited man turned his hips to unload the same way. He aimed
his cock at my open mouth, still flooded in the other man's semen since I
didn't even a chance to swallow any. His load fired off like a stream of
piss, but it wasn't urine. It was all daddymilk. The yachts club man held
the back of my neck firmly in place as to hold my head steady while the
other man ejaculated into it. "Keep it open wide", he repeated. These men
either wanted to make certain I got every drop of their semen or that none
missed and got on my clothing as "evidence".

Thinking back, these two men were using me as their sperm spittoon, just
spitting their loads of adult reproductive batter into a child's mouth. It
made me wonder what these men may have been doing in their own homes with
their own sons, if they had any. They were just so casual about the whole
thing.

And I loved it - all that warm, no, hot, sperm pudding in my mouth. I was a
cumpig and knew what most thrilled me.

I then swallowed the mix of semen in my mouth as the two men watched. The
yachts club man smiled at me as he bent some to pull up his slacks. "You
like that stuff, don't you?"

I nodded and he patted my head briefly as he started to clasp his
slacks. "Good boy. Now get back to your own stall, okay?"

I looked up at them both, the yachts club man smiled but gestured with his
head for me to return to the other stall. The suited man didn't look at me
at all as he scooted past me and went over to the sink.

Pants still down, I returned to my stall and closed the door, all happy to
still have the taste of the two handsome men's daddymilk on my tongue.

I sat on the commode again, as a minute later I listened to both men at the
sink.  I could hear the yachts club man say in a very jolly tone, as he
washed his hands, "Well, that was fun. Who'd have expected that?", as if he
were only now realizing what they'd done.

And the suited man in a very deep, low, almost hush of a voice replied
(finally), "You fucking wonder where some kids come from, don't you?"

They laughed a little and the yachts club man said something to the effect,
"That's his parents' concern, not ours. He's done that before - see the way
he ate it all?" And again they shared excited, nervous laughter as one and
then the other exited the restroom.

Not more than a minute later, I heard the main door open and an
unmistakable voice ask, "Kevin? Kevin? You in here?"

It was my grandfather.

I said, "Yes, just a second."

And he said, "Oh, okay. I wondered where you went to. You okay?"

"Yeah, fine," I replied as I pulled up my pants and tucked in my shirt.

I exited the stall and saw my grandfather standing and waiting at a sink,
the same sink the two men had just used to wash their hands.

"I turned around and you were gone!", he said.

"Sorry", I replied, looking one last time to make sure no semen was on my
shirt or little tie. "I had to go."

"No need to apologize, son", he said. "You do what you want and that's
good." He stepped aside and let me wash my hands. And he said, "Let's go
find your grandmother. I'm starting to get hungry."

We found my grandmother with two sweaters in hand as she milled about the
Ladieswear department. And there, sitting on a chair outside the ladies
dressing rooms, was the yachts club man! He sat there, legs crossed, doing
a crossword puzzle. He glanced up and smiled at me but was as cool as a
cucumber (a huge, thick, hairy cucumber). He didn't budge or panic or
anything. I stood there as my grandparents discussed the sweaters.

And as I waited around, I saw a very pretty lady emerge from the dressing
rooms. She was a strikingly attractive brunette, tall and curvaceous in an
emerald green dress which she "modeled" for the yachts club man who put
down his crossword puzzle. "Looks beautiful," he said, "But you're
beautiful."

She said, "Well, then I think this is the one. We don't have time for me to
try on any others anyway...you know we have to pick up the kids at
six. It's the best one I tried on anyway, right?" She then returned to the
dressing rooms to change.

I looked at the man still seated in the large wing back chair and he looked
over to where my grandparents were talking. And then he looked directly at
me. He had his legs open and as if communicating something "dirty" to me,
he spread them wider and then even wider. Anyone looking, if anyone had
even been around, would have just thought he was stretching but I knew what
he was doing as he was bringing attention to the huge bulge in his light
beige slacks. He spit daddymilk from there into my mouth just minutes
before.

A few minutes later, what should have been - but oddly wasn't - an
extremely "awkward" moment, we all stepped up to the same register counter
at the same time. There was only one saleswoman on duty and so the
yachtsman and his wife had to wait as she rang up my grandmother's
purchases.

A third party looking at us all would have thought that neither party knew
one another in the slightest - which we didn't. Well, except for the tall
yachtsman, standing to the left of the striking brunette, who had shot his
sperm-loaded daddymilk, like a man spits tobacco into a spittoon, into the
little kid standing to the far right of an older couple.

Other than that, we were all just your typical suburban mall shoppers.


+ + + +


Ghirardelli Square, San Francisco, California (age 8, "Sweeter than
Chocolate")


When I was little, every Christmas (shopping) season, my mother would
arrange a trip to either Manhattan or San Francisco for just the two of
us. While my father would stay home working, we'd spend three nights in
either of those cities merely to enjoy the decorated department store
windows and to tackle last-minute gift lists. My mother always felt that
doors must be opened and the world enjoyed.  In that way, she truly was an
Auntie Mame (only on a tighter budget, I'd often joke). In fact, it's
because of her that I maintain the same tradition to this day. I'll be in
Rome at Christmas time with a well hung youth and always make thanks and a
toast to her joie de vive.

Its funny to think how many cocks and spermloads I have serviced in San
Francisco ever this encounter at eight years of age.

We arrived in the City by the Bay about ten days before Christmas and
stayed at the Mark Hopkins. And oddly enough (well, odd unless you knew my
mother), although, being located on Nob Hill, we never rode a cable car. My
mother would say that, "hopping a cable car like some hobo (yes, hoBo)
riding the rails is simply beneath any lady who wears heels" (and she
always wore heels).

Although we never got on a cable car at that time, she recognized that look
of mine - that look of disappointment in a little boy's eyes (the same look
which some men would see when I was told I couldn't eat their
daddymilk). And she'd try to buoy me up by saying, "We'll get much better
photographs of the cable cars if we're not on one."

And you know what? Today, as I look through old photo albums...she was
right.

The first morning we were there, we ate breakfast in the hotel's
restaurant, which was all festooned for the holidays. Then we took a taxi
to shop for Limoges at her favorite store, Gumps. As she shopped, I even
recall milling about looking at jade and "ivory" Buddas wondering why they
didn't show the fat man's penis. It would have made for much more
interesting sculpture if they showed some big fat uncut cock.

But, then again, that's why from little up, I had a "preference" for
Greco-Roman art.

Afterwards, it was decided that we would venture down to the wharves
(sounds hotter if you're not eight and with your mommy, of course). We
taxied to Ghirardelli Square, the old chocolate factory converted into a
mall. We'd shop some more and then have lunch in that area.

We skipped the token Ghirardelli chocolate shoppe, planning to buy some
sweets after lunch. Instead, I recall wandering around a maze of walkways
popping into this boutique store and then that boutique store. My mother
may have bought something small or nothing at all. She then asked, "Are you
getting hungry yet?" And the second that she did, she eyed something
through a glass panel of a door to a store behind me. It was a handwoven
wrap, if memory serves me.

"I have to go to the bathroom", I said, knowing this store would take her
at least thirty-minutes to peruse properly.

"Well, okay. But be careful", she replied. "I'll be in here so meet me back
here...nowhere else."

She went inside and I skedaddled out of sight. I didn't really have to go
pee, I just wanted to see and maybe suck some man's penis. It was after
noon already, after all.

I found the men's room. It was behind an old, dark wooden door. I opened it
and went inside.

It wasn't very big, at least the one I had found. Inside, at the one urinal
next to a white pedestal sink, stood a tall, trim, sandy-blonde-haired man
in blue jeans, a leather sheepskin trimmed jacket and a mustache.

And the only stall was occupied so I had no where to go.

Well, I could have exited - but what little cock slut is going to do that!?

So I hovered next to the sink waiting but the man at the single urinal
apparently wasn't in any rush. He stood close to his urinal so I couldn't
see anything but I also couldn't hear anything. Maybe he was peeing, but
then again, maybe he wasn't.

And whomever was in the toilet stall wasn't planning to leave at all -
'Perhaps not until the end of the day', I thought as I waited and waited.

As I stood at the sink, looking at its faucets and wide rim around the
basin, I saw several very thick, pearlescent globs of something on it. In
fact, as I had been absent-mindedly running my fingers around it, they had
gotten some of the milky fluid on them.

When I looked at my glossy fingers, the blonde man asked in a low tone,
"You know what it, don't you?"

I thought I did but shook my head. After all, why would that be here on a
sink?

The man stepped back just a bit from his urinal, letting me see his
horsecock of a penis. It was like a child's arm was coming out of his
button fly (whereas I am sure he was hoping one would go IN).

Without holding his shaft, he stood there, his arms at his sides, his huge
penis hanging freely, as he said, "Cum...you know what cum is?"

I nodded.

And he lifted an eyebrow just a bit as he asked, "You do?"

I nodded again.

"What is it then?", he challenged, the entire time just standing there,
slightly facing me where I stood - his horsedick hanging out of his jeans.

"Um", I replied, "Daddymilk, right?"

He chuckled to himself. "Daddymilk? Fuuuck, that's funny. Who taught you
that word?"

I just shrugged and asked, "Isn't it? Daddymilk, I mean cum? Isn't cum
daddymilk?"

"You got that right", the man said as he stepped a little closer, his penis
just a foot from where I stood at the sink. "And you got it all over your
fingers, you know that, right?"

I nodded and then did something that I think shocked him. I put my fingers
up to my lips and started licking the stray, unknown daddymilk off of them.

He spontaneously uttered, "Oh fuck...you ate it!"

He sounded all shocked but at the same time, he gripped his huge shaft and
gave it a few jerks. "You know what that stuff is, don't you? Makes
babies...men make it...??"

I nodded and lapped the rest of the gooey stuff off my fingers as he
watched.

"And you don't care?", he asked as he slowly milked his horsedick.

I shook my head.

"Oh, that's fucking hot", he said.

"Is it yours?", I asked.

"Fuck no", he said as he looked at my face. He then asked in an encouraging
tone, "You like the taste of cum?"

I again nodded.

"Yeeaaaaaah, cum is good, isn't it?", he said.

"Yeah", I replied.

Then he whispered, almost mouthed the words, "How old are you?"

"Eight", I answered.

"Fucking hot", he said as he masturbated in front of me. I reached out,
since he was just a foot away and he dropped his hand, letting me get a
feel of his monster cock. "Fuck, yeah...", he muttered as he watched my
small hand milk his huge slab of uncut cock - surely, my first feel of
real, genuine, AAA meat right out of the Castro.

He stood there letting this little kid pull on what had to have been one of
the most "popular penises" in all of homo Frisco. Then he did something
that shocked me. As I played with his erection which was veiny and meaty
and thick and as long as my forearm, he scooped more of the "seedy deposit"
some stranger had left behind from the sink and placed the goop up to my
lips. "Eat some more", he urged. And I opened my mouth, savoring the still
fresh, thick semen of someone in the San Francisco area - probably that of
someone still shopping around at Ghirardelli Square.

"That's fucking hot you like the stuff", he said as he fed me more until
the sink was clean of swimming spermies. Then he licked some off his
fingers as well. "Glad to see you love cum like I do."

When I heard a slight clunk, I looked and saw another man now standing
outside the one stall. He was dark haired, also had a mustache (as was the
rage in the early 70s) and his trousers were down to his ankles as he
masturbated. He had apparently heard us and had been watching, for at least
the last several seconds. He was about the same age as the blonde man, in
his late-thirties.

At that moment, another man came in causing the dark-haired man to jump
back into his stall and the mustachioed blonde to press back up to the
single urinal. I remained at the sink as this third man, a nice looking
although nondescript middle-age tourist, looked at me and then at the back
of the blonde man. It was as though he were trying to put two and two
together - like were we father and son? Was I waiting to use the urinal
next? Had we been "playing"? That sort of look. He then went to the one
stall, but finding it occupied came back to stand along the wall.

He pointed to the back of the blonde man's jacket and asked, "Are you next?
Are you waiting?"

I shook my head and he smiled, maybe happy to know he would be able to
relieve himself quicker - or that some little boy was just hanging out
looking at adult penises.

What surprised me was that, as he stood along the wall, he started to unzip
while he was ten or more feet away from a urinal, which was still
occupied. He didn't pull his cock out but his bright red underwear bulge,
came pouring out of his black slacks. He noticed me looking and, like any
graying dad in his late-forties, he just smiled and said, "I'm getting
ready...got to go bad."

The blonde haired man got the message and stepped away from the
urinal. Although he flushed, he didn't stuff his huge cock back into his
jeans. I don't think he could have had he tried. He side-stepped over to
the sink where I stood and sort of, no other way to say it, "pretended" to
be closing up his jeans. But his horsecock just hung there, now flaccid but
hanging out as it brushed along the sink.

The tourist dad didn't notice at first as he immediately snatched the
urinal and pulled his cock out of the red underwear. I was at such an angle
that I could easily see the meaty penis that had been making that big
bulge. He moaned a stage whisper of an "Ahhhhh, that feels good" and then
chuckled to himself as he peed.

Then, when he turned his head, he saw the mustachioed blonde man's dick
still hanging out of his fly. But instead of getting angry or annoyed, all
he said was, "Big schlong you got there, guy."

"Yeah", the blonde man said as he stood at the mirror looking at himself
and combing his hair.

The dad tourist finished peeing (I could see) but he continued standing at
the urinal. "You know there's a kid in here, don't you?", he asked in a
light-hearted tone of the blonde man.

"Yeah", the blonde man replied. "Little kid at that."

The tourist dad then pivoted his body, letting me see this thickening
penis. He smiled at me but then asked the blonde man, "We doing something
with him?"

"What do you mean?", the blonde-haired man asked as he turned around and
leaned against the sink, showing us all his huge horsecock. "Doin'
something?"

The tourist dad now looked all confused and yet quite bemused. "You know
you got your pants open there, right, guy?"

"Yeah", the mustachioed blonde replied casually.

"Is he your dad?", the tourist dad then asked me.

I shook my head and said, "My daddy's in Chicago."

The two men laughed and the tourist dad said, "Well, then this would not be
your daddy."

The blonde-haired man began to slowly masturbate, sort of like he was just
used to putting his horsecock on display for guys in public toilets. "So
its established nobody here is his daddy", he said.

"You know him?", the tourist dad asked me again.

And I shook my head again.

"Just met him", the blonde-haired man replied. "Fed him some cum off this
sink here."

The tourist dad's breathing clearly quickened as he heard that. "What?", he
asked as though he had not heard right yet if he had heard right, he wanted
to hear it again.

"Someone left some jizz on the sink", the blonde-haired man said.

"And you ate it?", the tourist dad asked me, as he started to masturbate
rather vigorously.

"He loved it", the blonde man said. "Ain't that right, kid? We both love
cum, don't we? And you ate up that entire puddle of the Unknown Cummer,
didn't you?"

I nodded.

The man at the urinal just muttered, "Oh my, oh my...Saint Terese, help me,
I'm going to cum..."

The blonde haired man grabbed me by the wrist, more out of rushed
enthusiasm than force, and pulled me over to the ejaculating man.

"Come on, come on...", the mustachioed blonde instructed as he forced my
two hands into a cup and placed them at the piss-slit of the tourist dad's
mushroom cockhead.

The dark-haired man had been listening and now, with his door open again,
he jerked off lewdly as he watched from outside his stall.

The blonde man then barked orders to the tourist dad, "Come on...do it, do
it...shoot that load...come on...shoot it...give the little kid what you
got...give him that cum...shoot that daddy seed...come on..."

Between listening to the licentious urging of this horsecocked pervert and
looking at some little boy with his two palms cupped to his cockhead,
awaiting his milky outflow, the man just lost it - he experienced an orgasm
probably more intense than he had since teenhood. His body was like shaking
and quivering as he expelled the daddymilk from his hairy scrotum. He stood
there shaking his head in disbelief over what he was doing as he
ejaculated. Oh yeah, he was quite nervous and amazed and in disbelief - yet
somehow he made sure he had perfect aim as he beat off into my little
handcup.

We all watched the middle-aged man's semen coat and fill my two palms. This
man needed to bust a nut! We all looked at the pearly sperm-goo, really a
daddy's milk, still alive and able to breed as it microscopically swam
across my hands.

"Come on, come on...", the mustachioed blonde man said to me with a huge
grin. "You know what you want to do with that good stuff...come on, show
us..."

And with that, as the tourist dad stuffed his penis back into his black
slacks, I lifted the sordid palm cup to my mouth and began licking up the
salty-sweet, very gooey-thick seed - fresh out of the man's scrotum.

"Oh my God", the tourist dad said with a delighted although shocked laugh
in his voice. "You really are eating it! My cum. Oh my, my, my! Do it, do
it, please, please...!", he said as he stared at this eight-year-old boy
slurping up his parental fluids.

And I complied (happily) letting the liquid DNA of this man pour into my
mouth as the blonde-haired man "helped" by guiding my cupped hands to my
mouth. "Drink it baby, drink it! Drink it all! You got it, babe!" He then
slid his right index finger through the white goo on my palms and ate some
himself. He looked at the tourist dad and said, most seriously, "We're all
eating your seed, man! Watch us all eat your seed, man!" He then waved over
the dark haired man who quickly hitched up his slacks a bit and came over.

"Get a scoop of this seed, man", the blonde-haired man ordered the
dark-haired man. And the dark-haired man took a fingerful of pearly-pudding
and put the goop into his mouth.

The tourist dad was clearly stunned and yet thrilled at the semen depravity
he was watching - and thanks to the contribution of his own semen!

"Three of us eating you, man, eating your fucking cum", the blonde-haired
man said, looking the tourist dad right in the eyes.

"You going to eat more?", the tourist dad asked me as he double-checked his
belt and zipper.

"Cup 'em, cup 'em", the blonde-haired man said as he again gripped my
wrists, making me cup my hands once again.

He then said to the dark-haired man, "Jack it into the kid's hands"

And as I stood there, palms cupped, both the blonde-haired man and the
dark-haired man stood on either side of me as they beat off their truly
huge cocks. They rather furiously stroked off as though they now were
fueled by something worthy of their orgasm or some such thing. They had a
mission and a purposeful use of their seed, I figured.

Within a minute of one another, each blew a load directly into my cupped
hands. On eor two blasts shot like streaks along my wrist and cuff, but
most of their combined scrotal-output flooded into my hands, filling them
quite full - more than you might expect. I'm not sure how many ounces of
semen came out of the two, or which shot more seed, but soon my cupped
palms were brimming in a mixed deposit from these two horsedicked
strangers.

"You going to drink all that, right?", the tourist dad asked as he watched
with this huge smile on his face.

"Sure he is", the blonde-haired man said with knowing confidence in my
cumpig ways - confident he knew a cumpig when he met a cumpig (even when
that cumpig was only eight).

I slurped up the slimy, gooey, milky fluids, which sloshed a bit, in my
cupped palms. The sound of the slurping alone was so sordid it had to have
given the men a second boner immediately. And as they watched me ingest
their collected daddymilk, the blonde-haired man was again stroking. He
bent down and took a big slurp of the goo himself (or a slurp of himself,
truth be told).

The dark-haired man then groped me lewdly through my slacks - thoroughly
feeling both my boner and the crack of my small butt through the material
before racing back to the stall.

"He live back there or something?", the tourist dad asked as we all watched
the man lock his door.

"Yeah", the blonde haired man joked as he tried to get his horsecock back
into the fly of his jeans. But he had to open them fully in order to
"arrange" his big sex organs properly. "He sucks all the tourists then goes
home, from what I know of him."

The tourist dad patted my head and said that it sure looked like I enjoyed
all that sperm. And then he left.

The blonde-haired man took me by my two little hands and asked if I wanted
to stay with him. "I can show you places, sneak you into a few. Have you
ever been to any of the theaters in the Tenderloin?"

I said no and told him I lived in Chicago but that my mom and I were on a
little shopping trip.

"No kidding?", he said. "I thought maybe your parents were divorced. So you
don't live here?"

I shook my head.

"Damn it", he said. "Can you figure out a way to stay with me a few days?
What do you think?"

As he let me openly squeeze the enormous, nearly obscene lump inside his
jeans, I desperately wanted to - but knew it would be impossible as I
replied, "I don't think so."

"Where are you and your mom staying? Maybe I can pick you up?" he
asked. "I'll get you all the cum you can drink, baby."

"Really?", I asked.

"Fuck yeah!", he replied. "You're in the fuckin' Cum Capitol, baby. Lots of
men will cum in you here. What do you say?"

"I dunno", I said.

"Come on, where you staying?", he pressed on.

"The Mark Hopkins", I answered.

"Fucking nice, real nice", he laughed. "What room? You and your mom got
different rooms?"

I nodded and told him my room number. "Fucking cool, baby", he said with a
huge white-toothed grin. He was damn good looking - and picking up an
eight-year-old in a public washroom.

"I'll call and bring you to some places I know real well", he said. "You
going to be around tonight? Your mom doesn't even have to know. I can pick
you up after eleven tonight. Say I'm your dad. What's your name?"

I told him and he said, "If asked, I'll tell the hotel I'm your dad...but
nobody asks anybody anything here in San Francisco."

I then left the restroom, afraid I'd been gone too long. My heart raced,
afraid that my mother might be angry or worried. Instead when I got back to
the shop I'd left her in, I found her still trying on clothes. The bell
jingled on the door of the shop as I went in and all she said was, "Oh, I'm
so sorry, honey! I have been taking so long! But they just have so many
pretty things here."

As my hands still reeked of three men's semen, there was my mom apologizing
to me!



END

Mr. gloryholeJUNKIE ghj_4u@yahoo.com
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/GHJ_MALL_OF_MALES

