---
title: 'The Lewd and Lascivious Widower Andersen'
---

### The Lewd and Lascivious Widower Andersen

Date: Sat, 15 Nov 2003 13:14:02 -0600
From: gloryhole JUNKIE <gloryhole_junkie@hotmail.com>
Subject: "The Lewd and Lascivious Mr. Andersen" Part 1

"The Lewd and Lascivious Widower Andersen"

By: Mr.gloryholeJUNKIE
gloryhole_junkie@hotmail.com


DISCLAIMER

The following is based in factual events, which occurred many years ago. In
deference to concise story-telling, certain license has been taken with some
of the details. The names have been changed to protect the
not-at-all-innocent. But rest-assured that none of the licentiousness of Mr.
Andersen's acts have been modified or particularly sanitized (since this is
a true, all-male-masturbatory tale, after all). His depraved sexual acts are
depicted as they really happened and in vivid detail. You have been warned.

Be of legal age and in a progressive locale before proceeding to unzip your
slacks with intent to read all the twisted, homosexually explicit and
lascivious activity which follows.

Unless you want your wife, kids, boss, roommate, girlfriend, parents or any
others who may otherwise barge in on you, please remember to lock your door
as you will masturbate and most likely to reach orgasm by the story's end.
Dispose of your ejaculated semen afterwards as you see fit.

Most importantly, never - ever - under any circumstances should the
following scenario be acted upon nor re-enacted by those so inspired to do
so. Enjoy your perversions...but don't be a jackass.

__________________________________________________________________



"The Lewd and Lascivious Widower Andersen"

By: Mr.gloryholeJUNKIE
gloryhole_junkie@hotmail.com



In an old Swedish-immigrant working class neighborhood on Chicago's
Northside, lived Mr. Andersen. At the time of these events, he had already
been a widower for nearly ten years. His wife, whom he'd first met when they
were both in the same sixth-grade class, had died of breast cancer just
prior to her forty-second birthday.

He had three children, all grown and scattered around the country. His
eldest, Erik, lived in North Carolina with his second wife and their four
kids. Mr. Andersen would visit them at least once a year when he'd fly down
for a month at a time to see them and to play golf.

His other children were twin daughters who had both stayed in Minnesota
after having attending college there. The girls, from little up, always
seemed to love the idea of one day living in the "Twin Cities". And so now
Pam resided with her new husband in Minneapolis while Penelope, already
divorced twice at age twenty-six, lived with two poodles in St. Paul. Mr.
Andersen only saw his strong-willed girls when they'd fly into Chicago
around the holidays or more rarely when one or the other would be in town on
business.

His youngest son, Jens, only just turned twenty, had moved to Los Angeles at
age eighteen. His blonde Scandinavian looks and sculpted physique had
already secured him two national television commercials. Mr. Andersen had
never quite realized just how well built his youngest son was until he once
saw him on television where two girls were spreading suntan lotion across
his pecs and abs.

Mr. Andersen lived in the same house that his grandparents had moved into
when they'd first immigrated to America from Stockholm in 1912. It was a
large simple wooden house, once a two-flat, long ago converted into a
single-dwelling house by his own parents when he was a boy.

The neighborhood was still basically made up of old Swedish and other
Scandinavian-descent families yet was thoroughly Chicago. Brawny Con-Ed
workers jackhammered along the curbs while young girls raced to catch busses
to their receptionist jobs in the Loop. A Starbucks anchored one end of a
block while a forth-generation Swedish bakery anchored another. It was a
place very much of the late eighties Chicago with an accent of turn of the
century Sweden.

At some time in the late sixties, the city had built a highway addition that
ran high along side Mr. Andersen's house, which as at the far end of Maple
Street. For decades there had been empty lots dividing his house from the
next block and the city decided that was the best spot to put the roadway.
The viaduct-like highway was built high above his residence which made it
easy for him to nearly forget it was there at all. In fact, the city had
built a retaining and soundproof wall which ran the length of this strip of
highway leaving the east side of Mr. Andersen's house quiet and always in
shadow with tremendous hidden privacy.

At fifty-two, Mr. Andersen, although a salt and pepper haired man was a
still a big strong lug of Swedish daddy beef. Six-foot four inches in
stature and a well-built two-hundred-ten pounds, he turned the heads of many
ladies in the neighborhood. He owned the old family meat market, known for
their fine smoked meats and knew that every lady across the counter from him
had that same look of flirtation in her eyes. In fact, he saw that same look
in the gazes of many young men would came in as they nearly blushed when
ordering large cuts of meat from him.

After his wife's death, friends tried to get him re-married to any number of
their widowed or divorced friends. He owned his own home and
well-established family business and seemed the sort who would want to
re-marry as soon as would meet social acceptability after the loss of his
wife.

But those expectations didn't come to fruition. Mr. Andersen, after a year
of mourning, seemed quite content to be the widower (or "the bachelor
again", as many of this old male friends joked with envy). He dated numerous
women that first year he was back on the social scene but none of the
relationships went anywhere. He was an old-fashioned sort of man who
insisted any new wife would have to move into the old large house along side
the highway. He was looking for a woman like his wife, who'd been like his
mother, who in turn had been like her mother. And by the nineteen eighties,
women he found attractive hardly wanted to don a meat market apron or spend
the mornings making cinnamon buns.

And so since his wife's pre-mature death, Mr. Andersen would close up the
meat market an hour later than in the past in order to narrow the gap
between work and sleep.

Despite his quiet, old-fashioned ways, he was a healthy man who found, in
those early months, sexual relief through increased masturbation. He'd come
home after a day at the market, strip down to his white boxers and tee-shirt
then make himself a large sandwich of smoked beef and pour himself a spicy
apple iced tea. As he'd eat, his hand would openly grope his large basket as
he stared at the television set. His boner would grow thick, as he'd flip
through channels and land upon some jiggle-TV program...although he also had
to admit that certain very young men in sit-coms also caused his eyes and
hand to linger in sexual amusement.

It was about two years after his wife had died that his sexual horizons
expanded a bit in a way common to many men, especially among straight,
divorced or, like himself, widowed men. He'd gone to his regular Swedish
Men's Alliance club, which he did once or twice a week. It was simple store
front converted into a space for men of Swedish heritage to gather, have a
drink, play cards, shoot the breeze and keep up on Scandinavian-events
around the city. Some nights would find the place busy, mostly with men his
own age and older. Other nights only a handful of other men might drop in
for an hour or so - most of them to get away from their wives for a while.

It was on an evening such as the latter that Mr. Andersen had first heard of
the "Bijou". It was a lonely evening for him, nothing was on television and
so he slipped his slacks on again after eating dinner and walked several
blocks to the Swedish Men's Alliance. Inside were four men he'd known for
many years although none extremely well. A small color television set was
tuned to some sit-com or another as the men sat around a long serving-card
table as two of them played a casual game of War.

Mr. Andersen greeted them as he poured himself a beer from the bar.  "Sit
with us...quiet tonight", one of the men, named George, said to him.

"Yes it is", Mr. Andersen replied as he grabbed a folding chair and placed
it near the table. "Even the streets seem empty this evening."

For an hour or so the five men chatted about nothing. Then two of them stood
up and announced their good-nights. "If I'm not in by nine", one stated with
a smile. "My wife lets me sleep with the cat on the fire escape."

The two men exited, leaving Mr. Anderson alone with George and another man
by the name of Lars.

There was a silence among them as they all seemed to know they were each
avoiding something back at home. For Mr. Andersen, it was the loneliness.
For George it was the fact his moody sixty year old wife was a notorious
bitch. And for Lars, it was an opportunity to get some male solitude from
the house of women he lived in since his adult daughter had moved back into
the family home with her two young daughters.

Up on the t.v. screen a nighttime soap began and around a Texas swimming
pool sat a bosomy young blonde in a small bikini.

"Look at that", George said with a smile. "Wouldn't mind pumping something
like that."

The men chuckled nervously realizing none of them would ever have the
opportunity for such a conquest.

Then two well-built actors appeared on screen, each in swim suits and began
to argue with the stacked blonde.

"Hell, there are nights even one of those would feel awfully good, too" Lars
mumbled in a thick Swedish accent as the three men watched one of the
actor's tight butt cheeks clench as he bent over to pull the blonde up to
her feet.

"You can get that at the Bijou", George chuckled to Lars. "Plenty of those
there. Right?"

Lars laughed uncomfortably, knowing they were each making a sinful and
shameful admission.

"What is the Bijou?" Mr. Andersen asked innocently.

"When you don't get the girls, it's a place where men can still get relief",
George carefully tried to explain. "If you understand what I mean."

Mr. Andersen furrowed his brow yet grinned. "No, I don't think I do."

"Let me ask you", George went on. "You are widowed now almost two years,
right?"

"Yes", Mr. Andersen replied. "Two years next month."

"God bless her soul", George added. "But you know you have needs...every man
needs a hot screw, right?"

Mr. Andersen laughed nervously, at once embarrassed yet at the same time
finding the conversation more intriguing than it had been all evening.

Lars stared at the t.v. set, listening to the conversation carefully yet
seemingly embarrassed by the exposing direction it had taken.

"And let's face it, we don't all get the hot tail like that up there",
George stated pointing to the jiggling boobie blonde on screen.

"No...no we don't", Mr. Andersen admitted freely, knowing most men never get
into the panties of such a beautiful young girl.

"And here even you say that", George said, "And you being the best looking
man in our age group, right?"

Mr. Andersen waved him off with a blush.

"Well, you are," George stated, "The neighborhood knows that much. So even
you can't get what's up there. Got to be like those rich men in Malibu - and
that's not around here."

"I guess not", Mr. Andersen replied. Then he added with a laugh, "I know
not!"

"So you have to admit lots of us like me and Lars and lots of other married
men and all got to find the fun in other places, right?"

"Well" if you like fun outside of your marital bed, I suppose so", Mr.
Andersen said more seriously. "I never cheated on Beatrice in over twenty
years of being married."

"Well, many of us do...", George said, "Not cheat but just have needs our
wives damn refuse to fulfill."

"Isn't that the truth", Lars piped in upon hearing that. "Does my wife think
once a month is all I need? I tell you it is not."

"So anyway, the Bijou is down on Wells Street and although its all
homosexuals there, they take care of any man who goes in...they're not all
homosexuals who go there, you know."

Mr. Andersen had never heard or thought of such a thing. He took a long sip
of his beer as he searched for what to say.

"It's just a play space to get what we men need...so what if it's down the
throats of those homosexuals there." George stated. "Its nothing fag to blow
a wad down a throat...they're the ones doing the fag thing swallowing the
stuff, you know."

"I guess", Mr. Andersen said skeptically. "So you both go there? I mean you
each do that? Go there? And what happens?"

Lars chimed in again. "Like a night like this whenever I feel a need I'll go
out and take bus to there and go in. One is well satisfied in an hour,
sometimes less there and I am still home before nine o'clock."

"Or I'll go", George said, "When Broomhilda, the wife and get into a row,
and spend a Saturday afternoon there. Why should I stew all day because
she's a shrew when I know I can find all the relief I need at the Bijou?"

"But they're fellows? The people doing your...thing...your dick?", Mr.
Andersen stated to again clarify what it was they were discussing.

"Yeah", Lars said, "But that do not matter any. They serve you...they want
to suck and eat your cum."

"And you can fuck them", George said, "Cum up the butts of some of them.
Even seen some get fucked by every man in the place...even us old guys."

The three men all laughed nervously, a mix of embarrassment and knowing each
was beginning to become aroused by the discussion.

"Hell, and some of them are just young boys", Lars said with a whisper. "No
more than in college and they want to suck men our age."

"That's right", George added, "Tell me where else college kids want to suck
off ten men our age? But there they do it all day long."

Looking at Mr. Andersen, George knew they'd explained things enough for one
night. "Well, it is a place to keep in mind ...to remember...when you might
have a night it is hard for you to go to sleep. Its better to unload in a
warm hole than to fill tissues forever with your seed."

With that, Mr. Andersen took a final swig of his beer. In the many years
he'd been coming to the Swedish Men's Alliance, he had never before had such
a conversation with anyone. He wondered how many of his Swedish brethren
might also have taken Lars and George's advice for sexual satisfaction?!

He stood up and said goodnight to the two men. His crotch was big with the
mild erection that had started upon hearing of such sexual antics.

Both men noticed Mr. Andersen's thick crotch and George jested, "It's open
24 hours a day...just in case."

Mr. Andersen laughed and said he didn't think he'd be using those kinds of
services but to each his own.

He left and although it was cold outside, his flesh felt hot in a mix of
mild intoxication and sexual arousal.  He headed home immediately, headed
into the bathroom where, once pissing, continued to stand at the commode and
milked himself.  He hadn't done that since he once masturbated at a urinal
at a golf course in North Carolina on a visit to see his son and his family.
It felt erotically sexy to stand in a tiled space shooting seed into the
toilet water. He watched and was impressed by his own seminal output.

He stripped and slipped into the bed. The following morning, he was at the
market by six in the morning and put in a long workday. His mind would
wander to thoughts of what Lars and George had said trying to grasp the idea
of so many married and straight men using such a place for their sexual
relief. Perhaps that was the secret as to how many married and divorced men
survived sexually.

That evening, he closed up and began to walk back to the house when he was
suddenly struck with the impulse to see what this Bijou looked like. Clearly
he had sexual needs like any other man and if other men like he openly
admitted to using such a place for secretive sexual release, why shouldn't
he?

He went to the nearest corner and waited for a bus that would take him down
to Wells Street. His heart beat in anticipation although for exactly what he
was unsure. Seemingly, based on the confessions of both Lars and George,
some queer or another in that place might give him oral sex. Although Mr.
Andersen had never had sex with another man in his life, his need for a wet
mouth on his erection outweighed his sexual identity at the moment.

He got off the bus as it approached the building and then had a pang of
tremendous guilt. But he continued walking toward the Bijou's sign.

And it was there, that first visit to such a place, that Mr. Andersen's
sexual world as a widower not only opened up but also exploded. He was no
sooner in the theater, which was showing a very hardcore gay film, when he
felt the gropes of two men at his crotch. Before his eyes could even adjust
to the dark, his jeans were unzipped, his thick, uncut nine-inch erection
was out, along with his large heavy scrotum, with two men taking turns
sucking it. As his eyes adjusted slowly it became clear that another five
men were masturbating as they watched him get head. As he looked about he
saw a theater filled with men and at least another ten or so them being
serviced in a similar manner.

And he was hooked. That first visit, he astounded even himself, as he'd had
intercourse with no one other than his wife prior, and yet here proceeded to
copulate with fifteen mouths - mouths of other males. Never in his life had
he ever done such a thing. But it all came so easily and openly there. No
pressure; simply men wanting to feel his muscles, suck his penis and swallow
his semen.

When he left after three hours, Mr. Andersen found himself confused yet
oddly delighted as he walked back to the bus stop. He was shocked by his own
newly found sexual depravity...and the fact that the best sex he'd ever
experienced had been in the hands and mouths of other men. No sooner did he
get home than he had to jerk yet another wad of his cum into the toilet bowl
simply recalling the orgasms in mouths he'd just experienced. Four cumloads
in as many hours - not bad for a widower in his mid forties.

After that, Mr. Andersen found fewer and fewer reasons to even date women.
He didn't want to remarry and hated to lead anyone on, especially the pretty
though desperate widows and divorcees who passed his way.

And he could get as much sex as he needed just by popping into the Bijou on
occasion. There were always endless numbers of men there ready to sexually
service him the moment he walked through the door. For a middle-aged man, he
left the place each time literally drained. He'd chuckle to himself that he
had more sex than a porn star - one just had to accept the fact that the
hands and mouths at the belt buckle were those of homosexuals. He had to
admit they might be queer but they sure knew their way down to a man's nuts.

One night at the Bijou a few years later, Mr. Andersen was in a dark
gloryhole booth feeding his erection to three different unseen mouths when
one of his cocksuckers asked him to come into his booth. Mr. Andersen zipped
up and went around to the other side, slipping into that cocksucker's booth.
Inside was an extremely young man, obviously a good thirty-years his junior.
He unzipped his slacks and fed the eighteen year old boy his fat cock once
again.

Through the other gloryholes, men watched and egged him on, "Yeah daddy,
fuck his little boy mouth...put that big thing down your son's throat", some
anonymous voice from the left whispered.

A voice from the right echoed the sentiments, "Feed him your babybatter,
pops...blow seed into the kid...look how hungry that slut kid is for you nut
bust, dad!"

The idea of a son sucking his dad is something Mr. Andersen had never given
much thought to. Having frequented the Bijou many times now, he had, of
course seen the theme played out in numerous homosexual films on screen -
although none had run all that true to his ears.

Having been a father to young sons himself, he realized the sexual dynamic
of a father plowing his own son's tender throat was far more licentious and
depraved than any luke warm scene played out monotonously between porn
actors of the same generation.

As he ejaculated down the throat of this young gloryhole pseudo-son, Mr.
Andersen's mind flashed, quite spontaneously to flights of fantasy of
feeding his own sons, Erik and Jens as children. What would that have been
like? To have screwed his own sons throats when they were being raised in
his care? As he stood there blowing milk down this unknown lad's throat, his
eyes were glued shut as images of actually ejaculating into one of his own
son's mouths flooded his mind. He realized such anonymous cocksucking boys
at the Bijou were surrogate sons for many fathers wishing to ejaculate into
their own sons.

As his nuts were drained of parental milk, he eased out of the cocksucker's
slutty mouth and out of the images of incest with his own son. After all,
both Erik and Jens were now grown men and the images were of them as little
boys sucking and gulping down their father's thick penis and semen.

Mr. Andersen zipped up his slacks as he watched the young gloryhole cum slut
move back to one of the holes and continue his sucking for stranger milk. He
chuckled to himself as he wondered how and when this eighteen-year-old whore
boy must have began sucking off men as to be so depraved and so good while
still in his teens. He even wondered if the boy who had just sucked him had
perhaps begun at his own father's crotch.

Mr. Andersen slipped out of the boy's booth, allowing another man to slip in
- making him really wonder just how many other men would find their relief
in this same boy's belly this evening.

And so it began that Mr. Andersen's sexual thoughts began to shift further
and further away from his wife or any jiggly bimbo on t.v. or any of the
ladies showing cleavage in his meat market. In fact, although he found
certain women certainly attractive, as he approached fifty, he realized he
was vastly more aroused, and in an intense way for burgeoning thoughts which
he'd never allowed himself before. His sexual desires although still never
including a desire to actually perform sex acts on another male were
definitely moving toward the surrender of his body to cocksucking males.

It was at the Bijou that he realized how wildly fulfilling it is for a man
to have the hands and mouths of many other men on his body. He had to admit,
as did most of the other married, straight, divorced or widowed men who
frequented the place, that such debauched sultan-like sex was available
nowhere else for such men but amid the hungry groping of other men. He'd
stand in the orgy caged area, allowing numerous men to milk and suck on his
heavy erection and then spray his semen upon any mouth with a tongue
wagging. Mr. Andersen had found sexual heaven; living out his sexual
debauchery as only other men understand and allow.

And he would himself think more and more about his sons, as boys, feeling
their daddy's sex organs. In fact, there were times now that he wanted to
kick himself in the head for never having these thoughts when his sons were
boys.  It could have been so much fun, he'd think to himself as he'd
masturbate.

Images of his sons at young ages swallowing his sperm now triggered Mr.
Andersen's climaxes during masturbation. Even when screwing one of the many
mouths at the Bijou, he'd occasionally close his eyes and shoot sperm into
it as he pretended it may have been his own son's mouth or any other man's
son's mouth swallowing his milk.

A few months after this revelation had struck him, he was at the Bijou one
night when a man slipped into a booth with him. He'd seen the man in the
cell area being serviced by four men hungry for his physique. Soon they both
started feeding the queers their dicks and decided to slip into a booth for
some buddy-handjob play. It was an excuse for each to take a little breather
from the hungry mob.

The other man was roughly his same age and for some reason asked Mr.
Andersen what he really got into - sexually. He posed the question as if no
one in the world would ever find out.

Mr. Andersen hemmed and hawed a bit explaining he'd been married twenty
years and was widowed...

The man grinned and interrupted that he was married for thirty years and got
off on showing his grandson his cock.

Mr. Andersen was at once shocked and sexually delighted. He'd never heard a
man ever admit to such a thing - the very thing he'd been day dreaming about
for months now.

This man told him how he'd gotten his sons sucking him from little up and
now played around with his littlest grandson.

The two of them masturbated one another as they spoke. "You put this big
thing in him?", Mr. Andersen asked, wondering if the man was serious.

"Sure did...and do.", the man muttered. He then stroked the thick, long
length of Mr. Andersen's impressive cock and said. "And would love to see
this at his lips too."

Mr. Andersen felt a wash of heat course over him as he nervously laughed.

"I'm serious...always looking for more to feed him...", the man said in
earnest. "I live in Winnetka...but the grandkid's only two miles from
here...it'd be easy...you interested?"

"I don't know", Mr. Andersen sputtered out. He was aroused as his new
fantasy was on the verge of becoming reality...but could he trust this man?

"Totally on the up and up...". The man reassured him. "I know its not normal
but you wouldn't be the first...had a few join me in his feeding since he's
been born...COME ON!"

The man started to button his shirt and pull up his slacks. "We can be there
in ten minutes. My daughter and her husband are out for the evening. I'll
send the babysitter home...'done it before".

Without thinking further, Mr. Andersen also pulled up his slacks and
arranged his shirt. He didn't know what to think - he wasn't thinking --  as
he followed the man out of the booth, down the spiral stairs, through the
theater and out into the street.

"My car's just around the block", the man said with a grin. "We'll be there
in five minutes."

They walked briskly to a side street, and climbed into the man's BMW. "I
love seeing other big daddy dicks at his lips...we'll feed him good." He
pulled out and drove no more than two miles where he re-parked in front of a
luxury apartment high rise.

Nervously Mr. Andersen slightly trailed the big man as he made his way in,
saying hello to the doorman.

"I have a key to my daughter's place so this is always easy.". The two men
rode the elevator up to the twenty-third floor and got out, the entire while
the man kept looking at Mr. Andersen with a grin.

He knocked on the door as not to frighten the babysitter and then put the
key in the door.

In the entry, about to unlock the door, stood a young junior high school
aged girl. She was startled but then clearly recognized the man.

"Oh...hi...hi Mr. Madley", she said with some relief.

Obviously they knew one another as he said, "Sorry if we scared you,
Christine...its not that late yet though."

"Oh, I know", the girl said, apparently not amazed to see him barge in. "Mr.
and Mrs. Jennings...your daughter I mean...they aren't suppose to be back
for like another five hours or something...they said about 2 a.m....."

"Oh, I know", Mr. Madley said with a smile as he walked me into the living.

"Alex is asleep...", Christine said. "I gave him his 7 o'clock bottle and
he's been asleep for about a half hour..."

"Good...good...", Mr. Madley said as he pulled out his wallet and handed the
girl two fifty dollar bills. "I'm here so you can head on home..."

The girl seemed used to the transaction but stated, "Mr. Madley...this is
way too much money. I only get eight-dollars an hour you know."

"Oh, I know, I know", he smiled. "But I have some work I have to get done
with my work associate here so you head on home...everything will be fine."

"Well, okay", the girl said happily handling the money. "He was last changed
before I tucked him in...and you know where everything is I guess."

"Say hello to your parents, Christine", Mr. Madley said as he walked her
back to the front door and let her out.

As he dead bolted and chained the door behind her, he turned and grinned.
Whispering, he said, "She just lives on the thirty-fifth floor so she'll be
fine." He then groped himself openly. "You want a drink?", he asked Mr.
Andersen.

"Maybe just some water...is this okay?", Mr. Andersen replied.

"Perfectly...done this a number of times...", Mr. Madley said as he poured a
glass of water in the kitchen. "Anytime I find a fellow ped feeder, that
is."

He handed Mr. Andersen the glass and watched him drink. "Don't be
nervous...you're not the first by a long shot whose been here for feeding
time. Let's go meet my grandson."

Softly the two middle-aged men walked down a dimly lit hallway. "He's sound
asleep", Mr. Madley said with a thrill in his hushed voice.

He slowly opened the door and Mr. Andersen could see a mobile above a crib.
He couldn't believe what this grandfather was inviting him to do.

Mr. Madley turned to Mr. Andersen, reached and groped his erection right
through his slacks. "He already sucks like a pro...and loves the daddy
milk."

As each unzipped their slacks, the men entered the tot's bedroom and shut
the door behind them.


Two hours later, in a great mood and greatly satisfied, Mr. Madley walked
Mr. Andersen out to the street. He pointed to where the bus stop was. And
with an added wink told him that he wanted to have him over again since Alex
seemed to take to him real well.

Mr. Andersen rode the bus north, the entire while rather shell-shocked by
what he and Mr. Madley had done to little Alex. Yet he'd done it and most
willingly. He shook his head as he stared out into the night. His gaze would
alternate between the passing businesses and his own reflection in the bus
window. How could he have done such a depraved thing? How could that
grandfather do such a thing? And how could a grandfather invite strange men
to do such a thing?  A chilling shiver overcame him yet his cock was
becoming erect again as he sat there. He looked over and saw a boy, of no
more than three, on his knees squirming in his seat as he rode along side
his mother - his little backside high in air for any strange man to behold.
Mr. Andersen was startled by how badly he wanted to screw that little butt
which would fit into the palm of any man's hand. The boy wagged his tail as
if inviting men to get in line behind him, pull down his little pants and
plow him to the gills with mancock.

Fortunate for the boy, the next stop would be Mr. Andersen's. He rose and as
he did the little boy looked over at him. His mother was reading a magazine
and failed to notice what the boy surely noticed. The little boy's eyes
widened like saucers as they stared at where Mr. Andersen's huge erection
tented his slacks. It was only a moment, a flash of his tent as he then hid
it quickly but the knowledge that this little boy - a total stranger to him
-- saw a man's erection, even though only through his slacks; an image that
would stay with the tyke forever.

He exited the bus and walked quickly the two blocks back to his house.
Again, even after all the sex play at the Bijou and the two loads he'd added
to Alex's feeding (along with the tot's grandfather's load), Mr. Andersen
had to jerk off in the bathroom as soon as he got in. He stared at himself
in the mirror as he masturbated into the sink. When he shot his semen, he
cupped his palm as to catch it. He looked at all the warm pearly liquid and
thought of the tiny throat that had done its darndest to gulp that same
stuff down earlier.

So we return to the cold back-to-school week when Mr. Anderson was
fifty-two. It was only the first week of the new school year in Chicago yet
already there had been a freakish arctic blast, which passed through the
city. The early September days that followed despite alternating between
sunny and stormy, carried with them a chill, which could never quite warm
enough to allow snow left in shadows to melt.

A violent snowstorm left ice and snow along shadowed sides of buildings and
streets. Although on days it grew warm enough to wear sweatshirts, summer
had been clearly buried which made the neighborhood quieter and the hidden,
dark side of Mr. Andersen's house all the more remote and private.

Whereas a handful of more fearless city kids, always boys, would
occasionally cross through his property following the soundproof wall along
side his house in order to get to school, for the most part Fall and Winter
assured total privacy at 125 Maple Street.

And it was one morning as Mr. Andersen was taking a shower that he got a
great...and perverted...idea. The bathroom was on the first floor and just
outside the window was an air conditioning unit that he had installed in the
seventies. Since it was the end of a block and had nothing but a view of the
highway soundproof wall, it never quite occurred to him to worry about
anyone ever passing, let alone peeping into his house.

That was until he slid the floral shower curtain back at seven-thirty this
one cold school day morning. Mr. Andersen's big handsome fifty-two year old
frame stood there, dripping water, as a flash of movement outside the tall
old window caught his attention.

At first he thought it was a bird or perhaps a squirrel he's spotted. But
then it happened again. He wrapped a towel around his waist and stepped out
of the tub and over to the curtainless window. He got there just in time to
see two small boys fleeing the scene.

In all the years he'd lived there, he'd never been aware of anyone ever
peeping in. Or...well...he didn't know what they were doing.

He went to work and that evening came home and watched television.

The following morning, also a school day, he again climbed into the shower.
But this time he left the shower curtain open half way. If it should return,
he wanted to catch sight of whatever it actually was he'd glimpsed the
previous morning.

He turned on the water and began to soap up. He wondered if it had been a
bird and the boys were just racing to school cutting along side his
house...or could they have been..?

No sooner did his cock begin to thicken with that last notion than
peripherally he noticed two small heads peeping in through the bathroom
window. But he was smart; he paid them no attention. He doubted the little
boys would realize the shower curtain purposely allowed them a better view
in than the day before.

To be continued...
Mr.gloryholeJUNKIE
gloryhole_junkie@hotmail.com
