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Big Tits

Subject: The Zachary Series — Third Installment: “Dressing Zachary” I really appreciate everyone who reaches out to encourage me to write more in this series–I love hearing from you. Here is the third installment of what I hope to be more stories about Jason and Zachary, so please don’t be shy–let me know what you think. As I said before, everything in this story is 100 million percent fiction and never happened and never will. All of these take place solely in my imagination and not reality. If you think you’ll be offended by this, you will. So, stop reading. “Why come it’s not the fun kind?” I look up from the blinking cursor of my phone to find Zachary standing defiantly, arms crossed fiercely. The look would be vaguely challenging if it weren’t undercut by the ridiculousness of him being completely and totally naked. It is all I can do not to laugh–I know how he hates that. My stifled chortle becomes a grin. I walk over, lean down, kiss the top of his unruly brown hair, and ask, “What do you mean the fun kind? It’s just underwear.” “This,” he says, holding the pair of white Jockey briefs inches from my face. He has to almost stand on his tip toes to do it, but he’s clearly letting me know that he’s not happy with my choice of clothes for the first day of school. “These are NOT the fun kind,” he half-whines. “I want the dinosaur one. Or Paw Patrol. Anything fun. Something other than just…white.” “OK, little guy, I hear you. I hear you.” I bend down and get on one knee as I wrap my hand around his shoulder and draw his naked body into my makeshift kneeling lap. Recognizing the gesture, he sits his bare bottom on my knee and pooches his lip. “I know you like the fun kinds of underwear, but this is what big boys wear to school. And you’re a big boy now, right?” He shrugs, looks at his toes, then raises his head to nod slightly. “Yeah, you are,” I say patting the naked, smooth skin of his thigh. “And so, this is the kind you wear to school. Don’t worry, we can still wear the fun kind at home and when we go other places.” The little boy looks at me suspiciously, his eyes narrowing. “Are you for sure these are the kind big boys wear? Like absolutely positive?” I lightly pat his bottom, encouraging him to stand. When he does, I also straighten. “See,” I say, pulling the waistband of my khaki trousers out enough to reveal a half inch of the waistband of my Jockey briefs. “I’m wearing the same thing to school today. We are both big boys, aren’t we?” The little boy smiles and reaches out and traces the sharp edges of the waistband of my underwear, then holds his own up to examine if they are the same. “OK,” he concludes with a sigh. “I guess they’re OK.” I chuckle. Grabbing Zachary under his arms, I lift him until he is standing on his bed. Giggling, he bounces his knees to imperceptibly shake the mattress. He knows he is not allowed to jump on it, but he likes to see how much he can get away with. I frown at the little squeaks coming from the bed and lightly smack him on the bottom. “Naughty boy,” I whisper. His lips curl into a straight line until he sees my scowl break into a smile, and then he’s smiling too, those eyes sunbright and flickering. “Now. Let’s get you dressed, big boy.” I love dressing Zachary. It’s weird. I never thought clothes mattered all that much to me. And truth be told, when it’s my clothes, I am not at all picky. Most boys my age care about their appearance a lot, and I think I just missed that somehow. But I am absolutely obsessed with Zachie’s appearance. I want him adorable. And clothes are a big part of that for me. We go shopping a lot. Patrick gives me an ample budget to buy pretty much anything he needs, and I love to take Zachary into the stores with me to find all sorts of outfits–we karşıyaka escort start with cute underwear and layer from there: fun shirts, sockies, all kinds of jeans and shorts, overalls, caps, whatever makes him look the cutest. And we carry those mountain of clothes into the changing room where I tirelessly dress and undress him in whatever we’ve found. I can’t get enough of it. And, for a boy Zach’s age, his tolerance for such clothes shenanigans is pretty high. Occasionally, he will tap out, and be done with the experience, but I think he enjoys seeing how much I enjoy dressing him–especially when I step back and tell him he’s the cutest boy on the planet. Then his infectious smile is at full beam. Today is an important day for both of us, our first day of school. Zachary will be meeting all sorts of new kids and teachers, and I want him to make a good impression. I’ve picked out his most colorful polo shirt, which I put on him as he “superboys” with both arms up. I smooth out the crinkles in it and make sure it’s sitting right on his shoulders. “Stand still, champ,” I say, taking a step back and looking at him. He is absolutely adorable, naked except for this polo shirt, the hem of which ends right at his scalding white pubis. Zachary’s eyes are on me, but his hands are pulling slightly and lightly at his little penis, almost thoughtlessly. I wish I could send him out into the world like this, like Winnie the Pooh, all shirt and nothing else. Someone would have to be blind not to appreciate him dressed like this. The underwear is next. Two little hands on each of my shoulders steady him as he steps in one leg and then the other. I take my time tracing them up his little legs, over his bony knees, and finally his sturdy thighs as the fabric fills to fit their shape. I turn him slightly, so I can watch the thin, white cotton caress the velvet beauty of the boy’s sweet little bottom, patting it for good measure before turning him around and tucking his little Petey in the pouch. I rest my hands on either side of his hips and kiss his nose. Though I prefer the shirt and nothing else, I got to admit that he’s still as cute as a button in a shirt and undies–his play clothes in the summer. “Wanna know a trick,” I ask? The boy nods eagerly and watches my fingers intently, tongue slightly out, as I reach into the pocketed fly of his little undies and gently grab his circumcised penis with my thumb and forefinger. His searching eyes leave my hands and rise to meet my face. I smile reassuringly and gently pull out the boy’s penis. It hangs limply outside the fly. “See how I did that? This is how big boys at school go peepee,” I explain. “That way you don’t have to mess with all the buttons and zippers and pulling everything down to the floor. You just pull Petey out and when you’re done,” I gently push the boy’s penis back inside the soft, white cotton, “he’s all put away again. Think you can do that?” He nods slightly and, in a sudden movement, reaches around and hugs me tightly. Wordlessly, I slip one arm around his back and let my other hand rub circles on his cotton covered bottom, patting gently. “Good boy,” I whisper in his ear. “Good boy.” Zachary jumps down to the floor and leans back against the bed as we wrestle on his fashionable jeans. I pull them around his slim hips and fasten the button and work the zipper up. Then, the sockies on each foot, and finally, his brand new Spider-man shoes. “Now then. Let me get a good look at you,” I say taking a step back. I drink in what is–in all likelihood–the cutest boy in existence. More than that, he is mine. All mine. Zachary lets his arms hang down in front of him and grasps the wrist of one hand awkwardly waiting for me kartal escort to stop looking at him, but I don’t know if I can. I can remember dressing him for another first day two years ago and how small he was. Now, here is, so big. A sudden hardness in my throat rises, and I swallow quickly. “You’re adorable, kiddo. Everyone is going to love you.” His eyes twist to me, then to the floor. He lifts a sneaker and rakes it across the carpet of his room, blushing. “Sorry, little guy. I guess Jason is getting a little emotional. Hey, why don’t you go practice the Petey fly peepee while I get your stuff? We gotta go soon.” As Zachary wanders off into the bathroom, I pull my phone out. My email app says I have 15 messages–and it’s not even 7:30am yet. One is from a professor notifying me of a room change for a class I didn’t even think I was enrolled in. I pull up my schedule from the web app and scroll in a panic–the system is down. Of course it is! I flip to the address book function to see if I can call my friend, but something catches my eye–Zachary in the doorway of the bathroom; shirt half untucked; zipper down, a beam of white brief showing through the opening; his storm trooper mask from Halloween covering his face. “Hey, little Jedi,” I say. “What’s going on?” The masked boy shrugs. “Why don’t you come over here?” Zachary walks very slowly towards me until he’s between me and the bed. He’s got his astronaut backpack on, and both of his hands nervously play with the straps loosely hanging from it. There is five or six seconds of silence, before he speaks. “I’m not a Jedi,” he says in a crumpled whisper. “I’m dark side.” “Oh, right,” I say. I reach out and rub his arm, letting my fingers go up to his elbow. “What’s with the mask?” “I was just thinking…” the boy’s voice is slight, muffled by the plastic of the mask but also, from what I can tell, some pretty heavy emotions. “I was just thinking that uhm…maybe…” My rubbing turns into a light massage of his slender arm while he struggles to find the right words. “Maybe if I looked like this and not like me, everybody uhm…would like it better.” I feel my stomach drop and my face tighten. Then there is a hotness inside, a rising anger at myself. Things had been so hectic with class and the house, I never really checked in to see how Zachary was feeling about a new school. “Hey, little guy. Hey. You are so special and sweet.” I take both of his hands and shake them for emphasis, “Everyone who sees you will want to get to know you, and everyone who gets to know you is going to love you, like I do.” His masked head drops, presumably to look at me, but it is impossible to know. “Hey, I have an idea. Why don’t we take the mask off?” His head shakes quickly back and forth. “Ok. ok. That’s OK.” Dropping the boy’s hands, I stare ahead at the boy in colorful little outfit. My eyes fix on where the zipper gapes open, revealing the white of the jockey briefs burning between the creases. I gently reach out with my thumb and forefinger and probe inside the opening of the zipper. The boy’s storm trooper mask dips again to watch me as I slowly pull out the boy’s rubbery little penis. I very softly pet its smooth head for a moment, then turn up to him and ask, “How is Petey feeling about this new school thing?” “Scared,” he answers immediately. The voice is familiar, the tremulous wave of high and low pitches signaling he is just on the edge of tears, a voice calling my name when he has nightmares, the sound he makes when he realizes he’s about to get a spanking, the quiver of him trying to explain to me where it hurts after falling off the swingset. “shhhh, shhhhh,” I whisper, petting the boy’s penis more quickly but kastamonu escort still lightly. “There’s nothing to be scared of. You are so big. And Petey is so big. Look.” The boy’s penis begins its rigid lengthening, the rubbery skin almost imperceptibly clearly rising into a nailhard spike. “See how big? See how big Petey is?” The bottom of the boy’s masks rests on his chest, ever watchful. Slowly, I lean forward and gently kiss the circumcised head pulsing in ryhtm to the boy’s heartbeat. Zach gasps wetly behind the mask; one of his hands reaches out to steady himself by resting on my head. I keep my lips pressed gently on the head, only widening them slightly to purse again, lightly sucking on the surface of it, like a baby kitten at his mother’s nipple. Very slowly, I move my hands around his hips circling his waist in a hug and position my parting lips to take his penis into my mouth for the first time. The gasp from behind the mask is startling, and the fingers of his hand tighten slightly around the curly hair on the side of my head. “Duh–duh—daddy?” he whispers softly, searching, a name he uses when he’s scared or unsure or frightened. I pull back, letting the saliva from my mouth loosely coat the little penis. “It’s OK, baby, It’s ok,” I coo, probing the soft velvet under his penis with my thumb and pulling as much of it as I can through the slit in the fabric. Using my tongue only I softly lick the under part where my fingers had been playing moments before. The slurp elicits an electric yelp, almost like the yip of a puppy and Zachary’s other hand comes to rest opposite the other side of my head. I can vaguely feel one of his fingers rubbing softly on the top of my ear. Once again, I put the boy’s penis in my mouth and suck very slightly, creating a thin vacuum inside before moving my face back and forth slightly. Zachary’s knees bounce before almost giving out completely, his bottom coming to rest under the crook of my elbows, half-sitting, his feet off the floor. Taking my time, I softly move my face back and forth more rhythmically; and then faster, letting my nose rest for a moment on the prickly zipper teeth before pulling back again. The little boy’s sneakers are off the ground lightly kicking in the air; his weight now entirely resting on me. Zachary is making far more noises than he ever makes during a normal tingle time, little grunts and wet exhales of breath staccato and sharp, then a soft moan like a sleeping dog. The almost three inches inside my mouth is as hard as I could have imagined any part of a soft little boy could get. It is now a living piece of malleable iron flexing and pulsing as I work my practiced tongue all over its silken lushness. His little hands squeeze either side of my head, trying to move my face forward and back in his own ryhtm not mine. And then Zachary hits it, little boy coughs, frantically trying to get his feet under him even though they can’t touch the ground; it’s the sparkles from his tingling orgasm. I can feel it in my mouth, electric, dynamic in its pulsing, almost as if the penis itself was trying desperately to get out of the warm cavern of my mouth, bouncing off the walls in one last attempt to break free. Then, softening; his hands off my head dropping to his side, spent and finished. Still. I very slowly pull my mouth from his little Petey, already shrinking and impossibly wet from my spit. I use my thumb and forefinger to wipe it as best I can, trying to not overstimulate his tender penis after a throbbing bigboy orgasm. I tuck the still-shrinking little digit into his safe cotton pouch, pull together the jeans, and zip him up again. Then, very slowly, I lean forward and kiss the denim of his crotch. “Be a good boy at school, Petey,” I say. I look up at my boy. Zachary has the mask on the top of his head now, so I can see his face, his eyes burning, his cheeks flushed pink, the brown hair of his head slicked almost black at the top of his forehead. There is a single tear rolling down his cheek, but his lips are wide and smiling. “Ready for school, sport?”

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