Page 3 of Little Boy Toy

Behind me, two leather daddies were holding a conversation about boys and littles. Though it was personal, they were not being quiet about their criticism and comparing notes.

“The twinky boys are sweet, but the littles are so strange sometimes,” said one.

“I like the littles okay, but I had Tam—he’s the one in the center of the room playing with the trucks—for two weeks and he wouldn’t warm up to me.”

“They definitely take more work. I’d love to get my hands on Franklin, though.”

“Oh yeah. Me, too. But he’s got a daddy and they’re monogamous. I swear they come here every weekend just to tease the single daddies with Franklin’s need to flirt.”

“Right? His daddy never leaves his side.”

“Why is it all the good ones are always taken?”

“Well, that one in the corner reading a picture book by himself is single. You know Travis? He took him out on a date. Says the boy won’t put out. Like he’s ace or something.”

“Yep, Travis still talks about it. Uses the word ace to describe him. Cute little who won’t let his pants down. Kenzie or Kenji or something.”

“Kendry. Yep. Total daddy-tease.”

I couldn’t help my own curiosity. I moved to the window where the two men stood and peered inside.

The room was filled with littles and boys, far more than I expected to see. Daddies congregated together at one end of the big room near a glass fridge full of juice boxes and chocolate milk. They sat around a big table or on couches, leather dudes, bears, gray foxes, all kinds. The room looked chaotic, reminding me that in this community daddies and boys were a very popular kink. Actual littles were rarer, but to look at that crowd there certainly seemed to be a lot of onesie-wearing boys with pacifier necklaces tied about their necks.

I couldn’t help my wandering eye. Who was this Kendry these two were talking about? Watching now, I honed in on the cute factor, something I’d never allowed myself to do before. I’d convinced myself early on, with some amount of peer pressure, that littles were trouble, and a bit perplexing. I wanted to be an adult and have adult relationships. I wanted kink, but in a more straight-forward manner.

Well, these boys—littles—were adults. I could see it clearly. And they seemed quite straight-forward about their kink, hiding nothing, uninhibited. There was something refreshing about their “take me or leave me” attitudes that kept me watching in this moment.

I hunted the room for the one in the corner who was reading. The one these two leather daddies called Kendry. And there he was sitting in a tiny chair with a reading light trained on the large picture book in his lap. It was as if a spotlight lit him up just for me. Beneath thick, dark brows, his features were as delicate as a doll’s, with a pinched chin, button nose, and big eyes. I couldn’t detect their color from here, but I could see his bright pink lips, rosy cheeks and soft brown hair.

He was pretty. Like an angel.

My body perked up as if it saw something it wanted. Yet it wasn’t my cock that throbbed, but something inside my chest. Like a weird hitch in my lungs, an itch, a shiver of the heart. It was confusing. And fascinating.

I reached out and opened the door to the room.

3

Kendry

The book had watercolor paintings of sea monsters and lighthouses. It was scary until I read the poems and stories on the white pages. Some were funny. Some were quite dark for a kid’s book. One was about a sea monster who thought his friend, the lighthouse, was stuck on the rocky shore and needed rescuing.

The noise in the playroom faded as I sank into pure little space and read the rhyming story to myself.

Even as I read, my mind could still pick out certain sounds to peripherally focus on. I heard the big, windowed door open and close, admitting a new person to the playroom.

Yet another leather daddy, obviously, this one in a jacket instead of harness and chaps, but still, those types were all the same, blending together in a sort of fog. They were looking for boy toys. That wasn’t me.

I paid little attention, flicking my gaze back to my book where the sea monster sang to his lighthouse friend. It was a good story. Maybe my new favorite. I got lost in the picture of the rolling sea and all the little things in it underneath the monster, like starfish and flowers with tentacles for petals.

“Juice box?”

I glanced up, startled. I hadn’t heard a sound. I looked him up and down, my heart pounding. Too much leather. Too much muscle. He was so tall he could probably touch the ceiling if he lifted his hand over his head. But instead, it was held out to me, a juice box balanced on the upturned palm.

I didn’t want to be bothered, but I remembered my manners. “Thank you, sir, but I’m not thirsty.”

“All right.” He opened it, peeled off the straw and stuck it in the top. Then he sucked.

Apple juice. I smelled it as soon as he opened it. My favorite.

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