All his life he was trapped in Never Neverland—a cultural amusement park of lies where no one ever expected him to contribute anything of value as himself, except for the permission to not contribute. No one had ever
believed that he could.
The boy had waited his whole life for a big, strong man, a father figure who was fierce and loving enough to protect him.
He'd waited
twenty-seven years
for that man to bust in and rescue him. To sweep him off his feet and protect him with those strong arms. To hold him close and kiss him passionately. To tell him NOT ONLY that it was okay for him to be himself, NOT ONLY that he didn't have to hide who or what he was anymore...
But also that he mattered, that people needed him, that society needed him, that
his papa
needed him. And that it was actually
him
they needed and not the fake imaginary boy they all had expected and tried to force him to be.
He had waited for his papa, whoever he may be, to do that. But his papa had never come. The world he lived in, the world all Mankind lived in, was broken into a cultural, psychological, economic and spiritual labyrinth of many isolated pieces.
And that meant his papa, whoever he may be, didn't know or understand who he even was, let alone what he needed from his papa or where and how his papa could find him and free him from his imprisonment in Never Neverland.
And so the boy had trained his spirit for twenty-seven years. He grew in intelligence, then wisdom, then kindness, then finally courage and strength.
For those twenty-seven years he attempted to escape Never Neverland again and again and again.
Every time he failed he took notes, asked for advice, tried to discover for himself the reasons for the failure
this time.
And then one day he finally made it. He finally escaped from Never Neverland. And as he walked away, out into the world, he said, "That was ridiculous. They forced me to shut up and sit down in a brick box most of the time. They hardly let me do anything fun at all EXCEPT watch TV and play videogames! And they were constantly spying on me and harassing me to do work I wasn't good at and didn't enjoy which helped no one. And whenever that stress became too much for me they funneled me into a
special spot
for
special people
to do
special things
--out of sight and out of mind. And everybody else there just kept shouting and shouting and shouting with their music turned up to max volume and their guts filled up with max alcohol or whatever else."
The boy kept walking, farther and farther away from that horrible place, his little body trembling in trauma and rage for those twenty-seven years, even as his spirit was high on the relief of having FINALLY ESCAPED.
"YOU CALL THAT A
PARTY
!?" he shouted into the world. "YOU CALL THAT
FUN
!? THAT WASN'T A PARTY! THAT WASN'T FUN! THAT WAS JUST HORRIBLE! YOU'RE ALL LAZY, STUPID BLOCKHEADS, STICKS IN THE MUD WHO'VE FORGOTTEN HOW TO
ACTUALLY
HAVE FUN! BUT GO AHEAD! KEEP ON LYING TO YOURSELVES, KEEP ON PRETENDING TO ENJOY YOUR MISERABLE BORING-ASS LIVES! SEE IF I CARE!"
The boy had done the impossible and escaped from Never Neverland. All Mankind had believed he couldn't do it (or certainly would have believed he couldn't if they knew of his situation). He'd proven them all wrong.
Mankind had forgotten how to have fun together, which had eaten away at its collective soul until it became toxic and abusive to itself and began self-destructing.
And so the boy had come to them--not to bring salvation, but a Whoopie Cushion. Mankind had emotionally forgotten that everybody farts. And somebody might as well remind them of that, he figured.
Two years had passed since that "fateful" day. Mankind was finally starting to remember how to have fun.
And while they didn't know for sure, many of them were starting to suspect the boy was the one who'd started it all--that everything had happened according to his whims and his tastes. For all Mankind had forgotten how to have fun, and he was among the first to remember and remind them, as well as one of the most impactful individually.
Eventually the boy ended up with a fan club. Then another fan club. And now he had fan clubs all over the world. It was uncomfortable and annoying, and the things they were saying about him...
The boy shuddered at the memory of it. It was hard enough keeping his ego from becoming overinflated when so many people increasingly believed him to be the son of God, and nothing he said or did seemed like it would convince them otherwise.
And as his big, hairy, strong and manly Papa stared down at his naked form on their wedding night, he asked the boy, "What's wrong?"
"It's nothing," the beautiful little boy said with a blush, staring longingly up at his ruggedly handsome and naked Papa.
"You shuddered," Papa argued. "That's not nothing."
His boy sighed.
"I was thinking about my stupid fan clubs," he answered.
Papa scowled. "
All
my army buddies think you're Christ now."
"
ALL of them!?"
his boy asked in an alarmed almost-shriek.
The look Papa gave him said it all.
"How did they react when they found out about...?"
"They gave me weird looks and avoided me--"
His boy's face fell.
"Until I told them I wear the pants in our relationship," Papa finished with a mischievous grin.
"And they
believed
you?" his boy asked with slight incredulity.
"Of course they did," Papa grinned. "I told them you're a wise and faithful pacifist and great at healing the sick, but you wouldn't last five seconds in a fight."
"And so I need a big, strong, dominant man like you to protect me," the boy said, smiling. Then he frowned. "Is there a reason why you haven't already entered my--"
His boy gasped.
"I just did," Papa growled in his ear.
"
Ohhhh...
" his boy moaned. "In that case, would you--" another moan. "like to--" another moan, followed by a squeal. "knock me up?"
"I would if I could, boy," Papa grunted at him as he gave another thrust. "But boys can't get pregnant."
"
Define 'pregnant'
," his beautiful little boy told him. "There's a fine line between miracles and pranks."
"You're not a woman," Papa said into his ear.
"I know that," his boy whispered. "But compared to you I am. And since I'm a woman-by-comparison-to-you, I can become 'pregnant-by-comparison' too. It wouldn't be the same as a 'real' pregnancy that an actual woman would go through but..."
These words seemed to stir something big and powerful in Papa's heart, because the boy suddenly found himself in the air, then just as suddenly shoved roughly into the wall with his Papa's tongue making fierce love into his mouth, just like Papa was doing to his other hole with a different extremity than his tongue...
The boy wrapped his arms around his Papa's neck, clinging tightly to him as if afraid he would leave, afraid Papa would drop him.
But every thrust Papa made into him proved that fear unfounded.
He'd expected Papa to question him, to ask for more information about what he meant before agreeing to his request to "knock him up". But apparently Papa loved the very basic premise of the idea
so much,
and he loved his beautiful little boy-wife
so much
, and Papa respected and trusted him enough...
Papa hadn't needed any further details. Papa didn't ask for any because he didn't need to. Papa was a big strong man who knew what he wanted, had found and rescued his beautiful little boy, won that boy's heart and made that boy his bride.
Whether Papa had decided to conquer the boy first, or whether the boy had decided to persuade Papa to conquer him first...
The boy believed the latter. He believed that he had gone out of his way, spent a ton of time and effort and resources to find his Papa and to persuade his Papa to conquer him without imprisoning or destroying him, until Papa finally took the hint and agreed to do so.
Papa believed the former. He believed he had found his beautiful little boy wandering through the world lost and alone and afraid, and had decided to protect that boy, to help guide that boy, to claim that boy as his own.
To make that boy his wife, his bride,
his woman
.
Even though he knew the boy wasn't
actually
a
woman
as society defined it. Even though the boy didn't really see himself as a woman in the first place. The boy was still his woman, and they both knew it.
"Take it, woman! Yeah, take your Papa's cock!"
"But I'm not a woman!" his wife-daughter protested as he fucked her pretty little pussy. "I'm a boy!"
"You think you're a boy?" Papa growled in her ear. He spanked her hard, withdrew his cock almost entirely out of her before suddenly thrusting it back inside her.
She moaned in ecstasy.
Papa was still standing with her in his arms, with her arms wrapped around his neck and her legs wrapped around his midsection as he fucked her pussy with his big, strong, dominant, manly cock.
"You think you're a boy, but you scream and moan like a girl when a REAL MAN fucks you. And you."
A thrust.
"Are."
Another thrust.
"Not."
And another thrust.
"A real man."
Another thrust, followed by a spank and a passionate, dominating kiss.
His wife returned the kiss with equal fervor as he continued fucking her.
He moved away from the wall, carrying her in his powerful arms as he continued fucking her pretty little pussy. He was still doing that when he finally ended the kiss. The two of them were panting heavily.
