Demetrius gingerly parted his soft, little baby black thighs, and we got a glimpse of his little frizzy bush and his _c_o_c_k_. His _c_o_c_k_ looked miserable, all soft and shrivelled up, nothing like the magnificent, hard little muscle that had rubbed against me when we was messing around.
Paw snickered loud and deliberately derisively, " This here boy been acting like some man. Talking back to his mama, sassing adults, and come to find out, he been walking around with THAT poor thing in his pants. What you call that boy? Is it a worm? Some poor little worm that even the fish wouldn't want?"
Demetrius flushed and bit his lip. Paw's hand shot out and he viciously twisted the boy's ear.
"I asked you a question, nigger."
"That's my uh penis, suh," quavered the cowed boy.
"That's my uh penis, suh," mimiced Paw cruelly in an exaggerated falsetto. "Jesus boy. You better not be dropping no soap in your gym shower. Because you sound like one of them pretty boys, and God knows no one would be interested in the little worm. So don't be turning your back on no one in case they punk you. You hear me, nigger?"
"Yessuh," snuffled Demetrius miserably.
Paw left the bathroom, and a moment later his CD player was blaring in the living room, "Don't Want No Short Dicked Man," lyrics not designed to improve Demetrius's confidence.
Hopelessly embarassed by Carlton and my curious gaze, Demetrius was paralyzed. He couldn't even pee. I took pity on him and shared with him the secret that cures my pee shyness.
"Say yo time tables in yo head, Demetrius," I whispered.
My little buddy's brows furrowed as he began mentally doing his time tables. As his attention was drawn away from his urether, it relaxed and there was a tinkling sound, as a steady pure stream poured out of Demetrius's shrivelled _c_o_c_k_. But _s_h_i_t_ting wasn't going to be that easy. The poor boy strained and strained, face flushing with the exertion, but no _s_h_i_t_ was visible. Suddenly Paw's voice boomed in through the open door.
"If you don't _s_h_i_t_ in five seconds, nigger, I be giving you an enema."
Terror gave Demetrius power and straining with the same energy that his ma must have displayed when ejecting him he shat two or three hard little brown pellets, the consistency of rat droppings.
"Get up and bend over," I said.
Demetrius obediently bent over. His face was flushed from the exertion of that constipated _s_h_i_t_ as well as from embarassment at being bent over with me looking down at his asshole.
"Part your cheeks," I ordered.
Soft, babyish black hands reached back to part soft, delicate ass cheeks. And there winking at the center was the rich, obscenely pink hole, hardly even smeared with _s_h_i_t_.
I ripped off a piece a toilet paper and wiped Demetrius's asshole rather roughly. My technique must have been too rough because suddenly the paper ripped, and my finger sank into that satisfying squelchy pink ass hole.
Demetrius gasped with pain and arousal, and I couldn't help experimentally finger _f_u_c_k_ing him a couple of times. I also couldn't help sotto voce murmuring to Carlton the taunting rhyme we Baptist boys would chant at our Catholic schoolmates going to confession (our school was a Catholic school): "Bless me father, for I have sinned. The paper was thin, and my hand slipped in."