I’m his Mommy. He is eight. I drop his pink girl’s knickers and let the c*** spring up. One and a half inches of pure boy beauty with big balls straining at their sack behind it. I pull my p****** to the right side. I let him put his c*** into my p****. Not an o*****, just a quick In, one, two, three, Out! He likes that and he wants more, but he won’t get it for a few years yet. My p**** shifts back into the protection position. I hold his c*** in my right hand and lift his balls with the other hand, moving the skin of his shaft to and fro very gently, and then he stiffens, leaks a little sticky clear liquid and has a dry o*****. The darling. Red faced, breathing heavily, gasping, heart racing. I love him. That small c*** will need, and get, a spiked steel chastity tube soon, to keep the tip away from cute Ladies who might let him put it into them. I have the chastity tube and the key to it in a secret place in our house. That c*** is mine, its milk and its piss are mine. Tonight his b** will discharge into his pink diaper with a rose embroidered on it and a big blue diaper pin. The other ladies in Church always strain to see his c*** when I remove his p******, or un-pin his diaper, and give him a h******* during service. P*** ladies ask me to give them his used socks, shoes or trousers. The more daring p*** ladies ask for his wet pink knickers and used diapers. I give them to the p*** ladies. Those ladies have my son’s stained diapers and wet p****** and damp socks in their handbags to play with at home. I write my son’s cell number on his used clothes. Sometimes they call and talk to him about his little excitements. (More later…)