Chapter Text
Kenneth Holzknecht was a good man.
He had spent most of his father's fortune helping lift Brazilian communities out of poverty. He was the kind of man who walked into a room and the air grew lighter, as though goodness itself had a tangible presence. Kenneth's bright blue eyes, the color of a cloudless sky, sparkled with the warmth of a thousand unbroken promises. His tall, lanky frame was a testament to his dedication to his work; he had never been one to indulge in the excesses that often accompanied great wealth. His light golden blond hair was always slicked back, a neat and orderly contrast to the chaotic world he sought to mend. His hands, though soft from a life of intellectual pursuits, had the gentle touch of a healer as they moved over the blueprints of his latest invention, designed to provide free, clean water to remote areas of Rio de Janeiro.
It was a good idea, and it was both feasible and affordable. The city's wealth disparity was as large as it was unconscionable. While the wealthiest lived like kings, the worst off were barely getting by, or not getting by at all. Kenneth wasn't stupid. He could see how so many of the people in poverty were black, or brown, and he knew that race was a factor. He was determined to fix it. He had seen the way that the government was failing these people, and he was determined to make a difference. He had been born into wealth, but he had chosen to use it to help others. It was the right thing to do, and it was all he knew.
For all the world looked at him as a good man, however, Kenneth had a dark secret. It was one he'd spent all his time praying about since he was 12 years old and it first manifested, one that haunted him and kept him from ever feeling like a good person, no matter what he did. By the grace of God, no one had found out. Perhaps it was God rewarding him for all his hard work to improve his mother's home country, Kenneth thought, or maybe God was simply biding His time until the blond would be punished for his horrific thoughts. Although he had never acted on his thoughts, he knew that didn't make them any less wrong or sick.
Kenneth Holzknecht was a pedophile.
He had his first wet dreams not about kids his own age, but about a six year old neighbor boy named Luis. Kenneth would lay awake at night, sweating and feverish, his heart racing, as he tried to scrub the images from his brain. He never breathed a word of it to anyone, only to God, who he prayed to regularly for relief from this horrible evil. Kenneth prayed daily since he was twelve, since the first time he'd dreamt of Luis naked and smiling up at him, his small hands reaching out, begging for something that Kenneth knew he shouldn't give. He knew even if a boy said he wanted it, a little kid couldn't possibly know what they were asking for, not really. It wasn't right. Hell, being gay was a sin in and of itself, let alone this. Kenneth had never felt more alone, more despicable than in those moments, knees bent, face in his pillow, his body betraying him.
Although his willpower was admirable and he tried not to give into temptation to masturbate, lest he add another sin to his growing list, Kenneth was unable to avoid it forever. When three year old Alana had run around outside one day, playing with her friends without panties on, Kenneth had stood by the window, transfixed. He'd watched her for what seemed like an eternity without moving, peering through the blinds, waiting for the moment he would get more than a glimpse of her crotch. Finally, when she bent over to tie her shoe, her bare ass was bared to him, supple, undeveloped, with sweet baby fat and a tiny little pucker of a hole that made his breath catch in his throat. Kenneth had felt his cock stir, and with a gasp he had thrown himself onto his bed. The twelve year old had jerked his cock furiously, imagining rubbing his cock against her asscrack, using her little cheeks to stroke himself off. He had moaned as he pulled on his cock, feeling the precum leak from his tip, his balls tightening.
After he came, there was only shame. Kenneth sobbed, he repented, he asked God for intervention and mercy, and above all else, he rededicated himself to being a good person. His grades shot up and his behavior was impeccable. He took on all kids of extracurricular activities and got into activism. Kenneth stayed far away from children. No matter what, he never allowed himself to get close to one or speak to one alone. Most of the time, he would refuse to jerk off, instead pressing a bag of frozen peas to his dick until his erection died. But every now and again, it would happen. He'd be out minding his own business when, suddenly, out of nowhere, a sexy child would appear in front of him.
When he was thirteen, he'd been about to hit the shower when he noticed the bathroom window was open. He had to stand on the toilet lid in order to shut it, which was when he caught the sound of a child laughing. Kenneth had looked out the window and beheld his three year old cousin, Nathan, pissing. His bright blue eyes had been riveted to the little boy's cock as it spurted out a golden arc, the pink tip glinting with urine. Kenneth had felt his own cock harden in his hand. He had jerked off to the image of that little cock, the way it had bobbed and twitched as it shot out the piss, the way the child's eyes had squinted in concentration. The thirteen year old had stood there watching his cousin piss and jerking himself furiously until the boy left. Then he'd sat down on the toilet, shut his eyes, pulling the scene up in front of his mind's eye, and worked his dick until he came.
Kenneth had never felt more like a monster. He prayed, he cried, he begged for salvation, but the images remained, burned into his brain like a brand. He couldn't get them out. The feel of his cock in his hand was like a hot poker, searing him with guilt and disgust. Kenneth knew he was sick, that he was going to hell. He didn't want to be like this. He didn't want to be the kind of person who found little kids sexy. But it was like trying to hold back a tide with a paper towel. The more he resisted, the stronger the urges grew. He avoided kids, avoided situations where he might be tempted. Yet the world was full of children, and the more he pushed them away, the more they seemed to gravitate towards him.
All he could do, ultimately, was bury himself in school, and later, in work. He spent every waking hour he had working without end. Kenneth was determined to make the world better, in spite of the evil Satan had installed within him. He would save lives and build infrastructure and right systemic inequalities. God would forgive him for his sick thoughts, Kenneth knew, so long as he never acted upon them, regretted them, and worked to do God's will on this Earth. So he did just that, constantly, always thinking about the next project, the next problem, the next community in need, never allowing himself a full night's sleep or a vacation. Sleep and vacation posed the same risk, after all, of giving his mind time to wander in the direction of sweet little girls and beautiful little boys.
His plan for the water infrastructure overhaul of the city's poorer neighborhoods required some scouting and pictures of the existing infrastructure. Kenneth wasn't one to shirk his work duties or pawn them off to other people. He went out to do it himself. Although the neighborhoods had some crime to them, his obvious whiteness and semi-foreignness afforded him protection. No one wanted a police raid over a robbed or dead man of wealth. Kenneth easily moved through the narrow streets of the favelas, taking pictures and drawing no attention. The locals likely thought he was another disaster tourist, here to oggle the poor. It was better for them to think that than for him to explain himself and risk offending the proud, hardworking people of these streets who might resent a half-foreigner coming in to try to 'fix' their problems.
It was in the favela he heard it: moaning, first of an adult woman, then of a young boy.
He froze, horror washing over him. The blond barely dared to breathe, let alone move. A flash of movement caught his eye. If he looked through the gaps in that dilapidated fence, Kenneth knew, he would see the source of the sounds. Someone was having sex with a child in their yard, outside, and the thought made his stomach churn. Kenneth's eyes snapped to the fence, his heart racing. The sounds grew clearer as he approached, first one step, then another, hesitantly, carefully. The woman's moans grew in intensity, punctuated by the higher pitched, softer cries of the boy. Kenneth's cock twitched as heat flooded his groin with every sound the two made. As if in a trance, he was drawn to the gap in the fence. Silently, he put his eye to it and looked through.
A thin black woman with braided hair and small, perky breasts was on her back on a makeshift bench, her legs spread wide. Her skin was a warm brown, while the boy - who he realized, knowing the crowding of favelas, was likely her son - was much darker in skin tone, a deep umber. He could not have been more than six or seven, yet he was completely naked and thrusting into her. His dick was all of three inches, but admirably thick, and he was obviously enjoying himself, his little body moving with the enthusiastic clumsiness of a child playing. Kenneth felt his own cock thicken, pushing against the fabric of his pants.
The reluctant pedophile was aware he should leave. He was also aware he had a camera, and before he could even talk himself out of it, he was filming the mother and son. The camera was shaky in his trembling hand. He couldn’t believe what he was doing, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the scene unfolding in front of him. The woman’s cries grew more intense, her mocha-colored areolae standing proud around her thick, brown nipples as they bobbed with the force of her son’s thrusts. The boy’s round, tight buttocks clenched and unclenched with his every motion. He was smiling widely and moaning openly, showcasing an innocence that Kenneth found utterly, irrevocably arousing. Kenneth’s own cock, which had grown thick and hard in his pants, begged for release. He ignored it in favor of forcing his hands to steady so he could film them.
"Good boy, Joao, so good for mama," the woman praised her son as he fucked her pussy to the best of his ability. "Take care of mama's cunt while papa is away."
"Okay!" he giggled, completely unaware of how debauched and wrong what he was doing was. "I like how your cunt feels. It's so warm and wet!"
Kenneth bit his lip hard to keep from making a sound. Joao's voice saying something that dirty, that explicit, was like a shot of adrenaline to his cock. He watched as the boy's little penis, dark umber and uncut, slid in and out of his mother's wet, swollen pussy. The woman's labia were thick and plush, surrounding the shaft with every thrust. The woman's moans grew louder, more desperate, her hips rising to meet the boy's eager strokes. Kenneth could feel his own orgasm building, his balls tightening. He refused to touch himself. He had to film this. He would never, ever get another chance like this in his life.
Determined, he zoomed in on Joao's mother's cunt. He could tell from behind that Joao's balls had not yet dropped, because they weren't visible as he fucked his mother. He was so young, prepubescent in the extreme, completely new to the world, and oh, it was sexy. It was so hot and so wrong, and Kenneth knew it, but he couldn’t help it. His cock was begging to be stroked as he watched the tiny, thick dark brown bud of a cockhead sliding in and out of her, disappearing into the folds of her flesh and then popping out again, slick with her wetness. He ignored his arousal. If he filmed this, he'd have it to masturbate to for the rest of his life. Joao's mother had a shaved pussy, and the bit of hair starting to grow in didn't obscure Kenneth's view of her son's entry point into her or her engorged, aroused clit.
"Fuck your mama, baby, fuck mama hard," she said, words that made Kenneth's cock ache, words from the deepest depths of his most depraved fantasies. "Fuck mama's cunt as hard as you can, baby. Mama loves her son, oh, yes, I do."
Joao moved his hips as fast as he could, biting his lip and shutting his eyes, focusing hard on his task. His mother's moans grew more ragged, her body arching and her hands grabbing at the bench beneath her. Kenneth's own breath was coming in shallow gasps as he watched the scene unfold, his cock painfully erect and straining against his zipper. The woman's pussy was squeezing eagerly around Joao's little cock, her muscles clenching around him in a silent plea for more, and it was all Kenneth could do to remember how to breathe quietly. He'd mastered that art while masturbating to many an unsuspecting child. That skill was coming in handy now as he watched the six year old happily fucking his mother.
At last Joao's mother came. Although Kenneth wasn't attracted to adults, he loved hearing her get off on being fucked by a child. The thought was sinful, vile, sick, twisted, hot, incredible, and he could feel his precum staining the crotch of his pants. What he knew would be better, though, would be the sound of the boy coming. He'd never gotten to hear a child's orgasm before. Kenneth waited, heart pounding, watching Joao continue to fuck her even after her orgasm subsided. She laid back in the afterglow, contentedly letting the little boy keep pounding her pussy. Joao did so with an eager expression. He looked like a boy awaiting a chance to unwrap his presents on Christmas morning. It occurred to Kenneth, then, that this was a regular occurrence, that this was not just a fluke, but something that happened often. It was the only way the boy would be so comfortable doing this.
That thought alone would be something he'd get off to, he knew instinctively, for the rest of his life.
"Oh! I can feel it! I'm getting warm!" the little boy cried out, looking happy about it. "I'm going to get hot soon!"
Kenneth realized, almost unable to process the thought, that the boy had his own words for when he was going to orgasm. That meant he'd orgasmed before, probably while pounding his mother's pussy in the backyard. This was incredibly perverted, borderline monstrous, how well this woman had groomed the child. Yet, to his eternal shame, Kenneth was getting off on it. He felt his cock throb with every beat of his heart, his own balls tightening as he waited for the sweet, sweet sound of a child's orgasm. It was wrong, worse than anything that could be described, but the thought of this innocent little boy getting off was everything he was living for in this moment in time.
Joao came, crying out. The sounds he made were incredible, a mix between a childish yell and a wanton moan of pure pleasure. Kenneth felt his own cock jerk in his pants, the precum flowing freely. He had never heard anything like it. It was like music, a symphony of wrongness that resonated within him, filling him with a dark, twisted euphoria. Joao's little cock was spasming, too young to produce cum yet clearly coming nonetheless. He hollered for his mother, crying out, "Mama! Mama!" as he climaxed, back arching, little ass cheeks clenching with the effort. Kenneth had never seen anything so beautiful, so utterly depraved. It was a moment of pure incest and pedophilia and a child's sexual ecstasy.
He watched as the boy sat down on the ground, totally spent from having come. The pedophile filmed Joao's face, one of absolute bliss and innocence, his eyes squeezed shut, his little mouth open in a silent 'o'. Joao had no idea he'd been perverted into his mother's sex toy. Kenneth shifted his weight from one leg to the other. That slight friction of fabric against his dick helped relieve some of his need for touch, enough to allow him to keep filming as Joao got up, walked over to the bucket the family used for waste, and squatted.
Even Kenneth had to pause then. Was he really going to film a six year taking a shit? But of course, he knew the answer was yes. He was going to get a perfect shot of Joao's asshole that way. He zoomed in on that dark umber hole as the little boy started to squat over the bucket, his mother's juices still dripping from his cock, which was already starting to shrink back down to its usual size. The blond watched, breath held, as Joao pushed. His little buttocks spread wide, revealing a tight, dark black star, a hole that looked so delicious Kenneth wanted to lick it.
Then the child began to shit, his little ass flexing as he pushed out his mother's juices and his own feces into the bucket. Kenneth felt his cock throb harder than ever before. Although the blond didn't have a scat fetish, there was something about violating the boy's consent and observing his most private moments against his will that felt sexy. It was a good opportunity, too, to see that little virgin asshole open up. He watched as the shit slid out of Joao's tight, puckered hole, making a very soft, almost delicate sound that Kenneth would remember forever. It was obscene to a degree he knew he'd never forgive himself, and yet it was all worth it for that magical moment, the moment that sent him over the edge.
Joao pushed out all his shit, then kept pushing, leaving his asshole wide open. His little six year old hole was open, it was facing Kenneth, it twitched in the slight breeze, and it almost seemed to wink at the man, as if inviting him for a fuck.
Kenneth came in his pants. He had never done that in his entire life, but that hole was just too much to resist. He had to bite his fist to keep from crying out as he came, his cock spasming and jerking in his briefs. He felt his hot, sticky cum flood his underwear and the fabric clung to his cock. The sensation was indescribable, like a mix of pure euphoria and despair, of heaven and hell colliding within his body. The boy looked up, grinning at his mother, and Kenneth knew he had to get out of there before he was caught.
He filmed the house, their address, and their neighbor's houses. A sick, sick plan was already forming in his head. Kenneth couldn't go back now to the way he'd lived before. He couldn't go back to life without sexy, horny children he could see up close and personal. Now that he'd gotten to zoom in on the forbidden fruit up close, now that he'd captured it on film, something inside him had broken. He needed more. He needed more of the sight, the sounds, the smell of sweat and the gleaming of wetness on a boy's dick.
The philanthropist tied his button-down shirt around his waist like a skirt to hide his massive cum stains, called for a cab, went back to his house and did what he did best.
He thought, and he planned.