I asked Shambo the question he’s probably heard a hundred times. “How’d you get the name Shambo?” I asked. I was enough of a fan to know his real first name was Edward, so the name seemed to come from nowhere. He never answered that question the same way twice, it seemed.

He looked at me, and said, “You know, Jonny, you’re the first person I think I’d like to tell the whole, honest truth about my nickname.”

I sat up and put my face all serious.

“I was about your age when I got it.” he went on. “Times was different back then. I had gone to the library and checked out a book about Little Black Sambo. You know about him?”

I shook my head no.

“They don’t let kids read that book no more. It’s just a story of a little black boy who meets up with some tigers.” Shambo went on. “The book had tigers on the cover, which was why I checked it out, I just wanted to look at the tigers. But on the way home, three white boys saw me with that book and they started calling me Sambo, Little Black Sambo, over and over again. They made that name sound as nasty as it could be. I got mad, and I turned and I said, ‘I ain’t no Little Black Shambo!’ I was so mad I said the name wrong, I said Shambo. And after that, all the white kids in school for a time called me Shambo, just to make me mad. First I hated the name, and I even got into fights on account of it, but that didn’t stop any of them from calling me that. So I stopped fighting, just turned away when they called me that, and after a while, they got bored a while and stopped and went back to calling me Eddie, but I still remembered that name. Burning inside me like a fire that couldn’t ever go out. I couldn’t get rid of it, so after a while, I turned it around and decided to make those white boys eat the name. I was going to play basketball so well, I’d become famous as Shambo Peters and they’d have to sit there on their couches on their fat asses drinking cheap beer and know that I was the little black kid they’d picked on and now I was better than they ever thought of being. That just the name Shambo was going to mean a black man with the power to do and be whatever he wanted. That Shambo would be a name I was proud to wear, not ashamed like when I was a kid.”

“And that’s what you did!” I said.

“And that’s the reason, the real honest reason, I’m called Shambo.” Shambo said to me. “You have to take what life gives you, no matter how bad it is, and make it into something you want. I learned that when I was your age. You understand?”

I nodded very soberly.

“But that’s a secret, okay?” Shambo said to me. “Don’t go telling nobody else, because if they ask me, I’ll say it’s not the reason why.”

“I promise.” I said.

“That’s a good boy.” Shambo said. He talked some more but I don’t remember what he said, I was too busy staring up into those eyes of his. Him looking at me, like I was so important, like he and me had a secret, just the two of us.”

After a deferential knock, my dad stuck his head in the door after a time. “I’m going to clean the hallways now.” he said to Shambo. “Is my son causing you any trouble, Mr. Peters?”

“No way!” I put in. “Shambo and me are friends!”

“We sure are.” Shambo agreed.

“Well, if he bothers you, just tell him to come find me.” my dad said again. I’ll be in the hallways; you can listen for the floor buffer. And Jonny,” he concluded, looking at me, “when those news people come by, you clear on out of here anyway. He’ll be too busy to look after you.”

“I will, Daddy.” I said.

Daddy closed the door and Shambo chuckled.

“What is it?” I wanted to know.

“Those newsmen done been here and gone.” Shambo confided in me. “I was just sitting here thinking of what I wanted to do tonight when you came along.”

“Oh.” I said. “So we can sit and talk long as we want to.” I said, thought about it. “Cool!”

Shambo smiled at me and I felt brave enough to reach over and put my arms around him. Just a kid hugging a friendly grown-up sort of hug. You want to be close to people, you miss all the holding and attention you get when you’re younger, and it makes you hug even people you don’t know very well, sometimes, when they’re friendly. Like Shambo.

One big hand extended a finger three times the size of my own and it touched my chin, lifted my face up. I smiled up into his face, and he smiled down and then he leaned down and I realized he was going to kiss me.

Like I said, starved for physical affection like any kid that age. I pursed my lips and met him head-on and smacked him eagerly. His hand reached out and stroked down my arm and then over my back.

“Yeah, you and me are friends.” Shambo said to me, his hand running up and down my back.

I wanted to stroke him, too, and my hands started moving where they were, one hand was on his back and went up and down there. The one in front, it went up and then down. And over a lump and then down his leg. And back up and that lump kind of caught my hand and stopped it, side of my hand resting up against it inside his shorts.

I realized what it was then and I giggled, “That’s your wienie.” I said.

“Yeah.” Shambo said to me. “I didn’t put on any underwear for the pictures. Didn’t need any.”

I giggled at that again. Shambo didn’t try to take my hand away, in fact, his wienie was sort of...nudging my hand. I realized it was getting bigger, growing and stretching out.

I’d grown up in too large a family to not know what this was. “You’re getting a hard wienie.” I said to Shambo. “Just like Brent did that time.”

He couldn’t know who my cousin Brent was, but he didn’t ask. “Yeah, it is.” He said. “What do you think we ought to do about it?”

I knew the answer to that. “This.” I said and I moved my hand back and snaked it in through the leg of his shorts and caught hold of it.

Shambo hissed as I grabbed hold of his huge trouser-snake, then he chuckled softly. “Looks like you know what’s what, huh?” he said to me.

“Yeah.” I said. “Only, not this big.” I had only fondled the dicks of kids my own age, this was in a whole other league in size. My hand was dwarfed by the huge, grayish-brown, one-eyed, weeping monster with a huge purplish head that seemed to bob its head at me.

“Think you can handle that?” Shambo asked. His breath was a little faster than usual, like he was working hard, but he was just sitting there. “I think it likes you.”

“Yeah.” I said and I began to pump my hand up and down on the huge shaft. It bent and the head slapped at my arm as I worked it, and I said, “Hey, it’s got that sticky stuff on me!” It had, a silvery string of the icky gunk was reaching from my arm up to the slit on top.

“That just means it likes you.” Shambo said. “Haven’t you done it with a man before? Or just kids your age?”

“Just kids my age.” I said. “I can keep playing with it, though, can’t I?”

My eagerness was unmistakable and unfeigned. I wanted to play with Shambo Peters’ cock. Plenty of guys could say they got his autograph or shook his hand, like I had. How many could say they had held Shambo Peter’s wiener and made it feel like mine did in bed at nights when I had sleepovers with friends? Not many, I bet!

“You ever done this before, Shambo?” I asked, wanting to know.

“Not since I was your age.” Shambo assured me. “Been a long time. Didn’t know how much I missed it until you got hold of me.”

“Yeah.” I said, working his pud some more. Again, more of that sticky stuff came out and got on me, the first string broke and fell, but another one replaced it in a slightly different place.

“Ah, ah, ah!” Shambo sighed as I pumped on his prick, as I jacked his jimmy, as I worked his willy. I grinned as I looked at the huge prong, feeling how thick and soft the outer skin was, how it just wrinkled over the head as I pulled it up, and then slid way down to crumple around the bottom like a pair of underwear it had just taken down, and that was when the head would reach over and slap at me.

“My cock kisses you so much, it must really love you.” Shambo observed.

“Is that what it’s doing, kissing me?” I asked.

“Yeah, it kisses guys it likes.” Shambo said. “You ought to kiss it back, maybe.”

I giggled at that. “That’s silly.” I said. Then I leaned over and I placed a kiss right on top of the purplish head as it bent over onto my arm again.

I licked my lips suspiciously as I raised back up. Something had been on that head. “It tastes funny.” I said. “Kind of salty.”

“That’s my love juice.” Shambo explained. “It comes out when my cock loves what you’re doing.”

“Yeah?” I considered it, licking my lips. “Tastes all right.”

“Want some more?” Shambo offered.

I leaned over and this time got my lips right on that glans with all the sticky fluid over it. My tongue pressed against it, and I got a good taste. Leaned back and that string of the stuff reached out like a crystal thread, then broke and slopped onto my chin.

“That’s good.” I said. “Can I have some more?”

“If you can get it.” Shambo said. “You want my love juice, you got to work for it.”

I began to whomp his pud really hard at that, but only a little more of the juice came out. I stopped and slurped it up, licking his cockhead like a lollipop and Shambo moaned as I played my tongue over his glans. When I finished, he said, “Good job, but you want a whole lot of it instead of just a little bit?”

“Yeah.” I agreed. “Sure! What do I do?”

“Just put your mouth over the top of the whole thing and work it that way.” Shambo said. “That way, you get it soon as it comes out.”

I tried that, putting my mouth over Shambo’s cockhead and pumping it. I got a little more, but not much.

Shambo realized my problem. About the time I was about to give up, he said, “Of course, if you keep working it, after a while, you’ll get a whole mouthful of it at once. It’s sort of like it saves it all up and then gives it to you all at once.”

With that inspiration, I resumed. I found it was better to move my head back and forth along with my hand, that made the skin all along the shaft move together at once. Shambo liked that, too. He was groaning and he laid back on the bench so I could get to him easier.
Illustration of The Power of a Name Shambo’s cock got harder than ever and it didn’t bent very much when I skinned it down like it had. The entire thing was getting warmer and warmer. Shambo was moaning more and more, too. I figured he was getting close to that “nice time” like me and my friends had in bed, when you got it all tingling and your breath felt funny and your head kind of spun and for a few seconds, you just felt great!

“You about ready for that mouthful of my love juice?” Shambo panted.

“Mm-hmm!” I grunted around his cock, I was going to get that juice out of him before he hit his happy time and then his cock got too tender to work, like it did with my buddies. I wanted that love-juice, I had worked for it and I wanted it, I wanted it! Give it to me, I thought at Shambo lying there groaning now real urgently. I knew he was about to have his happy time and I hadn’t gotten any of his love juice, give it to me now, Shambo, give it to me now, now now! I thought at him urgently, moving faster and faster, I had to win at this, I had to, I had to!

And Shambo bucked and thrust his hips up at me real hard, he drove his cock deep into my mouth so far it kind of hurt, and that’s when the love juices really began to fly!

Just as much of it as he had promised me, I had a mouthful and then some! It was pumping out of his prod and onto my tongue and it was as salty and tasty and good as I hoped it would be, and I had lots of it, lots! Enough that I couldn’t drink it down fast enough, it was dripping out of my mouth, squirting into my throat so deep I choked, and then I snorted some of it out of my nostrils like snot and still more filled it up, me hanging on and gulping it down as best I could, I had streams pouring out of my nose now, both sides, and my chin was soaking wet from it and I was still swallowing fast as I could.

And then Shambo stopped thrashing about, he quieted down and the flood of his love-juice ended at the same time and I could suck the last of it off him, and then wipe my chin and nose, and blow my nose to clean it out of the hot, salty, flavorful love-juice of my hero, of Shambo Peters, all of it mine, mine, and all over me!

When I could talk again, I said, “Wow, I got it. I really got it!”

“You sure did, Jonny!” Shambo panted.

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