by
Part 22: The Inn - II
For three days we were holed up with Milo and his father. We sat tight and waited while the VLA offensive intensified. It was clear that hostilities were building and we were frightened because we didn't know which way the fighting was going to go. VLA aircraft ruled the skies, so that several times a day, a formation of SU30s would streak overhead, thundering by in a flash of jagged silhouettes, characterized by nose cones and wingtips. They flew very low, hugging the terrain to avoid enemy radar. Sometimes they were so low, you could see the pilot through the glass canopy, complete with mirrored visor. The aircraft were always bristling with armaments, missiles and bombs, seeking to unleash their deadly cargoes on the enemy. We were not affected by the fighting. We were in VLA held territory, well behind the front line, but we could hear the constant shelling to the north. The distant boom of unseen artillery was unceasing. At night, if you looked north across the fields, you could see an orange hue in the distance, a fiery glow in the sky just beyond the horizon, where the KAPO rebel positions were being mercilessly pounded, and I wondered what horrors were being perpetrated there as the pointless slaughter continued. For the time being, no VLA soldiers visited the inn. They were probably all at the front. In the meantime, we were effectively grounded. It was not safe to go anywhere, so I knew that going to see Ciggy was still out of the question. Our anticipated reunion was on hold. I eagerly looked forward to Altair's go-ahead, but for the moment, it never materialized. All I could do was wait. While the offensive continued, I could only be patient and bide my time. This strange hiatus at least allowed us to rest and recharge, during which we had plenty to eat and nothing to relieve the boredom at the inn but to fuck around, read books and play card games.
One of the things I most enjoyed during my brief stay at the inn was spending time with Milo. He was my constant companion during those few days. He would follow me around, yammering away in that absent way that little boys have, talking about everything and nothing. He also asked a lot of questions. He was a naturally curious little boy. When we were not doing chores together, he would come to me with some question or other, designed to engage my interest, or perhaps stimulate some kind of activity. It was clear he enjoyed my company.
Milo particularly liked reading with me. Because Milo didn't go to school anymore, Altair was concerned that Milo might fall behind in his education. I didn't think there was any chance of that. Milo may not have been very worldly, but I had no doubt he was a very bright kid. I took the initiative to listen to Milo read, and sat patiently coaching him, correcting him and encouraging him. That of course met with Altair's approval. When he saw me sitting at the kitchen table, listening to Milo read, Altair stood at the back of the room by the wooden batten door, silently puffing away on that distinctive pipe which he always had habitually clenched between his teeth.
'He used to go to school in the next village,' said Altair, hovering by the door, 'There was even a school bus that would pick up all the children from the surrounding villages. But there is no school now. Since the war started, the school has been bombed and all the teachers either killed or taken prisoner.'
He said it with such regret, it was easy to see their lives had been blighted by this war. They were simple people, leading a simple existence. The good times they had enjoyed before the war were long gone, perhaps never to be regained.
'Thank you for helping him with his reading,' said Altair, clutching his pipe, 'I appreciate it very much.'
Both Altair and Milo were always so polite and thankful.
'It's the least I can do,' I replied.
Which was true. After all Altair had done for us, helping Milo with his reading was one of the very few ways I could really reciprocate. Which was just as well since, apart from sex, reading was my next favorite activity and, other than sex, the only other thing I was ever really any good at.
Leaving me with that thought, Altair turned and left the kitchen, still ruminating on his pipe. I turned my attention back to Milo, who was sitting on my lap at the big wooden kitchen table, holding the large format book in his little hands, studiously focused on the big black text on the page. As he was reading aloud to me, I had my arms around his waist to steady him, with my palms resting on his little tummy, and I could feel the little boy softness of his belly even beneath the thin cotton of his grubby little singlet. Tell the truth, I felt he was a little too old for lap-sitting, especially as he wasn't that much smaller than me, but like I said, he was small for his age, and he seemed to like it. I knew it was deliberate, because he would squirm about on my lap quite precociously, as though he was trying to get a feel of my cock. And when he was perched there, his light frame ensconced on my lap, Little Cloud pulsed with hardness in my crotch. Sometimes it was difficult to concentrate on the reading. I wondered if our proximity ever distracted him. After all, Milo must have been able to feel my hard little pole trapped beneath his squishy butt cheeks. Sometimes it felt like the pressure of Milo's little butt, if he bounced up and down enough, would stimulate my little dick enough to make me cum in my pants. For sure, there was a constant blob of wetness oozing from my stiff cockhead, leaking slimy precum which felt somewhat slick in my boxer briefs. At that moment, feeling Milo's little butt bearing down on my cock, I couldn't work out if it was hurting from Milo's weight or because of the awkward way my stiffie was trapped in the folds of my jeans. Fuck. He was so precocious. So sexy. So cute. I so wanted to stuff his little butt. I desperately wanted to stick my little cock in him. I wanted to burn my stiffness deep into his virgin boyhole. What a shame that that particular little snatch was off limits to me.
At this point, Milo got stuck on a word and started to falter.
'En… en… en…' he hesitated.
'Go on,' I said, encouraging him, 'you can do it.'
It was another of those quirks of the English language that always seemed to trip him up.
'En... en... en...' he stammered.
'Enough,' I said, completing the word for him.
'Enough,' he said, repeating the word to ensure that he memorized it.
'Good job,' I said, in a bright and supportive tone, 'I think you're getting the hang of this.'
Milo gave one of his rare smiles, chuffed with himself. Then he put the book down, for the moment done with reading. He fidgeted about on my lap a little. As his diminutive frame was perched there, he looked around at me enquiringly.
'Cloud?' he began, in a tone that signaled he was about to raise some curious subject.
'Yeh?'
'Who is Ciggy?'
'Ciggy is a very special friend of mine,' I explained, 'He is going to get me out of Verolino.'
'Like…' and he hesitated for a moment, 'like your lover?'
I thought that was a very mature presumption for a little boy like him.
I nodded.
'Yes,' I replied, 'I guess he is.'
'Oh,' he said, 'that's nice.'
And I could tell from his tone that he was slightly envious of that. Envious, but not grudging.
'Where will you go?' he asked.
'I dunno,' I said, 'America I hope.'
'Oh,' he said again, this time a little downbeat, 'So that means I will never see you again.'
That statement took me somewhat by surprise, because it showed just how astute this boy was. It demonstrated that he was clearly aware of the implications of my departure. I pursed my lips with regret, and flashed him a mournful look.
'I guess not,' I said, regretfully.
And at that moment I could tell that the reality of the situation was just beginning to take hold in this little boy's mind. My impending departure was making him sad and despondent. Tell the truth, I felt it too. We had built up such a wonderful rapport in the brief time we had known each other. It always amazed me how sometimes in life you happen to chance upon certain individuals that you just hit it off with straight away, and even though you've only known them for a short time, you feel as though you've known them all your life. You may only encounter such individuals a handful of times in a lifetime, maybe only once. Milo was one such individual. It was amazing how this little 9 year old sprite had wormed his way so deeply into my affections in the brief time that we had known each other, and I knew that leaving him was going to be a real wrench.
'Cloud?' he began again, breaking the short silence that had elapsed between us.
'Yeh?'
He paused before continuing, and he turned to look at me with a curious tilt of his head and that characteristic wrinkling of his little nose.
'I wish you didn't have to go,' he declared ardently, 'I wish you could stay with us forever.'
My heart absolutely melted. I was deeply moved by this little boy's eagerness to express his true feelings, and genuinely touched that he wasn't reticent in revealing his fondness for me. I was so overwhelmed by his candidness, that I leaned in and kissed him gently on the cheek.
'So do I,' I murmured softly, 'so do I.'
He smiled at that, but didn't pursue it. I think he accepted that my objective to find Ciggy was paramount, and he wasn't expecting me to abandon that objective. He understood, as I did, that our little liaison was only temporary, and that we were going to have to say goodbye to each other fairly soon, which really made his declaration all the more poignant and meaningful.
When our reading session was over, Milo asked me if I would come out to the stable with him. I assumed he wanted me to help him clean it up, or something like that. I should have guessed he had other things on his mind by the way he simply marched out there, leading the way without even looking back to see if I was following him. He led me out of the front door of the inn and out into the sunlit yard, over to the stable. The door was unlocked, so that all he had to do was raise the catch, and let us in. I followed him inside. He left the top half of the stable door open, so that we weren't completely in the dark, and then slipped behind the partition of one of the stalls. I followed him, so that we were out of sight of the door, and now hidden in the shade of the stall. The light was quite dim and the air was musty and stagnant. There was no ventilation in there, but it was shady and cool. Milo stood there in amongst the straw bedding and turned to me purposefully.
'What are we doing in here?' I asked, wondering what this was all about.
To my astonishment, he stepped towards me and reached out, tugging at the button of my jeans. Then I instantly knew his purpose, inordinately aroused by him taking the initiative, which was so uncharacteristic of this usually reticent and unforthcoming little boy. Nevertheless, I helped him by popping the button, lowering my flies and opening the front of my jeans to expose my boxer briefs. As I was doing that, he studiously slipped off his singlet, raising his arms above his head and lifting the skimpy garment off, tossing it aside onto the straw-covered floor. It was an unequivocal gesture. By being the first to get naked, he made his intentions quite clear. This little boy wanted to fuck around with me! I secretly rejoiced at the prospect that my eternal stiffie was at last going to get some relief. How resourceful of him, I thought to myself, that he had obviously thought this through, and had brought me to the one place he often went when he wanted to be alone, and where he knew we were unlikely to be disturbed.
Following his lead, I slipped my boxer briefs down to my thighs, and took my stiff little dick out. He stared at it for a few moments. Maybe he was remembering our initial encounter in the bath the other day. Only this time, it was as though he was in control. Little Cloud was wavering in mid air, pointing straight at him, so he kinda stepped forward and put his little hand on my shaft, curling his fingers around my hot little pole. He stood so close that my cockhead was pressed gently against his tummy, and he levered it up and down so that the spongy head brushed against his belly. The little blob of wetness transferred onto his tight young skin, creating a greasy smear on his flat little abs. He must have been aware of it. Standing there so close, he looked up at me plaintively. It was quite unambiguous. He wanted me to spunk him! I must have sufficiently blown his little mind in the bath the other day that I had perhaps given him a fixation - he was going to turn into one of those little boys that liked taking other boys' spunkwads on his little body. I liked that too. There was nothing like the pleasure of warm boyjizz splattered on your skin. It was a rare pleasure to see pearly boyspooge drizzled over your chest and tummy. He grabbed my stiffie in his little fist and gave it a couple of token yanks, as if to say 'cum on me... paint my little body... let your load out all over me'. And as I took hold of my dick, he reached for his own todger that was already bulging fiercely in the crotch of his cutoffs.
It was a real thrill to have Milo standing there before me shirtless. He had discarded his grubby little singlet in the straw, exposing his boyish torso, and in the half-light his skin had a smooth matt texture to it. To fully appreciate his pleasing composition it seemed a better idea to get him to lie down. That way I could get astride him, look into his pretty green eyes and let my gaze rove all over his kidlike little body, those pink little nipples and that tight little tummy with the cutest little innie belly button I had ever seen. I took my jeans and underwear off completely, to make it easier to sit astride him, then took off my polo shirt so that I was completely naked. That way I could sex him up real good. He watched me strip, with a vague smirk on his face, clearly enjoying my little show. Once naked, I pushed him down. He willingly laid down in the straw, understanding immediately what I wanted. I knelt down and first kissed his little body all over, leaving a trail of gentle little kisses on his chest and tummy. I lingered especially on his little innie belly button, and poked my tongue into it just for good measure. His skin tasted slightly salty. He let out a subdued giggle because he was a little ticklish on his tummy. It was the first time I had really had the opportunity to show my affection in this way, since we didn't have a great deal of privacy most of the time.
After kissing him all over, Milo seemed quite relaxed and laid there patiently waiting to see what I was going to do next. I got astride him on my knees and straddled his thighs, so I could take in his boyshit. I made sure that his chest and tummy were within easy striking distance of my fuckstick. Almost automatically, he reached up and grasped my todger. He wanted to jack it for me too! I reciprocated by stripping open the front of his cutoffs as he was lying there, and peeled back the opening to expose his hairless little crotch. As usual, he wasn't wearing any underwear. His little cocklet was hard as hell, stiffly sprung into arousal by his anticipation of what was about to happen. I loved that about little boys. Even the most innocent and unknowing little boys could be bonerized by the merest whiff of sexual adventure, even when they didn't really understand the rudiments of what they were doing. But hey, you don't have to have experienced anything sexual to know that it was inordinately pleasurable to get a stiffie, and any boy, no matter how young and innocent, would know the exquisite pleasure of fingering, squeezing, rubbing, twiddling, twirling and stroking their stiff little rod, and the fun that was to be had in sending jolts of pleasure right through their little virgin bodies from that particular pursuit.
I let him jack my stiffie for me. He wanted to do it, so I just knelt there astride him and caressed his tender young skin while he played with my dick. He laid there quite comfortably, his sweet head nestled in the straw, and he was looking up at me along the line of his nose. I wondered if he noticed the clear, slimy gel that was again accumulating on the tip of my todger. He was a little rough and uncoordinated, with no clear rhythm and not enough grip on my stiffie. For jacking off, I preferred a more snug grasp, so I took his fingers gently and wrapped them around my dick much tighter, and I could feel his tiny digits squeezing. He had such beautiful fingers, with fingernails so clean and pink. The mere pleasure of his little hand around my boyshit made it ultra stiff. I regulated his strokes in my hand until he picked up the right rhythm, and then let him go. He learned fast. He continued at just the right pace. It was just the way I wanted it - fast and hard, just like my fucking. I could already feel the impending pleasure. I was gonna cum so hard. I just knew it was gonna be a good one.
When I felt my orgasm approach, the rising excitement caused me to moan quite loudly, more from anticipation than pleasure. When I cummed, like all powerful orgasms, it made my body rock violently to its very core. My whole body tightened up and my dick exploded in utter pleasure. I couldn't help rising up slightly, thrusting forward, as my kidspunk was ejected, attempting to glaze Milo's little face as well as his chest and tummy. I managed three or four powerful little jets of clear kiddiecum that got him on his face, neck and chest. Again, he wasn't fazed by it. He persevered with the mechanical jacking of my dick even as it was in the throes of ecstasy, and he continued even at the point where he took the initial blast over his lips and cheek. I aimed it square on his little overbite and that cute dimple on his chin. Fuck, what a pleasure it was to blast that pretty face. As my boyseed lashed his face and chest, he looked thrilled. He even carried on jacking my rapidly deflating and now spent fuckstick as though he was willing my cum to go on forever. And at that moment I wished that that was possible, for it had been a great orgasm. A powerful cum, no doubt facilitated by the cuteness of this very lovable little boy, and ever more explosive because of this horny, prodigious little beer monkey that was pinned between my knees.
Milo seemed to enjoy having his face spunked. Not all boys liked that, at any rate not the first time, but Milo had no hesitation in showing his approval. He shocked me slightly by sticking out his tongue and licking around his mouth, sampling his first ever taste of boyjizz. He liked it! He went on licking around his mouth, as far as his pink little tongue could reach, rather like he'd been eating a donut or something. You had to hand it to him, for such a relatively inexperienced little tyke, he was turning out to be a true spunkboy.
He laid in the straw looking up at me, looking slightly forlorn and discarded. He was still wet with my essence drizzled across his chest and smeared around his mouth. Tell the truth, I found that extremely arousing. It was always good to admire the recuperating body of a little boy you have just sexed up. I looked down at him and smiled in gratitude and admiration. Then I saw his little stiffie still poking up from his opened cutoffs, and I couldn't help reaching out and squeezing it for him. The jolt of pleasure was tangible in the way he squirmed around beneath me, emitting a little high-pitched moan, and his arms were thrown out to each side as though he was surrendering to me completely. He gently closed his eyes and I played with his hot, hard little rod for a while in silence. I jacked it, squeezed it and bent it in all directions, mildly punishing his little pole, wanting to get that little fuckstick to dry cum for me.
As I was playing with his boyshit, Milo opened his eyes and was first to break the silence. I realized they were the first words he had actually spoken since we started this encounter.
'Cloud?'
'Yeh?' I replied, still working away on his irrepressible little cocklet.
'I did it again last night,' he confided, 'Twice.'
It was a confession of sorts. It seemed he couldn't leave his little todger alone since I had popped his little dick cherry for him the other day. I knew only too well that once a boy discovered what his little fuckstick was really for, the compulsion to jack it was irresistible.
'Did it feel good?' I asked, jacking his dicklet extra hard.
He blushed slightly and turned his head to one side in the straw, looking away bashfully.
'Yeh,' he said, 'but it's better when you do it.'
'Thank you,' I said, 'I've had a lot more practice.'
I went on manipulating his hardened little fuckstick for a few moments in silence, focused on making him cum.
'Cloud?' he began again, looking back up at me.
'Yeh?'
'Will I ever squirt sticky stuff?'
'Yes,' I said, 'when you are older.'
'Will my father squirt sticky stuff?'
'Oh yes,' I nodded, 'probably a lot more than me.'
'Really?' he exclaimed, his eyes widening with glee, 'Oh, cool!'
And I could detect the little cogs of sexual scintillation revolving in his relatively naïve little mind. It was so erotic to see this pretty little thing so aroused by these dirty thoughts, especially as he was lying there with the remnants of my misappropriated fuckwad still smeared on his face.
I then turned my attention to making him cum. I so wanted to see this little boy in the throes of orgasm once again, and his confessions about his solitary jacking session, where he had jerked that wayward little fuckstick twice, only aroused me even further. As I jacked him, I could see his little todger had taken something of a battering. He must have jacked it quite hard because there was a trace of fresh blood under his foreskin. Clearly, the tear in his frenulum had not had time to heal, and because it was not exposed to the air, the blood had not clotted. It looked only partially encrusted, bright red and not fully congealed. He gasped a little as I pulled the skin right back, yet, perversely, his little dickie pulsed with pleasure, hardening in my fingers. I lowered my head, took his little fuckstick between my lips, and slathered it with my tongue, cleaning it and soothing it with my spit. He squirmed around a little, but I couldn't tell if it was from pleasure or sensitivity. I tightened my lips around his little tool and decided to go for orbit. This was as good a time as any for him to experience his first blowjob and get to know what it feels like to cum in another boy's mouth.
With a few well placed bobs of my head, and my lips still tight around his stiff little pole, I managed to get him aroused enough to make his still inexperienced little dickie go out of its head. Just like the first time I had brought him off, for a long time nothing happened, but then his orgasm arrived almost unexpectedly. When his orgasm hit, it consumed him with frightening suddenness. His little body trembled and he wriggled about beneath me. His little mouth was opening and closing as though he was gasping for breath, and his dicklet pulsed several times in my mouth. But of course, as before, it was a dry cum. His little balls had no juice to emit. They were still small and underdeveloped, in their tight little pouch at the base of his little cock. Alas, there is always something missing when a little cocklet dry cums in your mouth. I was not to be rewarded with the mouthful of salty, creamy spunk that I had come to expect as an experienced fellatrist.
As Milo's little boygasm subsided, and his little todger stopped pulsing away between my puckered lips, he rose up and held onto me, cradling my head in his lap. I went on sucking hard on his post-orgasmic little rod and he started to flinch a little. He held me there, his little body curled around me, with my head buried in his lap. I couldn't tell if he was holding my head in place to prolong the pleasure, or if it was just a response to the sensitivity of his now spent dick. After a few moments, I could feel him shuddering. I didn't know what was going on at first, but then I realized he was crying. I raised my head slowly, abandoning his wet little todger, and looked up. He had screwed up his eyes, hung his head down and was crying. He let out a plaintive little howl, sobbing gently.
'Hey, what's the matter?' I whispered solicitously, stroking his sweet, spiky-haired little head.
I hugged him, even as we were curled up there together in the straw, and he sobbed into my chest.
'I don't want you to go!' he wailed.
And he was crying real tears of hurt, his grief-stricken little face muffled against my nakedness. I could actually feel the hot, salty tears trail from his eyes, smearing wetness all over my bare chest.
I had only experienced this kind of thing a handful of times. I knew from some of my tricks that sometimes the sheer release of orgasm could result in tears of emotion in the resolution stage of sex, especially in cases where the guys had not had relief for many months. The feeling of release could be very profound. The elimination of physical tension was a powerful stress-reliever, and sometimes allowed deep seated emotions to rise to the surface. It was common in massage too, where it could be brought on by the feeling of relief resulting from the relaxing of the muscles. I was amazed to see this happening in a boy so young. I was also deeply touched that the prospect of me leaving should be so distressing for him. It was cute and poignant at the same time. Tell the truth, as we were both wrapped up like that, our hairless little bodies thrown together on the floor, in the dim light of that vacant stable, I had tears in my eyes too. It was going to be no easier for me to forsake this little boy, because I knew that in the short time that I had known him, we had developed an incredible fondness that I knew was mutual.
Gradually, Milo stopped crying, so for a while we just laid together in the straw, drawing out these special moments and appreciating the feeling of quiet togetherness. Our little reverie came to an end when we heard the voice of Altair out in the yard, calling him. We both looked at each other, both thinking that it was probably better not to be caught together like this. Not that I thought Altair would necessarily object - I knew instinctively that he wouldn't - but I thought discretion was the best approach in this instance. I didn't want to abuse Altair's hospitality. Whatever could be said about my values, I wasn't cavalier enough to blatantly flaunt the fact that I was fucking around with his little boy. I held Altair in very high esteem, and I didn't want to do anything disrespectful towards him.
I gently helped Milo to his feet. He quickly dried his eyes with the back of his hand, and fastened the front of his cutoffs. I slipped my jeans back on and, quick thinking as always, grabbed my abandoned shirt, bunched it up, and hastily wiped my fuckslime off Milo's face and chest. But we both still had a tell-tale dusting of straw all over us. Milo's bare back was caked with it, and he had it in his hair and on his butt. I had it all over my jeans and in my shaggy hair. It was everywhere. There would be no denying what we had been doing. We dusted ourselves off as best we could, picking off the errant straw from each other. When we were done, we both took a moment to compose ourselves, and then went to the stable door. We emerged from the dimness of the stable and out into the blinding sunlight of the yard, still shirtless and barefoot. I had my spunk-stained shirt tucked under my arm. As it happened, Altair was waiting for us on the front porch of the inn. He held the door open as we slipped inside. Milo sauntered inside, apparently oblivious. As I passed Altair, he reached out and retrieved a rather large stalk of straw from my hair, that must have been trapped somewhere in my thick blond mop. I stopped and glanced at it guiltily, but didn't say anything. As I went to step inside, Altair laid a hand on my bare shoulder and leaned towards me.
'You did look after him, didn't you?' he asked, very quietly.
I took that to mean that he was searching for my assurance that I had not done anything untoward with Milo. He probably knew we had fucked around - Altair was very astute, very worldly and very much attuned to what little boys were likely to get up to in private - but I assumed he wanted reassurance that Milo was okay with it.
'Yes,' I said, nodding affirmatively, 'You know I would never do anything to harm him.'
Altair narrowed his eyes and grinned knowingly, apparently satisfied with my answer.
* * * * * *
The next day, very early in the morning, we were rudely awoken from our sleep by an infernal noise. We were drawn to a sudden commotion emanating from outside in the yard, prematurely roused from our peaceful slumbers and wrenched from our warm beds by the menacing buzz of engines. And it was more of a buzz than a roar, more reminiscent of smaller vehicles. Obviously not trucks, but something lighter. Sure enough, they were motorcycles.
I had been asleep with Milo. We were shocked back into the reality of the precarious existence that pervaded all civilians in Verolino these days. We jumped out of bed, probably more curious than scared. Milo hastily slipped on his cutoffs which had been discarded at the foot of the bed. I just had time to pull on a pair of boxer briefs, and we rushed downstairs. We got to the front door just as River and Tallin were mustering together, also in only their underwear, anxious to see what all the fuss was about. River was protectively holding Tallin back, as though not sure whether Tallin should really be allowed to witness whatever was about to transpire.
Clustering around the doorway, we all stared out into the yard and saw straight away the cause of this rude interruption. There were three motorcycles, their engines screaming, being ridden all over the yard. The tell-tale tracks clearly showed the arcs and donuts where they had ripped up the dusty soil of the yard. They were ridden by three young boys, all in uniform. Two remained on their bikes, by the gateway to the yard, and were sitting astride their bikes with machine-pistols pointed at us. The engines were still running, now turning over at a low growl. The third one had propped up his bike and was advancing towards us, purposefully striding closer with his machine-pistol strung across his belly.
I recognized the boys' uniforms straight away: blue pants and white shirts - the distinctive colors of the Halcyon League. The Halcyon League were the youth organization of the VLA. They were unmistakable with their color-coded neckerchiefs, the skulking bear motifs on their breast pockets and military style epaulettes on their shoulders. They wore side caps and black leather belts, and heavy ankle-length clodhopper boots. They looked like quasi-military boy scouts, something like a cross between the Young Pioneers and the Hitler Youth, and probably every bit as fanatical. The boys of the Halcyon League had a reputation for being fiercely loyal to the VLA. In some ways they were even more dangerous than the regular VLA soldiers. At least the adult soldiers had some life experience. They were seasoned warriors who could still retain a semblance of humanity and compassion. But the Halcyon League were all young boys, incontrovertibly indoctrinated to the VLA cause with a textbook obsession for obeying orders. They all possessed a ruthless and unsavory zeal that made them cold, cruel and unforgiving. It was said that the boys of the Halcyon League were the very antithesis of a shota boy. They were religious right-wing fundamentalists, every one of them raised as a model of propriety and morality, and blindly loyal to the VLA ideology. They were known for being capricious, arrogant, self-important little brats. Spoiled, extremist, fanatical little brats. Everyone's worst nightmare - brats with machineguns.
Altair appeared at the foot of the stairs and strode determinedly up to the door brandishing a double-barreled shotgun. He looked drawn and pale, and was wearing a bathrobe, clearly also prematurely roused from his bed. We parted to make way for him, and he pushed his way to the front of the porch with the shotgun slung over his arm, evidently resolved to confront these boys. The shotgun was broken open, but I could see there were cartridges in the breech.
'What do you want?' Altair demanded, stepping out of the porch with his shotgun slung over his forearm.
One of the boys, the one that had dismounted, approached Altair. His submachine-gun was for the moment safely slung by its strap so that it rested diagonally across his tummy, pointing at the ground. However, the other two behind him still had theirs pointed straight at us. Their weapons were small and compact - German made Heckler & Koch MP7s, ideal for these not yet fully grown novices. They had suppressors fitted to their barrels, clearly prepared for close combat. This boy looked older than the others, maybe 13 or 14. He was certainly taller - a slim, well groomed, healthy-looking specimen. He was wearing a purple neckerchief, thus denoting his rank as the patrol leader. The others wore yellow and green respectively, so this boy was clearly in charge.
'We're searching for fugitives,' he said, looking Altair straight in the eyes.
I noticed that, despite the patrol leader's apparent maturity, his voice was still unbroken. He was haughty, but devilishly handsome, with dark hair that was thick and fuzzy, but shorn fairly closely. He had quite thick eyebrows too, with dark eyes and a wide mouth, and fairly high cheekbones. He also had great teeth. They were very white and well aligned - almost as perfect as Ciggy's. It was a shame that this boy was so steeped in politics and religion, for he was very good looking. He was the type of boy who would have been a natural leader amongst his peers, a real studmuffin had he been just a regular teenager - popular, likeable, sexy and athletic. He could have had the world at his feet had he not chosen to immerse himself in dogma and armed struggle. It was a real shame, but then, that's the way it was in Verolino. The war had affected everybody, even those who were not aligned with any of the warring factions. It was impossible to remain untouched by it.
'What fugitives?' Altair demanded.
'Escapees, defectors, traitors, deserters…' the boy reeled off.
'You will find no one like that here.'
'Really?' the boy queried, menacingly stepping closer, 'Only we have been told that there may be shota boys on the run.'
'Being a shota boy is not a crime,' Altair replied, casually.
'Shota clubs are now illegal,' said the boy, 'We will eliminate any such activities.'
'You have no jurisdiction here,' Altair protested, staying calm.
The patrol leader stepped even closer, so that he was almost confronting Altair to his face, even though Altair still towered above him in height.
'We represent the military government,' the boy countered, raising his eyebrows defiantly, 'I think you'll find we're in charge here.'
Which was a pretty subjective statement really. Something told me that it was likely that in the KAPO-held areas, they would have claimed that KAPO were in charge. The truth is, the KAPOs and the VLA only had influence within their own enclaves and no one really had overall control in Verolino. At least not yet.
'Get off my property,' Altair demanded, closing his shotgun by way of emphasis.
Altair was not at all cowed by this Halcyon League patrol. Something told me that he considered these boys to be nothing more than insolent whippersnappers. It was as if he was unable to take them seriously. The rest of us were not quite so complacent. The two boys at the back still had their machine-pistols pointed at us. There was a slight air of confrontation. The morning sun was still low in the sky, not very far above the horizon, and there was an eerie coolness to the morning air that somehow added to the tension.
The patrol leader was thrown slightly by Altair's rebuke. But he was not deterred. He looked towards us, huddled together on the porch.
'Who are THEY?' the boy demanded, jerking the muzzle of his machine-pistol towards us.
'They are my sons and nephews,' Altair replied, coolly.
'What? ALL of them?' the boy queried, clearly unconvinced.
It was a legitimate question - after all River and I were blond and Tallin was half Thai. We were clearly not Verolene in origin, and that was inevitably going to raise doubts. But Altair remained perfectly cool.
'Yes. ALL of them,' he mimicked, 'What do you want DNA?'
I couldn't help laughing. River snickered, and even Milo let out a little high-pitched chuckle, which certainly eased the tension somewhat. But this boy didn't like that. He was clearly annoyed by our amusement and he shot us a hostile glance, which was enough to silence us all.
'Do you always let your boys walk around in their underwear?'
'No,' said Altair, 'The underwear is only for your benefit.'
It was an ironic statement, barely disguised by Altair and clearly at this boy's expense. Whether he saw the irony of it or not was unclear, since the boy ignored the remark and continued with his own agenda.
'What's in there?' the boy asked, jerking his head at the stable door.
'Nothing,' said Altair, 'It's empty.'
'Open it!' the patrol leader ordered, calling over his shoulder to the other boys.
The other two boys had no hesitation in dismounting. They propped up their motorbikes and came over to the stable door, still gingerly fingering their sub-machineguns.
We fully expected that they would soon realize they were wasting their time. They went blundering into the stable, and we heard a shrill, high-pitched scream. We were flabbergasted to discover there was actually someone in there.
Then the patrol leader turned to Altair, as if to question him about what they had found.
'What do you call this?' he asked, gesturing with his machinegun.
We all scrambled out into the yard, even though we were mostly in our underwear, and we shambled into the darkened stable to see for ourselves. We peered into the stall, only to discover two rather dejected looking boys cowering in the corner. They were curled up in the straw clutching each other, pretty much in the same place as where Milo and I had been fucking about only the day before. Ironically, they were around the same age too, one a few years older than the other.
'These your nephews too?' the patrol leader asked, sarcastically.
Altair stood there, still holding his shotgun, which was pointed to the ground, and he scratched his head, completely nonplussed. For the first time ever, he was speechless.
The two boys were clearly scared, wide eyed with angst, and were shaking, probably all the more fearful for having their cover blown so rudely and suddenly finding themselves with guns pointed at them and the rest of us gathered around ogling them. They looked pitiful: exhausted, malnourished, dirty and scared. Their clothes were so ragged they had more holes than fabric. Their feet were grubby and shoeless, with black dirt ingrained in their toenails. Their faces were grimy and their hair was greasy, straggly and unkempt. I felt so sorry for them.
'Get up!' the patrol leader ordered.
One of the boys, the younger one of the two, scrambled to his feet straight away. But the other couldn't get up. The younger boy stooped to help him. He fumbled about in the straw for a single underarm crutch that was lying next to him, and stood up on one leg. It was only then that I realized the older boy was crippled. And no wonder he needed the crutch - the lower half of one of his legs was missing. Boys like him, with limbs missing, maimed and mutilated beyond redemption, were sadly not unusual. He was a broken wreck of a boy - probably another unwitting victim of the many landmines that were still to be found all over Verolino.
The patrol leader used the barrel of his machinegun to gesture towards the door, indicating that the boys should get out. The smaller boy helped the bigger one to hobble towards the door. Then we all stood out in the yard in a little semicircle, looking at them.
'So now you're harboring fugitives,' said the patrol leader, accusingly.
'They're not fugitives!' Altair replied, with a note of ridicule, 'They're just refugees.'
'Shut up old man,' the patrol leader ordered, annoyed and impatient with Altair.
That remark was meant to demean him, because Altair really wasn't an old man. He was only in his 40s. He may have had bushy sideburns and was slightly balding, but he was physically very strong, tall and bull-chested. Luckily, Altair was not rebuffed by the boy's derogatory terms. You had to hand it to him - Altair always remained eternally calm and unruffled.
Then the patrol leader turned to the two frightened boys.
'We're going to take you in for questioning,' he announced, with an air of satisfaction, 'You're under arrest.'
The other two Halcyon League boys closed in as though to apprehend them. The two terrified strays seemed to shrink back in horror. It wasn't clear if they even understood what was going on.
'There's no need for that,' Altair reasoned, 'Can't you see they're frightened?'
The patrol leader turned on Altair, stepping towards him with an angry snarl.
'I told you to shut up old man, or I'll arrest you too for lying to us!'
But Altair wasn't put off. He didn't even look scared. Just frustrated.
'You'll never get away with this,' Altair went on, disparagingly, 'The world will condemn you.'
'The world isn't here, is it?' the boy retorted with an air of self-importance.
'But these boys are civilians!' Altair pleaded.
'And you, my friend, are starting to annoy me,' the patrol leader muttered, agitatedly fingering his machine-pistol.
The patrol leader decided to ignore him. Altair's pleas were a cry in the wilderness, ineffectual and unlistened to. The Halcyon League boys were insistent on doing what they came here to do, and continued to focus on rounding up the refugee boys. Then one of the Halcyon League boys took out a cellphone from his back pocket and called in to report their arrests. He said something about suspected shota boys and requested transport to take the boys away. River and I instinctively looked at each other. This boy was so way off the mark, it was almost amusing. I think we were both tempted to laugh out loud. As if these timid, vagrant boys could ever be shota boys. It was a ridiculous notion, particularly given that one of them was a cripple. I couldn't decide if their arresting him was a result of their ignorance or their perversity. Certainly I knew from experience that there were tricks who were attracted to boys with missing or amputated limbs. In fact I was sure there was a term for that particular fetish - but I wondered if these dogmatic, religious fundamentalist Halcyon League boys were aware of that fetish, or whether it was just ignorance on their part that this poor boy on crutches should find himself suddenly accused of being a shota boy.
The Halcyon League boys apprehended the two refugee boys in a very businesslike manner, and you could tell from the way they went about their duties that this was just another assignment for them. They seemed to have no compunction about what they were doing, displaying no glimmer of humanity or compassion. It was just a task that they obediently and unquestioningly had to accomplish. Tell the truth, I never understood the mentality of these boys. The Halcyon League favored chastity and sexual abstinence, so the whole idea of shota clubs was anathema to them. In fact, so bent were they on the denial of any kind of sexual pleasure, they threatened extreme reprisals to anybody who dared exhibit even the most fundamental token of affection. The Halcyon League demanded celibacy. Sexual abstinence was at the root of their beliefs, so it was likely that these boys had never jacked off. Maybe they had never even spunked, with the exception of the odd nocturnal emission, of course. They were probably all virgins, with their dick cherries still intact. For some reason that made my little dick stiffen with perverse pleasure. Imagine, those poor neglected little stiffies, hot young dicks horning up with unrequited arousal, always to be left wanting, their hairless little erections ignored and unsatisfied. It was quite sad in a way.
Of course, that whole concept was incomprehensible to my horny shota boy way of thinking. It was so diametrically opposed to my particular cockcentric fuckology that my dirty, highly sexualized little mind was unable to conceive of such a state of affairs. It was beyond me how any boy could countenance such an existence, at the height of his sexual prowess, probably the horniest he will ever be in his life, brimming with seminal fluids, his balls churning with fresh young sperm begging to be ejected in the most oppressive of pleasures, his dick horning up several times a day, sometimes without warning and most of the time quite spontaneously, without any obvious trigger - hardening in his crotch for no apparent reason. How could any boy, feeling the pleasurable hardness of his little dick, not heed the yearning to jack that little instrument to orgasm and feel the fleeting pleasure of ejaculating hot young spunk - the inordinate nirvana of that ultimate ecstasy as his essence was forced from that iron hard pole, to be released in pleasurable delight. Some of these Halcyon League boys were so entrenched in their beliefs, so indoctrinated with VLA propaganda, so steeped in the fervency of politics and armed struggle, that they had forgotten that at the root of it they were still just boys. Boys with stiff dicks that begged to be fucked hard into tight little holes, boys with butts that ached to be stuffed with engorged fuckmeat and pumped full of hot boybatter. What a shame that all the political ideology had turned them into blind, obedient automatons, forsaking their natural urges and ignoring the fact that they were essentially flesh and blood, that they were vital and alive, with real feelings and desires and the propensity to fuck around together and give each other pleasure.
So there we stood, assembled before the Halcyon League boys' guns. There was Altair, his shotgun still in his hand, with us crowded around him. I noticed that River, who was standing next to me, was holding onto Tallin's little hand, keeping Tallin very close to him. I thought that was real cute, and it reminded me so much of how I was with Simon-Peter. The two refugee boys were standing out in the yard, cowering and bewildered. The younger boy was very small, probably only about 7 or 8. To my mind he was clearly too young to be a shota boy. He was cute, of that there was no doubt, but generally, the criteria was that if you were too small to comfortably take an adult cock, you were too young to be a shota boy. Conversely, if you were old enough to have pubes, you were considered too old. Although, as I knew only too well, there were still a fair number of hebephiles, enough to constitute a healthy demand even for pubescent boys. Of course, without getting us to lower our pants and physically check out our boyshit, that particular criterion was open to interpretation. Come to that, in theory any small boy could take an adult cock, given enough breaking in. And breaking in was the operative term. The smaller boys could be apprentices - essentially shota boys in training, as indeed Tallin was - but generally, as a shota boy you didn't start taking adult cocks until your age was at least into double figures. That didn't mean you couldn't take kiddie cocks of course, as was evident from boys like Simon-Peter and Tallin. Both of them had taken my kiddie-sized cock with great aplomb, so I had already established that the former was quite proficient at it and the latter I had every reason to believe soon would be.
The VLA truck which came to pick them up couldn't have been far away. It arrived within a few minutes. It was an open truck, probably a troop carrier, and it was backed into the yard slowly. Two VLA soldiers got out of the cab. One of them was a Lieutenant, in full VLA uniform of field gray, with a kepi on his head and a holstered pistol on his hip. He jumped out of the truck and surveyed us all standing there in the yard. Something told me that this Lieutenant would be difficult to bargain with. He was a mean-looking bastard. I wondered how it was that all these military types always looked so mean. His face was thin, his cheeks pockmarked and motheaten, and most distinctive of all, the visor of his kepi was pulled so far down you couldn't see his eyes. Obviously a hardened military man, a veteran of many campaigns, with unswerving loyalty to the VLA cause, and consequently compassionless and hardhearted. No, there would be no negotiating with him.
'Is this what you are fighting?' Altair asked the Lieutenant, plaintively, indicating the poor crippled boy, standing there forlornly on his crutch, trembling and scared.
It was easy to see why Altair was drawing attention to him. He was completely harmless. And yet the Halcyon League patrol had singled him out as a shota boy, thus highlighting that he could in no way have been a threat to them. I admired Altair's spirit, but he was clearly making no headway with the VLA Lieutenant who completely ignored Altair and continued to issue orders to the Halcyon League boys.
'Move them out!' he called out.
Altair was still not happy and still determined to resist.
'You can't do this!' he shouted.
The Lieutenant lost patience with him. He drew his pistol and took a running jump, swinging his arm up and hitting Altair in the face with the butt of his pistol. The crack of the blow was loud and rang out across the yard. Altair collapsed in a heap on the ground, holding his face, and his shotgun went clattering to the ground a few feet away. Then the Lieutenant kicked him just for good measure. It was a hefty kick too, a powerful, tangible thwack. We all winced. I felt so sorry for Altair. He was a good man, and he was just trying to protect us. He didn't deserve to be treated like that.
'Move them out!' the Lieutenant called out, repeating his order, walking away callously and leaving Altair writhing away in agony on the dusty ground.
As we attended to Altair, the Halcyon League boys closed in, their machineguns still poised at their hips, and started to usher the refugee boys towards the truck. By and large they were cooperative, although they did let out a murmur of confusion and concern, clearly uncomfortable with the guns being pointed at them. As they were led away, I felt so sorry for these two pitiful displaced boys. They had sought refuge in the stable - alas probably the only place that was accessible to them - just seeking shelter for the night and a place to rest their weary heads. They were too frightened to speak and seemed confused and disorientated by the whole episode. And I realized, as they were being taken away to god only knows what fate, that it was only at their expense that River and Tallin and I were still at liberty to pursue our own objectives. It could so easily have been any of us. Secretly I prayed that those boys were going to be okay.
Alas, the whole operation was poorly thought out - the truck was simply too high for the refugee boys to get in, so the other VLA soldier had to help them. I watched the young soldier who looked about 18 or 19, around the same age as Ciggy. I noticed him because, even under his steel helmet, which looked slightly too big for him, he had very bright, shiny eyes, where the whites showed quite prominently. He was focused on the task of helping the boys up into the back of the truck. The smaller boy was able to pull himself up and jumped onto the ledge of the truck floor, clambering over the sill with ease. When the boy on crutches came, he saw straight away that this boy was unable to hop up like the other boy had. This poor crippled boy looked meek and unassuming, with big, sad, pleading eyes, staring out from beneath that curtain of dirty, straggly black hair with a fairly nondescript expression. I saw the way this young soldier took the crutch from him, then he physically lifted the crippled boy up into the truck. He hoisted him up over his shoulder in a type of fireman's lift, and sat him down on the edge of the open truck. The boy smiled his gratitude at the young soldier, and was able to get up and move into the back of the truck with the help of the smaller boy. It was an act of kindness which stood out for me, and an example of something I had been aware of from the very start of this conflict - that there were good and bad people on both sides.
Luckily, Altair was not badly hurt. He was bruised, and had a small cut on his cheekbone where the VLA Lieutenant had struck him with his pistol, but he was otherwise unharmed. When the VLA soldiers and the Halcyon League boys were gone, we helped Altair up and took him inside. In the kitchen, Altair was shaken, but still utterly coherent. Milo was upset seeing his father struck down, but still had the presence of mind to fetch the first aid paraphernalia for Altair's wound. What I liked was that Milo, completely unbidden, also brought to the table Altair's pipe and the little pouch of tobacco, along with the matches. Altair smiled his gratitude at Milo's gesture. To me, it was yet another example of the unique rapport they had. It was a thoughtful gesture by the boy, and demonstrated the regard he had for his father. Once again, I found myself wondering what that must be like.
River helped to cleanse and dress Altair's cut. It was more of a split than a cut, caused by the force of the blow rather than anything sharp. It was easily fixed with antiseptic and a piece of gauze, held in place with a bit of surgical tape. River was quite good with the first aid gear. River was good with anything like that. He was very practical. I quite envied his dexterity with such things. When River had put the first aid things away, Altair assembled us at the kitchen table. We gathered around him as he sat there, with that neat little dressing just below one eye.
'Listen carefully,' said Altair gravely, surveying us all.
He said it with the same kind of purpose and conviction as when he had given me that message from Ciggy the night we had first arrived.
'This is important,' he went on, 'We don't have much time.'
Then he focused on me.
'Cloud, you must get ready to leave.'
It was the last thing I expected to hear. Despite the fact that I knew I was going to have to leave here eventually, I realized that I was not ready to leave just yet. I had settled things in my mind that I would be here for a few more days. I opened my mouth to protest.
'But…'
'No buts,' Altair interjected, 'I promised you that I would make arrangements for you when the time was right. That time has come.'
River and I exchanged glances. He looked very somber. Then I focused on Milo's little face and saw how frightened he looked. Frightened because the moment he feared, the moment he had confessed to me he dreaded, was now becoming a reality.
'But why now?' I asked, mystified.
'Those Halcyon League boys are already suspicious. They will be back. They will sniff around until they find some other reason to arrest someone. You must be gone by then.'
As usual, as with everything Altair said, it was unequivocal and unavoidable.
'Do you understand?' he asked me, seeking confirmation.
I hesitated, not wanting to go. For a moment I considered defying him and appealing to him to let me stay and take my chances. But deep down I knew that it would be a selfish thing to do. I risked getting Altair and Milo into trouble. And, though I still didn't know for sure if they were working for the Resistance, I knew it was best that I did not attract suspicion or cause them any undue hardship or distress.
'Yes,' I said, finally, 'I understand.'
Altair stood up, apparently happy with my undertaking.
'Get your things together. I will arrange a car for you.'
'What car?' I asked, and I realized almost as soon as the words were out of my mouth that it was an inappropriate question.
Altair ignored it anyway.
'Where will I be going?' I ventured, thinking that more pertinent.
'To the Red Cross field hospital.'
'To see Ciggy?'
Altair nodded.
'You said it wasn't safe,' I reminded him.
'It isn't,' he explained, 'But if you stay here, you might be arrested. At least if you travel incognito you still have a chance of getting out safely.'
I looked at River and then Milo. I knew we were all thinking the same thing. As unprepared as we were, we could not avoid the inevitable.
'What about us?' River asked, wondering what was going to happen to him and Tallin.
Altair turned to River. Tallin was, as usual, standing very close to him.
'I wanted to wait until the offensive was over, so we could smuggle you across the border into Zachyna. But the VLA have been victorious these past two days. They have exacted big losses on the KAPO rebels. They have increased their control of this region. It will be impossible to get you across the border. I am sorry. It is best you stay here for now.'
And so we resigned ourselves to this fate. Altair's word was supreme. We didn't argue. We simply did as he said.
I did as Altair instructed and immediately went to pack my stuff. It was River who helped me pack. Not that I had a lot of stuff. I had abandoned the vast majority of my things back at The Saxon Club. I had even less when we left Kolina. All that remained was a minimum of clothes and personal effects, most of which I could probably have done without. Nevertheless, River held my backpack open on the bed as I crammed things into it. We were alone in the little upstairs bedroom of the inn. We were very quiet as I stuffed the last of my rolled up shirts into the backpack and then River zipped it up.
When we had finished, we sat down next to each other on the bed. It was a special moment because we were both aware that this was the very last opportunity we had to say our goodbyes. It was River who turned to me and put an arm around me. Even he was feeling the emotion of having to say goodbye. It was nice when he leaned over and kissed me. I turned to meet his lips, and within seconds it turned into a feverish, lascivious kiss, reminiscent of the horny times we had shared, each of us remembering the inordinate passion of our sexual exploits together. River was a beautiful, sexy, intelligent boy - a wonderful human being, and I could not forget all that he had done for me. Indeed, it was only because of him that I was here.
When we had finished kissing, alas all we had time for, we sat huddled together on the bed, our arms around each other.
'What will you do when you get across the border to Zachyna?' I asked him.
'Try and get Tallin to England,' said River, 'He has family there.'
'I hope you make it,' I said.
'Thanks,' he said smiling, showing off his cute braces, one of the things I liked most about him.
'It's been a helluva rollercoaster,' I replied, 'But I've enjoyed every minute of it.'
'Me too,' he said, both of us sensing that our days as shota boys were pretty much over.
There was a pause, during which we both pondered that prospect.
'No regrets?' he went on, turning to me.
'No,' I replied, 'no regrets... Except perhaps...'
'Yeah?' he asked, interested.
'Well, I never got to fuck my way across Europe,' I explained, in jest.
River laughed, exposing his braced teeth again, and he looked at me quizzically.
'What do you mean?'
'I was gonna write a journal about my experiences, comparing all the different nationalities I've fucked. It was gonna be called "How To Cum in 23 Languages".'
He burst out laughing again, and we both laughed together, allowing ourselves a gentle, rolling laughter that went on for a few minutes. Then, when we had both calmed down, he looked at me with a more serious, enquiring stare.
'Between us we must have had quite a few,' he said, 'different nationalities, I mean.'
I nodded in absolute agreement.
'Yup. Pretty much.'
'So tell me,' he went on, scooting closer to me on the bed, and leaning towards me with enthusiasm, 'Who were the best fuckers?'
I put my finger to my lips and looked up at the ceiling, thinking it over.
'I think it's gotta be the Americans!' I said, spluttering with laughter.
* * * * * *
True to his word, Altair had arranged a car for me. The whole thing was executed so seamlessly that I wondered how exactly he had facilitated this, especially at such short notice. After all, there were no civilian vehicles and the supply of gasoline was strictly regulated. I wondered just how much influence Altair really had. I never did find out for sure if he was working for the Resistance, and I was aware that he probably could never have told me anyway. But I didn't deign to ask him. He had already told me that I asked too many questions, so by now I had come to accept that sometimes it was better to just keep shtum, and that there were some things you just shouldn't question.
The problem was that the car arrived to take me away just as the main saloon of the inn was filling up with soldiers. As it turned out, the VLA did return, just as Altair had predicted. They were all in a state of frenzied hysteria, fresh from their recent victories over the KAPO rebels. Having trounced the KAPO militia, they were bragging and full of hubris, effusing with stories of how they smashed the KAPO lines and how many they had killed or taken prisoner. Already intoxicated on the bloodlust of their deadly engagement, they descended on the inn, weary and battle-fatigued, some bloodied and bandaged, but clearly intent on drinking themselves into a stupor to rejoice in their victory. The yard filled with APCs and trucks and the VLA soldiers burst into the inn in gaggles of four or five, screaming loud incoherent vocalizations as they entered, as though they felt compelled to announce their arrival. Milo was already being manhandled by them, his diminutive shirtless form dwarfed by all these burly men, his pale-skinned little body a stark contrast amongst all the gray uniforms. He struggled to satisfy their demands for beer, such was their voracious thirst. He was being pushed and pulled carelessly by the soldiers, some clamoring for more beer, others wanting to get a feel of him, slapping his butt, slobbering gratuitous kisses all over his little face and, on one occasion at least, apparently no longer content to just cop a feel of his crotch through his shorts, one of them was actually delving into the front of his cutoffs to grab at his boyshit. Seeing this, with the depth of affection I had for this little boy, I wanted to run in there and punch that soldier. I wanted to throw them all off and pluck that boy from their midst, rescue him from this bunch of drunken boorish molesters and their unwarranted groping. But, alas, it would have been a stupid move. Milo didn't enjoy that rough treatment. But he was a beer monkey. That was his job. Milo was a sensible boy and he knew his place. So he tolerated it, much as I tolerated the occasional drunks, boy-batterers and forcefuckers that were an occupational hazard for a seasoned fuckboy like me.
As the car waited for me in the yard, I hesitated by the kitchen door, preparing to slip out the back door so that the VLA wouldn't see me. I could only watch helplessly as Milo was being manhandled by the VLA soldiers. He couldn't leave them and they wouldn't let him go. The car couldn't wait. So my last glimpse of Milo was across the teeming saloon of the inn, with him being assailed by some inebriated buffoon of a sergeant. Milo twisted his head around just enough to catch one last glimpse of me, and our gaze connected across the crowded room. As I locked onto his stare, looking into those pretty green eyes for the last time, I knew that telepathically we said goodbye to each other, perhaps never knowing if we would ever meet again. His desperate, pleading expression told me that he hated these soldiers, but he was obliged to serve them, and that really he wished he was coming with me. In return, I flashed him a look of admiration, gratitude and love, and I knew that even as I turned away, breaking our gaze, I would always remember this little boy. But I had to go. The car was waiting and my escort was impatient. We couldn't risk the VLA soldiers seeing us, so reluctantly, and with a heavy heart, I ran out and hopped into the waiting vehicle. The door was slammed and the car dashed out of the yard at speed. As I waved goodbye to the boys who had been my friends and saviors, I shed a little tear for them. They had been my companions, my fuckbuddies, my comrades. I could feel the sting of tears welling up in my eyes as I realized that I was probably never going to see them again. As we turned out of the gate, I took one last glimpse of the place that had been my sanctuary for the last few days, and was overwhelmed by sadness. But most of all, my tears were for Milo, as it struck me at that moment just how much I actually loved this special little boy. I think I had fallen in love with him from the very first time I saw him. No word of a lie, I really did love that little guy.
But as one part of me sorrowed at what I was leaving behind, another part of me glowed with excitement at what awaited me. I breathed a metaphorical sigh of relief that I was finally getting out of Verolino. I was at last headed for salvation. This was it! I was finally going to see Ciggy.
* * * * * *