Date: Mon, 1 Jun 1998 16:40:43 -0600 (MDT)
From: SBP
Subject: Ian, One Man's Prince (COMPLETE)

                                Chapter One
                        "Coming In From The Cold"

Snow fell over the silver trailer home in thick, fat flakes, partially
hiding the trailer from sight.  A porch lamp glowed with weak, yellow
light.  A wind chime made of irregular, colored squares of tin -- a child's
shop class project -- jangled and spun from the awning.  Dark green plastic
trash bags filled with empty beer cans were piled on either side of the
door.
 
"Don't you open that door, godammit!"
 
The screen door opened with a loud squeak of rusting hinges.  A young boy
stood framed in the doorway, dressed in a white t-shirt and black gym
shorts.
 
"I'm leaving!  I'm running away I mean it!"
 
The boy's voice was shrill, his tiny fists raised in self-defense.  Then he
cowered suddenly and raised his skinny arms.
 
CRACK!
 
A passerby would have a man's beefy arm lash out and the little boy stagger
beneath a crashing slap.  The man's arm lifted to strike the boy again but
the boy ran out the door and into the dark, snowy night. He stood for a
moment looking wild-eyed and angry, his left cheek red and inflamed as if
branded.
 
The cold air hit Ian like a second slap; the child gasped and turned to
scramble back inside.
 
"And don't come back!"
 
The man's parting scream was tinged with alcoholic ugliness: he locked the
door.  The boy stared in disbelief, his small mouth dropping open to form a
red, moist "O."  His round, blue eyes grew wide and wet beneath black
bangs.
 
Ian Brendan O'Donnell was 11 years old.  He was a very sad little boy who
always seemed on the verge of tears.  He had cream-white skin and a gaunt
face filled with angelic ache.  At 4'10" and 85 pounds, soft-spoken and shy
and with an unchanged voice, Ian was a blossom of delicate, pubescent
beauty.
 
Ian "ran away" often, which usually meant he wandered the trailer park for
several hours before returning.  Then the boy was marched to his bed and
made to lay face down while his father spanked him with a belt. The boy was
not allowed to twist away or shield himself with his hands. He had to lie
there, jerking and yelling apologies, while the belt bit into his ass.  Ian
always broke down, blubbering through the spankings.  Yet, behind his
anguish, since his birthday three months earlier, Ian had begun to feel
"little twinges" during the spankings.  The belt cracking over his clenched
buttocks made his tummy flip-flop, made it tingle "down there," and it was
this confusion of pain and tingling and loneliness that made the spankings
unbearable.
 
"I'm really leaving this time.  I am I am I am," the boy whispered, bending
over to briskly rub his bare legs.  The icy wind knifed through his scant
clothing.  His white legs were shiny-smooth beneath the little black pants.
 
"Ian?  Honey, come here!  You'll catch your death!"
 
Ian looked up and saw old lady Reynolds leaning out from her trailer across
the road.  The old woman's face was filled wit concern. She wore fuzzy pink
slippers and a ragged blue housecoat that fluttered in the wind, revealing
a yellow nightgown and her bony shins laced with blue varicose veins.
Flickering light from a television danced in the windows, and Ian regretted
how he sometimes thought of her as a weird kind of witch.
 
"Go back to bed, Miss Reynolds.  I'm O.K.," said Ian bravely, his voice
quivering.
 
"Let me get you a coat," the woman clucked.  "Some pants."
 
Ian followed the woman's gaze down to his bare legs.  He was dressed for
bed.  How could he run away in shorts in the middle of winter? 
 
"Someone should take you away from him," said Miss Reynolds, touching her
hands to her face in a fretful gesture.  "Someone should...do something."
 
Ian stared at the old woman.  She couldn't help him.  Ian's mother had died
during childbirth and he had been alone ever since. There was only his
father and the daily reality of abuse.  The feelings of worthlessness.  His
shivering in the cold.
 
The little boy screwed up his face, lower lip pouting prettily, and dropped
his face into his hands.  His t-shirt billowed up in the wind, revealing
his smooth, flat tummy and the crinkled, elastic band of the little black
pants hugging his lean, child's waist.
 
"Oh, Ian!  Come inside!" the old woman yelled.
 
"Whenever you're ready, boy!" yelled Ian's father, his voice roaring from
behind the locked door.
 
The little boy jumped straight up in the air with fright, his thin body
trembling and his face a mask of desperation.  The snow fell. A strong wind
rustled the trash bags and wind chimes, mixing the hollow, harsh notes of
empty beer cans with the clear, musical tinkle of the boy's shop class
project -- a present to his father.  The contrast of sounds was a metaphor
for the boy's relationship with the man.
 
Ian sprinted from the porch and ran before he knew what he was doing.  He
ran as fast as he could and never looked back, slipping and stumbling down
the long, black, icy road.  The sound of his bare, unprotected feet
slapping into slush echoed in the night and was stumbling down the long,
black, icy road.  The sound of his bare, unprotected feet slapping into
slush echoed in the night and was catapulted into the dark winter sky,
where it was absorbed and disappeared in the falling of ten-thousand
snowflakes.  Ian ran out the entrance to the trailer park and scampered
across the highway, ignoring the startled faces that rose like bubbles
behind the windshields of cars driving past.
 
Ian was fleet.  His skinny arms pumped gracefully, his tiny bottom grew
firm and tight, and his long, naked legs flashed white in the dark.  The
boy was too young to have any muscle -- there was only a tightening beneath
the skin -- and the tendons at the backs of his knees stood out like fine
wires.
 
Several minutes of hard running brought the boy to a large house, far apart
from any others, set at the end of a tree-lined cul-de-sac.  He slid to a
stop at the edge of a long, curving driveway, his momentum making him
pinwheel his arms crazily for balance.  Ian's eyes sparkled with bits of
light as he stared at the house with an almost religious reverence, his
heart pounding in his thin chest like a bird trying to break free; then he
began trudging up the driveway through ankle-deep snow.
 
The house fell just short of being a mansion.  The drive was lined with
handsome black posts, each topped with a brass lamp shining warm, amber
light.  The boy gazed at each lamp with a dreamy expression, his soft face
glowing with a sheen of sweat.  A thick blanket of snow covered the yard
where tastefully place evergreens and sculpted bushes rose up in
silhouette.  A large weeping willow sprawled in each corner of the yard.
The house itself was a two story, colonial-style home, with white shutters
on each window and a front entrance majestically sheltered by a high,
arching roof supported by two pillars.  Strings of Christmas lights on
the house flared with the spectrum of colors, and the boy felt a deep
pang of heartache to see them.
 
Ian shivered violently, teeth chattering.  He sneezed and doubled over, the
sight of his lobster-red feet making him gasp.  Approaching the door
cautiously, glancing left to right, he hesitated as he reached out for the
doorbell.  It was almost midnight and there were no lights on inside.  Ian
wondered if he shouldn't somehow phone and warn his friend that he was
coming.
 
A gust of wind swept up ice crystals in an arctic cloud and hammered it
against the house and the underdressed little boy. 
 
"Ah!  Geez!"
 
Ian huddled and reach down to slap the backs of his thighs.  The ice
crystals hit like needles.
 
"J-just r-ring!  J-j-just do it!  He won't be m-mad!" said Ian between
chattering teeth, encouraging himself.
 
Still, the boy hesitated.
 
(break)                           ********
 
He'd been to the house before, making friends with the man who lived there
over the summer.  The man subscribed to the newspaper Ian delivered.  The
man -- Matthew Way -- always seemed to be out in the yard whenever Ian
bicycled up the drive with the paper.  And, always, Ian exchanged the same
boring conversation with the man that he exchanged with the other grown ups
on his route.
 
"Working hard?" said a grown up.
 
"Yes, sir," or "Yes, ma'am," said the boy.
 
Then came that Sunday morning in July when the man waved him over and asked
if he would "play caddy."  The man seemed agitated and caught up in
something.  Intrigued, the boy parked his bike and followed the man to the
back of the house.  Mr. Way was practicing putting on his own, private
green.
 
"What do you know about golfing?"
 
"Nothing.  I think."
 
"Perfect.  Could you stand by that flag, say absolutely nothing, and pull
it out of the hole when the ball's about to drop?"
 
Ian tilted his head to one side and studied the man, who wore white short
shorts and a white polo and a white golfing hat.  The man tilted his head
to look back at the boy like a mirror image.  His brown eyes danced with
humor.
 
"O.K."
 
Ian watched the man nod then begin putting.  Mr. Way was the last customer
on the paper route, so the boy stayed because he had the time and because
the man looked funny and was acting like a kid.  Mostly, Ian stayed because
the man was the only grown up to ever say the one thing Ian wanted to hear
as he handed over the paper.
 
"You're a good boy, aren't you?"
 
(break)                          ********
 
The memory of those words echoed in Ian's mind as he punched the doorbell
again.  The memory of that Sunday in July filled the shivering boy with
sunny images and happy feelings.
 
(break)                          ********
 
Ian stood motionless as ordered, left hand gripping the fiberglass pole of
the flag, watching the man putt.  The green had become a constellation of
golf balls, the boy watching them roll past his sneakers on either side --
everywhere but near the hole -- until the child's suppressed giggles gave
way to pealing laughter.
 
"You're terrible!" Ian sang, dancing back several steps as the man raised
his putter in a clowning threat.  "I'm sorry, but you just are!"
 
"You try," said the man, gathering the balls back into the bucket and
placing the putter in ian's hands, giving him a gentle nudge  The man was
so natural and friendly that Ian overcame his usual shyness and played,
doing much better than the man.
 
"Now that wasn't so hard, was it?" said Matthew when the bucket was empty.
 
Ian beamed a dimpled smile, studying the man.  The man's white clothes were
radiant with sunlight, and his skin was very brown and tan.
 
"You can't be that awful Mr. Way," chirped Ian, placing the golf club
across his lower back and catching it in the crook of his elbows. He
twisted at the waist with sharp, quick movements.  He knew the man had
been faking.
 
"You're right.  But I'm talking about your having fun and smiling.  I've
watched you deliver my paper all summer and son, you are far too serious
for a boy your age."
 
(break)                           ********
 
Another gust created a miniature blizzard.  The little boy squealed and
pressed up against the door.  He rose up and punched the doorbell several
times, buttocks clenched and quivering, naked legs raw in the polar blast.
 
"Please be h-home, Mr. Way!" Ian prayed, eyes closed and thin lips parted
slightly.  "Please, please p-p-please!  I'm r-ready!"
 
The boy caught his breath.  Why did he say that?  He opened his eyes and
stared at the door and the wreath hung there, but it was too close as to be
out of focus.  The pine cones and nuts were filled with impacted grains of
snow, and the child had a fleeting image of death.  He imagined himself
freezing to death by the door, his body frosted white, snow packed in the
back of his knees and thighs just below the hems of his shorts.
 
"Oh, man!" Ian whined.  He turned and slid down the door in defeat, crying
bitterly.  He drew up his legs and curled into a tight ball, trying his
best to comfort himself.  The wind whipped his black hair around his
smooth, white knees.
 
(break)                            ********
 
"I'm not sad," Ian said, sitting with the man at a round glass table on the
patio.  He'd been invited to stay after the game and had helped the man
make homemade lemonade.  They drank from tall, frosted glasses.
 
"Not now," said Matthew, tugging his cap down to his eyebrows, appraising
the boy.  "But you always look like you're carrying the weight of the
world."
 
Ian shrugged and cast his gaze over the backyard.  The house was built in a
"U" shape, allowing maximum privacy, hiding a large pool and flower garden
from the street.  The boy didn't know much about gardens but he knew that
this garden was a good one.  Red roses and tulips, carnations and
rhododendrons, lilac and chrysanthemums and -- 
 
"What are those?" the boy asked, pointing toward a cluster of impossible
plants.
 
"Those?  Those are botanical miracles," said the man, standing and waving
for Ian to follow.
 
Ian slid the white wicker chair back from the table, ducked his head to
avoid the overhanging sun-umbrella, and picking up his glass, walked over
and dropped to one knee beside the man, who now squatted and gently cupped
the flowers in his hands.
 
"These are grape hyacinths," the man explained, holding what looked like a
stunted bunch of grapes.
 
"They're beautiful," breathed the child, filled with wonderment. Then he
turned suddenly to the man, embarrassed.
 
The man only smiled, his tanned face haloed by the sun.
 
"And these, my friend, are flowers made for sad little guys like you.
They're bleeding hearts."
 
"Wow," Ian gasped, reaching out to brush the string of tiny, heat-shaped
red bulbs.  The boy had never thought much about flowers and was struck by
the thought that there were many things he did not know about the world.
 
"I'm not that said, am I?" Ian asked, suddenly knowing that he was,
reaching out to rest his hand on the man's arm.  Over lemonade Ian had
learned that the man was a doctor, and the man had made several
observations and guesses about Ian's emotional life.  The boy had laughed
at first, feeling as if he were talking with a mind reader at a carnival.
Then the child became thoughtful, never having spoken so seriously with a
grown up, never knowing that a man could be so nice.
 
The boy pursed his lips and stared into the man's eyes, feeling as if he
were on the verge of discovering something very important, and as if this
kind man and his flowers were the key.
 
"Mr. Way?"
 
The little boy scooted closer.  His right knee pressed white and smooth
against the man's brown, hairy thigh.  The man's skin was warm, and he
smelled faintly of cologne.  There was sunlight everywhere.
 
"You don't have to be sad," the man whispered, dropping his hand over Ian's
knee.
 
The affection starved boy almost whimpered at the touch, the man's thick
fingers brushing against his long, cut-off jeans.  The man broke off one of
the delicate bulb-hearts and brushed it against the child's button nose.
The boy blushed, drew his hand back from the man's arm. 
 
"Well," Matthew said, standing and stretching.  Ian stood, too. 
 
"I'm sorry to cut this short but I've got a lot of correspondence to
catch up on."
 
"Oh.  Right.  Sorry to stay so long," Ian said, feeling jumpy and
breathless, as if waking from a spell.  His knee tingled.
 
"No, no!  My pleasure.  This is for you."  The man placed the heart-flower
in the child's left palm.  "So you remember that you're not supposed to be
so serious.  And this -- " the man removed his golf cap with a flourish and
plopped it onto the dreamy boy's head -- "is for next Sunday when you and I
will be putting for serious money."
 
Ian craned his neck back to stare up at the big man, open-mouthed and
speechless.  The man reached down and took the lemonade glass from the boy.
 
"You're a good boy, Ian.  Go be happy.  Play!
 
(break)                            ********

....  I cannot help but believe with surety that many
will enjoy the story and the love between the characters.  Also, 
pampering a beautiful boy in fancy short pants suits and shorts play 
clothes appeals to every adult, I'm sure, as young boys have a coltish, 
soft, andgrogynous beauty -- it seems evident from all the celebratory 
art from ancient times to the present, in painting, poetry, sculpture, 
etc.
                  Short Boys' Pants ,  an406510@anon.penet.fi

			         ********	
 
Ian wriggled his bony bottom on the cold, hard porch and gripped his feet.
He remembered how he'd bicycled around town that afternoon, looking into
store windows to see his reflections and the white cap on his head.  He'd
hidden the cap from his father and pressed the flower between the pages of
his favorite comic book.  On the following Sunday he played golf with the
man again, drank more lemonade on the patio, and smiled more than he had in
a very long time.
 
More importantly, Ian discovered that he could talk to the man. There were
no other men in his life safe his father, and the boy was amazed to learn
that men could be so kind.  The lemonade was so sweet....
 
                                  ********
 
Ian told about his father and the man began to act like a doctor, which was
his profession.  He explained the dynamics of abusive relationships,
offered his friendship and support, and taught Ian several management
strategies for avoiding confrontations with his father. Instantly, Ian felt
freed of his dark secret.  His heart flooded with trust and hero-worship
for Mr. Way.
 
Mr. Way became his best friend.  Isolated in his world of abuse, the quiet
boy had no others.  The man offered his house as a "time out" place
whenever Ian needed to get away.  So Ian spent the summer with Matthew,
swimming in the pool, staying for dinner and watching movies on the big
screen television.  The man always sat beside him and rubbed his neck and
shoulders, patted his knees, until one day the boy jokingly asked the man
if he was gay the man answered "yes."
 
 
                                 ********
 
Ian slammed his hands on his narrow thighs in frustration, his fair skin
tinted many colors from the string of Christmas lights decorating the
house.  Ian cast his teary gaze out over the yard and watched pine trees
and willows sway in the wind.  Bright details of the summer kept blooming
in his mind.  The man had taught him how to cook, taken him to get a
stylish haircut (long in front, trimmed close in back and around the
sides), and surprised him with a pair of royal blue swim trunks since Ian
swam in his long cut-offs.
 
It didn't matter that the man was gay or that he often told Ian that he was
very cute.  Ian wasn't afraid of that, and it wasn't what he meant when he
said he was "ready."  The child was simply afraid of letting go, of shaking
off his known life and giving himself to Mr. Way completely.  More than
anything he had ever wanted, the desire so powerful it frightened the boy,
Ian wanted Mr. way for his father.  He sensed that such a change was
possible.
 
"Who's there?!  My God!"
 
The huddling boy lifted his tear-stained face and turned.  the man stood
tall and dark in the open door, wearing a hooded blue housecoat, surrounded
by a nimbus of light.  Like a saint or magician, the boy thought.
 
"I kn-kn-know it's l-late -- "
 
The man swooped down and effortlessly cradled the little boy in his arms.
 
"I've got you, son!  You're O.K."
 
Ian whimpered with gratitude.  He looked very frail in the big man's arms.
The man carried him into the house and closed the door.
 
"My d-d-daddy!  H-he s-s-s-said if I ran away don't come b-b-back!" Ian
sniffled, pawing at his nose.
 
"Shhh!  Don't talk!  Poor baby!  I'm dunking you in a hot bath right now so
you won't catch cold!"
 
The little boy nodded.  He shivered uncontrollably and closed his eyes, his
freezing body soaking up the warmth radiating from the man's muscled arms
beneath the housecoat.  Ian watched the walls of the house pass by quickly,
the gold-framed paintings hung along the stairwell as Mr. Way carried him
up to the second floor.  He glanced down to where the man's right had
curled strongly around his left thigh.  The man's hand was so warm.  There
were black hairs on the knuckles.  Ian noticed how his shorts wedged tight
into his crotch and felt one of those tingling charges.  That happened a
lot lately, like when he smelled the man's cologne or when the man patted
his knees.  At those moments the lonely boy wanted to climb on the man's
lap and hug him and even kiss his cheek.  It wasn't a conscious desire for
sex but something much purer and innocent.  11 year old Ian merely sensed a
mystery, an enchantment of manliness.
 
"There, there, Ian!  Shhh!  I've got you!  You're safe now!"
 
Ian gazed into the nice man's eyes and nodded again, knowing he'd made the
right decision to come here.  Wanting a father, the boy had looked
longingly at fathers with their sons.  Wanting a father, the boy dreamed of
men holding him through the night.  Wanting a father, the pubescent boy did
not realize he was a homosexual.  All his sexual desires were hidden in
father-figures, and the had been transferred onto Matthew Way.
 
In the master bathroom, the man set the boy down on long, quivering legs,
then set about opening the faucets to fill the jacuzzi. Steaming water
rushed and echoed in the shell-pink basin.  Man and boy watched the jacuzzi
fill in silence, the bright bathroom lights throwing everything into sharp
contrast and leaving no shadows.  Then the man slowly, luxuriously, slipped
his housecoat from his shoulders and let it fall to the floor.
 
Tiny Ian, head down, peered through his black bangs at the man and
swallowed hard.  Mr. Way towered over him wearing white, full-cut briefs.
The man was tall and tan (6'5", 230 pounds) and his defined, muscular body
was matted with black hair.  Ian had seen the man in short shorts and swim
trunks all summer, but the man looked somehow different in his underwear. 
It was kind of embarrassing.
 
"Lift your arms, sweetheart."
 
The little boy raised his skinny arms, reaching for the ceiling, and the
man pulled his tee-shirt off.
 
The little boy in the little black pants quivered.
 
"I'm r-r-real sorry."
 
"Wha'?" the man gasped, genuinely shocked.  "Honey!  You didn't do anything
wrong!"
 
Matthew smiled, reached out, and gently tweaked Ian's button nose.
 
Ian could have sobbed for the man's kindness.  Mr. Way's hair was tangled
from sleep, but his eyes were wide-awake.  Ian risked a glance at the man's
underwear and a lump caught in his throat.
 
Matthew Way was growing an erection.  It stretched and stretched the white
cotton briefs until it seemed the briefs would rip in two.  Ian focused
like a camera on the man's crotch.  Every detail was magnified. The
stitching on the fly.  The orange-sized girth of the man's balls.
The big, thick shaft of the man's "pee-pee" and the fat, swollen tip --
purple and red and circumcised -- poking up over the waistband.
 
The man's underwear -- framed by a ripped, defined stomach and hairy,
muscular thighs -- came closer.
 
The huge pee-pee in the tight, white briefs came closer.
 
The little boy swayed before the man, having entered a mild state of
auto-hypnosis.  It is something children often do when under great stress,
and Ian had learned to do it very well from his years of abuse. He did it
now because he instinctively sensed something as intense and confusing as
if a spanking was about to happen.
 
Matthew tenderly gripped the boy under his armpits and lifted him from the
floor.  The willowy child dangled limply as the man stepped with him into
the jacuzzi.  Matthew sat the boy on his lap, face to face.
 
"It's hot!" Ian gasped, wriggling suddenly, the steaming water at his
chest.
      
"It has to be.  Your skin is like ice."
 
The man turned off the faucet, cupped water in his hands, and poured it
over Ian's head again and again.  Ian whimpered as the water streamed over
his body.  He closed his eyes and breathed deeply through his mouth.  The
hot water felt delicious.  On his head.  On his face. His body.  Like a
baptism.
 
"I'm getting one, too," the child declared matter-of-factly, his changing
voice warbling.
 
Man and boy bowed close, foreheads touching, to watch Ian's erection tent
the crotch of his black gym shorts, which seemed to ripple underwater.
Ian's erection was three inches.
 
"It's O.K.  Just like the pool," Matthew whispered, experiencing a frisson.
 
Ian nodded slightly, hair clinging to his head.  His ears looked pink and
large.  He watched distantly as his pee-pee hopped noticeably. Naturally,
the child had never let anyone see him with an erection, but he didn't
associate his erection with sexual arousal.  He merely felt he was sharing
something new -- like a toy -- with his friend.  He sat motionless as the
man poured and poured the water over him.  The boy felt safe and sheltered
as if he was in a warm cocoon.  He heard the water drip and plop all
around.
 
Matthew's hands closed over Ian's thighs.
 
"Mr. W-W-Way?"
 
"Easy, fella!  Let me warm you up."
 
Ian felt the man's breath on his face.  He stared at the man's hands on his
thighs, then at his pee-pee jumping in his shorts.  The man's big pee-pee
was jumping, too.  The boy sensed it was wrong to be this close to the man,
that the man shouldn't bee in just his underwear, but the man acted so
natural and calm.
 
Matthew rubbed Ian's legs up around his shorts.
 
"Lots of guys wear shorts to bed.  Do you wear shorts to bed?" asked the
child.
 
 
"No.  Just my underwear."
 
"Oh."
 
Ian felt relief.  That explained that.  Yep.  Mr. Way was just being a
grown-up right now, serious and concerned.  He would put on some pants
after Ian was warm.  Then they could talk and maybe play a game.
 
"Just pretend we're in the pool," Matthew whispered, leaning in closer.
 
Ian closed his tiny hands around the man's knotted biceps as the man began
to openly, lovingly caress his legs.  Ian heard his heart pound in his
ears.  He felt dizzy.
 
                                 ********
 
After the first swim-over Mr. Way had surprised him with a pair of
thigh-high, royal blue swim trunks.  Ian had been pleased, never owning
trunks, but was turned off by the length.
 
"The less clothes wet the better," the man said, and he wore matching blue
trunks 
 
Playing in the pool, man and boy had touched each others' bodies
constantly.  Ian had seen the man erect many times there.  Upon seeing
the man's huge hard-on the first time he'd gone still as a stature, but
the man quickly explained that "undulating" water stimulated many guys to
erection and, a child, Ian had accepted the doctor's explanation.
 
A child, Ian soon paid the man's erection no mind.
 
One of their favorite games was when the man bent down and locked his
fingers together.  Ian would grip the man's shoulders, place his tiny
foot in the man's hands, and bounce up and down for momentum.  On the
count of three the child would jump and the man would propel him,
squealing, into the air.  In his little blue swim trunks plastered to his
ass and crotch, the boy's wet, white, hairless body arced gloriously
above the sun-dappled water, defying gravity.  His every rib pronounced.
 
"It's like flying!" the child would shriek delightedly, swimming back to
the man for more.
 
                                   ********
 
Ian did not realize it but the man had skillfully conditioned him to the
sight of his erection, to being touched while almost naked.
 
Innocent, the child stared at his and the man's erections.  Mr. Way's white
underwear was see-through, but Ian's black shorts were opaque.  Ian noticed
that Mr. Way's privates were twice as big and covered with a thick, black
bush.  the boy felt very small: his crotch was completely hairless.
 
"Are you warm yet?"
 
 
"Yes, sir," the boy said dreamily.  "I mean, Mr. Way!"
 
"You can call me sir, Ian.  It's O.K.  I rather like it," the man smiled,
closing his hands around the child's skinny waist.  his thumbs and fingers
touched.
 
"You sure you're warmer?"
 
"Yes."
 
Ian's mind whirled.  The night had been so scary and cold, and now he was
safe.  Like magic.  the bathroom was bright with light, the water so hot.
His pee-pee was harder than it had ever been before, flopping and twanging
in his black, clinging shorts like a fish.  How long had he been in the
water?  How long had he been sitting on the man's lap?  He watched the man
play with his belly-button (an "innie"), using his thumbs to make it open
and close.
 
"I think your tummy is trying to talk.  Are you hungry?" Matthew asked,
placing a quick, modest kiss on the little boy's forehead.
 
Ian lifted his face and stared into the man's eyes.  Ian's white, hairless
torso glistened with water, and his cheeks were flushed rosy from the baby
talk and kiss.
 
"What?" the man smiled, his left hand slipping to the small of Ian's back,
his right caressing the child's narrow chest.  "Too old for a kiss?  Or too
old for your tummy to talk?"  Matthew's legs were stretched side by side
beneath the boy, and he alternately flexed his quadriceps. "How about a
horsie ride?  Want to be a little cowboy?"
 
Ian rode the man's flexing thighs, going up and down in stunned silence.
Mr. Way was treating him like a baby!  And it felt good: the lonely boy
wanted to be babied.
 
"Just trying to cheer you up," Matthew explained.  "But I don't think age
11 is too old for horsie rides...or stuffed animals...crayons...." 
 
Ian reached down, his thin, tiny fingers scratching the sides of the man's
huge, hairy thighs.  It was amazing to feel them flex under his rear-end,
each thigh bigger than his whole butt.  The child explored the man's brown
legs and pulled at the long, black hairs with his white, frail hands.  Ian
thought of tree trunks.
 
"Or kisses.  Not too old for kisses," Matthew sighed, his lips brushing
Ian's forehead once more.  "You're still a little boy, Ian. You've had to
deal with adult problems because of your father, but I'll bet you've wanted
stuffed toys and horsie rides and bedtime stories."
 
Ian was overwhelmed.  Mr. Way knew everything!
 
"You're so smart," the child peeped, placing his hands on the man's
shoulders.  Ian knit his brow: he felt a tenderness and intimacy he'd never
known.  "You're my best friend."
 
Matthew gasped, moved by the boy's honesty.  "You're my best friend, too."
 
Ian swallowed hard, nodded, and studied the man's handsome face.
Clean-shaven, full lips, smile-lines around his mouth and the corners of
his eyes.  The hair on the man's head was as black as his own, and Ian
realized they could pass for father and son....
 
The strange charge rushed through the boy again and he threw himself
against the man, wrapping his skinny arms and legs around him. The boy
groaned, clinging fiercely.
 
"Are you crying?" Matthew whispered, biceps bulging as he embraced the boy.
 
Ian shook his head no, dainty chin hooked over the man's broad, right
shoulder.  He couldn't catch his breath.  Hugging the man was like hugging
a bear, the man was so hairy and strong.  Ian closed his eyes and felt
drops of water -- or were they tears? -- roll down his cheeks.
 
The man's brown, powerful hands went up and down Ian's white, bony back,
exploring the prominent vertebrae of his spine. Reciprocating, the little
boy's delicate hands gripped Matthew's developed lats.  
 
"You're so strong," peeped the child.
 
"You're so small," sighed the man.  "Your heart's beating so fast."
 
"Your heart is beating, too."
 
The man gently gripped the boy's sides and held him at arm's length.  Their
wet chests separated with a faint sucking sound.
 
"So hairy."  Ian reached out and tangled his fingers in Matthew's dense,
matted chest hair.  "Like fur."
 
The little boy was still hypnotized, engaging in the universal discovery
children make of their bodies when playing "Doctor."  But Ian was one of
those lucky, too-rare boys who was discovering his new, pubescent body with
a grown man.  And a real doctor.
 
"So smooth.  Like silk," Matthew said, hands scrambling over the child's
chest.  He traced each rib, plainly visibly under the tight, white skin.
"Your nipples are hard," the man whispered, his voice choked with 
emotion. 
He took the tiny brown dots of Ian's tits between his thumbs and fore-fingers
and gently pinched.
 
The little boy drew in a shuddering breath and sat up straight, thrusting
his chest up and out.  He pounded the man's chest as a thousand neurons
sparkled and burst in his brain.  Dormant fibers and nerves burned from
head to toe, twinkling like glitter, cascading through his body.
  
"Oh!  Ah!" went Ian, gasping as the man pinched his nipples three times.
The child's legs convulsed around the man's torso three times, his head
jerking back three times with each pinch.  The man twisted the boy's
nipples....
 
"Don't!" Ian squawked.  The sensations were too much!  He threw himself
against the man again, hugging fiercely.  The man bent his knees and slid
down the side of the jacuzzi.  Ian slid down the man's thighs until he came
to rest crotch to crotch, child-size black shorts to man-size white briefs,
child-hard-on to man-hard-on.
 
A sobbed wracked Ian's frail body and he began to cry.
 
"Oh, sweetheart!  What's the matter?"
 
"I don't...I just feel so...I'm so lonely," the boy whimpered, nestling his
face in the crook of the man's neck.  He felt the man stroke his back in
such a caring, loving way it made the boy's heart break.
 
"He doesn't love me, Mr. Way!  He doesn't care about me at all!"
 
"Shhhh!"
 
The boy cried and the man held him.
 
Minutes passed, the only sounds the man's soothing, shushing noises and the
boy's peeps and whimpers.  Steam rose from the waters like incense, and the
bathroom window rattled from the blasts of winter winds.
 
Ian's sobs lessened and he regained some composure.  He grew very aware of
the feeling of safety in the man's embrace, the press of their bodies, skin
on skin.  Ian's nipples tingled with a residue of pleasure, and his
loneliness and crying gave way to a profound calm.  He felt the man's
pee-pee poking and jumping against his own, nudging it.  Ian became very
aware of his crotch and butt, a tightness building deep in his tummy:
like he felt during a spanking.
 
"Better?" whispered Matthew.
 
"Yeah.  Don't want...crying like a baby," the boy said gruffly, embarrassed,
sniffling.
 
"No, no.  Everyone cries, Ian.  My prince.  Did daddy spank you?"
 
"Uh -  uh," said Ian, a puzzled look on his cute face.  "`Prince?' Why'd
you say that?"
 
"Just a nick-name."
 
"Oh."
 
"Prince Ian," said the man, smiling as he let his large hands slip down the
child's bare back and cup the child's tiny, baby buttocks. "You're a prince
of a kid.  You damned father doesn't know what he has."
  
Tiny Ian blinked to hear the man cuss -- and at his father!  It struck a
chord of retribution in the boy.
 
"Yes.  Yes.  He doesn't appreciate you like I do.  Like I can," said
Matthew, now squeezing the boy's ass firmly.  The boy's bottom was small
enough to fit in one of the man's hands; his hands overlapped.
 
Ian tensed as the man played with his bottom.  No one had ever touched his
butt, though he'd often watched coaches smack a boy's butt on the soccer
team at school as the boy ran onto the playing field.  Ian had wished for
that, to have his butt smacked in a friendly, loving way, knowing it felt
different and better than a spanking.  He longed for that comraderie and so
let the man play with his butt, squeezing his cheeks together, curling his
big fingers up under the hems of his shorts.
 
Matthew began to hum.  Ian hooked his chin over the man's shoulder,
responding like any child to a lullaby.  But he wasn't sleepy: something
was happening to him.  Something....
 
Ian closed his eyes and dug his fingers into the man's back.  He felt beads
of water drip from his body, heard them fall and plop into the jacuzzi,
heard the furnace kick on.  He felt the man's pee-pee like a finger at his
own, and his shorts were clinging and hot.  Tight....
 
In that relaxed, safe, yet tensed state, Ian had relaxed enough to edge
close to an orgasm.  He had never felt such an impossible feeling, the
sudden, volcanic pressure.  He yelped. 
 
"Mr. Way!  I'm gonna pee!" Ian warbled, panicking.  "I can't hold it!"
 
The boy pressed against the man's striated pectorals, kicked his legs back
and straight, trying to break free.  Matthew dug his fingers into the boy's
wriggling ass.
 
"I gotta go pee pee!  Let me go!" the boy yelled, clawing at the man's
biceps.  He tilted his small, pinched face up to the man's and sobbed,
"Hurry!"
 
The man only stared back at the boy with a frozen, intense look.
 
Ian strained mightily, going tight as a spring.  Nothing happened.
Suddenly, Ian was overwhelmed with the imprinted memory of all his
spankings.  Helpless before his father.  Helpless before Mr. Way.
Helpless before the ferocity of his first, virgin orgasm.
 
"NNNGGGHH!!"
 
Ian's hands shot down and gripped the man's thick wrists.  The 11 year old
threw his head back and squeezed his eyes closed, whinnied through
clenched teeth, his baby face locked with fear, remembered pain, and
pre-orgasmic stress.
 
Ian Brendan O'Donnell ejaculated for the first time in his life.
  
Time stood still as the beautiful little boy creamed and creamed and
creamed.  In a tub of hot water, held crotch-to-crotch with a man.
 
The man's fingers burrowed into the boy's bucking bottom.  Then Ian
regained control of his body.  He knees thumped against the jacuzzi floor
as he broke free of the man with a mighty push.  He fell back under the
water then surfaced, thrashing and sputtering.  He wore a virgin's
expression of fear and awe.
 
"I didn't mean to!" the boy shrieked, searching the water frantically for
the tell-tale yellow cloud of urine.
 
"You didn't urinate, Ian.  Take it easy."
 
"Wha?!  What...?!" the boy whined, twisting left and right, his tiny hands
actually trying to grab the water and the urine he thought should be there.
 
Matthew reached for the boy and the boy screamed. The handsome man blinked in 
amazement.
 
"Ian!  Honey, I would never hurt you.  Shhhh.  You're my friend.  You're all
right."
 
"Wha?  Wha?" Ian whined, crying tears of frustration.  He was disoriented.
He saw auras.  He stared at the man for several moments, panting for breath
and not daring to move.
 
The man stood slowly, his underwear sagging and dripping with water, his
"pee-pee" like a baseball bat.  The man stretched his hands to the boy in
a calming gesture.
 
"You had an orgasm.  It's what happens when...stress can bring it on in a
boy your age.  It's natural and nothing to be frightened about."  Matthew
drew a deep breath, struggling for composure himself.  "But I must admit
that I didn't think you were pubescent.  Mature enough to ejaculate...."
 
Ian stared at the undulating water spangled with light.  Yes, the water
was clean.  And already, Ian's panic and fear was lessening.  Whatever
it was that just happened left him drained.  The "orgasm" had washed
through his body and given release to his heartache.
 
"An orgasm?" the boy whispered uncomprehendingly.  He studied his
crotch, then the man, blue eyes doe-wide.  The man nodded at him
approvingly.  The man was a doctor and knew best -- yes -- the "orgasm"
was good and left Ian feeling sleepy.  He hadn't realized how tired he
was.
 
"I'll get us some dry clothes.  You'd better spend the night, and we'll
discuss what to do with your father in the morning."
 
Matthew stepped out of the jacuzzi, picked up his bathrobe and walked
through a second door leading into the bedroom.  The little boy sat with
the water up to his shoulders.  He looked stunned, as if he had just
learned a secret.  Time passed unnoticed.  Then the man came back,
wearing flannel boxer shorts -- a scotch plaid, royal stuart print --
and thick gray wool socks down around his ankles.
 
"Come on out, son.  Come on."
 
Ian rose shakily to his feet, arms dangling at his sides.  Such a
skinny little boy, miniature hard-on bulging in his shorts.
 
"That's right.  Come on," Matthew smiled, motioning.
 
With a composure achingly beautiful to behold, the child stepped out of
the jacuzzi and toward the man as if stepping toward his fate.  A child,
Ian put aside all thoughts of what had happened and considered only the
possibility of love.  He reached for the clothes the man held out to
him, matching boxers and socks.
 
"Am I gay?" Ian quavered, innocent and confused.  He didn't really
understand what being gay meant, knowing only that it meant two guys
liked each other a lot.
 
"Because you orgasmed?  No," Matthew chuckled, tousling the child's
hair.  "You're a young boy and you're lonely for a father.  That in
itself doesn't make you gay."
 
"You like me?" the child asked, voice high and hopeful.  He was still
hypnotized, a creature of feeling.
 
"I love you.  Like a son and more.  Know that here," Matthew said,
resting his hand over the child's heart.  The man's hand spanned the
boy's bird-like chest completely.
 
"I like you, too."  Ian bend and nuzzled his face in the man's forearm,
bursting with soulful love.  God, yes!  Mr. Way wanted to be his daddy!
 
"Put your clothes on," Matthew said huskily, voice choked with emotion.
 
The little boy dutifully slid his thumbs into the waistband of his
shorts.  He thought only to obey, the orgasm and spankings so similar in
intensity the long-abused child knew only obedience.  He slid his shorts
down his smooth legs and kicked them away.  With a loud smack the little
black pants hit and clung to the bathroom wall.  The child slid his
thumbs into the waistband of his clinging, see-through briefs and paused.
 
Matthew turned his back to the boy.
 
The boy stretched his underwear away from his crotch to see what was
inside.  No yellow stain, only a thick, shiny goo.  Weird.  Ian pulled
off his briefs and kicked them against the wall next to his shorts.
Both articles of clothing slid down the wall and left a wet trail.
 
"All changed?"
 
"Yes, sir."
 
Ian stood at attention and watched the man turn slowly, gasp, run his
eyes over his body.  Ian had pulled his gray socks up to his knees.
 
"Nice fit."
 
"Yes.  These are my size," the boy said, pulling experimentally at the
boxers.
 
"I'd hoped they'd fit.  I bought you some clothes for Christmas."
 
"Really?"
 
"I didn't plan on giving them to you just yet, though."
 
Ian blinked and smiled his dimpled smile.  The man was so nice!  "I've
never worn boxers."
 
"They look very nice on you."
 
Matthew handed the child a thick, white towel, and drying his hair
vigorously, the little boy followed the man into the bedroom.
 
Matthew's bedroom was huge, decorated in blue tones, the furniture
early-American.  A roll-top desk, dresser and night stands, several
bookshelves along the walls brimming with leather bound books; a
king-sized brass bed perpendicular to the outside wall with recessed,
bay windows on either side.  The shutters were closed.  A large, oval
ceiling mirror was placed above the bed.
 
The child saw the mirror and froze.
 
"What's that?"
 
Matthew turned and closed his hands over Ian's bony shoulders.  "Oh,
honey.  I'm sorry.  I...never expected you to see my bedroom."
 
Ian clawed at the blue shag rug with his tiny toes.  The man seemed
embarrassed about the mirror and his room, but why?
 
"That's o.k., Mr. Way.  Your room is nice."
 
Boy and man, in matching boxers and socks, studied the room silently.
Then the man eased the child toward the bed.  Again, Ian saw with
magnified detail, like a camera.  He watched the bed draw closer.  What
a comfortable-looking bed!  And it occurred to the child that he would
sleep in the bed with the man and he was filled with a peak of joy: Ian
always wanted to sleep over a friend's!
 
Ian sat at the foot of the bed, the towel draped over his shoulders.  He
looked as squeaky-clean as any child fresh from the bath.  his black
hair was tousled and sticking up, and his white body shined.  Lamplight
danced along his smooth, supple thighs.  The little boy's skin was so
immaculate there was no texture of pores.  He breathed easily, flat
tummy rising and falling.
 
Matthew squatted before the child, holding a phone.
 
"What's your number?  Ian?  Are you all right?"
 
The little boy sat with a blank expression, thin face registering
fatigue and distant, internal thoughts.  He felt like he was in a
movie, a passive participant.  He wasn't moving, things were moving
around him.
 
"Please don't call him.  He won't let me in."
 
"I can't let him worry.  Honey, are you all right?" the man asked,
tenderly cupping the child's dainty chin.
 
"Uh huh," Ian nodded, shrugging.  "I'm just tired.  Please don't make me
call."
  
"I'm sorry.  You must."
 
Ian haltingly spoke his number, took the phone, listened to the ring.
In his submissive, "camera" mode, the boy watched the man's tan, hairy
legs straighten and walk away.  He heard the answering machine pick up
and his father's one word message: "Talk."
 
"Dad?  Hi.  It's me.  I'm...staying here tonight.  Don't be mad?
I'll...I'm O.K. and I'll call you tomorrow."  The sad little boy looked
around the majestic bedroom and heard the echoing silence roar like the
ocean in the tiny pink shell of his ear.  "Daddy.  Oh, daddy I...I love
you.  Night night."
 
Ian hung up the phone sat staring at the plastic receiver until the
man's hairy legs returned.
 
"Here, baby.  I don't usually approve of these kinds of multiple-symptom
cold medicines for children but your case is special."


The man's hairy legs bent and the boy found himself eye-level with his 
friend.  The man was offering him a small plastic cup filled with green 
liquid.  Ian took the cup with his left hand and sat woodenly.

"Ian?  Are you sure you're all right?"  Matthew removed the towel from 
the boy's shoulders and tossed it onto the floor.  "I was wrong to hold 
you down and not let you out of the water.  It's just that I'm very, very 
attracted to you, understand?"

"I guess," peeped the child.

"You would have orgasmed even if I'd let you up.  I'm sorry."  Matthew 
bowed his head, took a deep breath, then dropped his hands atop the boy's 
narrow thighs.  The boy did not move.  Matthew began to caress the boy's legs 
from socks to boxers.

Ian watched the man's big hands go up and down the sides of his legs.  
Gently.  Gently.  "You like my legs, don't you."  The child spoke a calm 
fact.

Matthew gasped, startled by the boy's composure, then nodded.  "Yes, I 
do.  Ian...."  The man palmed the boy's shiny knees.  "Look here.  So 
smooth....  My hands just slip along your skin."

The little boy's eyes never left the man's hands.  He started at their 
matching boxers and thought of the matching blue swim trunks.  Ian knew 
that fathers liked to dress their sons in matching outfits.  Did it 
*really* mean that Mr. Way wanted him?

"You can keep touching my legs if it makes you happy."

Ian threw his head back and downed the medicine in one quick draught.  He 
shivered at the bitter taste, screwing up his face.  Matthew stroked the 
child's legs stong and sure to soothe him.  The man's large hands rasped 
faintly as they slipped along the child's satiny-smooth flesh.  Ian 
yawned hugely, arching his back like a puppy, tiny fists raised and 
shaking on either side of his head.

In one fluid movement, Matthew leaned into Ian, hugging and crawling with 
him onto the center of the bed.  The man's shoulder blades worked under 
his muscled back as he crawled.  He looked like a panther with his prey, 
the skinny white boy limp and carried along beneath the huge adult.  
Matthew lay atop Ian while he pulled up the covers, then rolled to the 
side and wrapped the boy in his arms and legs.

"What are you doing?" Ian asked, closing his tiny hands over the man's 
forearms and turning his quizzical face to the man.  

"I want to hug you, O.K.?"

Ian gazed into the man's brown eyes and the man gazed back.  The man's 
body was dense and warm and hairy.  "You feel sorry for me and want to 
take care of me, don't you?"

"Yes.  You're such a good boy I can't bear to see you sad."

"You're a good man," the child peeped, responding politely and meaningfully.

"I never meant for us to discover each other in this manner," the man 
whispered, nuzzling his face in the boy's neck and inhaling his clean 
scent.  Ian squirmed: the man's hot breath tickled his ear, and his deep 
voice vibrated in his chest.  "I always thought it would happen in the 
pool.  I must apologize that the timing is so wrong."

"But it's your house, Mr. Way," said the child innocently, scrunching his 
shoulders at the man's ticklish breath.  "The time's late because you 
were already asleep and I came to you."

Matthew pulled his head back, gazed adoringly upon the lad.  Ian yawned 
and blinked sleepily, the cold medicine already doing its sedative work.

"Good night, Mr. Way," mewed Ian, yawning again, cheeks bunching and 
slick little tongue curling in his red, baby mouth.  

"Wait."  Matthew gently gripped the boy's wrists.  "Clap your hands twice."

Ian blinked, confused, then let the man manipulate his arms and bring his 
hands together to clap.  The bedroom went dark.

"Neat."

Ian smiled a tired smile and wriggled, getting comfortable.  He felt the 
man lower his arms across his tummy, then felt the man's hand drop onto 
his thighs, gripping them both, just below the comfortable flannel boxers.
The little boy smiled again -- he liked being petted -- and began to 
drift toward sleep, letting go.  He wanted to escape the world and the 
man's body made a perfect shield.

"Good night again, Mr. Way."

"Good night, little prince.  Sweet dreams."

'Little prince?' Ian wondered, but was too tired to pursue the goofy nick 
name.  He felt the man scoot closer and press against him, dimly 
realizing that the stick-like object pushing into his left hip was the 
man's pee-pee.  He felt the man's thick fingers begin to massage his 
thighs softly, move higher, reach under the hems of his boxers.

"Yes.  Such a good boy.  My prince," Matthew murmured, placing a feathery 
kiss atop the child's head.

Ian's broken heart bloomed.  All doubts and worries left his mind.  He 
was right to have come here.  

And easing finally toward sleep, Ian dreamt of a boy, a brave prince 
wandering a sunny, summer woods, making friends with helpful animals that 
could talk.  The boy prince had to find a castle and a king, a secret 
garden with magic flowers the colors of the rainbow....

The little boy fell asleep.  The long dark night was over.

end chapter one --


				Chapter Two
		"Suite: A Red Rose, Short Pants, Hands"

"A Red Rose"

Afternoon light sprayed through the windows and over the sleeping little 
boy.  His skinny arms were spread wide, legs together, flannel boxers 
tangled around his hips and the bed covers down around his ankles.  His 
pale, hairless body was tinged strawberries-and-cream in the sunshine.  The 
child's black hair was mussed; his bony chest lifted and fell peacefully.  
On the pillows beside his face was a single red rose and a folded piece of 
cream-colored stationary.  

"Mmmm?  Mommy?" peeped the child, waking to his one morning dream.

Ian's blue eyes fluttered open, lashes long and thick, and he stared 
dreamily at his reflection in the mirror.  Who was that boy? he wondered, 
smiling at him as if at a new friend.  Then Ian yawned and stretched like 
a puppy, arching his back and writhing side to side, tummy sucked in 
tight and each rib showing.  The boy sat up and rubbed his eyes with tiny 
fists.  

"Mr. Way?" Ian warbled, smacking his mouth.  He sat shivering for several 
moments, wanting the man's strong arms around him and the warm heat they 
provided.  The night had been traumatic and confusing, and owing to the 
chid's natural "defensive" mechanisms, he'd forgotten about his first 
orgasm and remembered only the glow of the man's love.  The boy glanced 
around the room, noticing the rose and the note on the pillow.  His heart 
missed a beat.

"A flower?  Like for a girl?"

Ian brought the rose to his button nose and sniffed, blue eyes wide and 
round above the delicate petals.  He opened the not and read aloud in his 
high, clear voice:

	"Ian,

	Be back soon.  I've laid out some clothes for you (sorry, son, 
	more early Christmas presents!).  Help yourself to the fridge
	and anything else that will make you comfortable.  My home is your
	home.  Last night I felt so close to you, closer than I've felt
	to someone for a very long time.  I'll take care of you if you
	will let me.  You've always been a good boy.

	Love, Mr. Way"

The little boy in the big brass bed hunched behind the rose.  Images 
flooded his mind: living with the man, sitting beside him on the couch, 
Mr. Way rubbing his knees and hair, maybe even kissing him on the cheek; 
Ian imagined sleeping with the man and snuggling through the night, the 
good smell of the man's cologne.  

"Wow."  Ian inhaled the flower's bouquet once more, interpreting the 
flower and the note as simple, definite friendship gestures.  Carefully 
setting the rose and the note on the pillow, Ian climbed out of bed and 
walked to the dresser.  He picked up his Christmas clothes with fine, 
frail hands, baby-face screwing up with amusement.  

"I can't wear this stuff!  I'll look like a dork!"

The little boy in red, royal stuart print boxers and grey knee socks, 
laughed brightly.  Laid out for him was an avacado-green short sleeved 
oxford and pine green tie.  Fancy, cream-colored linen short pants and 
cuffed, avacado green knee stockings.  Brown leather shoes and a matching 
belt.

Ian shook his head at the silly presents then blushed, realizing that the man 
thought of him as a very small boy.  Well, he *was* a little boy, and 
Mr. Way was a *grown up.*  A *big* man.  And Ian *had* cried last night.    
Ian turned the fancy shorts over and over in his hands.  Was this how 
rich kids dressed?  He cleared his throat gruffly and in distaste -- no 
way was he wearing this stuff! -- then marched into the bathroom to 
retrieve his own clothes.  

The boy searched the floor and the clothes hamper and found nothing.  
Puzzled, the child walked to the window and peered out.  Last night had 
almost been a blizzard, and everywhere there were deep snow drifts.  The 
child touched the cold glass and lowered his head: he couldn't go home in 
his own clothes, anyway, and what if his father didn't let him in?  
Pursuing his lips in thought, having little choice, Ian walked back to 
the bedroom and his new clothes.  He picked them up as if they would burn 
his fingers -- they were so dorky! -- then a slow smile spread across his 
face.  Heck, he didn't want to go home and anyway, no one would see him 
in the dorky outfit except the man.  And it would hurt the man's feelings 
if he didn't wear it.

Giddy and giggling, playing "dress up" and anticipating the man's 
delight, the child dressed then walked over to a floor length mirror.  He 
turned before it slowly, arms spread wide.  He felt goofy!  In disguise!  
The silly short pants were so short he had to tug his boxers up to his 
tummy so the hems wouldn't show.  And the stockings!  So much longer than 
his pants and cuffed, with a thick knit, and green!  Geez!  Ian didn't 
know how to knot a tie so he tucked it into his left pants pocket and saw 
to bathroom duties, giggling the whole time.

The child urinated, fascinated by the blue water in the bowl and the way 
his pee made it green.  At the sink he took a moment to explore the 
fancy, glassy pearlescent knobs and gold faucet, then washed his face and 
wet his hair.  He found a new toothbrush -- the handle sparkly-red and 
decorated with a Spiderman face Ian knew it was his.  The child combed 
his hair with great care, clumsily struggling to make the part even and 
plastering his jet-black hair down around his fine skull, wanting to look 
his best for the man.  Then he brushed his teeth vigorously, his tight 
baby bottom curving nicely in the cream-colored shorts, wriggling left to 
right.  The green necktie dangled and brushed against his left, naked thigh.

The boy began to hum, toothpaste frothing around his lips, smooth cheeks 
poking left to right with the brush.  He studied his reflection and 
nodded with approval, knowing he looked handsome.  Yeah...dressing up was 
kind of fun after all.  Sunlight poured through the window and red laced 
curtain, casting diffused light in the bathroom and along the tiled walls.  
The light unfolded around the beautiful little boy like the petals of a 
rose.     
  

Ian threw open the large, oaken front door.

"Hello, young Ian!  Aren't you handsome!" Matthew cried delightedly as he 
stepped into the foyer.

The little boy stepped back, as much from the cold air as the man's 
great, obvious pleasure.  He watched the man struggle to close the door, 
kicking it with his foot as his hands were filled with several large 
brown shopping bags.

"The clothes fit!  Terrific!" smiled Matthew, running his eyes over the 
boy.  "I wasn't sure if they would and -- how wonderful that you wore 
them.  I wasn't sure that you would, you know, but oh! -- how glad you've 
made me."

Ian blushed deeply, curling his fingers under the hems of his dressy 
shorts and pulling them away from his thighs.  He dug his left toe into 
the carpet and twisted shyly, basking in the man's praise.  With his 
shirt tucked in and the leather belt snug, Ian appeared blade-thin.

"I wanted to thank you for -- I appreciate your letting me spend the 
night," chirped the boy, on his best behavior.  He'd struggled all day 
for the right words.

"You are very welcome."

Several moments passed, man and boy studying each other.  Ian shifted 
from foot to foot under the man's intense gaze, feeling very 
self-conscious yet titullated: no one had ever fussed over him like 
this.  The boy congruatulated himself for deciding to wear the dorky 
clothing but, well, he'd done his part and was ready to change.

"Where's my clothes?"

In response, Matthew set two of the bags on the floot at Ian's feet.  The 
child looked from the bags to the man, his puzzled expression giving way 
to insight.  "For me?"

"For you."

"I don't -- Mr. Way -- Wow!"

The child droped to his knees with a 'knock' on the tiled foyer.  With 
the excitement of a Christmas morning he tore into the bags, taking out 
several pairs of boxers and white briefs, cuffed knee stockings of 
various colors, shoes, sweater vests and ties and belts and suspenders -- 
all dressy short pants suits.

In the center of the torn bags and new clothes -- the packages of 
underwear wrapped in shiny plastic -- Ian was smiling still but looked 
confused, face flushed with excitement that was somehow unfulfilled.  He 
rest his hands on his thighs and tilted his head to one side, puzzled.

"Merry early Christmas!" Matthew called cheerily.

Ian's mind whirled.  He was so *happy* the man was home but bewildered by 
the goofy clothes.  Did the man think he *wanted* to wear them?  "How 
come you only bought me shorts?"

"Because you look good in short pants.  Short pants are a boy's pants.  
Guess I'm old fashioned," said the tall doctor, reaching down to tousle 
the boy's hair.

Tiny and frail on his knees before the man, Ian swallowed hard.  He gazed 
at his friend.  Mr. Way looked incredibly profession and wealthy in his 
gray suit and long, black wool coat.  Like a model.  Then Ian thought he 
understood: the man wanted him to look like a model, too.  Like a little 
rich boy.  Did rich boys really dress like this?

Ian shook his head.  He had to explain why they clothes were ridiculous.  
He'd *never* let anyone see him in them!  "Thanks...really.  But, Mr. 
Way, um -- " the child struggled to explain without being rude " -- no 
one wears shorts this short, you know?"

"You did last night."

"For bed!  They're pajamas!" Ian laughed.  Mr. Way was so silly!  He 
didn't understand!

Matthew shrugged.  "You should wear them all the time.  You have 
wonderful legs."

Ian stopped in mid-laugh.  That's right!  Mr. Way was 'gay.'  Gay men 
liked legs?  The child looked at himself and noticed how the sissy, 
cream-colored shorts were gathered high on his thighs and snug at his 
crotch.  It was almost like not wearing pants at all.

"Well, O.K., I guess.  Um...but aren't you gonna buy me any long pants?"

Ian glanced up anxiously as he heard the man take a deep breath.  Oh, 
no!  He didn't want to upset his friend but there was no chance he'd wear 
such dorky clothing!

"No," Matthew exhaled, speaking tenderly, smiling.  "I'm only buying your 
short pants.  And you'll need them if you're going to be staying with me."

"Staying with you?!" Ian yelped, sitting up straight.

"It might come to that, Ian," said the man, face filled with concern.  
"Your father might be very upset you ran away and -- you're welcome to 
stay, but if you do, I want you in shorts.  Otherwise you're welcome to 
go home."

The beanpole boy sprang to his feet, naked legs flashing.

"I want to stay!  I'll wear short pants!  I promise!" the child cried, 
delirous with joy.  He could stay if he wore the dorky clothing?  Sure he 
would!

Matthew chuckled.  "This is fun for me, Ian.  Like playing dress up.  
I've always wanted a son to buy clothes for and...."  

"You can dress me!  Can I stay?!"  The excited boy jumped up and down.

Matthew gripped the happy boy's shoulders, shaking him gently.  Ian 
flopped like a puppet, arms swaying, a shock of black hair falling over 
his eyes.  Man and boy grinned at each other then burst into laughter.  
Friends.  Matthew took the green necktie from Ian's pocket and put it on 
him, instructing him in the art of tying a tie.  Ian listened 
attentively.  He also listened as the man explained about child abuse 
laws and that if his father continued to mistreat him, Ian could be 
placed in Mr. Way's foster care.  Ian raised his dainty chin as the man 
slipped the tie up around his reedy neck, and swore that he would do 
anything to stay with Mr. Matthew Way, M.D.

Ian watched with anticipation as the man brought forth the final bag he'd 
held in reserve.  Matthew pulled out a kid-size, tan, camel hair coat, 
tan leather gloves and a tan beret.

"Oh, no, Mr. Way!  I can't take that!" the child said with awe, fine 
hands waving the gift away.  Ian didn't know much about clothes but he 
knew the coat was very expensive.

"Of course you can.  I want you to."

The little boy hesistated, thrown by all the attention, then let the man 
help him into the coat.  It was heavy and warm and smelled new.  The man 
helped the child into his gloves then sat the beret on his head, buttoned 
the coat.  

"Adorable," Matthew breathed.  He took hold of the child's left hand.

Despite himself, Ian felt spiffy and very handsome as if he were in a 
fairy tale.  He'd never worn such nice clothes, dorky or not.  He bent at 
the waist and looked down at himself.  The hem of his coat stopped just 
above his knees.

"Won't my knees get cold?"

"If they do I'll rub them," Matthew winked, leading the child out the door.

The boy followed with hesitant steps, pulled along.  The man gripped his 
hand tighter.  "Where are we going?  I don't want to go out like this."

"It's night.  No one will see you.  Besides, we have to go somewhere."

"Where?  Can't a I wait for you?  Maybe you can just go alone?" Ian 
stammered even as he found himself on the porch and walking down the 
sidewalk to the car.

"I missed you. I want you with me."

Ian's heart leapt.  "You did?"  When the man nodded the little boy smiled 
and pranced behind the man with a bounce in his step.  He'd never had his 
hand held before and felt very special.  The wintry winds on his face and 
knees made him alert, and as the man led him to the black Mercedes Benz
Ian took in the dark night.  The night was beautiful, and the air was so 
clear it sparkled.  The snow in the yard looked deep and soft and 
inviting, unlike last night, when the snow seemed something hateful and 
threatening.

"Last night I was wearing shorts and freezing," the boy chirped, craning 
his neck back to look up at the man.  "The wind gets up under my coat but 
I'm not freezing at all now."

"Children make the most simple and true observations," said Matthew.  
"It's why I like you so much."

Ian wagged his head, pleased.  He studied his stockings and decided he 
like them; it was a good thing they were thick and long.

"Now you're really a little prince," said the man, disabling the car 
alarm with an electronic WHOOP!  Ian opened his mouth to reply -- the 
nickname was so goofy! -- then remembered his clothes and his dream from 
the night before.  And he could stay with Mr. Way and that was all that 
mattered.  Wordlessly, the child climbed into the car when the man opened 
the door for him, closed it, walked around to enter from the driver's side.
The car was huge and fancy and nice.  The little boy fussed with his coat 
and beret, noticing his bare knees poking out from under the coat.  He 
felt like a secret agent again, like it was Halloween, and peered excited 
through the windows, wondering where the man would take him.


		*		*		*		*
"Short Pants" (cont.)

In the rec room, Matthew sat in a reclining chair reading a newspaper.  Ian 
sat on a small love seat opposite Matthew, also a reading a section of 
the newspaper to impress the scholarly man.  The little boy snuck a peek 
at the man over the top of his paper.  The man was so handsome and 
smart-looking in the floor lamp's glow, the soft cone of yellow light 
spraying over him, making his hair shine and sculpting his strong-boned 
face.  Mr. way looked exactly like Ian had imagined a father would look.  He 
sighed contentedly, rustled his paper, and read with great concentration, 
kicking his feet.

***(The trailer had been dark, and a message on a wrinkled envelope had 
been taped to the door.  It read: "Good riddance, brat."  The little boy 
in his new, dressy clothing stood expressionless before the run-down trailer,
the cold December winds whipping around him.  Ian thought that he should 
feel something, maybe sad, maybe like crying, but he felt nothing.  The 
wind chimes he'd painstakingly made for a his father's birthday jangled 
in the wind, and Ian cocked his head to listen.  The tinny notes played a 
sad dirge of a child's unfulfilled need for love.

Matthew stood a few feet behind the boy, his face tense with anger and 
compassion.  "Come on, son," he said softly, watching the motionless boy.

"That creep's not home," called old lady Reynolds from behind her screen door. 
Matthew and Ian spun around, startled.  "Funny looking pair, ain't ya'?"  The 
woman squinted at the tall, elegant man clad in grey and black and the lovely 
little boy dressed in relaxing, soft earth-tones.  "Sonny, you a friend of 
Ian's?"

"Yes, ma'am," Ian gulped, embarassed to be seen in the sissy, dorky clothes.
A strong wind lifted the child's coat up around his naked thighs.  He 
knees locked above the cute stockings.

"You see him you tell him he can stay with me if he needs to."

Ian's black bangs snapped across his eyes.  He stared hard at old lady 
Reynolds and she stared back.  The boy was amazed.  She didn't recognize 
him!  He felt a strange exhilaration, as much from the cold making his 
legs tingle as from his being in effective disguise.  Ian marvled at what 
a change of clothes could do: he felt like a wholly different boy!

"I will!  Good night!" Ian yelped shakily.

The woman clucked in disapproval and ran her eyes over the boy.  "Oughta 
put some *pants* on that boy," she scolded, glaring at Matthew.  "Crazy 
rich people."

"My boy is wearing *short* pants," Matthew answered crisply, taking Ian 
by the hand.  The little boy gazed up at the tall, protective man, his 
baby-face a bright disk of hope in the dark.  "Sorry to bother you.  Have 
a nice night," Matthew called, leading Ian to the car, the child 
scampering to keep pace with the man's long strides.

In a daze, Ian let Matthew help him into the car, fasten his seat belt 
and close the door.  Ian fell silent during the drive, listening to the 
classical music playing softly on the radio and the hum of the car's 
heater thrumming.  

"I am so sorry," Matthew said, hands clutching the steering wheel.  "You 
don't deserve this."

"It's O.K.," the boy answered meekly, running his finger under his stiff 
shirt collar to loosen his constricting necktie.  He stared once more at 
his bare knees, tinted pale-blue with the dashboard lights, and watched 
the man's strong right hand close over them.  Squeeze almost painfully.

"I'm so sorry."

"I'm all right," the boy whispered.)***



"See this article about spinal surgery?" Ian asked, pushing off the love 
seat.

"Where?"

The boy ambled over to the man, pointed at the article, then watched him 
read.  Ian felt good about himself for showing the man something 
medical.  Lonely and long abused, the little boy had learned to adapt 
quickly to circumstance, and now focused entirely on the moment, 
forgetting the trailer and his father, knowing only the presence of his 
friend, Mr. Way.  

"Are you reading it?"

"Uh huh."

Ian set his right knee on the arm rest and noticed how smooth and white 
and round his knee looked.  Kind of like an apple.  A sliver of lamplight 
shimmered the length of his narrow thigh, and he wondered why the man 
thought his legs were 'wonderful?'  And he'd have to wear the fancy 
shorts from now on, and then...the man would touch his legs like last 
night?  The man had nice hands.

"Would you like to be a doctor when you grow up?"

"I don't know.  Is it fun?"

"It's hard work, but it's fun helping people."

The little boy nodded and straddled the arm rest, weding his knee between 
the chair and the man's hip.  He felt sneaky somehow, tingly-jumpy; he 
felt his shorts pull tight across his butt and hips, slide up tight 
around his crotch.  Yep, he was all legs now.  The little boy was 
instinctively trying to be seductive, not for sex, but for love.

"You sure you're not hungry?" Matthew asked gently, folding the paper, 
dropping his right hand onto the child's thigh.  Ian hand skipped dinner.

The little boy shivered and straightened his spine with perfect posture.  
His doe-eyes went wide and he clawed at the arm rest, staring at the 
man's hand on his leg.

"Ian?  Do you want to talk about you father?"  Matthew's thick,brong 
fingers sank into the child's moist, resilient flesh.

Ian couldn't respond, frozen with electrical charges coursing through his 
body.  He pee-pee grew hard and his thigh buzzed, his tummy fluttered.  
There was something about his legs and short pants the man knew but 
wasn't telling!

"Ian?"

The powerfully aroused little boy bit his lips and shook his head no, 
baby-face a mask of tension.

Matthew's lips curled in a smile.  He gave the boy's thigh several pats 
and stood.  "I think it's time for bed."  The man turned off the lamp, 
hesitated to study the frozen boy, then walked up the stairs.

Wispy Ian Brendan O'Donnell sat rigidly astride the arm rest in the 
dark.  His pubescent thighs were so smooth and white -- framed between 
avacado-green-colored knee stockings and cream-colored short pants -- 
that even now they shimmered with a faint, ghostly light.  The little boy 
wanted desperately to understand what had just happened, why the man's 
touch suddenly made him feel like...like he was going to be spanked, like 
he had felt the first stinging slap of the belt vibrating 'down there.'
He had never felt like this before, not since last night  ..no, today...waking 
to the red rose, the silly clothes....

Ian tried to make his erection go down.  Minutes passed.  He thought 
about the man and the bed and, for the first time, that 'orgasm' thing in 
the jacuzzi.  Entranced by the powerful, pubescent passions coursing for 
the first time through his body, the little boy climbed off the arm rest 
and drifted up the stairs, his tiny hard-on bulging in his little pants.  
His virgin thighs tingled.



Ian moved quickly around the bed, straightening the covers, wanting to 
surprise the man and show that he could be helpful.  ian had stripped to 
his boxers and changed into the gray knee socks.  He studied the made bed 
and scratched his tummy, nodding with approval.  The child climbed into 
the big bed and sat Indian-style.  He picked up the rose from the pillow 
and decided to give it back to the man.  Ian knew that givine someone a 
flower meant that you liked him special.  Yep!  Mr. Way would smile and 
hug him and maybe tell him a bedtime story!  The little boy bobbed his 
head left to right, sniffing the flower, round knees fluttering up and down.

"Hi!"

Ian sat up straight and smiled toothily as the man entered.  The boy's 
blue eyes twinkled, expecting the man to fuss over him.

"Hey," Matthew answered dully, walking into the bedroom without a look at 
the boy.

Ian's jaw dropped as the bathroom door closed.  He sat stunned, heard the 
shower start, wondered if he'd done something wrong.  Instantly, the 
long-abused boy blamed himself, screwing up his face and fighting back 
tears.  Pouting his lower lip, the child angrily threw the rose down and 
flopped onto his stomach, burrowing his face and arms in the pillow.  Mr. 
Way wanted him to go home!  But Ian couldn't go home!  The child kicked 
his legs in a tantrum, feet thumping against the mattress.  Inexperienced, the 
child mistook the "rejection" of his baby-flirtation as a rejection of himself 
as a person.  Inexperienced, the child did not understand his own sexual 
tension or the game the man was playing.  He lay anxious and angry, 
promising himself he would go home first thing in the morning.

Minutes later, his black hair dripping wet, the muscular doctor stood at 
the edge of the bed.  He wore white briefs, his 7" cock bulging.

"Ian?"

"What?!" the boy snapped, voice muffled.

The man grinned and knit his brow.  "Baby, what's wrong?"

"Nothing!"

Amused, the handsome man knelt across ian's stockinged calves, the bed 
sagging under his weight.  Matthew's brown, hairy thighs framed the 
little boy's smooth, white, frail legs in a striking contrast.

"Mr. Way?"  Ian jerked and gave a little kick.  He rose up on his elbows 
and whipped his head around to look over his left shoulder.  His spine 
formed a sexy groove down his back.

"Shhh!  I'm here."

Ian watched the man lick his lips and reach out.  The man's large hands 
shook and hovered above the flat backs of Ian's tender young thighs.  
Casting shadows over the shining, white skin.  The little boy clenched 
his buttocks as the man's hands touched down and fluttered over his legs 
from socks to boxers.

"Lie down, Ian.  It's O.K."

The little boy stared at the man, then lay down, clutching the pillow.  
His tummy swirled: he was dizzy with vertigo.  He felt the man's hands on 
his legs and his legs seemed to blossom.

"Ever had a massage?"

"No."

"Then enjoy," Matthew whispered.  "This will help you relax and sleep.  
I'm so sorry about your father.  Try to forget him."

Ian's anger evaporated.  The man was so *nice* to give him a massage!  
And the man's hands were so big!  So gentle.  Tickling and not tickling.

"Oops!  You're getting goosebumps.  Cold?"

"Uh uh!" Ian peeped, trembling.  His body was hot and cold, actually, and 
he let go a high whimper as new charges coursed through him.

"You O.K. there?"

Ian nodded into the pillow.  His pee-pee grew rock-hard.  It was just 
like downstairs and last night!  Did fathers often touch their son's legs?

"Mr. Way?"

"Ian?"

"You like my legs, huh?  'Cuz you're gay?"

The big man in the white briefs laughed and squeezed the child's thighs 
tight.  "Yes.  You really promise to wear the short pants I bought?"

Ian wriggled, experiencing a flash of insight.  "I promise.  And then 
you'll touch my legs?  Right?"

"Always."

Man and boy grew silent.  Matthew caressed the silky hollow at the backs 
of the boy's knee's with his thumbs; the boy's skin was transluscent 
there revealing delicate blue veins.  The man slid his loving, adult 
hands up the sides of Ian's legs, pushing the boy's boxers up to his hips 
until they gathered and puffed like a Scotch Plaid diaper.

"Poor little boy.  So sad.  But he's safe in my bed.  Safe with me."

Ian nodded, heart soaring from the man's words and hands.  He breathed 
deeply of the man's scent in the pillow, then yelped as the man began to 
rub his butt with circular movements.  The chid's diaper-boxers slipped 
over his firm, clenched buttocks.

"Don't touch my butt!" Ian gasped.

"Why not?"

Ian shrugged, sputtered.  "'Cuz it's wrong!"

"Who says?" the man asked in a dramatic baby-voice.  "I think it's more 
wrong to spank a little boy's butt in anger.  If a spanking is a form of 
necessary discipline -- an extension of a father's love, a corrective 
measure -- then a spanking is acceptable.  Sometimes men spank little 
boys if they've been bad, of during S&M, I guess.  That's a form of love, 
too."

"M&M's?" the child asked, confused, shuddering as the man's hands stroked 
and caressed and kneaded his ass.  Ian had only know pain when a man 
touched his butt -- everything Mr. Way was saying was true, as usual.

Matthew laughed and smacked the boy's bottom gently.

"Hey!" Ian yiped, eyes wide with a flicker of panic.

"Just playing!"

"Whaddya' mean?"  The little boy squeezed his ass cheeks even tighter: 
being spanked was nothing to joke about!

"I mean that's just a love tap.  Now can you roll over?"

Ian shook his head.  "I can't.  My pee-pee...."

"Is it hard?"  The boy nodded.  "Mine is, too.  It's O.K."

A moment, then Ian rolled onto his back.  There was *something* about 
hard pee-pees...but the man said it as fine.  The boy's eyes were glassy 
and wide, and he lay frozen in auto-hypnosis, trapped in the memory of 
his many, many spankings and struggling to trust his friend.  For Ian, it 
was time to submit and go deep in his mind where the sting of daddy's 
belt made his pee-pee tingle, where the pain could be forgotten....  But 
Mr. Way wasn't spanking him: there was no pain at all.

"You look good with an erection, Ian.  It's so small and hard."

Ian gazed from his own miniature erection tenthing the crotch of his 
boxers to the man's, huge and jumping in the tight, white underpants.  
The man was smiling down at him.  Impulsively, the little boy snatched up 
the rose with his left hand and offered it to his friend.  

Matthew's eyes wend wide, and he drew a shuddering breath as he accepted 
the flower.  "Oh, Ian!  You're so sweet!"

Ian sat up.  He was breathing hard.  He tilted his head to one side, 
confused.  Big Mr. Way was blushing, sniffing the rose and looking at him 
real funny.  And his eyes were watering!  "Are you gonna cry?" the child 
gasped, stunned.

Matthew shook his head and waved his hands.  "No, no.  My prince you are, 
Ian.  Lips and cheeks the color of this rose, your body and baby legs as 
soft as these petals."

Ian jerked as if slapped.  What a dumb thing to say!  But the *way* the 
man said it!  The *way* he looked!  Weird!  Yet, Ian felt happy.

"I know your hands are as soft as this rose," Matthew sighed, running the 
flower over his erection.  The rose was a vibrant blood-red against the 
man's briefs.  Wide-eyed, the little boy watched the flower twirl, the 
man's pee-pee jump, the white underwear stretch tight.  Ian reached out 
with his left hand....

The big man yelped reflexively, squezing Ian's thighs between his knees.

As if snatching his hands from a cookie jar, the little boy flopped down 
onto his back, clutched the hems of his boxers, spreading them wide and 
away from his thighs.  "Your underwear is real white," Ian stammered, 
trying to explain: the innocent lad had been reaching only for the man's 
briefs and not his erection!  "My dad walks around in his underwear and 
it always looks yellowy."

"Thank you," Matthew cooed, recovering.  "Do you like the pretty flower, 
baby?  See?  See how soft it feels?"  Ian sucked his tummy in tight as the 
man traced an outline of his boxers with the rose.  "That feel good?"

"Uh huh!" yelped the child, squeezing his eyes shut.  He felt tingly 
sparkles in his skin where the rose touched.  It was scary!  Good!  Ian 
yanked his boxers left to right,  a movement meant to relieve the 
building tension, but it only increased the tingles in a flash-point of 
sensation.  The boy bucked strongly, yanked his boxers again.  *That* 
felt good!  Ian gasped like a fish.  "I feel funny!  I'm scared!"

"Shhhhh!" the man soothed, tracing the rose in the silky groove formed 
between Ian's thighs laid out side by side.  "When I promised to take 
care of you I meant it.  I love you, Ian.  Men and boys can love each 
other.  You can be my little prince."

"A PRINCE?!" Ian sputtered, cascading toward orgasm.  Not knowing he 
would orgasm.

"Yes.  In your dressy, princely short pants suits."

Ian had no reply and no thoughts.  He felt as if he were not in bed but 
perched on the edge of a high cliff.  The rose twirled and tickled the 
child's virgin thighs -- 11 year old thighs that had never been aroused 
and worshipped.  the rose slipped up the child's heaving tummy and 
brushed over his tiny nipples, making them erect.  The boy's nipples and 
dick were erect.  His body sparkled on the inside.

Ian wanted to scream or cry or something!  His pee-pee was really jumping 
around!  He bridged up until he was bowed back above the bed and 
straining wire-tight.  "What -- are -- you -- doing?!" he gasped, voice 
shrill and almost wailing with his confusing, cresting arousal.  "What -- 
are -- you -- doing -- to -- me?!"

"You're doing it to yourself, baby!  Don't you know that!?"

Ian's most lips sputtered, spraying spittle.  The rose twirled the length 
of the struggling boy's reedy throat.  Ian brided up higher until only 
his heels and shoulders were on the bed.  He still pulled at his boxers, 
his tiny testicles and erection perfectly outlines.  "I'm gonna pee!  My 
pee-pee!  My -- OWMPH???!"

Ian flopped down, head snapping up to stare at the man.  His 
uncomprehending eyes were laser-blue.  Matthew had placed the rose in the 
child's mouth.

"Good boy, Ian!  My gentle prince!  He loves pretty flowers!"  Matthew 
shook and groaned with passion above the boy.  He lifted his muscular 
arms woodenly as if he were undecisive, then he brought his heavy hands 
down on the sides of Ian's legs with a sure and moderately sharp slap.

Smack!

"DADDY!" Ian shrieked.  He bit into the rose with white, even teeth.  He 
tasted summer.  The slap was a sensation the boy knew in his soul: the 
vibrations went right to his rectum and groin.

Matthew gasped, eyes wide in surprise.  He bit his lips, hesitantly 
raised his arms again -- the little boy shrank back into the mattress, 
turning his head side to side, staring at the man's hands -- and Matthew 
spanked the child's thighs once more, sharply but without true force.

Whap!

The child's thighs shook.

Ian snapped his head forward with the blow, grunting once, then arched up 
from the bed with new strength.  His tummy sucked in tight, each rib 
pronounced.  He squeezed his eyes closed.  Yes.  Now the boy knew where 
he was, knew this feeling, his groin roiling.

Whap!

Matthew spanked the boy.  

"Ngh!  I'll be good I'll be good!"

The child looked blade thin.  He yanked his boxers up to his hips, 
smashing his genitals.  Elbows bent, skinny arms fluttering like wings.  
His dainty chin was thrust up to the ceiling.  His lips curled back and 
his nostrils flared.  Crystal tears suddenly sprang out from beneath his 
long lashes and trickled down his flushed cheeks.

"Fly, my prince, fly!" Matthew squealed, his expression one of elation 
and wonderment at the child's abandon and arousal.  The man shook his 
head in disbelief -- he wasn't hurting the boy, delivering only love 
taps, little stings and thrills to spur the boy on, guiding Ian to that 
special place and special pleasure Ian already possessed  -- and spanked 
the boy's straining thighs a final time.

Crack!

"DAADDIIIEEE!!!" shrieked the little boy, arms flapping wildly.

Ian ejactulated long and hard, again and again and again.  He swayed left 
to right with the oceanic force of his second orgasm.  Shiny, skinny 
white boy bowed and trembling above a man's bed.  Behind his eyelids, Ian 
saw bright points of light.  He felt the man's strong, sure hands close 
over his stinging, tingling thighs.

"Ugh!  Agh!  Ugh!" went the boy, slowly descending from his dizzying 
flight, spiralling down back into his body and easing down onto the bed.  
He lay gasping as Matthew clapped his hands and the room went dark.  The 
man stretched outbeside the boy and pulled the covers up over them.

Ian panted for breath.  the sent of the flower -- and a tangly, citric 
odor he did not recognize -- blossomed in his nostrils.  A strange, 
pungent smell almost like...like something you could eat, maybe?  His 
scrotum burned, his balls rolled in their sack, and a hot, sticky goo was 
all around his pee-pee.  His boxers were wet...he'd wet his pants!

The little boy made no connection between his two orgasms.  He didn't 
understand.  He'd never tried to masturbate and didn't know about 
ejaculation and cum.  He had no friends of father with whom to discuss 
sex, and sex education was two years away in 8th grade.

The little boy removed the rose from his mouth.  "I wet my pants," he 
confessed in a miserable whisper.  He turned into the man's hard, hot 
body.  Ian's eyes were adjusting to the dark, and he could see Mr. Way's 
outline.

"Oh, Ian!  In the tub your pants were already wet from the water," 
Matthew said, explaining what had happened but with the good sense to be 
deliberately vague.

Ian blinked.  What did the tub have to do with anything?  He stared at 
the man and the man was smiling.  The man was so nice -- trying to cover 
up for his 'accident' -- Ian a terrible wave of shame for messing himself 
and the bed even!  "I'm sorry!" the child sobbed, burying his face in his 
hands.

"Shhhh!"  Matthew kissed the boy's forehead and wrapped him in his arms.  
He began to tell a bedtime story to distract Ian, a story about a Boy 
Scout Ian's age who was lost in the mountains and had to survive by his wits.

Almost instantly, Ian's embarassed sobs turned to quiet sniffles.  The 
man's embrace and acceptance of his 'accident' met the abused boy's needs 
so completely his second sexual experience receeded into the background.  
Ian snuggled against the man and listened, soothed by the man's slow, 
deep voice.  He felt the man's hard pee-pee press into his left thigh 
even as he noticed that his own pee-pee was growing soft in its gooey 
puddle.  Ian listened to the story and decided that he could survive by 
his wits, too.  He already was, wasn't he?

"Would you like to join Boy Scouts?" Matthew asked, taking the rose from 
the child and tracing it over his button nose.

"Sure, Ian chirped, involved in the story.  "My daddy never let me sign 
up for anything.  But Boy Scouts isn't really this exciting in real life."

"Scouts go camping in the mountains.  It's easy to get lost there."

"Not if they're good scouts."

"It can happen to anyone."

"Were you ever lost?"

"Everyone gets lost sometimes, Ian.  But if thy're lucky...then they find 
themselves.  And where they belong."

The frail little boy, held firmly in the big man's arms, drew in a loud, 
sharp breath of insight.  A child, Ian had long learned how to recognize 
the moral of a story from all the children's books he'd ever read.  "I 
get what you're trying to say, Mr. Way."

Man and boy regarded each other soberly -- teacher and student -- and 
nodded in mutual confirmation of their roles.  Ian thought of how his 
father never hugged him or told him bedtime stories, never gave him 
flowers or massged him and made him promise to wear short shorts because 
he thought Ian had "pretty" legs.  "Finish the story," the boy ordered, 
yawning and stretching.

Matthew lovingly stroked the stretching boy's delicate chest.  "Where was I?"

"It was night and it started to rain and it put out the fire."

"Good memory.  Right.  So the boy scampered over to a large rock and 
shimmied underneath, but he was out of the rain only from the waist up.  
When the lightning flashed the mountain lit up for a second or two, and 
you could se the boy's long, bare legs sticking out.  His legs were 
smooth -- like yours -- but very tan and brown.  His poor, exposed, bare 
legs were drenched in freezing rain.  He felt the rain drops on his skin 
his like needles and if mae him very frightened."

"Yeah," Ian chirped, nodding vigorously.  "The snow was like that on my 
legs last night when I ran to your house!  That felt terrible!"

"I'm sure it did."

"Yeah."  Ian shivered from the memory, then thought of how the man had 
kind of slapped his legs around moments ago.  It had stung a little but 
wasn't the same.  Hmmmm....  Ian would have to think about that later.

"And, Ian?  Boy Scouts wear short short pants and knee socks and no one 
thinks they're dorky."  

Ian nodded solemnly: the man spoke the truth.  "Go on, Mr. Way."

"So the rain fell until the scout's smooth legs kicked and flopped in a 
cold puddle and were covered in mud.  His knee stockings were drenched, 
and his short pants and underwear were as wet as if he'd been swimming.  
It made him very cold and he wanted to cry.  But he'd learned that if you 
sing when you're sad, sometimes a song can make you feel better."

"I do that," said Ian, sleepy now, yawning again.  He could barely stay 
awake: the man's voice, the story, the good warmth building between their 
bodies -- skin on skin -- were all a sedative.  This close to sleep, Ian, 
like all children, spoke with utter honesty.  "You learn special songs in 
Boy Scouts.  Does he sing good?"

"Like an angel," Matthew whispered.  "He sang and sang and under the rock 
his voice sounded loud, drowing out the sound of the storm.  His voice 
was high and sweet and unchanged.  Like yours."

"I sing good," Ian mumbled, cute face nuzzling the man's chest, dreaming 
now that he was the Boy Scout in the story.  "I sing."

"Ian sings," the man whispered, tenderly brushing the boy's hair with his 
fingers.

The little boy fell asleep in the man's bed once more.

end chapter two --


				CHAPTER THREE
			    "The Christmas Tree"


Ian pranced about the living room, raising his knees high and almost 
skipping, his long, thin arms held out: the boy was pretending to be an 
airplane.  

"Reow!  Soowping low -- look out for the trees!" called the boy, hands 
skimming along the top of furniture, against a lampshade, red lips 
puckerd and vibrating as he made the sound of a propeller.

The little boy was very excited.  The man had just returned from work and 
he'd brought a surprise.  Something big.  Ian had to wait in the living 
room while the man brought it inside, and the boy listened as the man made 
several trips in and out through the rec room's glass doors.  

"Rrrrr -- yeow!" went Ian, duck-walking now, slim thighs white and 
hairless and shining.  The child wore another short pants suit -- a 
short-sleved white oxford tucked into electric-blue shorts, electric-blue 
suspenders and tie and knee stockings, and blue, polished patent-leather 
shoes.  Upon waking, Ian had discovered the outfit laid out for him on 
the dresser, and been slightly irritated.  Heck, he knew how to dress 
himself!  But the suprise had erased all his irritation, and the boy was 
now squirrelly with excitement.

The sound of something large and heavy crashing to the floor made the 
duck-walking pretend-airplane boy freeze.  He crouched between a white 
sofa and copper coffee table, arms wide   "Mr. Way?  What happened?"

"It's O.K., baby!  Just a second!"

"Baby?" Ian repeated, clearing his throat.  He stood and walked to the 
foyer.  Naturally, the boy didn't take easily to being called a 'baby,' 
especially since his initial crisis of running away had been resolved and 
he was feeling less desperate and independent once more.  Indeed, the 
abused child had learned to take care of himself at an early age.

"I'm not a baby!" Ian called as loudly as if he was on the playground 
during recees, stretching in the direction of the rec room.  The skinny boy 
dug his hands in his pants pockets and delicately pointed the 
left toe of his blue, polished shoe.  He rose up on the ball of his 
foot and pirouhetted with a balletic grace; he giggled.  Then the 
boy began to twirl and twirl, making himself dizzy.  His tiny right shoe 
"tapped tapped" against the wooden floor, tie flopping, naked thighs 
flashing with each revolution.  

The world became a blur, and Ian giggled sweetly, lost in play.  The 
tall, handsome doctor came upon the boy and watched him cavort, taking in 
the youth's young legs which were springy with the elasticity of 
pubescence.  Matthew wore his black wool coat and a grey suit, a sprinkle 
of snowflakes already melting on his shoulders.  The man's cheeks were 
ruddy, and he was impeccably fashionable and handsome.

"Hi!"

"Hi!" Ian chirped, still twirling, legs a blur.  His head was down, 
watching his feet.  "Whoa!  Whoa!"

"I mised you," said the man.

Ian stopped twirling, turned his unfocused eyes on the man, and stumbled 
left, stumbled left again, off-balance.  The boy almost fell and the man 
grabbed him, picking him up and throwing him over his shoulder in a 
fireman's carry.  Ian squealed with delight, perched so high on the man's 
broad shoulder, wriggling and trying to free his hands from his pockets 
as the man carried him through the kitchen and into the rec room.

"You're so skinny I could carry you all day," Matthew laughed, patting 
the child's butt and setting him down.  

"I'm not so skinny," Ian chimed, face glowing.  Matthew closed his large 
hands around the boy's bony hips and spun him around effortlessly, facing 
him toward a 10 foot Christmas tree in the center of the rec room.

The little boy stood silently, supported by the man.  The sun had set.  
Track lighting cast the center of the room as a stage, the tree towering 
up to the vaulted ceiling where natural-wood lent a ski-resort quality, 
and the fireplace crackled and snapped with new logs.

Ian's tight, tiny buttocks clenched in his dressy blue shorts.  He drew a 
deep breath.  Squatting behind the boy, the man smiled and squeezed the 
boy's hips tighter, thumbs in Ian's lower back, fingers in the boy's 
tummy and lower abdomen.

"A TREE!  A REAL TREE!" Ian yelled shrilly, the power of speech returning 
to him explosively.  He whipped around to face the man, yanking his hands 
from his pockets, the little pants sliding up and down his slim thighs.  
"IS IT MINE?!  IS IT MINE?!"

"Of course.  I was driving home and -- "

Matthew was unable to finish his sentence as the little boy broke away 
and ran to the tree, delicate hands fluttering like small, white birds 
among the pine needles.  The small boy walked around the huge tree as if 
viewing the 8th wonder of the world.  He turned to stare at the man -- 
the boy's face was angelic, a starburst of love -- and he ran and threw 
himself against the man, wrapping his arms around his neck.  The child's 
skinny legs pumped and pumped, almost knocking Matthew over.

"Oooph!  You're welcome!" Matthew laughed, happily patting the boy's 
thighs until the boy stepped back.  Ian looked ecstastic, radiant, and 
Matthew's face filled with compassion.  "My poor Ian!  You're never had a 
Christmast tree, have you?"

"Can we decoreate it?" the child almost shrieked, frenzied with joy.  He 
turned, spotted boxes of lights and ornaments, ran to them and dropped to 
his knees with a thud.  He began tearing into box after box, gasping at 
the pretty ornaments in each one.

The man stood slowly, shaking his head.  "How could he have not loved 
you," he whispered, swallowing hard, a cloud of anger passing over his 
face.  You never deserved to be his son," the man croaked, voice filled 
with emotion, swallowing hard.

"Mr. Way?  Huh?  Can I?"

The man nodded.  "Start with the ornaments, honey.  The lights go on 
after, and the tinsel goes on last.  I'll join you after I change, O.K.?"

Ian sat back on his heels, surrounded by boxes, and ran his hands over 
his thighs.  "Thank you!" he called soulfully.  "Thank you so much!"

The man jerked, deeply moved, and his eyes watered.  He gazed upon the sweet 
child and sighed.  "You are so welcome!  And you have such nice manners!"

Ian smiled and nodded curtly, seeing everything in a roseate glow.  Then, 
frisky as a puppy, he picked up a box of ornaments and began to 
decorate.  He placed the first ornament he had ever placed on a tree -  a 
large silver bell -- and studied it for long moments, bony chest swelling 
with pride.  He saw a tiny, elongated reflection of himself curving along 
the glassy surface.  Is that really me? he wondered, smiling and making 
friends with the dressy boy-reflection.  The boy looked so nice!  
Unnoticed, the man left the room.

Ian decorated quickly and haphazardly, but to his child's-eye each 
ornament looked perfect.  The boy had never felt so terrific, felt like 
he was dreaming.

"Wave!"

Ian turned, smiling hugely, a blue glass ball in his hands.  Mr. Way 
stood at the edge of the room by the kitchen, making a video tape.  The 
smile froze on the boy's face and his eyes registered surprise.  He 
mechanically lifted his left hand and flopped it at the wrist.


"Look happier than that, kid!" Matthew laughed.

The little boy quickly walked over to the man.  The man was dressed in an 
outfit to match his own, short pants and knee stockings and suspenders 
and everything!  The man was also carrying a tri-pod, and Ian watched him 
set it up and train the camera on the tree.


"How come you're dressed like that?" asked the boy, very intrigued.

"You don't like it?"

Ian bent at the waist and to his right, assessing the man's clothes.  
"You look kind of goofy.  Like me."  The boy craned his neck back to look 
up at the tall man, smooth face sober, batting his long lashes, wanting 
some explanation.

"Oh I do, huh?  Well, you don't look goofy to me.  I figured since you 
still seem uncomfortable with how I want you to dress you might feel 
better if we both wore short pants."

Ian smiled.  So that was it!  Mr. Way was so silly!  "It's not the 
shorts, Mr. Way.  It's the length."  

"They're too short for you?" the man gasped in mock dismay, raising his 
eyebrows.

"Oh, no, sir!" the boy piped earnestly, fretting, tiny hands waving.  
"I'll wear them for you.  I swear.  It's just...well...these suits are so 
dressy and sissy and...."

"They're Christmas shorts suits, Ian!  Prince suits for Prince Ian, The 
Christmas Prince!  Ta da!" cheered Matthew, clapping his hands.  The 
little boy jumped, startled, and the man laughed and tousled his hair.  
Ian smiled anew: he was being teased!  "You look so cute this way, Ian.  
Who'd have thought my raggedy paper boy would make such a handsome prince?"

Ian blushed and wagged his head, twisting at the waist, basking in the 
man's affection.  His complaints caught in his throat with a swell of 
emotion.  Mr. Way thought he was cute!  The man just really thought short 
pants were for boys, that's all, and had even *dressed* like Ian to make 
him feel better!  Ian swallowed and promised himself to never complain 
about his suits again.

"You look nice, too," Ian said generously.  "Do grown ups wear shorts 
suits a lot?  I've never seen them -- or just boys?"

"Well, mostly little boys.  But in many parts of the world like Australia 
or Bermuda men do.  Shorts suits are considered formal and necessary 
because it's so hot."

"Oh.  I didn't know that."  Ian reappraised the man with new sight.  "How 
come your legs are so tan?"

"I go to a tanning salon.  You like my legs, Ian?"

The question took the boy by surprise.  He rolled his blue tie in his 
hand and bet at the waist and to his right again, innocently studying the 
man's legs.  They were just big, brown, hairy legs.  But Ian knew he 
should be polite because the man liked his legs so much, and he suddenly 
wondered what it would be like to touch the man's.  Would Ian like legs, too?

"Sure.  They're -- nice," the boy declared, nodding.  "Yep."  Then the 
boy's eyes grew wide as he watched the man's pee-pee begin to grow hard, 
longer and longer until it bulged like a sausage under the bright blue 
fabric.  How could Mr. Way's pee-pee be so much bigger than his own?!  
The child had no sexual thoughts about the man's pee-pee, but it sure was 
interesting.  Ian let his tie unroll down his bony chest, then turned, 
his attention already back on the tree.  He decorated.

Minutes later, Matthew asked Ian to pose for some photographs.  The man 
had an expensive, professional quality camera.

"Bring your feet together, back straight, arms at your sides.  Good boy!"

Ian stood straight as a toy soldier, smiling broadly before the tree.  
His knees curved inward slightly and touched above the cuffed stockings, 
and his fingers reached past the hems of his little pants.  Though skinny 
and undeveloped, the boy was well-proportioned, his long slender legs 
supple and radiant with health, far from bony and with just the right 
amount of meat to them.  With a toss of his head the child flicked his 
black bangs from his blue eyes.  His thin face was white and soft, his 
complexion clear.  Ian had never smiled so proudly: he had deep dimples.

"Look at those dimples!"

"Should I say 'cheese' or something?" Ian asked sincerely, wanting only 
to please.  

"No, honey.  Just look in the camera.  There's a dignity to you, Ian.  A 
quiet poignancy."

Ian furrowed his brow and absently scratched at his thighs.  "What's that 
word mean?"

"It means you're a real Christmas Prince.  A wonder child."

"Aw, Mr. Way!" the boy whined, playful and embarassed.  The man had never 
said such things to him!  And the boy began to wonder -- am I really that 
cute?  A wonder child?  The boy stared at the man staring at him like he 
was a movie star.  It was fun.  With his dressy suit Ian did feel like he 
was playing a part in a movie: he liked being 'The Christmas Prince.'  
Sure!  This was just a game!


	Matthew began snapping photographs.  "I'm going to enlarge these 
and hang one above the fireplace.  And I'll take one for my office desk."
	The child stiffened but held his pose.  "The office?!  But what 
if -- they'll *see* me dressed like this!"
	"So what?  I'll just say you're my nephew from England.  Little 
boys wear short pants suits in England."
	"Well, *yeah,* but -- "
	"Don't be shy.  They'll just think you're cute."
	Ian smiled and puffed out his bony chest.  He imagined all those 
grown ups looking at his picture and making cooing noises.  Ian knew that 
grown ups liked to dress kids 'cute,' and he imagined them staring at his 
legs.  His legs....  The boy felt a tingle; his pee-pee grew hard.
	The little boy crossed his tiny white hands over his crotch.
	"Ian?  What are you doing?"
	"I...my pee-pee...."
	"Do you have an erection?" Matthew asked casually.  Ian nodded.  
"Let me see."
	Ian blushed and shook his head no.  "I don't...um...."
	"Please?"
	Ian stared at the man.  He felt embarassed, instinctively 
troubled by his penis which seemed to grow erect so often in the past 
year and which he took great pains to conceal, especially in school.  But 
the man was waiting, and the boy slowly moved his hands away, biting his 
lower lip.  HIs 11 year old hard-on made a small bulge.
	Matthew took a picture and smiled warmly.  "Ian, we don't have to 
hid our pee-pees in my house.  Just like we don't have to hide our legs."
	Ian shrugged, gazing down at his crotch, fingers fluttering over 
his thighs.  It was good that the man didn't mind his hard pee-pee, but 
he still felt funny.  "I'm not used to it."
	"Your erections show me that you like me.  You like me, right?"
	"Sure!"
	"Then smile."
	Young Ian stared into the camera lens, his smooth face serious, 
but when the man made a funny noise the boy laughed brightly, all 
hesitation gone.  The camera flashed.  Then matthew encouraged Ian to 
continue decorating.
	Throughout the evening man and boy let their erections grow and 
shrink, bulging in their matching, dressy shorts.  The lower half of the 
tree filled with color, ornaments and lights.  Matthew and Ian took turns 
making films and taking pictures.  Dusk fell and cast the room in a 
crimson hue.  Matthew turned on the amber chandelier and built a fire.  
Man and boy were very happy, conversation flowing.  The fire caught and 
crackled, the scent of good wood blooming from the burning logs.  
Flickering shadows and light played across everything.
	Ian stood on tippy-toes, the flat backs of his thighs stretching, 
trying to place an ornament among the higher branches.  After several 
attempts he dropped his head and arms.
	"What's wrong?" the man asked, pulling the boy's blue suspenders 
and letting them snap against his frail back.
	Ian turned a green ornament over in his hands.  "I guess you'll 
have to finish the tall parts," he said forlornly.
	Matthew snapped the boy's suspenders once more, tousled his hair, 
left the room and returned with a small step ladder. He set it beside the 
tree, and taking Ian's left hand, guided him up the ladder.
	"Neat," grinned Ian, ascending.  Slick little tongue in the 
corner of his mouth, the child stretched to place the green ornament.  
His bubble-buttocks flexed, blue short pants quivering, then his balance 
grew precarious as the ladder swayed.
	"Whoa!" Matthew exclaimed, wrapping his right arm around the 
boy's thighs.  The boy set his hands on the man's head -- even with his 
chest -- and the two exchanged smiles.
	"You smile a lot," observed Ian in his frank, child's manner.
	"And you smile much more than you used to.  I'll hold your legs, O.K.?"
	The boy nodded.  Gingerly, he stepped higher and hung the 
ornament, then searched the box Matthew offered, choosing with care.  
Making his choice, Ian reached out to place the ornament and froze, 
tensing, blue eyes wide and mouth dropping open.
	The man's thick, brown index finger was gently scratching the boy's 
left thigh just below the hem of his pants.
	"Don't...do that!~ the child gasped breathlessly, going weak in 
the knees.  Stimulated nerve endings snowed in his body.
	"But you said I could touch your legs last night.  Please?"
	The man's finger scratched, and Ian watched.  He felt that 
strange desire to be close to the man swell strongly.  Unable to sustain 
an adults' train of thoughts, living moment to moment, the innocent child 
had forgotten about last night until now.  How the man had showered him 
with attention...and the man's crisp, white underwear...the rose....
	"Mr. Way, I -- "  Ian's throat tightened as the man spread his 
hand flat and made slow, circular motions over both of his thighs.  The 
man's hand was a cool pad, a deep well of soothing temperature.
	"Concentrate on the tree, Ian.  I have to hold your legs and keep 
you safe, and touching them is as good a time as any, right?"
	"Yeah," Ian quavered.  His legs trembled and grew goose-bumps.  
He grew an erection.  "I think it's making my pee-pee stand up."
	"Is it?"
	"Yeah."
	"Good."
	Ian watched the man's hand -- so big! -- stroke and stroke.  "is 
this a massage?"
	"It's foreplay."
	"Four play?" the child asked innocently, not understanding.  
"We're playing?"
	"Yes.  Playing with each other."
	The man's hand moved over the boy's legs from socks to shorts.
	"Is it a game?"
	"Uh huh.  A game I've wanted to teach you for some time.  But 
it's a secret game.  Our game.  No one can know."
	Ian watched the man stare at his pee-pee with that dreamy, lovey 
expression.  He watched the man's hand brush against the hems of his 
fancy pants, pushing them up.  The man's hand was real close to his 
pee-pee but it never occurred tot he boy that the man might touch it.
	"A secret game?"
	"Yes.  It's 'the leg game.'  Can you keep a secret?"
	"Uh huh," Ian nodded.  He liked secrets.  So, shaky and 
breathless, Ian went on decorating.  The child realized in a flash of 
insight that he would never have to trick the man into touching his legs 
the way he'd tried to trick him last night: the man would do it, anyway.  
And the child told himself that letting the man touch his legs was what 
the man wanted, and friends did things for each other, didn't they?
	"You...it makes me feel funny when you touch my legs," Ian 
gasped.  "Did...do you know that?"
	Matthew pursed his lips and leaned back to watch himself caress 
the hairless backs of the boy's thighs.  "Funny?  You mean it feels good?"
	Ian shifted his weight from foot to foot, first his right hip, 
then his left, swinging side to side in a sensual thrust.  "It's tickly," 
peeped the boy, decorating with shaking arms.  He wanted to jump off the 
ladder and sit down for a while.  "You better hold me."
	"Sing a song, Ian.  It'll relax you," breathed Matthew, face set, 
his hand now moving up and down between the boy's legs.  Ian shook 
visibly, took a deep breath.
	"Oh, Christmas tree, oh, Christmas, tree!"
	Ian sang in a clear, choirboy's soprano.  He had a musical gift.  
The man sighed with delight and nuzzled his face in the boy's flat, warm 
chest.
	"You sing just like that Boy Scout in the story."
	Ian felt a wall of resistance fall away.  The abused child had 
very low self-esteem, and to be compared to the scout! -- Ian knew that 
only smart, good boys were in Boy Scouts - and a surge of love filled his 
heart.  I'm as good as any boy! Ian thought.  Smiling, giddy, pee-pee 
jumping with electric charges, the child sang louder and finished the 
song, began another.
	"Rudolph, the red-nosed reindeer!  He had a very shiny nose!"

	The man groaned with pleasure.  Ian hesitated, then sang on.  
	"And if you ever saw it, you would even say it gloes!"
	"You are so beautiful.  So beautiful," sighed Matthew.  "Such 
lovely, lovely legs."
	Ian's tummy swirled.  The man's voice was charged with weird 
emotion, and the man's hands....
	"You can touch my legs whenever you want," the boy said sincerly, 
swept away with devotion. 
	Matthew hugged the child tight, whining.
	Ian felt as if he was wrapped in a coccoon of warm honey.  The 
man was so happy!  If being gay meant such good feelings, the boy 
wondered why everyone thought it was wrong.  How could it be wrong for 
someone to be happy?
	Ian watched the man's hands stroke his bare legs.  "I'm glad my 
legs are smooth."
	"Why?" Matthew whispered, nuzzling his face in the boy's chest.
	"Because you like them that way."
	"You're so wonderful," the man groaned, taking Ian's tie between 
his teeth.  His fingers scrambled over the boy's tiny knees, Ian's 
erection jumping wildly.
	The little boy was hypnotized.  He saw with magnified detail.  
The man semed to wear a halo, the light from the fire dancing in his 
black hair.  The boy had never felt such depth of emotion, and standing 
on the ladder, he felt somehow bigger than the whining man just then.  
The nice, big man who huddled against him.  The boy swore his love 
silently and promised to protect the man if ever he needed it.
	"You're my best friend," said the child, voice husky and cracking.
	Matthew buried his face in the warm hollow of the child's concave tummy
and the little boy patted the man's head, the man's thick black hair 
curling around his thin, white fingers.
	"Sing, Ian.  Sing."
	"'Kay."
	The 11 year old sang.  The man purred into his tummy.  Aroused in 
a way he did not understand, the child decorated woodenly, the blood 
drained from his face.  Moments passed.
	"My pee-pee...." the boy said dreamily, almost anxiously.  "What 
if -- I think I'm gonna wet my pants again."  The child shifted his 
weight from foot to foot, not wanting to wet himself.  If he did, Mr. Way 
would think he was a baby!  'Big' boys don't went their pants!
	But then Matthew was guiding Ian down the ladder, explaining that 
the lights at the top of the tree were too dangerous for the boy to risk 
hanging.  The man climbed up the ladder.  Ian stood watching, breathless 
and vibrating like a tuning fork, his orgasm delayed.  It increased his 
arousal.  Ian found himself eye-level with the man's thighs.
	Mr. Way's thighs....
	Long, thick muscles.  Brown tan skin and black, dense, curly 
hairs.  the hair caught bits of light like a web.  And the blue shorts.  
The fancy, sissy shorts didn't look so strange on the big, strong man.  
the man's butt was so big -- not fat -- just curvy and hard-looking, like 
a basketball.  Who'd ever spank a butt like that? the boy wondered.  The 
man's calves looked solid, too, bulging under the white stockings.
	The little boy licked his lips and wrapped his skinny arms around 
the man's legs.
	Matthew started and whipped around to stare down at the child.
	"I have to hold you!" Ian yelped.  The boy looked desperate 
somehow, begging for permission, satisfying a primal, powerful need.
	Man and boy locked eyes.
	Matthew smiled.  "Of course," he said, turning back to string lights.
	Shivering, controlled by a mysterious force, the boy rest his 
face against the man's broad, left hip.  Ian's heart pounded in his 
ears.  He hugged the man's legs with all his might.  the legs were warm 
and strong like tree trunks, and Ian dimly realized that it wouldn't be 
the same if the man was in long pants.  Or if he himself was in long 
pants.  Yes, there really *was* something about legs, but what?  What?
	Ian had to know.
	The frail child leaned back, reached out, and set his shaking, 
tiny white hands on the backs of the man's thighs just below his pants.  
Was it O.K.?  Sure, Mr. Way touched *his* legs, but Mr. Way was a grown 
up.  Ian waited to be scolded -- he'd know only disapproval his whole 
life -- but the man only shifted on the ladder, sighed.  Ian squeezed, 
felt the dense bands of muscle-fibers, the long, thick black hairs.  the 
man's legs were so warm, almost hot.
	"You have hair but your legs are soft," Ian warbled, hands 
fluttering now from white stockings to blue shorts.  "Real hard from the 
muscles but soft, too."
	"I use skin lotion."
	"Oh."  The boy swept his hands over the man's legs -- the man's 
legs! -- in long, expansive strokes.  This was weird!  This felt so -- good!
	Ian jackknifed suddenly, knees buckling.  His small face slammed 
down atop the front of Matthew's thighs and bounced.  "Oh!" the boy 
whined.  He'd never felt so dizzy.
	"Easy!" Matthew purred.
	"Yeah!" Ian gasped hoarsely, so swept up in his 
baby-stimulations, so childishly comfortable with his face in the man's 
thighs -- thinking nothing of sex on a conscious level -- that he didn't 
think to pull away.
	"You have really strong legs!" the boy croaked, hot, baby breaths 
dusting the man's skin with a feathery exhalation of passion.  He gripped 
the man's quadriceps, and the man responded by flexing, Ian's hands 
riding the muscles.
	"You have very soft hands. You are the only little boy to ever 
touch my legs, Ian.  It's very special for me."
	"You like when I touch your legs?" the boy chirped, surprised and 
pleased.  Confused.
	"Very much.  Thank you for doing it."
	"You're welcome."
	Ian breathed though his mouth, thoughts whirling, soft lips 
brushing the man's legs.  In his excitement, the boy only registered the 
touch of the man's legs in his hands and not his mouth, not realizing 
that a person could put his mouth on someon's legs.  Ian craned his neck 
back, Matthew's knees filing the delicate curve of his throat.  Ian felt 
his pee-pee jump and jump, straining against his underwear.  He noticed 
that the man's pee-pee jumped, too, extended out above his head like a 
tree branch.  The pee-pee was longer than Ian was thick, and it stretched 
the man's blue short shorts out from his thighs.  Ian could look up them 
and seen the man's white briefs.
	"How big is it?" the boy asked, stretching his tiny left hand -- 
palm up -- alongside the man's raging erection.
	"I honestly don't know," the man whispered, voice tight, tensing 
for contact.  Matthew's powerful legs and ass clenched.
	"It's bigger than my whole hand."
	"It's bigger than both of them."
	"yeah."
	The beanpole youth withdrew his hand, straightened, sized up the 
man's legs once more.  He tried to carress the man's legs the way the man 
carressed his.  That felt so good.  Ian wondered if he and his daddy had 
worn short short pants around each other that maybe they would have 
touched each other's legs and been friends?  The boy drited with the 
thought, still needing to resolve his relationship with his father, 
needing a father.  But his father wasn't here, and Mr. Way was.  Smart, 
nice Mr. Way.
	The little boy cluthed the man's legs and braced, anot honeyed 
wave washing through him.  He could smell the burning wood, heard the 
fire crackle and snap.  The little boy was sure that if he held the man's 
legs long enough he would learn a special secret, a secret ALL men know 
but weren't telling.
	The little boy felt his penis throb, his balls tighten.  He was 
ready to wet his pants, couldn't stop, didn't care.
	But it was time for the star.  Matthew stepped down the ladder 
and Ian staggered back, blinking, his orgasm cut off yet again.  The 
resultant turmoil left the boy dazed and little more than a puppet.  He 
sensed a break, a tragedy: every fiber of the innocent boy's body was 
charged for glorious ejaculation but he simply did not understand.
	"Up we go!" Matthew sang, unaware of the child's distress.  He 
hoisted Ian easily onto his shoulder.  The skinny boy yelped as his 
shorts caught on his turgid, tiny pee-pee and pulled it down.  His hard 
baby-boner thrummbed at the back of the man's neck.  It was maddening!  
Ian gazed dwon at his bare thighs -- so white, so smooth, so much thinner 
than the man's -- then dazedly took the star from the man and placed it 
on the tree.  
	The man walked with the child to a wall switch, the child 
wire-tight and almost senseless.  Man and boy in matching short pants suits.
	The Christmas tree fountained with color.  Ian's pinched face 
softened slightly, his soul fountaining in reponse, but his pee-pee 
demanded attention.
	"Oh!" the boy sobbed as the man carried him back to the tree.
	"Yes!  It's a beautiful tree," the man smiled, pleased, believing 
the child was enraptured with the tree.  Matthew Way had momentarily 
forgotten how easily little boys could be stimulated and brought to 
orgasm.  He did not realize Ian was about to cum.
	Vertigo took the child.  The room spun.  Ian whimpered and pawed 
frantically at the man's head, little legs wriggling.
	"Let me down!  Let me down!" he cried.
	"Sing another song, Ian.  You have a lovely voice."
	"No!  I can't!  I gotta pee!"
	The child was frantic.  The child squirmed violently, unable to 
hold on.  He was terrified!  He didn't want to pee on the man!
	The man froze.  Took a deep breath.  "You want to do it up 
there?" he asked calmly.
	"NO!  LET ME DOWN!"
	Matthew quickly hoisted the frail boy off his shoulders.  Ian 
squealed and brought his knees up and spread his legs wide, and when the 
man lowered him the boy did not straighten his legs.
	"Stand up, baby!" the man laughed, holding the boy above the rug.
	Ian tiwsted left to right, eyes bulging, mouth wide.  He didn't 
know where he was.  He convulsed and threw his head back, then 
instinctively grought his hands down atop his own white, precious thighs.
	The little boy had subconsciously equated spankings with orgasm, 
spankings with the tingling feelings in his pee-pee.
	"What are you doing?!" the man called in surprise, the boy's 
spanked thighs sounding in the room.  He tried to set the boy down. "Ian, 
stand up!"
	"Can't!  Can't!" yiped the child.  "MY PEE-PEE!"
	Matthew dropped to his right knee.  The pre-teen wrenched himself 
around as his bottom touched the rug.  He turned into the man, clamping 
his legs around the man's right thigh, his arms around the man's left leg.
	"MY PEE-PEE!" screamed Ian, blue eyes wide with frenzy.  lost in 
pre-orgasmic tension, body burning with hot fluids.  His spanked thighs 
made a volcanic reaction in his genitals.
	Crouched over the child clinging to his legs, face marked with 
concern and sudden insight, Matthew raised his right hand and delivered a 
single, sharp slap on the side of ian's creamy left thigh.
	CRACK!
	"NNNNGGGHHH!!!"  The skinny child's mind exploded, the sound of 
his spanked thigh echoing in the canyon of orgasm.   He saw the man's 
blue shorts gathered tight in his crotch, saw the man's bulging pee-pee, 
saw the mans hairy thighs -- the thighs he'd touched.  The child saw 
the Christmas tree behind the man, each ornament and each colored light 
becoming a will o' the wisp, hazy fairy lights sprouting wings and taking 
flight, buzzing all around.
	"OH OH OH!"
	The winged fairy-lights danced and landed all around In and the 
man as his pee-pee spurted and spurted and spurted hot goo.
	"Cum, my good boy!  Cum!  Cum!" Matthew called, patting Ian's head.
	"UNGH NGH UNGH!" went Ian, his tiny, electric blue short prince 
pants flooding with child-sperm.  Even in the tempst of his ejaculation 
the child felt a pang of embarassment.  He'd wet his pants again!  what 
would the man say!  But the man said nothing, and the boy convlused and 
convulsed, believing that the man didn't know!  
	Afterwards, Ian slowly relaxed, the tension leaving his body.  He 
felt the hot goo make his underwear cling, felt it drip like warm, thick 
jelly in there.
	"Ian!  Are you all right?  Did you pee?" the man asked, grinning.
	"N-n-no," the boy warbled, face red, a light sheen of sweat on 
his brow.  He gasped for breath.  "I just got dizzy!  Scared or 
something, you know?"
	Man and boy stared at each other.
	Ian felt terrible for lying, but it was better than letting the 
man know he'd wet himself again.  Why did he do that?  It wasn't urine, 
but it was wet!  And if he messed up the new fancy pants then, well, it 
might make the man mad!
	"Oh.  I just thought...."
	Matthew shrugged and cradled the child in his arms.  Wordlessly, 
Ian let the man carry him upstairs to bed, his hands resting on his 
crotch to cover the stain.  It was funny for the man to carry him, but 
the boy said nothing.  When the man sort of dropped himroughly  onto the bed 
and raced into the bathroom the boy merely undressed quickly and snuggled 
under the covers.  
	The little boy lay in the big brass bed in the dark bedroom, 
slowly calming.  Once again, he felt drained and impossibly tired.  He 
thought of the Christmas tree and the man and the winged lights.  He 
thought of the man's legs and his own.  He wondered what had come out of 
his pee-pee.
	Ian was almost asleep when the man slipped into bed.
	"I need pajamas," said the child, open and honest and impulsive 
before sleep.
	"Yes.  I'll buy them for you," the man sighed, taking the boy in 
his arms.  Matthew held the boy tenderly.  The boy soon fell asleep.

                         (end Chapter Three) --


CHAPTER 4 ... Ian, One Man's Prince ... by an406510@anon.penet.fi

o
o     ---------------- A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR -----------------
o

Dear Mercury,

Here's an excerpt from a letter I sent to a friend.  (the Net is NEAT!)  
I noticed that you like to preface stories with quotes and 
anecdotes and stuff, and I think the following would work well as 
an intro. to one of Ian's postings.

                         Short Boys' Pants (an406510@anon.penet.fi)

                               *******

In my stories I alternate between imagining myself as the man and the 
boy.  God oh God, I wish so much I'd met a man when I was a boy!  I'd love 
when a baseball coach would pat my knee or thigh, pat my butt, and 
depending on the coach (or some other kid's father) a man would 
pat my knee or leg more or less than another man.  

I remember being careful to dress in my cleanest white knee socks and 
most colorful, brightest shorts (neon pink or aqua blue), tuck 
in my shirt to make me look thin (I knew I was much smaller than a man),  
then sit next to the coach or father that touched me the most.  I thought 
I was being sneaky (at 11-14, of course I was naive) as i scooted closer and 
closer to him on the bleachers, my naked legs brown and dazzling bright with 
sunshine, my skin so shiny and smooth like a mirror.  

And it worked.  Those guys would pat my legs and sometimes just let their 
big, deep, thick calloused hands rest on my narrow boy's thigh, sometimes 
up against the hems of my shorts near the crotch.

You know, not every man is a boy-lover, but every man sure as heck 
notices how smooth and soft boy's legs are.  I guess those coaches and dads 
were intrigued and vaguely (or not vaguely) titullated by how much smoother my 
legs were than their wive's, than any woman's.

I'd even let myself grow a hard-on and then run out to bat or play a 
position when it was my turn, standing next to my coach, letting him pat 
my thighs or give my butt a good smack (sometimes they'd really spank me, 
so hard I'd bend forward, but I never complained, and no one can tell me 
they weren't doing that for a sexual thrill).  I didn't learn how to 
masturbate until I was 14, December of my freshman year in high school.
then I'd always masturbate while dressed in a shorts play suit of some kind.

I'm telling you this so you now know exactly where my head is at.  I would 
love to dress and pamper a boy like Ian or Ethan (I'm looking at several 
camp photos of him right now -- so lanky! -- so prety and that 
kid wore long pants maybe only twice all summer so he was very, very tan).
I'd love to shower all my love and understanding -- for having been a boy 
once myself -- on someone like Ethan, giving him the love and acceptance 
that would make his world a much brigher and securer place than my own 
had been during puberty.  

                      * * * * * * * * * * * *

The continuing series, "Ian, One Man's Prince," written by
an406510@anon.penet.fi.  Please direct comments to the author.

                      * * * * * * * * * * * *


                                CHAPTER FOUR
			    "The Angel in the Snow"


Night.

Matthew stood at the kitchen stove, taking up the kettle when it began to 
whistle.  He poured the steaming water into two pewter mugs, stirred in 
some powdered cocoa, walked into the rec room and set the mugs on a 
coffee table.  A jigsaw puzzle lay there, a pastoral scene of red barn, 
willow tree, cornfields.  The handsome doctor rubbed his square chin 
thoughtfully, a smile playing across his lips.  The man wore gray 
corduroy pants and a blue chambray shirt.  He walked to the fireplace, 
took up a poker, and eased a fresh log onto the flames.  Glowing embers 
spiralled up the chimney, and the man tilted his head back to watch.

(break)				*******

Late evening.

Ian had sat Indian-style on the floor by the coffee table, dressed in 
emerald green: sweater and shirt and necktie, plush velour short pants, 
cuffed knee stockings.  The boy's thin cheeks were almost transluscent in 
the firelight, black bangs cascading over his eyes in a shiny wave.  Lost 
in concentration the boy absently scratched his left knee with a puzzle 
piece.  

Matthew sat on the opposite side of the table.  "The completion 
of a large puzzle takes a lot of intelligence, Ian.  you have an 
excellent attention span."

The little boy gasped audibly, flattered: he had never know positive 
reinforcement.  He watched the man search the puzzle then pointed, the 
man placing the piece beside the child's tiny, guiding finger.

"Good boy."

Ian felt butterflies take flight in his tummy.  He studied the man's bent 
head and tousled hair, which had a wave he'd never noticed before.  
Behind the man, the fire crackled and snapped, glazing the man's form in 
warm colors.  Mr. Way looked...perfect.  It seemed Ian had always lived 
with the man, that Mr. Way was his real father and "Mr. O'Donnell" an 
imposter.  The boy felt he'd been rescued from a nightmare of mistaken 
identity.  

The house creaked against the wind.  Ian craned his neck back, dainty 
chin shinig, the willowy groove of his throat delicate and pure, and 
stared up at the ceiling.  He imagined millions of downy snowflakes 
falling in the dark, covering the house where he and his friend played 
safe and alone.  Ian sighed deeply at turned his gaze on the man, filled 
with the sweetness of purest love.  Love he'd somehow always known he 
could give to a man.

The small boy stood -- miniature erection bulging in the plush, dandy, 
velour shorts -- and sat in the man's lap, arranging himself Indian-style 
once more.  The boy's thin, bare legs were on top of and framed by the man's.

"Baby?" Matthew asked, surprised and pleased.

Ian grinned as he pulled the man's arms around him for a hug, rubbing the 
powerful muscles.  He inhaled the man's cologne, let his head fall back 
on the man's shoulder.  "Can I call you 'daddy' sometimes?  Like to 
pretend?"  A child, Ian behaved according to mood, too innocent and 
sincere to worry how he expressed his affections.  

Matthew groaned softly and lowered his face beside the boy's.  Ian 
grinned and nuzzled his downy cheek against the man's.

"I'd love for you to call me daddy," Matthew said huskily, dropping his 
large hands onto the child's creamy inner thighs and kneading gently.  
Man and boy looked like father and son.

Ian looked down and watched his pee-pee jump among the green folds of his 
crotch-tight shorts.  He'd wet his pants hours earlier in an almost 
painful, bewildering orgasm which had been much more mysterious than the 
others.  

"Mr. Way?  How come I keep wetting my pants?" 

Matthew shrugged, cheek to cheek with the little prince.  "A better 
question is why you wet your pants so easily."

"What do you mean?"  Ian ran his fingers over his shorts -- the magical 
shorts -- but did not touch his erection, not knowing how to properly 
masturbate.

"When a pee-pee is happy it ejaculates," said the man, not wanting to rob 
the boy of his childish innocence, thoughtfully gifting the boy with 
these tender memories which he'd enjoy someday as a man.

"Happy pee-pees," the boy breathed, nodding.  He *did* feel happy.  His 
heart beat faster and faster, pee-pee throbbing like during the 
spankings.  Spankings....  Ian blinked with a vivid memory of lying face 
down in bed, that "other" mean man's hands or belt pounding onto his 
bucking bottom, his pee-pee throbbing ever stronger with each slap, his 
face gummy with tears and head whipping side to side on the pillow.

"You won't ever hurt me, will you?" Ian asked suddenly.

"What?!"

"Daddy's don't always spank their sons, do they?"

The big man said nothing, merely gripped the boy's narrow thighs tighter, 
fingers sinking into the moist, white flesh.

"Do they?" Ian asked again, voice high and unsure.  He couldn't imagine 
nice Mr. Way spanking him, yet couldn't imagine not experiencing the 
strange thrill of being spanked.  The 11 year old, 6th grade schoolboy 
had discovered the joy of sexual spankings in the midst of the most 
hateful abuse, even though such discoveries are more often made during 
the common and more reasonable acts of parental discipline.

"I will never spank you to be mean," the man swore soulfully.

Ian smiled with reassurance.  "Daddy," he said experimentally, then again 
with conviction, "My daddy."

In comfortable silence, man and boy worked to finish the puzzle.  

"I never knew about legs and stuff," Ian said after a time.  "It's not 
the same in long pants, is it?"

"Not for little boys.  And you will never wear long pants with me, Ian.  
Never.  I promise that, too."

The frail boy, sitting in the man's lap, gazed down at his clothes and 
knew that he would grow up in short pants suits.  He looked like a 
spoiled boy.  A sissy boy.  A slow smile spread across Ian's face.  He 
felt pretty, he felt attractive for the first time in his life.

Then, together, man and boy set the final puzzle piece in place, as if 
setting the final piece in the puzzle of their relationship.

(break)				*******

Matthew walked to the sliding glass doors and peered out into the backyard.
where the child was playing.

Ian scampered about, dressed in his tan camel-haired coat and tan beret.  
The December night was clear, a full moon glowing in a cloudless sky.  
The snowy yard was as phosphorescent as sea-foam, making a mystic, 
fantasy land.  Ian was turning in a circle in the center of the yard, 
arms spread wide and head thrown back, staring at the moon in a ritual of 
exhuberant, boyish celebration.  Precious and pampered, the boy looked 
like a force of nature, an elemental creature in tune with the starry sky 
and the world turning beneath his feet.

Matthew placed his hand on the door hand and paused, not wanting to break 
the moment.

Ian turned, peals of laughter and plumes of vapor rising from his baby 
mouth.  The child's tiny knees bent, slender thighs naked and luminescent 
with moonbeams, caressed by cold winds and ancient, glittering 
starlight.  The tan coat hung low enough to cover his pants and was 
reminescent of a dress.  And the December night opened around the boy, 
expanding endlessly around him as he twirled and twirled, the air 
deepening in hue, surrounding the little prince in majestic, royal blue.

(break) 			*******

Late afternoon.

Ian ambled across the snowy yard, skinny arms held out for balance, 
stepping through the deep snow by bending his knees high.  The boy's 
narrow thighs alternately flashed with slivers of sunshine.  He walked to 
the edge of the pool and paused, adjusted his beret, and remembered the 
summer days.  Swimming.  Barbeques.  Impossible happiness.  He remembered 
the man surprising him with the tiny blue swim trunks and calling him 
over to rub him down with sunblock.  It had been so wonderful to let the 
man touch him all over for the first time, knowing the man really cared 
about him.

Ian squatted with the sudden, jerky movement of a little boy and packed a 
snowball, his little green pants gathering tight in his crotch.  Ian 
stood, took aim, and threw with his left arm, grunting.  The snowball hit 
and exploded in a burst of powder against the trunk of a large oak tree.  

"Hooray!"

Ian ran toward the tree, long legs straining -- healthy little legs -- 
almost toppling forward and laughing and pinwheeling his arms.  His 
cheeks were apple-red.

Beneath the oak, Ian sprang and caught the lowest branch, kicking wildly 
and watching his green leather shoes pedal above the snow.  The tan coat 
pulled up above the boy's short pants.  His shirt pulled up, too, wedging 
his green velor pants in his crotch and the crack of his bony bottom.  
The boy's pumping legs swung like the clappers in a bell, the tan coat 
billowing wide.

Strong, cold wind washed over Ian's legs and made them tingle.  His 
pee-pee grew hard.  Another gust of wind left the boy moaning in 
pleasure: it was such a thrill to be wearing shorts outside in the 
winter.  That had seemed so weird at first but the man had been right 
about that, too.  Ian's bare legs felt delicious.

The boy jackknifed, knees on either side of his face, little green pants 
lik velour underwear.  He stared at his thighs and tried to understand 
why the man liked them so much, and why he was starting to like them, 
too.  But there were no answers, and the boy straightened his legs, 
preparing to jump down.

"Oh!"

A powerful flood of sensation racked ian's thin frame.  He dropped his 
chin to his chest and dangled limply, staring at his crotch.  His pee-pee 
was hard and jumping.  Really jumping.  Intrigued, experimenting, the boy 
jackknifed once more and kicked his legs down hard, knees locking.

A cascade of pleasure knocked the breath from the boy.  "It's my pants!" 
he cried, making a connection, and he gazed about the snowy yard as 
proudly as if he'd just answered a question in school.  His blue eyes 
were laser-bright.

Then, fascinated, discovering masturbaton in the most natural way, the 
little boy began to quickly draw his legs up and down, stimulating 
himself.  He twisted left to right, held his legs together, then apart, 
staring at his pants.  The dressy, sissy pants.  The little pants were 
plastered in his crotch and bottom and slid up and down his thighs as he 
kicked.  They were bright green, made of a funny fabric the boy did not 
recognize, and wre incredibly soft against his skin.

"He's so nice!" the child peeped, knowing that the man bought the shorts 
with his comfort in mind.  Ian thrust his tiny ass out far and back, 
spread his baby-smooth legs grasshopper-wide, and froze in a half-crouch, 
shaking with unreal pleasure.  The shorts caught the tip of the boy's 
penis and pulled it down.

"Oh!  Oh!" the boy whined in wonderment.  "I thought only Mr. Way 
could...!  ungh!  It's my pants!"

"Mmmmm!" the boy moaned, licking his lips, head snapping back and forth.  
Ian was instinctively trying to kiss himself, to maximize his pleasure.  
He hairless groin almost sang with vibrations.

"If -- my -- pants -- weren't so -- short -- " Ian sputtered, dizzy, 
"they wouldn't -- catch -- my -- pee-pee!  Ah!"

An intense wave of ecstasy made the boy jerk and lose his grip.  He 
released the branch, dropped to his feet, knees wobbly, then sprang up 
again, pumping with renewed vigor.  Ian was charging fast.  He watched 
his pee-pee appear and disappear in the bright green folds of his shorts 
and thought of how he'd have to wear shorts all the time.

The masturbating child's rapid breaths floated from his mouth and up into 
the clear blue sky.  Unnoticed, Matthew Way stood in the upstairs study 
window.  The man had set up a video camera on a tri-pod and was taking 
picture with a 35 mm zoom lens.

The limber tyke curled and brought his legs up between his arms, hooked 
his knees over the branch and let himself fall back, swinging like a 
pendulum.  The tan beret fell to the ground, and his tan camel-haired 
coat fell up around his chest.  His baby erection was practically ripping 
through the adorable velour shorts.

Ian strugled to calm himself, to understand, then curled up, the 
tree-bark pinching the backs of his knees in a sharp, pleasurable pain.  
The boy pulled at his pants and tried to straighten them, but gravity 
made them fall back down around his crotch.

"They're so short!" the boy marveled, tracing an outline on his thighs 
just below the hems of his pants.  Short pants!  *These* soft, sissy 
pants!  Almost like magic!  Ian shivered as he stroked his thighs, which 
were cold and smooth and ultra-sensitive from exposure.  The boy watched 
his fingers flutter over his thighs with a grace he did not know he 
possessed and suddenly, then and forever, discovered his own fetish for 
short shorts and a little boy's smooth legs.  His legs.

"Can't believe it!" the boy whined, curling tighter, cheeks puffing.  He 
felt his hot breaths on his skin, his red lips brush his knees.  He 
thought of the man heaving himself up out of the pool and onto the deck 
and walking toward him, the man's tan body running with water, the 
muscles in his legs shaking with each step and the black hairs there 
pressed flat and looking thicker.

"Oh!  He always wears short shorts, too!  Maybe...maybe I can touch them 
again!  And he'll touch mine!  And give me a...maybe...maybe he'll 
give me those M&M's and...and spank me...!"

Then, with a sudden, irresistable urge springing from his first baby sex 
fantasy, the slender child raised his tiny hands and spanked them down 
agaisnt the sides of his thighs.

CRACK!

"NNN!" Ian whined, lips nipping at his knees.  His slapped thighs stung 
and seemed to vibrate somewhere deep inside him.

WHAP!  SMACK!

The little boy was gone: the little boy knew nothing but the pleasure of 
spanking himself and masturbating.  He thought of M&M's and the rich 
taste of sugary chocolate filling his mouth, melting and coursing down 
his throat into his tummy.

SMACK!  BAM!

"UNGH!"  The little boy was gasping like a fish, jerking left to right, 
curled in a tight ball and hanging from the tree like a unique piece of 
fruit.  He clenched his teeth, eyes blurry with tears, sobbing with 
pavlovian imprintings of spankings and pain/pleasure, and took aim where 
the winter sun shined brightest on his white skin.  Using all his might, 
all his little boy strength, Ian pouned his tiny hands atop his thighs so 
hard the bones in his hands stung.

"OWIE! OW OW!"

The 11 year old boy's thighs shook.

The 11 year old boy began to quiver like a leaf, slowly laying back, 
skinny body trembling and back arched, arms reaching to the ground and 
tiny fists clenched, smooth, flushed face grimaced as if he was 
struggling to survive, black hair hanging down toward the ground..  His 
spanked thighs were pink.

"UGG!  AH!  OOO!"

Ejaculation took Ian by surprise.  He threw himself backwards in a 
single, mighty movement, his every muscle and nerve exploding, and 
creamed and creamed and creamed.  His pee-pee pulsed and throbbed, and a 
siren, soprano song of child sex plesure tore from his moist, red mouth.  
The cumming boy fell from the tree and did a half somersault, landing 
face down in the snow with a loud, squishy "plop!"  His short-panted ass 
bobbed up and down, the flat back sof his thighs shining.

The child's whimpers of orgasmic pleasure chimed in the cold afternoon.  
Three minutes had passed.

Ian caught his breath and rolled onto his back, leisurely crossing his 
left ankle over his right.  His knee caps stood out, and the crotch of 
his shorts was stained with a dark cirlce, his erection bulging.  The 
child gazed at the sky, his face smooth and dreamy.  The snow beneath his 
body was quite cold and stimulating, and the contrast to the hot glob in 
his pants was very interesting.

Ian thought about angels.  Everyone was supposed to have a guardian 
angel, and the boy felt as if he was being watched over and protected 
just then.  He spread his arms and legs to make an angel in the snow, the 
downy white powder curling over his naked legs as they scissored open and 
closed.  The sky was so blue....  

Ian stood and stared down at the snow angel, the sweeping wings and gown, 
and felt very proud.  For the sculpture and for the way he had pleasured 
himself.  The boy instinctively knew that he had done something very, 
very private, and wondered if he should tell the man about it.  He 
reached down and brushed the snow from his cold, cold pinked thighs, 
lifted the hem of his coat and watched the bump in his pants shrink.  It 
was all so interesting.  He bent down and retrived his beret, set it on 
his head at a jaunty angle, then spanked his thighs once more.  Giggled.

"Ian!"

The little boy jumped straight up in the air.  He spun around, saw Mr. 
Way stepping out from the glass doors, smiling and lifting a camera.

Startled from his reverie and post-masturbatory self-reflection, Ian ran 
and jumped and caught the tree branch once more, his back to the man.  He 
drew his knees up and closed his eyes, embarassed to see the man just 
now.  Something *important* and *private* had just happened and he wasn't 
sure if it was a secret.  Besides, he'd wet his pants!  Again!  And Ian 
*liked* the velour short pants *so much* he wanted to wear them again and 
again but if the stain didn't come out maybe the man would take them away?

Matthew strode toward the hanging boy, snapping pictures.  He hung the 
camera around his neck, patted Ian's bony bottom, and let his thick 
fingers scramble along the silky sides of Ian's bent legs.

"Got home early.  Surprised?" the man asked, leaning in close, full lips 
brushig the tiny, pink shell of Ian's left ear.  Ian went tight as a spring.

"Y-yeah."

"Your legs are so cold!" the man purred, sighing with pleasure.  He 
stroked the child's thighs quickly, making a faint rasp.  "Feels nice!  
Your skin is...so smooth and white!"

Ian straightened his legs so the man could touch them more easily.  He 
gave his legs to the man, hoping to distract him.  "I know you like my 
legs so it's O.K. if you want to touch them," the boy warbled nervously, 
eyes still squeezed shut.  "You can touch my legs, Mr. Way."

"Oh, thank you!" Matthew sighed into the boy's ear, making Ian hunch his 
shoulders, the man's breath hot and tickly.

There, in a snowy suburban yard rimmed by the edge of a forest preserve, 
a large man stood behind a little boy who hung from a tree branch, 
stroking and stroke the boy's limp, dangling legs.  The littl boy had just 
finished masturbating himself.

"Y-you can touch my legs as long as you want," said the child, 
sacrificing himself.

"Could touch your legs all day, Ian.  How about that?"

"Sure," the boy chirped encouragingly.  "Long as you want."

"You're so nice."

The child breathed through his mouth, the man's hands warming his legs.  
After several minutes the boy's arms grew tired but he redoubled his 
efforts, gripping the branch tighter.  The man was really into his legs 
now and Ian didn't want to interrupt him.

When Matthew stepped around to stand in front of the boy, Ian peeked out 
shyly from under his bangs.  Ian found himself nose to nose with the man, 
his feet at the man's knees.

"What's that smell?" the man asked, sniffing the air.

Ian jerked, legs tensing in the man's grip.  He'd forgotten about the 
smell!  Ian followed the man's gaze down to the crotch of his stained, 
emerald green shorts and winced.

"I - I - I wet my pants," he confessed in a squeak.

"Yes you did!" Matthew answered in baby-talk.  "Wet your little pants a 
whole lot!  I watched you play."

"You saw me?!" Ian yelped, the wind blowing his bangs around his forehead.

"Yep!" Matthew smiled merrily, brown eyes burning into the boy's.  "It 
looked like you had a lot of fun!  You must really like your prince pants!"

Ian wriggled, bony pelvis twisting, narrow thighs slipping in the man's 
grip.  The other times had been accidents...this time he'd *tried* to...and 
he'd *spanked* himself!  And the man saw!  Ian opened his mouth to explain.

"Eskimo kiss!" sang Matthew, rubbing his nose against the boy's.  "Now, 
butterfly!"

The little boy whimpered as the man fluttered his lashes over his 
cheeks.  Their faces were so close!  Ian felt trapped, felt a strange 
twinge, and not knowing what else to do, leaned in and tickled the man's 
cheeks with his own, long lashes, blinking rapidly.

"My baby!" Matthew called, squirming with delight.

"I'm not a baby."

Matthew laughed.  "Let yourself be young, Ian!  You're just a little 
boy!  And you don't have to be alone anymore.  You don't have to carry 
the pain of your father in secret anymore.  I'm here.  I love you."

Ian swooned at the word 'love.'  He wrapped his thin, lovely legs around 
the man's waist, clamping down hard.  Watched the man stroke them eagerly.

"I know you like my legs because...because you're gay," peeped the child, 
not really understanding what the word 'gay' meant.  But he knew about 
love, had hoped for love.  "But you don't...really love me?"

The little boy watched the tall man take a deep breath and tilt his face 
up to the sky, then down to look at him.  The man looked so happy.

"Your eyes are so blue.  Eyes are the windows to the soul, Ian."

The little boy said nothing, staring into the man's eyes.  Hypnotized.  
The man was so smart, and Ian saw love for him in the man's whole being.  
In the man's soul.

"I can see love in your eyes, too, Ian.  I know you need a daddy."

Matthew's large hands slid up Ian's thighs to where the tiny, cummy pants 
gathered tight around the child's hips.  Nuzzled his face against the 
boy's neck.  Ian threw glances around the yard, eyes flashing.  The man 
had never acted so...funny!  Matthew squeezed the child's thighs and shook 
them so that Ian bounced gently.  

"May I take your picture?"  

"I don't...my pee-pee...."

"Yes?" The man unwrapped the boy's long legs and let them sway.

"But my pants are wet!"

"And it's cute."

Ian blinked in surprise.  "You don't care that I wet my pants?!" he squawked.

"Yes, I do."  The boy's jaw dropped, but the man quickly said, "I care 
because I like when you wet your pants.  I know it feels good and I want 
to give you such...pleasure."

"Pleasure?"  

The stunned boy watched the man step back, bring the camera to bear, and 
take pictures.  Slowly, the boy felt an avalanche of joy, wistful face 
breaking into a huge, dimple smile.  With the man's encouragement he 
began to laugh and run in place, twist left to right, showing off.  Ian's 
hairless white legs flashed and flashed and he was suddenly elated that 
they were naked and that his pants were so short.  Elated that he could 
play in them and do to himself what he did today again and again.

Then Matthew walked toward the skinny, giggling boy ad draped him over 
his right shoulder in a fireman's carry, heading toward the house.

Perched on the man's shoulder, Ian braced his hands against the man's 
back and felt the powerful muscle.  A child, Ian's doubts were subsumed 
under the man's playfulness, and he enjoyed the ride and the fun 
perspective that being so high up gave him.  Entering the sliding glass 
doors, Ian stared back at the snow angel.

The angel in the snow was Mr. Way.

Flushed with love, the child searched the man's back.  There, in the 
muscles flexing beneath his hands, the only thing the man was missing 
were wings.

(break)				*******

"Stomp your feet, Ian."

The little boy stood on the patio and did as he was told, stomping and 
stomping his tan nylon snow boots -- Matthew bought more articles for the 
boy on a daily basis.  Then Matthew ushered the child inside, Ian 
entering in a gust of refreshing wind.  Ian was frisky and chatty 
from play, and he jabbered happily as the man helped him out of his coat
and beret, knelt to remove his boots.

"Oh, Ian!  You're skin is like ice!" the man clucked, having set the 
boots aside and gripping the boy's legs.

"Well, yeah! It's cold!" Ian declared, accepting the man's attentions 
naturally.

Matthew guided Ian over by the fire, roaring with heat and light.  Ian   
scampered after, humming, then plopped down with the limber, easy 
movement common to small boys, sat Indian-style and rubbed his knees.

"I was going to make a snow man but it got colder!  Maybe we can make one 
tomorrow!?"

The man handed the boy a mug of cocoa, the boy's eyes widening with 
satisfaction.  He cradled the pewter mug with his dainty hands, blew on 
the hot liquid, then sipped gingerly.  His cheeks were as red as apples.  The 
December air left the boy smelling clean and fresh.  Matthew knelt before Ian, 
smiling, and as the boy sipped again the man could not help but reach out and 
tossle the boy's hair.  

"Mmmm!  It's got marshmallows, too!"

"You're really cold," Matthew clucked again, large hands sweeping over 
the boy's crossed, silky thighs.  The boy's legs were ultra-smooth, the 
skin tighter from the cold and flushed strawberries-and-cream from the 
firelight.  "Maybe we should dunk you in a hot bath."

"A bath?!" Ian whined, making a pained expression.  

"If you get sick...."

"I won't!  Please?"

"Just drink your cocoa," the man said, and the little boy nodded quickly, 
taking a large gulp.  "Here."  Matthew gripped the boy's ankles and 
straightened his legs, placing Ian's green stockinged feet on his lap and 
rubbing them.  "My daddy used to rub my feet when I came in from the cold."

Ian nodded.  He watched the big man rub and rub his feet, strongly but 
nicely, massaging and creating friction.  The man's hands were much 
bigger than the boy's tiny feet, squeezing the little toes, following the 
fine arches with his thumbs.  The fire was warm on the boy's bare legs, 
looking long and slender and laid side by side.  The cocoa was warm, too, 
trickling down his throat and into his tummy.  The only sounds were the 
boys appreciative swallows and the crackling logs, differing waves of 
light casting the rec room in a soothing glow, the Christmas tree 
blinking and shimmering with its icicles and colored bulbs.

"Mmmm.  Ngh."  

Ian finished his drink and set the mug on the coffee table, set his hands 
behind his back and leaned his weight on his arms.  He closed his eyes 
and bit his lower lip: the foot massage was delicious.  The little boy 
looked impossibly lovely in his emerald green short pants suit.

"You're really nice.  You should be a teacher."

"My pleasure.  Your pleasure," the man sighed, bending forward to kiss 
the child's feet.  Ian giggled, opened his eyes and flashed a dazzling 
smile.  Matthew placed Ian's feet between his own thighs and clamped 
them together, then began stroking the boy's shins and calves.  "How 
come you don't have kids of your own?"

"I...don't like women," Matthew said softly, head down, hands wandering 
up to the boy's narrow thighs.  Fingers sinking into the moist, young flesh.

"Oh.  I'm sorry.  I didn't...."  Ian felt a pang of guilt: he knew the 
man was gay!  Why'd he ask that dumb question?  The child watched the 
adult's hands move up to his shorts, tug them gently.

"Ian?  I've been meaning to ask you all day."  Matthew's voice was 
husky.  "Will you show me what you did in the tree?"

"The tree?!"  Ian blinked, stiffened.  "But I just got inside!"

"No, no, silly.  I mean in here.  With me."

The little boy sat up, scratched his head, and after gazing around 
looked over his left shoulder at the Christmas tree.  "But...there's no 
where to hang on."

"Yes.  There is.  Do you want to?"  The man's thick fingers were 
trembling now, exploring the soft folds of the boy's velour shorts.  
"You don't have to."

Ian gazed down at his pants, at the man's hands.  His pants....  "You 
want me to wet my pants?" the boy asked quizzically, penis springing 
erect.  "You don't...won't get mad?"

"We can just wash them, Ian."

"I can wash them, Mr. Way.  I know how," the boy said, knowing only 
constant apologies, assuming everything he did was wrong and that he'd be 
scolded.  

"I'm sure you do," Matthew said seriously, eyes filled with compassion as 
he realized how self-reliant the boy was forced to be.  "But it's not a 
problem, and I'd really like to watch you make yourself feel good.  You 
looked like you had such a good time in that tree."

Boy and man locked eyes.  A balloon of tension swelled between them.  The 
fire leapt, giving up a perfume of good wood.  The man gripped the little 
boy's bony hips, thumbs pressing into the boy's abdomen.  The boy felt 
the pressure and his still-as-yet incomprehensible sexual desires swell.

"Where?" Ian whispered.

Matthew stood, gripped the skinny boy under his arms and hoisted him up.  
Ian wriggled against the strong man, startled.

"Do it against me."

"Wha?"  The little boy pushed against the man's striated pectorals.

"Don't think!  Just move!  Bend your little leggies.  Quick.  Up and down."

"My 'leggies?'" Ian gasped, arching back.  Staring into the man's eyes, 
which blazed now with a magnetic intensity.

"Yes.  Your 'leggies,'" Matthew chuckled, holding the wiry boy, then 
dropping his hands to cup the child's tiny bottom.  "Your legs are so 
thin I'm calling them 'leggies' because it's a diminutive form of 
language.  An affectionate espression."

The boy's legs were already twitching, moving up and down.  His shorts 
were tight against his crotch and buttom, and his pee-pee was throbbing 
again.  "Is it...like 'the leg game?'" Ian asked, remembering the man's 
phrase from the night before.  "Is it four play?"

"Yes."

"What's the number four mean?" 

The big man threw his head back and laughed and laughed.  "I think it 
means the length of your pee-pee," he roared.  "But, no, I don't think 
it's that long, either."

Ian stared at his friend, not understanding.  But his pee-pee *was* very 
hard, pushing against the man's washboard stomach, so the boy began to 
draw his legs up and down around the man.  Pumping fast and furious.

Matthew let the boy slide down so that they were crotch to crotch, 
hard-on to hard-on.  Ian felt the man's big pee-pee against his own and 
whimpered, pumping his legs so hard his skinny body jerked.  The man was 
like a tree, tall and solid.  

"What a good boy!" Matthew moaned, writhing.  "He likes wetting his 
little pants!"  Ian fisted the man's blue shirt and jerked his head back, 
screwing up his face with confusion and pleasure.  The man was talking so 
funny!  "He likes 'the leg game!'  We can play this all the time!"

Entirely sexually innocent and naive, Ian only registered the man's 
happy expression, the idea of playing their secret game, and the 
increasingly "tingly" feeling in his groin.  Gasping, he glanced down 
and watched his skinny white legs bumping the man's.  God!  Were the 
man's legs *really* that much bigger?  And the shorts...Ian loved what 
he'd learned about his shorts.  He wanted to wet them.

"Your pants pulled on your pee-pee earlier?  Like now?" Matthew whined, 
thrusting his crotch up into the boy's, hands palming the boy's flexing ass.

Ian was nothing if not limber.  He drew up his knees, clamped his feet 
around the man's hips and thrust his baby-ass back, legs spread wide.  
Then he felt it happen.  "See?  See how my pants get real tight?"

"Yes?" the man moaned, effortlessly supporting the boy's feathery weight.

"They like...grip around my pee-pee and pull it down!  See?  OH!"

Ian convulsed and tugged the man's shirt, legs kicking down.

"When you straighten your legs your pants pull you pee-pee?" 

"Yeah!  Yeah!  Like this!  OH!"  Ian whined, kicking his legs down once 
more, head snapping back with pleasure.  Then, lost in building orgasm, 
so easily brought to orgasm, the child masturbated in earnest, driving 
with his legs, wanting the man's approval, not knowing he was masturbating.
The child's fancy, dressy, soft velour short pants were wedged in the 
crack of his ass, much shorter than his long green stockings.  His long, 
silky legs flashed and flashed, dappled with firelight.

"Mr. Way!  Ungh!  If I keep doing this I'm gonna...I'm gonna!" Ian 
whined, voice high and shrill.

"Then do it!"

The little boy's face was a mask of tension.  He gripped the man's shirt 
and swung left to right, skinny arms shaking.  11 year old body tight as 
a spring with approaching ejaculation.

He wants me to do this! the boy thought wondrously.  This thing that 
feels so good!  Ian couldn't stop now even if the man asked him to, and 
the thought of the man trying to push him away made Ian masturbate 
harder.  He kicked and kicked.

"My pee-pee!" the boy yelled.  "My pee-pee's happy!"

"Oh, good boy!"

"NGH!  AND YOU DON'T THINK I'M BAD!?  HUH?!" Ian squealed, hairless legs 
driving like a grasshopper's.

"How could I?!" Matthew yelled back, fingers curling under the hems of 
Ian's shorts, sinking into the boy's marbelized buttocks.  "If it feels 
this good it can't be wrong!"

Ian whined anew.  He was enthralled in his pubescent eruption, everything 
falling away except the volcanic pressure in his balls.  He thought that 
touching legs and wearing short shorts and making your pee-pee happy was 
something his fake, mean "daddy" should have taught him but never did.  
He thought all fathers and sons played "the leg game."

The little prince gripped the man's shirt and humped in a frenzy.
"I LIKE WHAT THESE PANTS DO!"  Tears filled his eyes, tears of 
frustration and ecstasy, and he stared into the face of the nicest man 
he'd ever known.  Into the face of the man who gave him the *neat*, 
dressy, sissy short pants that made his pee-pee happy.  The man who gave 
him a Christmas tree and promised to be his new daddy.

Ian Brendan O'Donnell stared into the face of Matthew Way as if into the 
face of his god.  Trembling before his maker.  Breathless.

Matthew's eyes bulged, teeth clenched, jaw muscles working.  He lifted 
his right hand and spanked a thundering blow atop the child's miniature 
bottom.

WWHHAAAMMM!!!

"UUUUGGH!!!!"  Ian jerked as if electrified, an explosion of 
nerve-sparkles swirling through his body.  "MR. WAY!  MR. WAY!" he prayed 
hoarsely.

Then the limber little boy was there.  He convulsed violently and 
contorted his skinny body, bending backwards and in half, forming an 
impossible circle.  He drove his fists into the man's chest and 
straightened his arms, leaning back.  Ian's tiny, green stockinged feet 
were curved and pressed against the back of his head.  The child's eyes 
were squeezed shut, white teeth clenched, tendons in his neck forming a 
web and his flushed face twisted with baby-ecstasy.

"OH OH OH OHOHHOO!"

The little boy's straining white thighs shined brilliantly.  The little 
boy was bent backwards so fat that his crotch pulled away from the man's, 
only the tips of their erections touching.  And the boy's tiny cock was 
pulsing, pulsing, releasing the fifth creamy ejaculation of his life.
Masturbating himself for the third time in his life.

The man stared open-mouthed at the child.

Ian came and came, swaing left to right, pulling at the man's shirt and 
hanging on for dear life.  Head jerking and black hair fluttering around 
his green stockinged feet.

"AH!  OH OH AH!" went the boy's soprano, siren song.  He didn't know 
where he was as he filled his tiny short pants with a sweet, hot ocean of 
little boy sperm.

Unnoticed, the video camera in the corner recorded everything.

(break)				*******

"I need pajamas," said Ian.

Man and boy were undressing the the bedroom, unbuttoning their shts and 
tugging them free of their pants.

"You don't want to sleep in your underwear like me?" Matthew asked, 
pulling off his white undershirt.

"Uh uh.  I'm used to wearing shorts to bed," said Ian, pulling off his 
own undershirt.  The child instinctively imitated the man, removing his 
clothing the in same order.  When Matthew began to unbuckle his belt and 
pull down his pants, Ian unbuckled his belt and pulled down his pants, too.

"You went for the briefs," said Matthew, appraising the child.

Ian threw up his hands comically.  "I'm used to this kind of underwear.  
Boxers feel real loose."  

The man laughed, setting his hands on his hips.  The man's and boy's 
erections bulged strongly in their tight, white briefs.  "You don't have 
that much to feel loose about."

Ian tilted his head to one side, face quizzical but smiling.  What did 
Mr. Way mean?  But the man was smiling, so Ian smiled, too.  Standing in 
his soiled, tiny white underpants before the man, the skinny,  hairless child 
felt no sense of shame or discomfort.  He merely clasped his hands and 
stretched his arms above his head, yawning hugely, twisting his hips.  
The child looked supple and sweet, tiny cock like a knuckle in the 
stretched white cotton.

In unison, man and boy sat side by side on the edge of the bed and pulled 
off their socks.  

"How about a bedtime story?" 

"Sure!"  Matthew stood and crossed over to a bookshelf against the wall.
"I need pajamas," Ian chirped.

"I'll buy you some.  A short pants set," said Matthew, searching for a book.
Ian giggled and covered his mouth.  The big, tanned man turned around.  
"What?" Matthew asked.

"Like you're gonna buy my long pants!" the child sang, falling back on 
the bed and kicking his feet.

"Under the covers, goofy!"  Book in hand, Matthew climbed into bed.  Man 
and boy slipped under the covers, propping up the pillows so they could 
sit agains the headboard.  Sitting on the man's left, Ian rest his face 
on the man's hairy chest, throwing hs skinny left arm around the man's 
stomach.  In turn, Matthew ran his left hand up and down the boy's bone 
side.  Holding the book in his right hand, Matthew began to read from 
"Oliver Twist."  The man had been close to orgasm but had not ejaculated 
along with the child downstairs yet was content nonetheless, as any 
adult male would surely be, the priviledge of holding a delirously happy, 
masturbating little boy in his arms more than enough.  And the innocent 
child did not realize that the man had been denied orgasm, did not even 
realize the man *could* orgasm.

Ian held the man, loving the deep, rumbling voice resonating in the man's 
barrel chest as he read.  The boy was calmed, the day a full one, and 
tired again without knowing why he felt drained.  Within a few minutes 
the little boy began to blink sleepily, his every basic human need met.

After a few pages, Matthew glanced down and discovered Ian fast asleep.  
He set the book on the nightstand, eased himself and the boy down, then 
clapped his hands to turn off the lights.  Smiling, the man stroked the 
sleeping child's soft, black hair.

(end chapter four.)

It's ready for posting, Mercury.  :-)  There are still some rough spots, 
but hey, this isn't nobel prize material.    


Yehh, but it's not bad, SBP, not bad at all...  Merc.


                                CHAPTER FIVE
                                 "Collage"

The next evening, Ian sat atop Matthew's lap in the jacuzzi.  Boy and man 
had changed into their matching blue swim trunks, the boy having wished 
that it was summer so they could swim in the pool.  Ian had been very 
uncomfortable about taking a bath with the man -- he knew that the other 
night had been an emergency -- but when Matthew explained that they 
wouldn't be naked and could pretend, Ian agreed.  They'd had a water 
fight and made a mess of the bathroom, and Ian had felt a special joy at 
messing up the place.  Now, they were relaxed, talking comfortably and at 
length about movies and sports and other items.

Man and boy spent an hour in the steaming waters, growing familiar with 
the touch of each other's bodies.

Ian felt an intimacy he had never known, a carefree friendship, loving 
the fact that he and the man did everything together.  The boy reached 
back and closed his hands around the man's neck, bent his knees, white 
thighs breaking the surface and streaming with water.

"We'll go to the beach next summer.  Blue shows your fair skin off so 
nicely," Matthew said, large, hairy hands caressing the boy's ultra-slick 
thighs.

Ian nodded.  "Blue is one of my favorite colors.  And it's different at 
the beach.  Lots of boys wear short shorts there."

"Uh huh."

Ian closed his eyes and let his head fall against the man's chest.  His 
black hair was wet and plastered to his fine skull, his ears like 
jug-handles, and the look took years of the boy: he could have been nine.
Ian felt the man's hands move over his legs and shuddered with pleasure.  
"That feels really great."

"You're a prince, Ian.  A prince of a boy."

"And you're a king, right?"

"I'll be your king."

The big man and the little boy spoke softly, seriously, then broke into 
laughter at the same time.  

(break)                         *******

Ian ambled into the kitchen, toweling his hair dry.  He wore a 
chocolate-brown silk short pants pajama set, matching stockings pushed 
down around his ankles, and brown slippers.  It was his latest gift: 
Matthew had stepped from the jacuzzi and changed first, leaving the 
pajams for the boy to discover on the bed.  

Matthew stood next to the blue kitchen island, pouring two glasses of 
milk and scraping a freshly baked batch of "Gingerbread Boy" cookies from 
a cookie sheet.  The man wore silk bikini briefs in a leopard-skin pattern.

"Are they done?" Ian asked from under the towel, drying his hair with 
such vigor the white towel flapped.  The cookies had baked while they'd 
bathed, man and boy preparing them beforehand.  Ian had never baked 
before and had had a wonderful time making the batter and pressing out 
the cookies, decorating them with icing.

"Take a look."

The little boy draped the towel over his shoulders and smiled at the 
cookies, watching the man use a spatula to set them in a cookie jar.  The 
cookies were "Gingerbread Boys" and not "Gingerbread Men" because they 
were decorated as if wearing short pants suits such as Ian had to wear.

"Neat," said Ian, grinning proudly.  He looked squeaky-clean.  The boy 
touched the man's arm.  "Thanks for buying me pajamas."

"Anytime.  Comfortable?"

"Yeah!"  The boy pulled at his top, fascinated by the shimmering, airy 
fabric.  "It's real slippery.  What is it?"

"Silk.  See?"  Matthew turned and gestured at his briefs.

"Hey!  Cool!"  Ian's blue eyes widened to see the leopard-skin pattern.  
"Like Tarzan!  AAA -- AAARRAAHHH!" the child yodeled, imitating the 
jungle lord's famous cry.

The big man laughed and made a muscle pose, beat his fists against his 
rippling chest.  Then he gripped the skinny boy by the armpits and sat 
him on the island counter, handing him a cookie and a glass of milk.

"You want a pair like this, baby?"

"Yeah!" Ian exclaimed, staring at the man's briefs and nodding eagerly, 
tousled hair spiked and standing up.  "I can be 'Boy' and we can play 
Tarzan!"  The child's mind raced with the idea.  He was so comfortable 
with the man that he did not consider the possibility that the man 
wouldn't want to play, and he had grown used to the affetionate term, 
'baby.'  "What about, like, Batman and Spiderman underwear, too?"

"Anthing, Ian.  Anything you want."

The little boy bit into the warm cookie.  "Mmmmm!" he exclaimed, cheeks 
bunching as he chewed.  "Good!"

"Food always tastes better when you prepare it yourself."  Matthew took 
in the sight of the boy's slender thighs, spread out a bit as they hung 
over the counter's edge, then closed his hands on them.  The child did 
not notice, enjoying his cookie.  The man slid his hands up the boy's 
creamy thighs and pushed the silk, chocolate shorts up around his hips.

Ian gazed into the man's eyes and drank from his glass, leaving a 
milk-moustache around his smooth upper lip.  The man's hands and the 
sweet taste of the cookie sent shivers through his body.

"Do, like, fathers sit around touching their son's legs all the time?" he 
asked without suspicion, merely curious.

"It doesn't matter what they do.  It's what *we* do that counts."

"But isn't it gay?"

"Does that matter?"

The little boy chewed thoughtfully, then shrugged.  "No.  And look!"  He 
childishly held his cookie in the man's face.  "They're all wearing 
shorts like me!"

Matthew took an exagerated bite of the Gingerbread Boy's legs and chomped 
loudly, making Ian laugh.  "Mmmmm!  His legs are yummy, but I bet yours 
taste sweeter.'

"Aw, Mr. Way!" Ian whined playfully, embarrassed.  He kicked his feet, 
bony kneecaps moving under his shiny white skin.

"And you're wearing chocolate, too.  A *real* Gingerbread Boy."

"Cut it out!" the boy giggled, blushing deeply.  He felt pretty and cute 
and shy, the man fussing over his legs, and reached into the jar for 
another cookie.

"So.  You really like your pajamas?"  Matthew now rubbed the child's bony 
chest and back.

"Very much," the boy said with deep honesty.  "I didn't feel right 
sleeping in my underwear."

"The boxers are as long as your shorts."

"But they're *underwear*," chirped Ian, wriggling under the man's 
caress.  "You're hands are really big."  The boy set his glass down and 
pulled at the man's thick fingers, bending them experimentally.  The 
child's hands were a striking contrast to the man's, so frail and thin.

"Are you comfortable with me sleeping in my underwear?"

"I guess.  It's how you sleep."

"I just want you to feel comfortable," the man sighed, watching the child 
take up his glass again and drink, his prominent adam's apple travelling 
up and down his throat.  Ian drank with loud gulps, and it was surprising 
that the skinny boy had the space in his tummy to drain the entire glass.

Ian sensed the man watching him, set the glass down, and smiled broadly, 
cheeks dimple, milk-moustache so thick on his lip it was almost fuzzy.
"What are you looking at?" he asked openly.

"At one terrific little kid."  Ian blushed again, and smiling and 
returning the man's gaze, took a bite of his cookie.

(break)                         *******

Ian lay on his back in the center of the bed, humming.  His legs were up 
in the air and he held his feet, watching his toes wriggle in the ceiling 
mirror.  He was waiting patiently for the man, who had been in the 
bathroom for a very long time.  Then Matthew returned finally, walking 
loosely and humming, too.  The man walked toward the bed, swerved, moved 
to the video camera stored in the closet and brought it out, setting it 
on it's tri-pod on the left of the bed.

"What's the camera for?" Ian asked, turning his head to one side, long 
legs still in the air.  The silk shorts had slipped up around his crotch, 
and the shirt had tangled up around his chest just below his nipples.  
The boy's tummy was dramatically concave.

"I just like home movies," Matthew answered, turning the camera on, then 
climbing into bed.  He walked on his knees, approaching the boy from the 
rear.  Ian watched quizically, then squealed as the man hunkered over 
him, gripping his wrists and pinning his arms above his head.  Ian's feet 
pressed against the man's pectorals and he tried to kick, but he found 
himself doubled over, white knees on either side of his face.

Ian laughed and wriggled, and man and boy wrestled in gentle, playful 
inequality for several moments.  The child grunted and struggled, testing 
his strength against the man's, and was quickly exhausted.  He lay 
panting and smiling.

"Look at those dimples!" Matthew exclaimed adoringly.  The child 
squirmed, bony bottom against the man's washboard stomach.  Ian stretched 
his neck and managed to catch a glimpse in the mirror: all he could see 
of himself was the top of his head and his eyes peeking over the man's 
broad right shoulder.

"Tomorrow night is Christmas Eve," said Matthew.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah?!  That's it?  Yeah?" the man teased, gyrating his body so that the 
little boy gyrated, too.  "Christmas bores you?"

"No," Ian giggled.  The man was so fun!  

"Good!  You had me worried!  Traditionally, Christmas is when friends 
exchange presents."

The little boy stared into the man's smiling face...and his jaw dropped.  
He felt a crashing pang of guilt.  Matthew flinched at the boy's sudden 
change of manner and let him go, sitting back on his heels.

"What?  Did you...?"  Matthew's eyes dropped to the boy's crotch.  Ian 
was not erect.

Ian lay with his arms still outstretched above his head and lowered his 
legs around the man's waist, barely managing to cross his ankles.  The 
boy's smooth, white, narrow thighs rest atop the man's brown, muscular, 
hairy thighs, and seeing their legs touching, their crotches so close and 
the leopard underwear and the chocolate silk shorts, filled the boy with 
shame.    

"What's wrong?"  The man palmed the boy's knees.

"I didn't get...and you bought...me all this stuff," Ian sputtered.
"I don't have a present for you."

Matthew let go a huge sigh of relief.  He bent forward, rolled his head 
on the boy's chest, straightened.  "Oh, baby!  It's O.K.!"

Ian angrily tugged his pajama top down.  "I'm so stupid!"

"Shhhh!  No, you're not!  I didn't expect anything." Matthew said, 
gripping the boy's knees, then his thighs, tightly.  "Grown ups are 
supposed to give presents to children.  Not the other way around."

"Yes I am!" Ian pouted, thrusting out his lower lip.  

"You worry me, kid."  Then the handsome doctor smiled.  "You can give me 
something, Ian."

"I don't have anything.  You're rich and...and...what do you even want me 
around for?" said the child, feeling sorry for himself, spiralling down 
into his rabbit hole of low-self esteem and inadequacy.  The little boy had 
led a life of physical and verbal abuse, and though he was showing signs of 
healing he had been at the man's house only five days, whereas his abuse had 
lasted 11 years.
  
"You can help me wet my pants," the man said conversationally, large 
hands sliding up the boy's glossy thighs and pushing his pretty, silky 
shorts up to his hips, tracing an outline of the elastic leg-openings of 
the underpants beneath the shimmering fabric.

Ian blinked and jerked as if slapped.  "WET YOUR PANTS???!!!"

The man giggled and wagged his head side to side.  "Sure!  I have a 
pee-pee, don't I?"

Ian sat up, smooth face open with surprise.  "But you're a *grown up*!"  
Mr. Way wanted to *mess his pants?*  Weird!

"Well, I am now," Matthew snorted, "but I wasn't always.  Don't you think 
that when I was a little boy I learned how to make my pee-pee happy, too?"

"You did?!" the boy chirped in disbelief.

"You are so cute!" Matthew laughed, pinching the child's cheeks.  "Of 
course I did!  And I still do, or can!  Don't you think you'll grow up 
and still wet your pants when your older?  Do you think you'll ever want 
to stop feeling so good when your pee-pee is happy?"

For the first time, Ian projected his imagination into the future and 
imagined himself as big and strong a man as Mr. Way.  He imagined himself 
in short shorts like the man wore, then a huge grin spread across his 
face.  That's it!  *That's* why the man wore short shorts!  He knew!

"You'll really do that?" the boy sang, staring at the man's crotch and 
the neat leapoard underwear.

"If you'll help me.  It'll be a special present, a very special present 
for me.  I've never, you know, wet my pants with a little boy to help 
me.  You'll be the only boy to ever see that."

Ian's mind whirled.  What would the man wear?  What would they do?  Mr. 
Way couldn't hang on him like Ian had the night before.  "So...um...I'll 
touch your legs or something?"  The man nodded, tousled Ian's hair.  Ian 
set his hands on the man's thighs.  "Like this?"  Matthew nodded.  Ian 
imagined the big man wriggling and crying like Ian did, and then the 
little boy jerked his head with a powerful mental pictue.  "Am I gonna 
spank you?!" he squeaked.  "I don't...know if I can!"

Matthew laughed.  "Well, you don't have to do that.  Just wait and see.  
Sound good?"

The child tugged at several hairs on the man's thighs even as the man 
gently pinched the boy's hairless, white thighs where someday, not for 
many, many years, Ian would have hair of his own.

"Deal," the boy nodded.

"You drive a hard bargain."

Matthew crawled out of bed, turned off the video camera and the lights.  
Ian watched, saw the man climb into bed next to him and slip under 
the covers.  A moment passed.

"What is it?" Matthew asked.

Ian had an erection, was sexually aroused and did not understand 
his arousal, and felt a deep need for...he'd grown used to wetting 
his pants each night.

"Are you gonna touch my legs and stuff?" the boy asked almost 
forlornly, staring down at his hard-on and the shimmering, 
rippling chocolate silk pajama shorts.

"No."

"But...."  The boy stared at his friend, then dropped his head.  
"You're mad because I didn't buy you a present," he whispered.

"Oh, baby, no!" the man laughed, reaching out with his right arm, 
gripping the child's skinny left bicep, and effortlessly yanking 
the child down.  The child flopped and bounced against the firm 
mattress, looked at the man, saw only friendship, and quickly 
squirmed under the covers.  Man and boy turned as one into each 
other's embrace, writhing and printing against each other's 
bodies.  Matthew wrapped his trunk-like legs around the boy's 
right leg and Ian humped and thrust his leg between them, pressing 
his knee into the man's genitals.  

"They're so big," he marvelled, feeling the man's soft, squishy 
organs against his tiny little knee.

"And yours are so small," the man purred.

"Yeah."

Matthew began to stroke the boy's head, tucking hishair behind his 
ears, and the little boy mewed like a kitten and nuzzled his face 
into the man's chest.

Remembering the story of the Scout, Matthew took it up where he'd left off. 
Ian hugged Matthew tighter.  

The rain storm lasted through the night.  In the morning, the sun broke 
through the clouds and the brave young Scout climbed out from under the 
rock where he'd fallen asleep.  He searched for dry wood and grass to 
serve as tinder.  He made a fire by rubbing sticks, undressed and draped 
his uniform over a pole, holding it over the flames until it dried.  
Matthew emphasized how the Boy Scout felt a sense of renewal and 
accomplishment, and once he'd changed back into his uniform he realized 
that the sun was in the East.  He had a sense of direction, and he set 
out over the mountain, sure he could find his way home.
                
"The plucky scout walked with sure, purposeful steps, and he began to 
enjoy his unplanned adventure.  He looked at the wild flowers and trees 
and birds and tried to name them.  The sun was very hot, and the boy 
looked down to watch his tan, bare thighs and knees bend with each step.  
He noticed how honey-brown and buttery-smooth his skin looked, feeling the 
hot sun there and watching sparks of light bounce off.  He had nice, 
shapely legs and he knew it because his mother and a few of the adult 
Scout Leaders had said so.  'You get strong legs from hiking, don't you?' 
the men said, or something like that, and the scout would blush and reach 
down to shyly rub his thighs.  He liked getting compliments, and it made 
him want to be an even better Boy Scout.  He took good care of himself 
and his uniform to look neat, and the day was so hot and as he began to 
sweat, he was glad that his pants were so short.  He'd noticed his 
slender and smooth his legs were compared to the Scout Leaders', and 
didn't like the thought of ever not having smooth legs.  He liked to 
touch them the way you do, and...."

Matthew broke off as he heard the child's faint snores.  Ian lay with his 
head on the man's chest, his moist, open, baby-mouth almost closing 
around Matthew's right nipple.

        (cont.)


>
>***************(continued)
>

Letter from the writer to the editor:


Hi Mercury!

Well, I was kind of buzzed by the end of last night's installment and I 
have to read it again.  I'm glad you like the "prince/king" thing and 
it's interesting that you've taken to using the nickname.  I'm sure
your lover deserves it...and it must be terrific being able to call
someone that.

I may tone down Ian's getting hysterical, but I still want him to have 
that kind of reaction.  I mean, Matthew is a Doctor and the boy has been 
abused -- that's the storyline.  It isn't a political statement, though, 
just pure fiction.  To be honest, I *like* the idea of lots of guys 
reading the story and getting into it :-).  Also, it's pretty  
clear that a story like this is no way to advocate man/boy love, because 
even though Ian really gets me off I'm not fooling myself about my 
reasons for writing it.  Considering my other types of non cons stories 
Ian is a real change of pace.  I'll have to think about whether or not 
I'm making a statement -- and it's the reason why you're my 
publisher/editor :-).  Oh.  I just like movies and pictures.  Matthew 
will decorate the house with photos of the boy and they will watch the 
films together, as a means of Ian gaining insight.  And I've worked 
myself into a corner -- the boy simply has to love Matthew, and his new 
life must contrast with the old and lead to his adoption for the sake of 
logical narrative progression (how weird, considering the kind of story!)

Oh.  How's this for a new story idea (and don't laugh too loud!).  I'm 
thinking of a detective/action novel with a *real* plot and crime to 
solve.  Main characters: a 41 year old, broken down P.I. struggling with 
alcoholism (he's a boy-lover), a 14 year old sandy haired boy who's the 
witness to a murder and drawn into the action, and a 27 year old black 
female who is also involved, wanting to solve the murder of her brother.  
Hmmmm....  For added element there's something of urban imperialization, 
as in suburban police/mayoral corruption vis a vis Chicago connections 
(see, here the legacy of Capone is real and a mayor and police chief and 
several officers were recently convicted of such crimes by an FBI 
investigation, no kidding).  There will be lots of action, grimey-type 
characters, the beautiful, smooth and fresh faced boy and detective 
finding (tragic) love...and did I mention that the black woman has 
cataplexy (a form of narcolepsy?).  I don't think *anything* of this 
blending of genres has ever appeard in a.s.s. or anywhere else, and I 
intend the mystery to be the main vehicle for the novel.  In many ways is 
the detective's story.  Besides, most a.s.s. stories just have one place 
setting and sex and no real macro-plot.  

How about that?

Have a wonderful night, Mercury.  And thanks again.

S.B.P.



>
>*******continuation of the story
>

				Chapter Five
				"Collage" (cont)


Matthew drove down the snow-plowed streets, Ian sitting beside him.  The 
little boy bent his left knee and tucked his left foot under his right 
thigh.  The child's shorts were once again hidden beneath the camel hair 
coat so that it seemed he was wearing a dress.  Only his cuffed, emerald 
green stockings revealed that he'd chosen to wear the suit from the day 
before, the outfit somehow charged with special meaning.  The winter 
afternoon was clear and sunny, and Ian's naked legs looked soft and pink.

"Hey!  There's a really nice house!" the boy chirped, pointing.  Matthew 
nodded in agreement, dropping his right hand onto the boy's bent knee.

"Warm?  I can turn up the heater."

"Uh uh, no.  I'm O.K."

The rich neighborhood was a snowy wonderland of Christmas decorations, 
colored lights decorating houses, electric snowmen and reindeer and 
Santas in sleighs decorating the yards.  Man and boy were enjoying a 
sight-seeing tour, but Matthew was also working to condition Ian to going 
out in public in his new, special prince suits.  The boy was nervous at 
first, but since he was in the car he quickly grew relaxed.  

The car waited at a stoplight, and Ian turned to see the people in the 
car alongside -- a teen boy and his girlfriend -- staring.

"Those kids are looking at me."

Matthew leaned forward, glanced over, and shrugged.  "They think you're 
cute."

"No they don't!" Ian whined playfully, then thought a moment.  "Do they?"

"Here.  Show them some skin," the man laughed, gripping the boy under his 
knee and pushing his leg up.  Ian panicked and tried to push the man's 
hand away, turned a frightened face to the other car -- the teen couple 
dropped their mouths, looking shocked -- and Ian yelped and lay down.  
Through the passenger window on Ian's side, the boy's bare, white knee 
and thigh and stocking, and the man's large hand, were in plain view.  
The man shook the boy's leg left to right and made a show of rubbing his 
knee.

The stoplight changed.  Matthew's car pulled away and turned left, the 
teen couple not moving.

"Why'd you do that?" the boy asked, sitting up and yanking his knee from 
the man.  He looked excited and thrilled.

"Why not?  You have nothing to be shy about.  Your legs are beautiful."

"But I'm wearing *shorts* in the winter time, Mr. Way!" Ian laughed, 
straightening his beret, pulling down the visor to study himself in the 
mirror.

"Yep!  And I bet those kids are gonna remember you for a long time."

Ian studied his friend with a curious expression.  So what if they do? he 
wondered.  Then he thought about it in silence as the car drove.  
Somehow, the kids seeing his leg and his fancy clothes made him feel 
tingly and special.

The car eased down the snowy street toward home.

(break)				*******

The basement exercise room was fully equipped with free weights, a 
nautilus machine, a stair-master and two stationary exercise bikes.  The 
walls were mirrored.  Ian sat astride one of the bikes pedalling easily, 
while Matthew stood by a weight bench, doing squats.  Man and boy wore 
matching, sporty clothing: white v-neck jerseys with red trim tucked into 
cherry-red cotton gym shorts, white knee socks and white sneakers.

"Gee, you're strong," Ian said in admiration, watching the man exercise.  
The man's brown, hairy legs were pumped and bulging with mammoth muscle, 
the skin stretched tight and shining with sweat.  Each time the man 
squatted, his gym shorts wedged tightly into his crotch and molded around 
his round, hard butt.

"And -- you're -- very small!" Matthew grunted, not looking over, his 
face stonily set in concentration.  The big man was working out like a 
man possessed, squatting and straightening as if he was about to jump, 
the iron weights rattling on the bar across his shoulders.

"But because I'm not a grown up, yet," Ian retorted, a bit miffed as any 
normal boy would be to have his strength questioned.  "I bet I can lift, 
well, not that much, but I can do that."

"No!" Matthew groaned, his effort making his voice harsh.  The skinny 
child flinched, and the man quickly apologized for his tone.  "I already 
explained that you're too -- weight lifting can injure -- a little 
boy's development!  Ungh!  The only -- exercise you need at your age is 
to run -- Ngh! -- and play and ride bicycles and things!"

The little boy gazed down at himself, once again noticing how white and 
thin and smooth his legs were compared to the man's.  The visual 
differences in their bodies was beginning to register deeply on the child.

"But when I'm older I can do that.  Then I'll be as strong as you, maybe 
stronger!"

"Bite your tongue!" Matthew groaned.  "I like you -- just -- the way you 
are!  You just let me worry about being big and strong!  I'm -- the man 
here, after all!"

Ian laughed.  He stared at his little red pants.  They were wedged in his 
crotch and slipped up and down as he pedalled, just like the green shorts 
did in the tree.  Neat.  Ian felt his pee-pee tingle, spring up, and he 
pedalled faster, tiny ass wriggling on the hard, black plastic seat.

"I really feel more better in *these* clothes," he sang, white legs 
flashing.

"You mean you prefer play clothes."

"Yeah.  I guess.  They're not so...I like my other clothes, too, but....
Can you dress me more like this, Mr. Way?  I always feel like I'm in 
church or something."

Matthew snorted with laughter and finished his set, setting the weights 
on the floor, then adjusting the equipment to do bench presses.  The 
man's gorgeous legs had that taut, glowing look of blood-flushed muscle, 
and they quivered slightly with exertion, his quads shaking.

"I just want you to grow up proper.  So it's short pants suits here at 
home -- for breeding -- and play clothes for play.  And very hadsome, 
dapper, short pants outfits for school."

"Short pants for school?  Short shorts?"  Ian frowned, knowing he'd be 
the only boy in such shorts, that he would get teased.  He also knew that 
the man would dress him in them no matter what he said, but Ian protested 
anyway.  "Maybe I can wear shorts down by my knees.  That's how everyone 
else -- "

"You're not like everyone else.  You're a special boy, Ian and you need 
special clothes.  Don't you want to look special?  I thought you liked 
your legs."

Ian glanced at himself in the mirror.  He saw what appeared to be some 
other, nice-looking boy riding beside him.  A nice boy in red short 
shorts and knee socks with, well, his legs weren't covered, either.  The 
"two" boys stared at each other's legs, into each other's eyes, and then 
Ian raised his hand to wave.  The "other" boy waved back.  Ian smiled, 
and the boy-reflection smiled, too.  Ian felt charmed and shy and bowed 
his head, throwing friendly glances at his reflection from under his 
bangs.  He thought it would be neat to make friends with another boy in 
short shorts.  

Ian climbed off the bike, set his hands on his hips and praced over to 
the head of the weight bench, tossing his head.  He'd just made his first 
"pass" at another youth and it left him instinctively coy and flirtatious.

"And why am I so special?" he sang in a high, unchanged, lilting voice, 
his tiny cock pert and hard in his gym shorts.

Matthew, about to lay back on the bench, twisted around to face the 
child.  "Because you're my friend," he said simply, stating a truth.

Ian gasped and went weak in the knees, a sudden flower of affection 
unpetalling in his tummy.  "I know, Mr. Way," he said softly and tenderly.

"Now spot for me.  That means if I have trouble pushing the weights up 
you have to grab the bar and help me, got it?"

"Yeah."

Then the man took a deep breath, groaned, and began to exercise, pushing 
the weights up and down in a quick blur, showing off for the child.  

"Wow!" Ian broke into a huge, toothy smile, thoroughly impressed by the 
man's display of strength.  He grew excited and bounced up and down, 
curling his fingers under the hems of his shorts and yanking them up and 
down.  The boy's immature legs were springy and elastic.

"Two more, Mr. Way!  You can do it!" Ian cheered, voice cracking with 
delight, blue eyes wide and round.

"GGGRRRR!!!"

Ian flinched and shrank back as the man let go a primal groan of 
masculine effort.  Matthew growled and grimaced, his face beet-red, thick 
veins bulging in his forehead and neck.  The man's back wa arched, his 
v-shaped torso and lats spreading wide, tapering down into his trim hips.

"YAAHH!" Matthew roared, trembling as he pressed the weights up and set 
the bar clattering on the rack, letting his powerful arms fall open.  

"Gee!" the boy marveled, feeling an aura of raw power radiate from the 
man.  Ian had watched the man excerise for over an hour, not realizing 
that Matthew was doing his best to exhaust himself before taking Ian to 
bed as a means of insuring restraint, and to both control and augment his 
sexual potency, as exercise before sex always enhances a man's performance.

"Oh!  That will do it!" Matthew rumbled.  His shirt was drenched and 
clinging to his pecs and lats.  Drops of sweat dripped down his face, 
his arms, and fell from the hairs on his legs.

Ian watched the man's barrel chest rise and fall and thought of a 
machine, of the sound trucks and air-conditioners made.  He suddenly felt 
very, very small -- just like the man said -- and felt a fleeting wisp of 
fear brush at the back of his brain.  Then he yelped as the man reached 
back and wrapped his hot, mammoth hands around the backs of his knees.  
The little boy was effortlessly pulled forward, his thighs pressing 
against the top of the man's sweaty head.

"Hey -- h -- hey!" Ian stammered, the man's hands like a vice.  "Take it 
easy!"  The child gripped the barbell with his frail hands.  The metal 
was warm.  Then Ian whimpered and rose up on his toes, biting his lips 
and going tight as a spring as the gasping man's hot breaths blasted up 
under the hems of his shorts.

"No pain, no gain!  Huh, Ian!  Whew!"  Matthew held the slightly nervous 
child's knees securely and pursed his lips, blowing a steady stream of 
breath into Ian's shorts, making them flutter.  The boy's tiny erection 
stood out perpendicular and rock-hard above the man's face.

Ian whimpered again and instinctively froze, as if he was a trapped 
animal, the man's physical presence overwhelming and subconciously 
reminding him of all his spankings when he was forced to lie still.  
Matthew's hot, hot breath swirled around his genitals in a palpable 
touch.  The instantly aroused boy threw a glance into the mirror and saw 
that his shorts were inflated like a red balloon, making his waist and 
his legs look incredibly thin.

"Want to keep in shape for you, Ian.  Want to be handsome and muscular 
for you."

"I -- I don't like you because you're big," the boy warbled, crotch 
steaming as the man blew another blast of breath up his pants.  "Ugnh!"  
Ian clutched the barbell and arched his back, bony pelvis thrust forward, 
cock and legs quivering.  "Don't do that you're making my pee-pee happy!"

Matthew's mouth snapped shut, teeth clicking loudly.  He sat up, gripped 
the child by the arm and practically yanked him around the barbell, 
sitting him on his lap.  The skinny boy was like a rag doll.  He yiped as 
the man hugged him tightly, then eased into the embrace, delighted that 
his friend held him once more.

Matthew panted for several moments, the child silent and sitting on the 
man's lap.  Ian's long white leg, so precious and smooth, dangled on 
either side of the man's, Matthew sitting with his knees together.  Ian 
slipped and wriggled on the man's pumped, sweaty/slippery thighs.

"Real boys sit on their daddy's laps," Ian declared in a baby-happy 
voice, gently stroking the man's striated and veiny forearm with loving 
caresses.  He's really like a daddy! Ian thought.

"Of course they do!  Aren't you a real boy?"  The big, big, athletic man 
laughed and the child laughed, too.  "You don't like muscular men?"

"I -- I just like you."  Ian swung his feet, bony kneecaps moving above 
the white stockings.  "If you're gay wouldn't you rather make friends 
with a big guy like you?"

The man's arms clamped down on the boy's birdy chest, biceps flexing, 
constricting the boy's breathing for a second.  The boy tensed, 
frightened, then the pressure eased, leaving Ian with a tingling tummy as 
if he'd just been on a carnival ride.  He gripped the man's biceps and 
tried to squeeze, thin fingers barely encircling the knotted balls of 
muscle and making no impression.

"I'd much rather love a skinny little boy like you.  To protect and take 
care of," Matthew moaned, nuzzling his face in the boy's hair.  "How much 
do you weigh?"

"Uhm...80 pounds?" Ian guessed, exploring the man's biceps.  They were 
like steel!  The veins like something hydraulic!

"Oh, baby!  I was just benching 175!"

"That's -- wow!  Like two of me!" Ian squealed, shaking his head in hero 
worship.  He suggled against his friend, never feeling safer.  Big Mr. 
Way could beat up anybody!  Then the boy sat up straight, feeling the 
man's pee-pee grow happy and press against his butt.

"Like more than two of you."

"You're all sweat!  Yuk!" Ian teased, taking a deep whiff of the man's 
musk.  The man's body radiated heat like a furnace.

"I want you to help me wet my pants tonight," the man moaned.  "I want to 
be gay, very gay with you.  And after I've -- I've made long, tender, 
unending love to you, my sweet prince, you'll understand a lot better how 
much you mean to me."

Ian nodded eagerly, breathlessly, and swung his feet faster.  He'd 
carefully imagined the man wetting his pants all day, trying to be 
secret, as if the man could read his thoughts.  And he *wanted* to 
understand the love the man kept promising and what it meant to be gay, 
but never once imagined that it would mean sex.  The innocent child 
imagined something like tickling, touching legs.  For Ian, it was the 
promise of a very fun, new game.

"Boys my age make love?  I never heard the other kids say...."

"You are absolutely not like other boys, Ian.  You're *my* boy.  You're 
Ian, 'The Christmas Prince.'  One man's prince."

"'The Christmas Prince,'" Ian giggled, liking the silly nickname.  All 
children feel special and like private, special nicknames.  And for this 
child, Ian Brendan O'Donnell, the nickname was a real, "true" identity 
he'd been born to live.

Matthew slowly lowered his face bside the child's and planted a soft kiss 
on his left, downy cheek.

Ian whipped his head around.  "You *kissed* me," he whispered, startled, 
and vaguely thrilled.  He was nose to nose with the man, black bangs in 
his eyes.  Ian studied the man's lips.  Full, soft-looking lips....  "Are 
you gonna...?"  The child's faint question died away.

"Kiss you on the mouth?"  In response, Matthew's voice was as soft as the 
child's.

Ian nodded, swallowing hard.  His blue eyes grew doe-wide as the man 
leaned in close...and Matthew kissed the boy on his cheek once more.  The 
little boy could feel the man's excitement, feel the air between them 
crackle with vibes.  

"And then -- Mr. Way -- if we kiss lips I'll be -- gay?"  

The child's question was one of purest innocence, untinged by fear or 
worry.  The big man stood, lifting the frail child and turning him 
around.  Ian responded.  He wrapped his baby-smooth legs around the man's 
sweaty waist, threw his arms around the man's neck, and rest his kissed 
cheek on the man's broad right shoulder.  Closed his eyes.  Ian felt his 
pee-pee throb and throb against the man's squared stomach: the man 
carried him all the time!  And Ian knew it meant that the man really 
wanted to be his daddy.

Wordlessly, Matthew carried the child up the stairs, hands cupping the 
boy's tiny, cherry-red short-panted ass, the little buns like firm 
melons.  The man's shiny, dripping and sweaty legs flexed and shimmered 
with each sure step, his 7" cock practically ripping through his gym 
shorts and aimed like an arrow -- straight and true -- for the bullseye 
of Ian's anus.


                                CHAPTER SIX
                           "The Christmas Prince"

In the rec room, Ian sat sideways on the recliner, smooth legs draped 
over an arm rest, cherry-red gym shorts wedged in his crotch.  He stroked 
his thighs slowly, thoughtfully, loving them: he knew that tonight, 
Christmas Eve, the man was going to do something very special to them.  
The boy caressed his naked legs, anticipating those funny feelings that 
were so *amazing* they almost hurt and made him want to cry.  Actually, 
they *did* hurt.  Ian *spanked* himself: the man spanked him: he *did* cry.  T
he child grew excited and rubbed his thighs harder.  Differing waves of 
firelight tinted his fair skin strawberries-and-cream, the color his skin 
would acquire in the spring and a lifetime of wearing short, special pants.

Refreshed from a shower, Matthew strolled into the room wearing white 
bikini briefs.  The little boy's attention flew to the man's crotch like 
a moth to a flame.

"You look...good in your underwear, Mr. Way," Ian chirped.  "Like a 
newspaper ad."

Matthew smiled, black curls falling over his forehead.  He struck a pose 
and seductively ran his hands over his body.  Ian watched closely, the 
man's behavior unusual.

"Are you saying you like my body?"

The little boy pulled at his lips and nodded: he meant only that the man 
looked so "pumped" and muscular, and that the man was handsome as a model.

"I've never seen a man without pants on, and you always wear those short 
shorts."

"I like not wearing pants or very short pant when I'm with you."

"How come?"

"Because it turns me on."  The little boy pulled his lower lip and 
shrugged: he did not understand.  "It has something to do with legs."

Ian smiled a sunny smile.  "Oh!  I get it!"  He made a show of looking at 
the man's legs, then at the man's face.  Yep!  *That* made the man happy!

Matthew set about placing the cam-corder beside the tree, then picked up 
a small box wrapped in red foil that was tucked out of sight.  He walked 
toward Ian and set the gift atop the boy's round knees.

"For me?" Ian gasped, blue eyes wide.

"For you."

"Gee, thanks!  I still wish I got something for you."

Matthew knelt and tweaked the child's nose.  "You do have something for 
me, remember?"

"You mean being gay?" the boy asked, and the man nodded.  "But I don't 
have to *do* anything."

"You'll do more than you think."

Ian frowned, needing to square up.  His brow furrowed in thought.  "Can I 
make you something?"

"If I buy some construction paper and crayons will you make me a 
Christmas card?"

Ian brightened.  "Sure!  And snowflakes!  If you fold the paper?  And cut 
it like this?"  The little boy demonstrated, frail hands fluttering in 
the air.

"We'll hang your snowflakes all over the house," Matthew chuckled.

"'Kay!" sang Ian, mind racing with simple baby-plans to make the best 
snowflakes ever.  The big man slid the gift down the child's thighs and 
pressed it firmly into his crotch.  Innocent to the subtle sex act, Ian 
looked down and read the gift tag with sharp, baby pronunciation.

"'To Ian Brendan O'Donnell, The Christmas Prince.  Love, Santa.'  Aw, 
there's no *Santa* Mr. Way!"

"Are you sure?" the man asked in a playful voice, nudging the boy's 
crotch with the gift.  "The paper matches your play clothes, and you've 
been a very good boy."

Ian blushed and batted his long lashes, then tore into the wrapping 
paper, baby hands thumping on the cardboard box.  Inside was a white, toy 
Corvette.  "Oh, wow!  Cool!"

"Do you like it?" Matthew beamed, clearing the shiny red paper from Ian's 
lap.

"Yeah!  Does it run on batteries?"  The boy turned the car excitedly.

"It runs on your imagination."

Ian was moved.  How often he'd wandered through toy stores, painfully 
aware that all those toys lining the shelves would never be his, having 
to stand and watch other happy boys following their fathers to the cash 
register.  Mr. O'Donnell -- that terrible man! -- never bought him toys.  
Ian turned to the kind adult, a lump in his throat.  All around him the 
picturesque room was everything he'd ever dreamt for Christmas.  "You're 
my best friend," he croaked.

"And you're mine.  Merry Christmas, little prince."  Matthew tenderly 
kissed the child's button nose.  Unnoticed, the man's erect cock 
throbbed, the circumsized, swollen glans -- a ripe plum bursting with 
juice -- poked above the waistband of his briefs.

"Merry Christmas, Mr. Way."  Ian pawed wonderingly at his nose and flared 
his nostrils, inhaling a clean, flowery scent.  "Hm.  You smell good."

"It's a loofah scrub -- jasmine, clover -- it makes my skin soft."

Curious, lured by an unconscious associaton of flowers and the first time 
the man touched his knee, the child ran his hands over the man's pecs and 
large, wide nipples.  "You *are* soft."

The man stiffened, draped his muscular arm around Ian's bony shoulders.  
"Honey!  You're so sweet tonight!"

The little boy snuggled, feeling very sweet.  The man's body was like a 
shield and Ian suddenly understood what the man meant about wanting to 
protect him, about being so much bigger and stronger.  The boy knew only 
the man's healing care. 

Matthew took the toy car from the child and set it on the floor.  "May I 
be gay with you now?"

Ian almost reached for the toy, wanting to play with it, then nodded, 
hoping he could *do* being gay.  He'd try his best, and if he didn't like 
it he just wouldn't do it anymore.  But it was only fair to give the man 
a chance.  "Are you gonna wet your underwear?"

"Yes."

"Can I watch?"

"You'll be there the whole time."

"Oh.  Oh!"

The little boy shivered and jerked as the man's right hand slipped over 
his porcelain-white thighs.  The boy's thighs were creamy and cool, 
spongy with pubescence.  The boy grew an erection.  The boy wanted to 
jump up and run around the room, the man's touch electrifying, but forced 
himself to sit still.

"Mmm!  Your skin is so soft," Matthew sighed hypnotically, getting 
closer.  "Such pretty, sexy legs."

"I'm not *pretty*!" Ian quavered, but he wasn't so sure anymore.  "I'm a 
*boy*!  Girls have sexy legs!"

"Women have to shave their legs."  Matthew carressed the child's luscious 
thighs in slow, circular motions.  "But a little boy's legs are naturally 
hairless.  Softer and smoother than any dumb girl's."

"Really?"  Ian shivered, tiny and aroused beside the man.

"Really.  You have pretty, baby leggies."

*Baby leggies*?! Ian wondered.  What a dumb thing to say!  But it *must* 
be true!  Mr. way knew all about legs!  "I'm really pretty?"

The man nodded solemnly and the boy nodded, too, his pubescent self-image 
shaped by the man's constant love.  Ian watched the man touch him and 
lifted his arms, held them -- trembling -- above his thighs.  Matthew' 
fingers sank into the child's flesh just below his little red pants.  Ian 
whimpered and squeezed his eyes shut.

"Your pants are so *short*!  Do you really like wearing them for me?"

"Uh huh!"  Ian's hands flopped at the wrists.

"Then will you say 'I like wearing short pants for you, Mr. Way?'"

"I like wearing short pants for you, Mr. Way!" Ian yelped, legs tingling.

"Will you say and do anything I ask?"

Ian nodded, cheeks puffing.  His arms shook like white twigs.

"May I kiss you?" the man whispered huskily, licking his lips.  The little 
boy nodded.  The big man groaned and leaned forward, his back rippling muscle, 
his curvacious ass flexing in the tiny white bikini briefs.

Ian sensed the man's proximity and let go a pinched whimper.  Matthew 
held the child's wriggling thighs fast, right hand clamped around both, 
and kissed the child's right, velvety cheek.

A lightening bolt flashed through Ian's body.  "You're kissing me!" he 
squawked in disbelief, the press of the man's lips striking a deep chord 
in his soul, fulfilling a desire he did not consciously comprehend.  It was all
instinct, all hard-wiring for the 11 year old, whom nature had made -- cell by 
cell -- for the exquisite joy of man/boy love.

"Have you ever been kissed before?" Matthew breathed, trembling with 
passion, his own soul flowering with the same, natural confirmation of 
what he'd been born to do.

"No!  No, not...not like this!"

"You should have been.  I'm sorry I waited this long to do it."  Matthew 
bent and placed his lips to Ian's throat, there in the space of his 
v-neck jersey.  The child's pulse whirred in his carotid artery, the 
large blue and red veins slightly visible with the force of his 
heartbeat.  Ian punched his fists together like castanets.  Matthew's 
fingers slipped over the boy's immaculate thighs, pushing the tiny red 
gym shorts up to the boy's crotch.  With an almost impossible restraint, 
the man did not take hold of the boy's straining organs, the boy's penis 
hopping in the hollow of his palm.

The fire burned, cedar logs snapping and popping, embers spiralling up in 
an orange cloud as if the very elements were empathetic to the man and 
the boy finally finding each other.

"Stand up, honey."

Ian shot out of the chair and stood with perfect, princely posture, feet 
together, hands smacking against the sides of his thighs.  Firelight 
flickered around him like a strobe: the child looked almost mystical, 
tense and coarsing with boyish sexual energy: he stared at the man in 
awe.  Whatever the man was doing, Ian wanted more.

"And what's this?" Matthew asked, feigning puzzlement.  He gripped the 
child's narrow hips and lifted his as effortlessly as if lifting a 
cardboard cut-out, turning the child around and facing him toward the 
camera.  Ian took quick, jerky steps as the man moved him into positon, 
instinctively remaining at attention.

"Wha -- what?"

"This."

"What is it?"  The boy peered over his left shoulder, his face taut.

"Oh!  It's your young, baby butt!" the man sang.

Ian narrowed his eyes, vision blurry, temples pounding.  He saw his own 
bottom, flat and tight.  "Whaddya' mean?"

"I mean you have a *beautiful* butt!"  Kneeling, Matthew was as tall as 
the boy.  "Did you see how I wrapped your present?"

"Yeah?"

"Well, I wrapped *you* up, too!  Wrapped you in short pants outfits."

The little boy swooned, only the man's hands at his hips keeping him on 
his feet.  Mr. Way thinks I'm a toy! Ian thought, then squealed and 
almost jumped out of his shoes.

Matthew tweaked the child's miniature buttocks as if testing two bright 
red tomatoes for freshness.

"What re you doing?!" the child yelled, legs trembling.

"You have a beautiful butt!"

"*YOU LIKE ME BUTT*??!!  WEIRD!"  Ian grabbed the hems of his shorts and 
yanked them up, pointy elbows fluttering.  He clenched his bottom with 
all his might, felt the man's fingers dig in painfully, pleasurably.

"We're going to explore all the secrets of your butt, Ian!  It's 'The 
Butt Game!'  Even more wonderful than 'The Leg Game.'"  The big man was 
almost panting, large hands mashing and kneading the child's ass.

"Better than legs?!"

"Uh huh!"

Ian shook his head though he felt his bottom blooming.  He was getting 
dizzy.  "I don't believe you!"

"You don't?!  Isn't your pee-pee happy?!  Aren't you my friend?!"

"I'm your friend, Mr. Way!"  The boy torked his hips to the left, 
displaying his erection, desperate for the man's approval.  "My pee-pee's 
*real* happy!  See?!  See?!"  Ian yanked his shorts higher, molding them 
around his berry-balls and throbbing penis.  Man and boy studied Ian's 2 
1/2 inch hard-on.

"I see!" 

Satisfied, Ian faced forward, breath whistling through clenched teeth.  
With his shorts yanked up, his thin legs were reminiscent of a stork.

"Let's wet you pants first!  That will calm you until I wet mine, O.K.?"

OO.K.!"  The boy stared into the camera lens, building rapidly toward 
orgasm.  "Can I see the movies?!" he yelled, realizing he'd never seen them.

"Sure!"  The man's hands swept over the child's legs.

Ian rose on tippy-toes, arms fluttering, elbows shining.  He threw his 
head back, thrust his bony chest.  Branches of shadow and light wavered 
on the vaulted ceiling high above.  The house was so big and warm, the 
trailer had alwas been so small and damp.  Cold.  Ian felt the man's 
hands and felt safe, then the vibrating seed of orgasm took root.  His 
unwrinkled, hairless testicles rolled and drew up tight, and his baby 
cock jumped in his briefs and his cherry-red gym shorts.

"I'M GONNA!  I'M GONNA!" Ian screamed, not knowing he was screaming.  Fat 
tears of orgasmic stress suddenly srpang from his eyes and poured down 
his cheeks.  He vibrated like a tuning fork, trembling wildly, the simple 
foreplay pushing him to his limits.

BWOOP!

Matthew spanked the child's clenched ass with the sound of a suction cup.
The little boy's anus was a starburst of nerve endings.  Stunned to 
incomprehension, head thrown back and teeth clenched, grunting 
uncontrollably and face glowing with rapture, Ian staggered toward the 
tree on tippy-toes, taking wooden, dainty steps.  He moved like a puppet 
on invisible strings.

"NGH NGH NGH!"

"LOOK AT THE ICICLES, IAN!  THAT's HOW SPERM LOOKS!" the man cried, arms 
outstretched and hands trembling in worship for the boy.

Yanking his shorts to the point of ripping them, the little boy 
ejaculated.  "NNNGGGHHH!!!" he whinnied, dancing through his orgasm on 
tippy-toes before the twinkling tree, turning in a circle, long skinny 
legs straining and wire-tight.  Ian saw the silver icicles lurch up huge 
and detailed before his eyes and imagined sparkly icicles cascading into 
his short shorts.  It was too much: the child rocked back on his heels.

Matthew was there, wrapping his right arm around Ian's waist, lifting and 
propping him on his hip.  The skinny little boy doubled over, long legs 
jerking.  Matthew turned and ran with the cumming boy from the room, 
through the kitchen -- the flourescent light glowing above the sink -- and
up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

Ian bounced senselessly beside the man, watching the man's muscular 
thighs flex, feeling his pounding steps vibrate through his body in an 
external counterpoint to his internal, beating, enormous ejaculation.  In 
a seeming dream, Ian noticed that the stairs were steeped in shadows, the 
man's underpants and his own white stockings so white, then he saw the 
man run with him over the bedroom threshold.  Ian lifted his head.  
Moonwash poured through the large bay windows, through the black air in a 
fantasy spray of light and onto the brass bed, making the bed glow like a 
stage.  Then Ian squealed as the man tossed him.

Arc of a diver:  the child pierced the beam of moonlight as if piercing a 
membane, baby-ass raised high, twiggy limbs flailing and flashing.  
Ian seemed to float in slow motion, reborn in a lunar, amniotic sac, then 
he bounced on the mattress, arms and legs spreading wide in an "X" 
shape.  The boy lay snivelling and trembling and gasping for breath, for 
sanity, as the man quickly turned on a second video camera placed at the 
foot of the bed and began to remove the boy's sneakers.

"Ian?  You O.K.?"

"Ugh!  Yeah!  Yeah!" Ian cried, wiping his tears on the cool, fluffy 
pillow.  Only now was the child's orgasm beginning to ebb, his puddle of 
hot spunk moistening his underwear so that his cock flopped and slipped 
in the goo, making him gasp and shiver with sensitivity.

			
The man climbed into the bed and knelt between the boy's scissor-wide 
legs.  He gathered Ian's jersey in his fingers and slowly pulled it free 
of the boy's gym shorts, pushing the jersey up to his neck.  The boy's 
glossy body glittered silver-white, and the man was like a dark bear over 
the boy.

"Say 'Thank you for helping me wet my pants, Mr. Way.'"

Ian repeated the words in a breathless rush, heart pounding, marvelling 
that the orgasms felt better each time.  He heard the man let go a long 
sigh, felt the man's hands wrap around his bony sides.  Ian shivered, alert 
to every nuance: the man had never touched him after he wet his pants before, 
the child had never been more conscious of his body.  His gooey underwear 
clung to his crotch, a bundle of heat in his shorts, his bare back and legs
much cooler.

Matthew canted forward and began to kiss the knobs of Ian's spine.
"Gay guys kiss all over?" Ian chirped curiously, wanting to learn.

"Lovers kiss," the man whisperd.  "You're my boyfriend."

"Boyfriend?  Don't you mean *friend*, Mr. Way?"

"I know what I mean.  I think you do, too.  Now.  Finally.  Ian."

The little boy lifted his head and turned his smooth face to the moonlit 
window.  Spectral, colorless light was caught inside the glass, and Ian 
thought about God.  God was there, up in the dark blue sky above the 
snowy pinetops, watching over him, and gratitude and love for all things 
filled the boy.

"You can do anything you want, Mr. Way.  It's O.K." Ian peeped, as 
respectful as if he was in church.

"Yes.  Yes."

The adult-male moaned and lunged, closing his mouth over the flat, narrow 
back of the child-male's left thigh.  The adult-male's jaw was tensed and 
poised to bite, but he only held his mouth there, tasting the 
child-male's flesh as if tasting the host itself.  

The child scrambled and rose up on his arms, shoulder blades sticking out 
in sharp triangles.  Hot breath from the man's nostril's and mouth warmed 
his thigh: the man's lips and teeth formed an air-tight seal: the man's 
tongue began to swirl, tasting.  Ian's blue eyes were doe-wide: he hadn't 
expected the man to kiss his legs!  It felt like kindness.  Moonlight 
poured over Ian like revelation, like a crystal cathedral.  "This is 
gay," he whispered reverently, an altar boy with his priest.

"It's love," Matthew intoned.

The devout boy nodded, looking out the window toward heaven, eyes 
twinkling.  The man sucked the boy's thigh, smacking and making funny, 
moaning sounds like he was hungry.  The man's head turned from side to 
side as he sucked from thigh to thigh.  The little boy clenched his 
buttocks, red shorts still yanked into his crack.  

"You really love me?" Ian whined, unchanged voice filled with hope.

"God, yes!  Yes, my prince!  I love you with all my heart!" the man 
whined, head twisting rapidly as he held the child's sides tight, 
flicking his tongue along the child's inner-thighs, leaving trails of 
saliva, moving up to Ian's crotch.  Ian's thighs were planar there with 
tendons.

"I love you, too," the boy croaked, almost praying, overcome with 
gratitude.  He listened to the man moan and moan, felt the man's jaw and 
tongue search his skin, and stared at the sparkly bay window so hard the 
window seemed to grow larger and float toward him.  It seemed the window 
would pass over the bed, him and the man, not shatter but ripple like 
water and transport them to a better world.  The child in the big brass 
bed, engaged in his first, true sexual act, did  not understanding that he 
was having sex and instead knew only spiritual epiphany.

The abused, lonely, love-starved little boy had been reborn.

The man buried his face in the boy's ass, nose wedging between his tiny 
buttocks, mammoth hands almost encircling the boy's waist.  The boy yiped 
and heaved his ass left to right, writhing.  Mr. Way was kissing his 
butt!  The event was so stunning that the child could not laugh even 
though he thought it should be funny.  The man's face was like a 
religious presence, and the hallucination of the moon-sparked window drew 
closer.

"Your tight little butt.  Your sweet, baby butt," Matthew whined, voice 
muffled as he pursed his lips and blew stream after stream of hot breath 
into the child's tight rectum, entering the boy airily in a truly loving, 
gentle way and picking the sweet, nectar-rich fruit of Ian's anal 
virginity.  

"My butt!  My butt!" the boy warbled, amazement leaving him weak, the 
man's breaths like a blessing, spiralling into the untouched, slick 
membranes of his child-sweet anus, awakening a desire he never knew was 
possible.  "It's 'The Butt Game'!"  Ian gasped and trembled from the 
divine injection.  His face glowed with bewildered, holy pleasure, and he 
clawed at the blue down-comforter, twiggy arms shaking.

Slowly, slowly, the little boy converted to the new religion the man offered.
The man's tongue began to probe, almost penetrating through his clothes 
and moistening his ass.  Ian's penis found new life, sprang up hard and 
refreshed, and as he writhed his sperm-covered cock rubbed against his 
hairless abdomen, making him release tiny yipes of pleasure.

Matthew flipped the boy onto his back, Ian's sanctified body flashing in 
the moonwash.  Breathless, a choir of nerves singing in his body, Ian 
spread his arms and legs wide in willing crucifixion, sacrificing himself 
on the altar of the man's bed.  He lay totally submissive, staring into 
the silvery mirror and seeing a little kid in red, very short pants, 
white knee socks and a white jersey pushed up around his chest.  A big, 
muscle-man knelt over the kid like a statue, moaning and licking his legs 
like a cat.  Sucking his kneecaps.  Holding his blade-thin waist.

"Do you really think I'm pretty and a prince and stuff?" Ian asked 
dreamily.  The kid in the mirror looked so profoundly pleased and 
relaxed, his pee-pee tenting the red gym shorts, Ian could not believe it 
was himself.  

"You're the most beautiful boy in the world."

"I'm not a girl, you know."

"If you were you wouldn't be here."

Ian made tiny fists: Ian clenched his tiny toes and spread his arms 
and legs wider.  "Because you don't like girls?"

"Because little boys are lovely, lovely creatures.  Girls can't compare.  
And this is such a wonderful present, Ian.  You giving yourself to me.  
If you only knew...how long...precious boy."

The man spoke so honestly Ian's heart melted.  Only best friends could be 
so honest, and Ian gave thanks to God that he was a boy and not a girl 
because then this wonderful, incredible man would not love him.  Tummy 
heaving, the child watched the man's long, wet tongue slop over his 
immaculate thighs and leave them shinig, approaching his shorts.  It 
looked so amazing.  Ian planted his feet and hands and bridged up on the 
crown of his head.  The tendons at the backs of his knees stood out like 
wires, forming shadow-filled webs of tender skin, and the bony structure 
of his pelvis was clearly defined, there beneath his special, magical 
little pants.  The boy's tiny cock throbbed like a pointing finger.  His 
tummy was dramatically concave, a gentle slope that led up to his birdy 
ribs, the erect dots of his baby nipples and his flat chest.

"Am I doing it right?  Am I being gay?!"  Ian stared at the upside-down 
headboard, his cock surging with each flick of the man's tongue over his 
wet, quivering thighs.

"Oh, yes, Ian!  What a good boy!  

The little prince made a baby-happy noise.  "Gooooo!"  

Matthew licked the boy's shorts, hips, the elastic waistband.  Matthew 
groaned and thrust his tongue into the boy's "innie" navel, the boy's 
tummy sucking in even tighter.  The hairy man and the hairless, skinny 
boy swayed left to right, the boy bridging up higher, pelvic bones and 
ribs almost sharp enough to cut.  The man ran his open mouth and tongue 
over the boy's torso, sucked each baby tit; the man lunged and turned his 
head to one side, fiting his face under the  child's dainty, quivering 
chin to suck  the child's reedy, delicate throat which thrummed with 
pulsing blood.

"Yah!" the child squealed with a virgin's fear of arousal.  He humped 
then collapsed even as the man fell atop him, Matthew's adult body 
flowing over the child's.  There was a blur of movement as the adult-male 
gripped the child-male's twiggy wrists and pinned his arms beside his 
head, the child-male clamping his long, smooth legs around the man's.  
Matthew jerked and tensed, the boy bouncing under him, the bed rocking.

Man and boy stared at each other in silence, their beating hearts 
pounding against each other's chests.  Ian saw the man looking at him 
like he was the 8th wonder of the world, saw the man's face in every 
detail: the crow's feet around his eyes, the smile-lines around his 
mouth, the man's full lips.  Ian smelled the comforting, alluring scent 
of flowers.  Being gay was nice.

"You're gonna...kiss me?" the boy breathed.  He suddenly wanted to kiss, 
excitedly ran his smooth legs up and down the man's, which were as hard 
as steel pipes but soft and covered in fur.

Matthew nodded slowly.  Matthew leaned in, shoulders hunching, back rippling.

The adult-male closed his mouth over the child-male's.

"MMMM!!!" Ian whimpered, jerking and flailing uselessly.  The man's hands 
were like vices, and the man's body grew hard as he bore down.  Then Ian 
froze, puckered his lips inexpertly and kissed back with wild abandon.  
He began to moan and the man moaned, too, their contra-bass and soprano 
grunts of sexual joy forming a duet of glory.  A song of man-boy love.

Matthew's and Ian's heads twisted, lips nipping and mashed together, 
bodies straining.  The pubescent child was hidden beneath the hirsute 
man, only his stockings and round, shiny knees -- as white and shiny as 
flashlights -- showing.

"HMM HMMM MMM!"  The child twisted and arched, felt his pee-pee grind 
against the man's stomach, the man's body heavy and hot, and dreamed a 
dream: Ian pictured a vibrant image, a brown horse galloping powerfully 
over endless green fields, carrying him -- a prince in a white short 
pants suit, white cape snapping in the wind -- far, far away.

In the glowing moonbeams, man and boy were radiant, bodies magnified.
Photons of light bounced and danced around them, the very air refined as 
they ground into one another, mashing lips, bumping noses, molecules of 
hydrogen and oxygen separating and joining in the atomistic intensity 
of their coupling.

The taste of the man's lips, the man's power pushing into him and his 
own lesser, little boy's strength pushing back -- not as nothing but as 
subsumed by the man's, circling and returning to the boy, then up into 
the man who grew even more powerful -- liberated Ian.  Tears sprang from 
the boy's eyes: Ian was actively participating in his first sexual act, 
and the child took his place in the long history of little boys who are 
lucky enough to discover their sexual/spiritual potential with a man.  A 
man to guide and encourage the boy to cast off irrational inhibitions and 
unnatural taboos.  Ian was learning the species-specific truth of 
malehood: small boys who admire the adult man's form, and men who admire 
the delicacy and overwhelming eroticism of pubescent boys for having 
first-hand knowledge of being pubescent themselves.
  
"Uh!  First kisses?!" Matthew gasped, pulling back.

Ian nodded dumbly, nose to nose with the man, hot breaths warming each 
other's faces.  The child's lips were puffy and wet, his smooth cheeks 
glazed with a light sheen of sweat, a few stray hairs of his bangs 
clinging to his forehead.

"Bring your legs together."  Matthew spoke with sudden, commanding 
authority, peeling the boy's legs away and rising with a panther's 
grace.  

Instantly, reacting to the man's tone and the imprinted obediance 
from his father's spankings, little Ian obeyed.  He slammed his legs 
together, ankles and knees knocking and sending a sharp, sweet shock of 
pain through his body.  Matthew pulled the white jersey over Ian's face 
and the stunned boy lay with his arms stretched out above his head, chest 
heaving.  Ian felt a thrill, felt his chest suddenly cold, and wished for 
the man's warmth atop him once more.

The man knelt, straddling the child's legs, and thrust his hands up 
inside the boy's tiny red pants, fingers tugging at the boy's briefs, 
knuckles rippling under the fabric.

"My God my God!" Matthew cried out, shifting his weight, the bed rolling 
and the skinny boy rolling, too.  "I'm in your pants, Ian!  I've always 
wanted to get inside a little boy's pants!"  

Ian flinched, hearing the man's growl -- scary! -- and unable to see the 
man clench his teeth, muscles working in his jaw.  "How..how...why would 
you want to do that?" he asked, voice pinched and small.  The man's hands 
in his pants felt...like hands.

"Because little boys do not know how sexy they look."  The man spoke almost 
mechanically, each word difficult to pronouce, and he trembled with 
passion.  "They just let grown ups dress them and send them out to play, 
running and jumping in their shortie pants, showing off their sexy leggies."

"You mean grown ups like kid's legs?" Ian gasped, jerking with insight.

"Yes.  Grown ups design children's clothes, Ian.  They know short pants 
are boys' pants.  They know boys have smooth, pretty legs."

Ian swallowed hard and said nothing.  The man sounded angry, but 
everything he said was true: Ian knew grown ups would make such a fuss 
over him in his shorts suits.  Why would they do that?

"Oh, goddamn!  Your beautiful legs!  Your little pants!"

Ian froze.  The man said a bad word!  He had never heard the man cuss and 
panicked.  "What's the matter?!  What'd I do?!  Are you mad?!  I'm 
sorry!" the child yelled, knowing only a life of constant apolgies.

The man instantly understood the boy's distress.  "No no, baby!  I'm not 
mad!  I'm sorry I cursed!  I'm just...I got carried away!  I'm excited!  
O.K.?!"

"Y-yeah!  O.K.!" Ian chirped.  He heard the man breathing heavily and 
whimpered, tried to shrink back into the bed.  "If I did something I'm 
sorry!"  Ian almost sobbed: he didn't want *anything* to stop what the 
man was doing.

"Shhhhh!  Oh, honey, no!  I'm not...."  The man closed his eyes and 
calmed himself, reigning in his emotions, hands flexing in the boy's 
pants.  "I'm sorry, Ian.  I just feel so good.  I know all this is new to 
you.  It's new to me.  And you're just a baby.  Don't be frightened.  
I just love you *so* much...I won't do anything you don't want."

Man and boy were silent for several moments.  Then, beginning again, 
Matthew eased the child's play pants down so that the waistband stretched 
across his tiny hard-on, the red cloth a marvelous contrast against the 
backdrop of white underwear.

"Ian?  May I pull down your pants?"

"My pants?"  The child was very confused; it was hard to think straight.  
He was coarsing with tingles and knew he would have never been able to 
lay so still if he hadn't already wet himself.  And he knew he was going 
to wet himself again.

"This is your present to me, remember?"

Ian raised his masked head as if to look at the man, gasping breaths 
making the jersey rise and fall at his mouth.  A vague thought flashed 
through his mind, he wondered if letting the man pull down his pants was 
too weird, then remembered the toy white Corvette  Trades had to be fair.

"O.K." Ian whispered, laying his head back on the pillow.

"And please say something for me."

"What?"

"Say, 'Oh, please, Mr. Way.  Please pull down my little short pants.'"

"Can I keep my underwear on?" Ian quavered.  The man had seen him in his 
underwear before, had *bought* his underwear, but Ian had *never* let 
anyone see him naked.

Matthew smiled.  "Sure."

The little boy took a deep breath.  "Oh, Mr. Way?  Please pull down my 
short, little pants?"

The man slowly, slowly pulled the child's pants down, squirming with the 
calm luxuriousness of the act.  He pulled the child's red gym shorts down 
the child's long, silky legs and left them tangled around his ankles.

11 year old Ian Brendan O'Donnell lay trembling in his white knee socks 
and tight, white underpants.  Crisp, plain, dainty child-sized cotton 
briefs bulging with his hard penis, stained with sperm.

"Say, 'Thank you for pulling down my pants, Mr. Way.'"

"Thank you for pulling down my pants, Mr. Way."  Ian's unchanged voice 
was high and bewildered.

"Can you move?"

Skinny Ian wriggled, knees and elbows bending.  "N -- no -- no, sir," he 
peeped, the strang formality of the moment affection his manners.

"Good.  Get used to that feeling of restraint.  It's a good feeling, O.K.?"

"Yes, sir."

Matthew's thick, brown fingers grazed the child's underpants with a 
physician's surety of touch, tracing an outline of Ian's genitals.  The 
child's sperm-filled underpants were almost see-through, a wet egg 
membrane with little "chickie" genitals inside.  Ian sucked in his 
tummy.  Even now, it did not occur to him that the man would someday 
fondle and suck his crotch.

The man bent, gripped the child's bony hips, and traced on outline of the 
tiny briefs with his tongue.  Licking the immaculate, vanilla flesh where 
no man had ever licked before.

"Oh!  Oh!" Ian whimpered.

Wordlessly, man and boy found their rhythms.  The man licked and licked, 
pinching the elastic bands at the boy's leg-openings and waist in his teeth 
and letting them snap back.  

"DON'T TAKE OFF MY UNDERWEAR!" the boy screamed, rocking left to right 
and kicking, tangled shorts holding his ankles together.

"I WON'T!  I WON'T!  NOT TONIGHT!"

"OOOH!  AH!  AH, MR. WAY!" Ian shrieked, sobbing and crying freely, so 
totally unable to process what was happening.  The man growled and sucked 
and licked his underwear and thighs, his stomach, his hips.  The man's 
mouth was like wet fire: the boy's miniature cock was a twanging pole.

Matthew sat back and panted for breath, holding the boy and shaking.  His 
arms surged with power, veins thick, muscles striated, but he held the 
boy's sides firmly and gently.  

"So gorgeous so goregous so gorgeous," the man croaked.  "So frail and 
innocent in his underpants.  So hard for my love.  He's my little boy.  
He's my little boy prince."

"I'm -- I'm really your boy?!" Ian yelled, flinching and jerking with 
after-pleasure, with the promise of Mr. Way as his new daddy.

"Yes.  Yes.  Ian.  When I was your age I wanted, how I dreamt of a
man -- a *man* -- to love me this way."

Matthew groped and yanked his raging cock free of his briefs.  Seven 
inches of circumsized man-cock sprang into view, iced with pre-cum, 
turgid and veiny and thrumming with the pent-up energies of his work-out, 
of his being with the short-panted boy all summer, all fall, all week, 
tonight.  He eased forward and slipped his dong along the velvety, 
hairless grove between the child's thighs, leaving a juicy trail of slime
along the white, immaculate skin.  The child lay totally submissive.  
Gripping Ian's narrow thighs, smashing them together, Matthew speared 
between them and lay down.  Began to fuck.  Fuck and fuck.  Slowly and 
with commanding power.

The man trembled.  The man's fantastically muscular,  curvacious, 
beachball ass bobbed up and down, practically ripping through his bikini 
briefs.  The bed began to squeak.  The child was hidden from sight.

"GGRRR!  RRR RRRR!" went Matthew.

Ian's face was in the man's chest, feet at the man's knees.  He whimpered 
and thrust his skinny arms in the air, unsure of what was happening, not 
knowing he was being fucked.  The man was like a beast!  So heavy!  So 
hairy and hot!  And his -- Mr. Way's pee-pee!  Mr. Way put his pee-pee 
between my legs! the boy thought.  It felt like a baseball bat!  And 
Ian could feel the skin of his thighs move up and down around it, the 
man slapping into him.

"MR. WAY!" the boy shrieked, frightened.  He felt very very small.  
Very weak.  Very good.

Matthew fucked and fucked, hips pounding, white underpanted-ass a blur.
He rutted and thrust, the boy bouncing between him and the bed.  The boy 
shrieked and groaned with pleasure and pain, the man's fingers crushing 
his thighs to the bone.

Matthew froze.  Ian froze, too, expecting the man to start crying and wet 
himself.  His head spun: he wanted it to happen, wanted to feel the man's 
pee-pee spurt.  Wanting the scary/good feelings to end now, needing to 
spew his own goo which he could not hold back much longer.  And it was 
hot under the jersey and hard to breathe: Ian's face rivered with sweat: he
licked his lips, tasting salt.  And he cried.

There, on a big brass bed bathed in moonlight, man and boy strained 
silently against each other.

"It's O.K.!" ian yiped after several moments, interpreting the man's 
silence as shame.  He remembered how ashamed he'd felt the first time 
he'd wet his pants and wished to comfort the man -- a grown up! -- for
wetting himself.  Wanting the man to understand how good it felt.  

Fighting for control, Matthew shifted and slid under the child, wrapping 
his arms around his bony chest, cock springing up between the boy's thighs.

"Did you do it?  Did you wet your pants?"

"Almost!  Almost, baby!" Matthew whined, fucking again.

Ian's every pore tingled, his pee-pee throbbing mightily.  He sobbed and 
cried harder, unable to handle his arousal.  In his underpants and knee 
socks, the crying, skinny boy went up and down, up and down atop the man.

"IAN!  IAN!  I LOVE YOU!"

"REALLY?!"

"YES!"  Matthew fucked like a jackhammer, his cock ramming the boy's 
legs, almost disappearing then reappearing.  "OH, IAN!  AND EVERYONE WILL 
SEE YOUR LEGS!  YOUR GORGEOUS NAKED LEGS!  IN YOUR SHORT SHORT PANTS!  
AND NEER KNOW HOW I LICKED YOU LEGS!  FUCKED YOU LEGS!"

"NAW!!!" The boy wailed, skinny arms straining toward the ceiling and 
tiny hands clawing at the air.  "DON'T CUSS DON'T CUSS!  DON'T BE MAD!  
I'LL BE GOOD I'LL BE GOOD!"

"OH, BABY!" the man whined, every muscle straining, crushing Ian in a 
bear hug.  "I'M NOT MAD!  YOU'RE A GOOD BOY!  GOOD BOY!"

"BWEH HEH HEH!"  Ian cried so hard he choked, sputtered, rising and 
falling and carried along on the crest of the man's oceanic passion.  
"YOU REALLY GONNA ADOPT ME?!"

"YES!  YES!  I'M YOUR DADDY!  I'M YOUR DADDY!"

The love-starved, orgasmic child released a crystal scream.  "EEEE!  
DADDIIEEE!"  Ian slammed his hands down, gripped the man's steely 
forearms, and thought of a restraining bar on a carnival ride.

Ian knew he was home.  Home.

Matthew reached down, wrenched the elastic leg opening of Ian's 
underpants wide, and thrust his cock inside them.  The child's flimsy, 
danity underpants bulged, stuffed with boy-cock and man-cock.

Ian screamed again.  The man's pee-pee was scraping his butthole!  The 
man's pee-pee was touching his!  The man was inside his pants like he 
said!  And Ian felt his rectum flutter and pulsate, let go a wash of 
natural, boyish lubricant.

The little boy suddenly, somehow wanted to *open* his rectum.

The virgin, little 6th grade boy instinctively wanted the man inside his 
body, to fill a yawning, aching emptiness.

Matthew was there.  He planted his feet and arched, lifting himself and 
Ian above the bed.  The man's face was a mask of ecstasy.  He was silent.  
The boy was bowed and impossibly skinny, baby briefs throbbing with 
man-cock and boy-cock.

"SPANK ME SPANK ME SPANK MEEEE!!!" Ian screamed, the crystal, shrill 
demand tearing from his throat without conscious volition.  His every 
fiber of child-being knotted and focused in his groin.  Believing that 
the sharp, stinging slaps of spanings the only way to open and release 
the floodgates of sperm.

The man did not hesitate.  His long, powerful arms lifted and swished 
through the glowing air, impacting with the sound of pistol-shots on the 
crying, hysterical boy's thighs.

WHAP!  SLAP!  POW!

"OW OW OWIE!"

Ian's sputtering lips sprayed spittle.  He wept.  He gripped the man's 
wrists as if he was an obedient son helping hs new daddy spank him and 
the sound of his battered thighs was like the sound of applause.  The 
little boy's tender, slender, silky thighs -- glistening with sweat, 
moonbeams, saliva -- shook each time.

BAM!  POW!

"YIIIYIIIYEE!!"

"GOD!  GOD!" Matthew roared, hands thundering down, cock rubbing the 
boy's with a friction to create fire.

Ian wailed, head snapping up and slamming down on the man's chest with 
each impact.

Matthew sat up suddenly, crushing the skinny child in a hug, and froze.

Ian screamed.

Man and boy came together, swaying side to side, hairy brown body and 
hairless white body shaking as they spermed and spermed and spermed.  
Their cocks pumped as one, jetting thick, hot globs of cum, blasting and 
filling the child's dainty, baby briefs.

The bedroom echoed with the soprano yipes and bass grunts of pure, 
shared, man-boy love.  

Matthew and Ian struggled in rapture, the man framing and cradling the 
child's body with his own.  The child's masked head thrashed side to 
side, little legs kicking, patting against the man's.  He sobbed and 
wailed, letting go his heartache, feeling his and the man's ultimate 
communion throbbing in his underpants.  In their pee-pees.

In the window, fresh snow began to fall.


				Chapter Seven
			    "The Little Christmas Cowboy"

Ian drifted in that peaceful realm between sleep and wakefulness, 
watching snowflakes fall -- flat, fluffy, swirling flakes -- and cling to 
the window.  The little boy rolled and gazed at the empty space of the 
bed on his right, where the man had lain, holding and stroking him 
through the night, whispering "I Love You," over and over.  Ian smiled, 
remembering the "butt game" and how the man had placed his mouth lips and 
tongue everywhere over his body.  The child had never known such 
closeness, such *sharing,* such lavish displays of affection were 
possible.  It had been extra fun how the man undressed him and sort of 
tied him up with his clothes.  Being blindfolded and hearing the man 
groan and make all those funny sounds had been thrilling, too.  And their 
pee-pees....  They touched pee-pees!  Rubbed them together in his 
underwear!  Spurted goo in his underwear....

Ian sat up with a start, remembering that it was Christmas.  He scrambled 
out of bed and to the dresser, searching for the day's outfit, frantic to 
dress and rush downstairs, but his clothes and pajamas were nowhere to be 
found.  Irritated for the delay, he put on his slippers and scampered out 
of the bedroom, down the hall and stood at the top of the stairs.

"Mr. Way?!"

"Yes, sleepy head?!"

"You forgot my clothes!"

"No, I did not!"

The skinny little boy in his white knee socks and tight, white briefs -- the 
crotch stiff and hardened with dried sperm -- shivered, missing the 
warmth of the bed and the man.  "Yeah, you did!  I'm in my *underwear* 
up here!"

Then the child's blue eyes went round and wide as he heard sleigh 
bells.  Without a second thought he raced nimbly down the stairs, 
holding the wooden rail with his left hand.  He ran through the kitchen, 
slippers patting the tile floor, and arrived breathlessly in the rec 
room.  Mr. Way stood beside the tree, wearing a blue bathrobe, holding a 
string of bells in one hand, focusing the video camera on Ian with the 
other.

"Ho ho ho!  Merry, Christmas!" boomed Matthew.

The child's face was joyous beneath his tousled hair.  His birdy chest 
swelled to the point of bursting, jitters in his knees.  Ian actually 
clasped his hands together beneath his chin and scrunched his shoulders, 
twisting left to right with pure, wondrous, baby-delight.  Gifts and 
presents were piled beneath the tree, the room lit with clear morning 
light.  "A Bike!  A bicycle!" the boy finally squealed, throwing himself 
onto a red dirt bike with knobby tires, sitting astride the tiny seat 
and gripping the handles tight.

Matthew set the camera on its tri-pod and took up the 35 mm.  Zoomed 
in.  Snapped photos.

"Don't!  I'm not dressed!" sang Ian.

"So what?  It's Christmas!"

Ian gazed down at his underwear, at the bike, then turned to the camera 
with an open-mouthed smile and waved.  "Yeah!  Yeah!" he laughed, 
nodding vigorously, posing proudly.  It was his every dream come true, 
and as he sat on his new bicycle he drifted, imagining himself 
delivering papers and all the other boys in the neighborhood watching.  
Matthew beamed, basking in the child's joy.  He photographed Ian 
crawling around the tree and tearing open each gift, removing many toys 
and many short pants outfits, suits, play clothes, and the dapper 
outfits he would wear to school from now on.  

"Oh, wow!" and "Cool!" and "I've wanted on of these!" were the child's 
exclamations as he posed -- almost stunned -- with each gift.  When the 
wrapping paper and boxes were piled high around the boy Matthew produced 
a final, large present and squatted.  Skinny Ian sprang into the man's 
arms, smothering his face with sweet, clumsy kiss, smacking loudly.  The 
man laughed and laughed, rocking the beanpole youth side to side.

"Your beard scratches!"  Ian pulled away, sitting back on his heeels and 
rubbing his tender cheeks, impressed by the man's overnight growth of 
stubble, never having seen him anything but clean-shaven.

"You've never kissed *me* before, Ian!" smiled Matthew.

"I know!  Weird, huh?"

"Not weird, baby!  Sweet!  I like it!"  The little boy ran his eyes over 
his daddy-friend and accepted his final gift.  He savored the heft and 
feel of the large box, then tore it open, removing the following items.

	1) A large clear bottle of baby oil
	2) Two small silver clamps joined by a small chain (nipple clamps)    
	3) A black leather thing with snap buttons (a cock strap)
	4) A black leather spiked collar
	5) Four thick black leather straps with velcro and tiny silver hooks
	   on each (ankle and wrist restraints)
	6) A black leather blindfold
	7) A black leather gag
	8) Soft black leather elfin boots that folded down
	9) A very, very short, tight pair of black leather pants
	10) A short black leather vest
	11) A black leather cowboy hat
	12) A black leather gun belt with holsters
	13) Four flesh-colored rubber things of different length and thickness
	    (butt plugs that lined the gun belt where bullets might go)
	14) A black leather cat o' nine tails whip with thick straps

"What's this...stuff?"  The innocent lad turned the leather shorts over 
in his hands, his smooth face perplexed, eyes wide.  

Matthew giggled and set the cowboy hat on Ian's head, securing the chin strap.  
"Take a guess."

The child stared at the man with the cutest, stunned expression, the 
cowboy hat making his ears stick out like jug handles.  "A cowboy suit???" 
he gasped, blushing deeply.  Wow!  Mr. Way *really* thought he was little!

"You don't like playing cowboys?"

Almost numbed by the ridiculous present, Ian rest the tiny, black leather 
shorts atop his underwear for size.  They were almost like more underwear!  
"But this...but this is for *babies!*" the boy sputtered.  "It's a *baby* 
cowboy's pants!  You want me to pretend I'm a cowboy???"

The handsome man threw back his head and laughed.  "Gee, whiz, Ian!  
Don't act like it's a dress!  I thought...I've never bought presents for 
a little boy before and I used to play cowboys when I was your age!"

In shorts!  How dumb! Ian thought, instantly ready to reject the gift but 
holding back with good manners.  He did not comprehend that he'd been 
given an S&M outfit even as he did not comprehend that he was already 
engaging in and naturally geared toward S&M forms of love-making.  "You 
wore shorts like this?"

"Well, no, but my daddy never bought me...I would have worn it if he...just
please wear it and see how it feels, O.K.?  We don't have to use all that 
stuff if you don't want to.  I just thought you'd want to play "The 
Cowboy Game" with me.  It's like our other games but more fun."

Ian screwed up his face, doubting the outfit but intrigued by the 
suggestion of more good feelings.  "What's that game?"

"Well, you'll have to wear the outfit to find out," Matthew said 
pleasantly.  "You don't have to, you know.  If you don't like it I can 
return it."

"N--no," the polite child said.  He lifted the tiny leather pants and 
peered at the vecro openings at the crotch and seat.  "How come there's 
two holes?"

"Because they're special cowboy pants, like your prince pants, you know?"

"And you want me to wear it, like, now?"

"It would make me happy.  At least to see how it fits."

"If anyone saw me...I'm not wearing it outside!" the boy said strongly.

"No no!  It's for us only!  But if anyone did see you I'm sure they'd 
think you make a cute cowboy."  When the child released a pained sigh the 
man patted the boy's arms.  "Don't worry, kid.  No one will know.  but 
can you wear it for me?  Just for me?  And you're not supposed to wear 
underpants with it."

"I can see that," said the boy, noting that the cut of the cowboy shorts 
were higher and tighter than his briefs.  Being a prince was O.K. because 
the pants made his pee-pee happy and he'd seen English boys in movies 
wearing them, but Ian had *never* seen boys wearing this kind of 
clothing.  But the man had given him so much Ian knew it would be wrong 
not to indulge him.  And no one would see.  And the man looked so pleased 
and Ian, like any boy submitting to the request of an adult, knew that 
the man would coo and say he was cute, obliged.  Besides, he wanted to 
learn about "The Cowboy Game," and they could always get their money back 
for the outfit.  And the other presents were so cool....

"Pretty please?" Matthew cajoled.

"Just for today.  To try it out," said the boy with a sigh.  Mr. Way was 
great, but he sure messed up with this!

"Well, go put it on!" said the man cheerily.  "And hurry up so we can 
play with these toys!"

Ian brightened instantly.  "Yeah!"  He rose up, then walked forward on 
his knees and embraced the man with a slow, soulful hug, nuzzling his 
face in the thick, soft blue houscoat at the man's chest.  "Thank you.  
Thank you, sir," he said, formality required after the shower of gifts.  
"You're so...I love you."  And having said it without hesitation, with 
such feeling for the first time, Ian said it again.  "I love you, Mr. 
Way.  I love you, too."

The big man returned the child's hug, his eyes watering.  "Oh, my little 
darling.  You are so so welcome.  So welcome.  So good.  Good boy."

(break)


Night.  Cowboy Ian stood in a mirrored corner of the basement, two 
professional photography lamps and their reflective, silver dishes 
bathing the child with brilliant light.  Ian's creamy body was 
paper-white against the black leather.  Head down, he watched the man 
attach the whip to his gunbelt on the left hip, the leather straps on the 
right.  The bottle of baby oil was in the right holster.

"What's with the oil?"

"For massages."

"And the plastic things?"

"For a surprise."  Matthew stepped back to focus the camera.  The bronze 
man was casually dressed, brown flannel shirt tucked into tan curdory 
short pants, tan socks rolled down around his ankles, and hiking boots.  

Ian fingered the butt plugs lining the front of his gun belt.  "Are these 
toys?"

"Yes."

"What do they do?"

"Good things to good little cowboys."

"Oh."  Ian craned his neck back, the spiked collar wrapped around his 
vulnerable throat, and gazed at a silver hook in the ceiling.  A thick 
chain dangled from the hook and angled to a hand crank mounted on the 
wall.  The child absently pulled at his black leather shorts.  The tiny 
pants were much shorter and tighter than his others, cut high along the 
sides and following the natural contours of his hips.  Glistening and 
fitting like a surgical glove.  "What's the chain for?"

"Nervous?"

"No."  Ian grinned at the man from under his cowboy hat, black bangs 
falling over his blue eyes, and patted a quick rhythm against the sides 
of his thighs with his dainty, baby hands.  "Why should I be?"

"That's what I'm saying.  There's no reason since we're gonna have fun."

Ian nodded, swaying ever so slightly.  The child was giddy, Matthew 
serving him expensive wine after dinner, explaining that real cowboys 
liked to drink.  Ian had been positively amazed that a grown up was 
giving him liquor, but it felt like a special, delicious secret.  His 
fake daddy liked to drink, and Ian had always been curious to find out 
why.  The wine had been very sweet, and the resulting buzz from two 
glasses surprisingly sweeter.  It was all part of "The Cowboy Game" to 
celebrate Ian's new outfit, and so far, the game was great fun.

"Action!" Matthew called, snapping a photo.

Ian posed then, setting  his hands on the whip and baby oil, ready to 
draw.  He and the man were making "Wanted" posters.  Ian curled his lips 
in a snarl, then burst into a fit of giggles.  I'm a Cowboy! the child 
thought incredulously, clamping his hands over his mouth.  He twisted 
side to side, the leather vest flopping around his skinny torso.

"Honey, be serious!"  Matthew rest his weight on one leg and side with 
mock despair.  "I hoped a professional photo environment would help you 
model...."  The handsome man hung the 35 mm around his neck, and picking 
up a bottle of wine and a glass from the floor, poured the Merlot and 
gave it to the child.  

"I think I'm drunk!" Ian declared happily.  He took the crystal glass in 
his left hand, thew his head back and drank and shivered, the wine 
coursing down his throat and tummy, warming him from the inside out.  
Matthew reached for the bottle of baby oil.  Ian made a "gun" with his 
right hand and poked his tuny finger into the man's washboard stomach, 
just above the bulge of his swollen glans, poking up past the waistband 
of his shorts.

"BANG BANG!" went Ian.

The big man  chuckled, charmed by the playful tyke, and knelt.  Kneeling, 
he was as tall as Ian.  The boy clamped his right hand heavily around the 
back of Matthew's neck and drank more, his tummy thrust out.

"What'cha doin'?" sang Ian.

"Something to help you model."

Ian giggled fruity and high as the man squirted cold, arcing streams of 
oil up and down his long, quivering legs.  He watched the man set the 
bottle back in the holster, then massage the oil into his legs from elfin 
boots to crotch-tight shorts.  The man's big hands worked strongly and 
made squishy sounds.  Ian's paper white, hairless legs grew richly moist 
and lubricated.

"Dear God, Ian," Matthew breathed, voice quavering.  "You have the 
loveliest legs I have ever seen."

Ian grinned, flattered, and drained his glass, a dribble of purple 
running down his chin; he wiped it away with the back of his hands.  He 
stared at his oiled legs, at the way they shined, his vision going in and 
out of focus.

"You're so goofy!  Goofy about my legs!" the child squealed, bending his 
knees in a kind of dance.

"Your leggies make me goofy!" Matthew beamed, carressing the child;s 
luscious flesh.

"Well, I'm *not* taking my pants off this time 'cuz I'm *not* wearing any 
underwear!"

Matthew bit his lips and ran his right hand over the boy's downy-soft 
tummy, fingers brushing the vest and shorts.  "You think I'm going to be 
gay with you again?"  He prodded the boy's navel.

"Yep!" chirped Ian, floating on a magic cloud.  

"Did you like it last night?"

The child blinked as if the man had asked a crazy question.  "Did 
I...sure I did!  Now I know how to make you love me!"

"Oh, hon!  I love you anyway!  All this is just deeper, more complete 
ways of expressing love, understand?"

Ian held the man's gaze, smiling hugely, and shook his head no.  He was 
not trying to be sarcastic: he truly did not comprehend: to the child, 
*everything* he did with the man was an intense expression of love.  "You 
spanked me!" he sang.

Matthew froze, sobering, many emotions passing over his face.  "Yes.  I 
did that.  I...I...this is so hard to explain...."

"Don't make that doctor talk, Mr. Way, O.K.?  Just play with me?  You 
didn't hurt me."

"You spanked yourself, too, remember?" Matthew asked softly, searching 
the small boy's eyes.  "If any of this...I mean *any* part of what we do 
together isn't fun, you have to tell me.  Do you promise?"

Ian closed his hands in the man's hair and stroked it, cupped the man's 
face.  The innocent boy never once considered that the man was talking 
about the spankings, never realized the man's ethical struggle to tailor 
his desires to the child's levels of sexual readiness.  He only thought 
that the man was concerned about the cowboy outfit, since Ian had 
complained earlier.  He regretted it.

"I like my cowboy uniform," said the little boy graciously.  "I guess I 
didn't think so...I mean...but it's just here and...leather feels funny."
Skinny Ian wriggled his hips, concentrating on how the tiny cowboy pants 
fit him like a second skin, molding around his butt and crotch.  He'd 
been a cowboy all day as he played with his new toys, so enraptured with 
his presents that he was only distantly cognizant of wearing the silly 
outfit.  But now...now his legs were oiled, he was drunk, horny....

"Whoops!  There it goes!"

Man and boy watched Ian grow erect, his genitals perfectly defined.

"Well, someone's got a happy pee-pee!" sang the man, standing and taking 
the glass from the boy.  The boy swayed on wobbly legs.  "You'e plowed,Ian!"

"I am?"  Ian held his hands before his face.  His hands felt like 
balloons.  His blue eyes were glassy, the pupils dilated like the eyes of 
a cartoon or teddy bear.  Then Ian dropped to his right knee, drew the 
smalles of the butt plugs, and aimed.  Beneath the leather hat and above 
the spiked collar, his pretty face was cowboy-serious.

"POW POW POW!" went Ian, voice shrill.

"Giddy up, cowboy!" the man encouraged, delightedly taking pictures.

"BANG BANG!  TAKE THAT!  AND THAT!"  Ian sprang into a wide crouch, 
erection hopping, tiny leather shorts a black wedge.  Then, lost in play, 
the child pranced and cavorted for the camera, unknowingly dressed and 
decorated for his first, complete S&M experience.  Ian turned sideways 
and pretended to ride a horse, galloping on springy, sparkling legs.  He 
reached back to spank his right hand on his baby ass.

"Yah, cowboy!  Yah!"

"Yah!  Giddy up, horsie!" Ian squealed, galloping harder, booted feet 
stomping.  "Leather feels funny!"

"You like those pants?"

"Feels funny without underwear!" the child nodded, spanking himself.  In 
his drunken play and first drunk, Ian finally did what the man had been 
encouraging him to do: to be a little boy, to play like a little boy, to 
enjoy being a little boy with his new daddy.  It was a breakthrough 
moment or the long-neglected child.

"Like this?!" Ian asked, face glowing, seeking encouragement as he 
spanked himself.  Whap!  Pat!  "Like this?!"

"Just like that!" Matthew agreed, zooming in, finding different angles.  
The mirrors reflected the photography lights, and the bright air around 
Ian, once again engaged in a natural discovery of self-inflicted 
spankings and auto-eroticism, acted like a magnifying lens.  The little 
boy's face tightened with the faintest wincings as his tiny hand cracked 
and cracked over his tiny, flexing buttocks.  In the mirrors, reflections 
of the little cowboy seemed to populate the basement with a heard of boys.

"Yippee!  Whoo whooo!" the child whooped, delirious, spanking and 
spurring himself on.  Making his butt and pee-pee tingle.  Then he lost 
his balance and fell down on all fours, laughing.

Matthew stepped forward, and kneeling behind the child, grabbed the 
velcro straps and fastened them around his ankles, locking them together 
with a tiny padlock joining the attached silver loops.  

Ian at back on his heels, the hairless white flesh of his oiled knees and 
thighs dazzling.  He watched the man reach around him to removes his 
vest, then fasten the straps around his wrists.  "I get these!  You're 
gonna pretend you're bringing me in for a reward, right?" Ian chirped, 
staring at the wrsits and testing the restraints.  Mr. Way had played 
with him and his toys all day and was now playing cowboys.  For a grown 
up, Mr. Way was just like a kid, the playmate Ian had longed for all his 
life.

"Sure!" Matthew agreed, touching the child's spiked collar with shaking 
fingers.  "Only you're not an outlaw but a good little cowboy.  And the 
only reward I'll get for capturing you is you!"

"Naw!"  Ian dropped his hands onto his lap.  "I gotta be the bad guy!  
And you gott a get reward money!"

"But I already have lots of money.  I could use a cowboy outfit, though.  
Should I wear a leather short pants outfit like yours for next time?"

"Yeah!"  The drunk child's face lit up.  "You're the sheriff!  And you 
can take me to jail!"

"I'll take you to jail right now, then!"  Matthew stood and gripped Ian 
under his arms, lifting his feathery weight, the child squealing happily 
as he was set on his feet.

"All right, sheriff!  You got me!  But my gang's gonna break me out!"

"No!  No one's gonna help you now!" barked the man, pretending and not 
pretending.  Again, many emotions passed across Matthew's face, then he 
continued.

The little boy threw his head back as the man stretched his arms up and 
fasted his wrists straps to the chain hanging from the ceiling.  Ian 
still held the butt plug in his left hand.  "So *that's* what it's for!" 
the tyke declared, standing on tippy-toes, staring at the ceiling chain.  
Ian's black leather shorts snaked into his ass crack, his baby bottom 
clenching and chewing on the "wedgie" as he balanced on his toes.  "Why 
didn't you tell me?  It's the jail, right?"

Matthew spun the boy around at his hips, hugged the outstretched child 
and delivered a sharp, single, powerful slap with his right hand on th 
boy's bubbly ass.

CRACK!

"Yeow!" Ian yelped, arching and pressing his crotch against the man's 
hairy thighs.  His spanked butt was warmed and hummed, and he craned his 
neck back to look in the man's face.  "Is this how you punish us crooks?" 
he demanded playfully, pretending.

"Gets work if you don't obey the law," said Matthew, smiling.  He 
tenderly touched the little boy's nose.

The drunked child smiled toothily: Mr. Way played make-believe real 
good.  "I like you a lot."

"Me, too.  Now get ready."

"You gonna spank me?"

"Yes."

"And make my pee-pee happy?"

"Uh huh?"

Ian pushed against the floor with his toes, trying to instinctively hump 
the man's legs.  "But, like, you're gonna spank me, too, right?" he 
asked, high voice filled with urgency.

The man's eyes watered.  He swallowed hard, brushed the back of his 
hands over the boy's already flushed cheeks.  "Can I really?  Can I 
really spank you tonight?"

The child gazed up at the huge man towering over him.  The nice man.  The 
kind man.  "It's part of 'The Cowboy Game,' right?"  Matthew smiled and 
nodded.  Ian felt a wave of pleasant disorientation, his excitement and 
beating heart dilating his blood vessels and sending the alcohol surging 
through his body and brain.  "You mean really spank me?" he almost 
whispered, the room spinning.

"I mean spank you so you might cry.  And you always cry.  Always so many 
tears, baby, like little diamonds.  It's such a special thing, S&M.  It's 
spiritual.  Meditative.  Priests and holy men used to flagellate 
themselves to meditate and find enlightenment.  People fast, run 
marathons, release endorphins through good sex and find a natural high.  
A special place inside...."

Ian swayed heavily, blinking hard, head wobbling.  He couldn't 
concentrate anymore: his mind drifted.  "Can you sign me up for Boy Scouts?"
he asked incongrously.

The big man gasped and hugged the chained, helpess child tight.  Rocked 
him side to side.  "My darling.  My Ian.  I'll do anything you command, 
my prince.  My prince.  You're chained, but I'm the one who's really 
helpless, really...intimidated by your frail beauty and tenderness.  Let 
me take you someplace special tonight.  Some place so rare and wonderful, 
so secret.  Secret...."

Ian suddenly went limp, the butt plug falling from his hand and to the 
floor with a faint tap.  The child looked like a living statue, head 
hanging down, cowboy hat masking his face.  Matthew released Ian, stepped 
back, and staring at the boy began to undress himself, tearing at his 
flannel shirt and ripping it, the buttons flying, frantically  peeling 
his tan corduroy short pants and briefs down his legs and over his 
boots.  Ian did not move, the sudden quiet deafening in the wake of the 
child's squeaking voice and questions.  The naked man, now only in tan 
socks and hiking boots, walked to the crank mounted on the wall.

The skinny, drunk, chained little cowboy stretched and stretched -- oily
tummy dramatically concave, each bony rib pronounced, pelvis lax and legs 
elongating -- as his elfin boots left the floor with each metallic click 
of the turning crank.

Tableau: 11 year old Ian Brendan O'Donnell hung limply in mid-air.  The 
child's oiled legs dangled side by side, sparkling and casting slivers of 
light like a mirrored disco ball.  The man watched as the child began to 
turn in slow motion, moving in rhythm with the turning of the earth.  
Ian's hairless armpits were the color of coral.

An eternity seemed to pass before the man reached out to grip the child's 
hips and stop his turning.  Ian appeared unconcsious.  Matthew fumbled 
for the nipple clamps in Ian's left holster, his fingernails scratching 
the hard leather, his turgid cock bouncing against the boy's narrow 
thighs.  He fastened the clamps to Ian's tiny tits, mashing them so that 
they bloomed as red as two ripe cherries.  The little boy made no sound, 
gave no movement.

Matthew stepped back to take more pictures.

Ian dreamed.  He dreamed he was floating in the swimming pool.  his heart 
pounded in his ears as if water were there, filling his ears, the 
crashing surf echoing.  He felt warm, dreamt of a hot sunny summer, the 
long sky blue and endless overhead.  He dreamt water lapping all over his 
body and the man on the patio, whistling, cooking lobsters and clams 
wrapped in foil, and corn cobs still in their green husks, on the propane 
grille.  The child smiled and stirred, drunk on love.

"Oh, my angel!  My angel!" the man whined, seeing the dreaming child's 
thin lips twitch.  The child-male turned slowly from his skinny, chained 
arms, projecting the calm of trust and safety.  His cowboy-hatted head 
lolled.

        Matthew sighed, a delicious shiver spreading through his body as he
watched the chained, little leather cowboy.  He picked up the empty glass
and bottle of wine, refilled the glass and drained it in one long draught.
Then he filled the glass once more and approached the child, tracing the
fingers of his left hand over the child's delicate breast bone.  Fingers
trembling, he touched the silver nipple clamps and twisted them.
Carefully.  Slowly.  Stirring the tiny tits.
        Ian stirred and gave a faint moan.  His head fell back, mouth open.
        Matthew took a sip of wine and twisted the nipple clamps harder,
watching the boy react by slightly jerking from his chains.  The man
understood that he was doing something very special for Ian by helping him
tap into his S&M tendencies, and he wanted this first, complete experience
to be wonderful for both of them, determined not to transgress any
boundaries.
        The child's pinched, cherry-red nipples bloomed like flowers in the
garden.
        "Mr. Way?" Ian peeped, voice high and dreamy.
        "Yes, baby?"
        Matthew twisted the nipple clamps harder and Ian drew a sharp breath.
        "There's...a mosquito biting my chest."
        "No.  It's part of your cowboy outfit.  Those tiny silver clamps?
Remember?" the man asked gently, whispering into the boy's thin face.
        "Y-y-yeah?"
        "Those clamps are nipple clamps.  I put them on your nipples."
        "You did?"
        Ian let his head fall forward as if to look at himself through his
blindfold.  His dangling body quivered as the man twisted the clamps,
moving from one to the other.  Ian's penis twanged in his glistening, black
leather shorts.  He tried to concentrate on the nipple clamps but his
thoughts were fuzzy.  Did they hurt? No, not really.  They felt kind of
good, pinching and pulling on his skin.
        "I never saw them in toy stores.  What store did you get them from?"
        Matthew smiled.  "From a very special toy store."
        The chained cowboy twisted, birdy chest swelling.
        "Do your wrists hurt?  Is everything OK?"
        "Uh huh," the boy peeped, trembling.  Whatever those nipple toys
were, they were doing something good.
        "Playing cowboys is fun, huh?"
        "Uh huh!"  A flash of pain made the boy gasp with an erotic wave.
"Oh!"
        "You like that, baby?  That feel good?"
        Ian nodded.
        "Here.  How about you finish this glass of wine so you get nice and
relaxed."
        Ian parted his lips as the man helped him drink the last of the
wine.  The boy gulped greedily, the wine making his body warm and numb.
        The little boy went limp once more.
        Matthew set the glass down and picked up the butt plug.  The
adult-male stepped to the child-male, melting against his body, Ian's boots
at his shins.  Matthew thrust his turgid cock between the child's oiled
inner thighs as he took up the leather gag from the gun belt and fitted it
into the child's lax mouth, tying it around the child's small head.
        Matthew held the child's frail back and began to fuck, slow and
easy, leisurely pleasuring himself.  The man's cock moved in and out, in
and out, appearing and disappearing between the child's slippery thighs
until the man's cock also sparkled with oil.  He kissed the child's gagged
mouth, tasting wine.  His hand moved underneath the child's vest, making it
go up and down.  The limp preteen bounced against the big man with each
thrust.
        "Oh, yes!" the man groaned.  "What a good boy!  What a good leather
cowboy!"
        Minutes passed.
        Matthew stumbled back an crouched, fisting his cock, clenching his
teeth and struggling against orgasm.  He spun the little boy at the hips
and lubricated the butt-plug by running it up and down the the little boy's
legs.  The man breathed in ragged gasps, barrel chest rising and falling,
eyes wide.  He opened the velcro hole at Ian's anus and almost fainted.
        The child's button-hole anus was hairless and pink and tight tight
tight.  Ian's ass cheeks were lax, soft pillows.  The man's thick brown
thumbs proved the child's ass hole, spreading the tiny buttocks as if
splitting a head of lettuce.
        The handsome man lowered his face and began to suck and lick Ian's
11 year old ass.
        The little boy hung silently.  Unaware.
        Matthew smacked and sucked the preteen's bottom, spread the boy's
buttocks and traced his tongue along the warm velvety ass crack.  Slurping.
        Matthew peeled the child's buttocks wider and curled his long
probing tongue inside Ian's rectum.  Tasting the ultra-slick moist
membranes of the little boy's anus.  Entering the little boy's virgin body.
        Ian's milk-white buttocks rippled and fluttered around the man's
tongue.  The child hung with his head down, tiny hard-on flopping in his
tight leather shorts.
        "Oh, tastes so good!  Always knew your ass would be so tight!  So
sweet!" wined the man, face twisting.  Matthew pulled out his tongue,
swallowed deeply, then bit gently into the child's right buttocks, taking a
roll of flesh between his teeth.
        The little boy -- ankles strapped together, legs side by side, bony
arms outstretched, strapped wrists chained -- did not react.  But deep,
deep at the back of Ian's brain he felt his rectum extra-wet and tingling
from the man's tongue.
        Matthew leaned back and traced his fingers along the pink
teeth-marks imprinted on the child's immaculate, tender buttock.  He
pressed the two inch butt-plug against the child's miniature,
saliva-moistened rectum and pushed.
        The butt-plug slid in without resistance.  Ian seemed unaware that
he'd been penetrated.  His anus had spread wider than a silver dollar and
the sphincter had closed tightly around the small, plastic toy.  The man
smiled, pleased that the boy felt no pain.  He refastened the velcro
opening, hiding the butt-plug beneath the boy's leather shorts.
        Matthew continued fucking Ian's legs.
        Time passed in the brightly lit basement.
        Ian gradually became aware.  He found himself bouncing against the
man's hard, hairy body, and felt something stuck up in his butt.  It gave
him a feeling of fullness and was not uncomfortable.  He tried to speak but
couldn't form words.  He tried again, tried to lick his lips....
        "Uugh?" the boy queried.
        "It's the cowboy gag, remember?  I put it on you.  And I put one
the toy you were holding inside you butt.  It's called a butt plug and
should feel very nice."
        The chained cowboy's brows knit over his blindfold.  In his butt?
What a strange thing to do!  But the toy did feel good in there, snug and
tight.  He realized it was part of the "butt game" the man had spoken of
and nodded.
        "Just nod your head yes or no, Ian," Matthew groaned, fucking the
boy's legs.  Am I hurting you?"
        Ian shook his head no.
        "And you know sheriffs put blindfolds and gags on their prisoners?"
        Ian nodded yes.
        "And you know I'm going to spank you?"
        Ian nodded again.
        "Do you want me to take you down?  Because I will."
        Ian shook his head strongly.  His whole body tingled, strange
sensations radiating out from his nipples and from inside his butt and
gathering in his groin.  He heard the man whine with happiness and it made
Ian happy, too.  He loved Mr. Way and wanted to make him happy.
        Smack.  Whap.
        The little cowboy jerked as the man's heavy hands began to tap at
the backs of his thighs.  Hardly spanking him at all.
        Matthew sighed as the gentle love-taps sent massaging twitches of
the child's thighs around his cock.
        Ian's skin tingled where the man's hands hit, and once more he was
glad his legs were naked and pants were so short.  The boy was still dizzy
from the wine and it left him free to relax and enjoy all the new
sensations, just like the man promised.
        Whap!  Smack!
        Matthew began to spank the boy a bit harder, moving along the sides
of his thighs now, increasing the tempo.  Stimulating the child's dainty,
dangling legs.
        Pat!  Swat!  Whap!
        Ian responded positively, grunting with each slap, jerking against
the man.
        Several minutes passed as man and boy played their game, the smacks
beginning to echo in the basement.
        Matthew stepped back.  The boy hung waiting, waiting, then tugged
on his chains and kicked weakly.
        "Do you want to keep playing?" the man asked, voice charged with
passion.
        "Uh huh!" Ian answered, nodding his small, gagged and blindfolded
face.  The boy was charging and yearned for release, his pee-pee incredibly
happy, happier than ever.  He suddenly brought his knees to his chin and
curled into a tight ball.  His white legs shined wetly, drenched and
slathered with oil.
        Shaking with desire, his every muscle tensed, the big man reached
out and took the leather cat o' nine tails whip that hung coiled from Ian's
left hip.  He let the whip and its thick heavy straps unfurl and stared at
the hanging boy's creamy body with all its tender young flesh.
        "Ian.  The game we're playing must be kept a secret.  Do you
understand?"
        The chained cowboy nodded, tiny penis pulsing in the glistening
leather shorts.
        "You must never tell.  Do you promise not to tell?"
        The cowboy nodded again and torqued his bony hips left to right,
eager to continue.
        "May I please spank you with your cowboy whip, Ian?"
        The little boy stopped twisting for a moment, confused by the man's
formality, then began to nod and twist once more.  Ian wanted his spanking.
        Matthew reached out for the front of the child's crotch-tight
pants, and with his hairy thick forearm between the curled boy's thighs,
massaged the kiddie genitals.
        "Ooo!" went Ian, skinny body going tight as a spring.  He curled
tighter, body tinier for being doubled up, and thrust his crotch up into
the man's hand.  Mr. Way was touching his pee-pee!  Wow!  Ian had never
thought of such a thing and the sensations were amazing!  The boy's
pleasure was tinged with respect: Mr. Way knew so much about short pants
and pee-pees.
        The man's hand pulled away.
        "NGH!" the boy yelped in frustration.  He tried to thrust out with
his crotch and find the man's hand, then he heard the man laugh softly and
realized for the first time that he was completely helpless.  He couldn't
see, couldn't talk, couldn't move.  Ian could only wait for the man.
        "Are you my good little cowboy?" Matthew asked in a sing-song voice.
        Mr. way was teasing him!  Ian felt a flush of anger -- it wasn't
good manners to tease a friend -- but the anger only increased the boy's
anxiety and made him want a spanking more.  The intensity of his need
startled Ian.  This *was* a good game.
        The boy began to nod, twisting his hanging body in a sensual
manner, instinctively making the movements that would turn the man on.  Ian
tried to ask for the spanking, thin lips and cheeks bunched around the gag.
He straightened his legs and felt his self start to turn slowly.  He heard
the man sigh.
        "I love you, Ian.  I love you so much."
        WHAP!  CRACK!  SMACK!
        "NNGGHH!"
        The cat o'nine tails whip whistled on its way to impacting the
tender backs of Ian's white, hairless thighs.
        The little boy's thighs shook.
        The little boy jumped.
        POW!  BAM!
        The whip curled around the child's thighs as he spun, the lashes
just below the leather shorts.
        Matthew swung the whip easily, watching the thick heavy lashes make
contact.  He wasn't hitting the boy hard, just enough to thrill Ian with
the taste of leather.  The whip on the boy's legs sounded much louder than
it was actually hitting.
        "UGH!  UGH!"
        Matthew waited for Ian to spin, took aim and brought the whip down
on the front of Ian's thighs.
        Ian jackknifed, drawing his knees up to his chin, baby legs spread
wide, exposing his inner thighs, glistening black shorts pulling tight,
cock bulging.
        POW!
        "OOO!!!"
        The whip crashed into Ian's right, inner thigh.
        The child's thigh shook.
        The child kicked his legs down, knees locking and skinny body
jerking.  The chain at his wrists twanged.
        "You're doing fine, Ian.  Just fine.  You play cowboys very well,"
the man breathed.  Muscled arm rising above his head and then -- WHAP! --
bringing the whip down on Ian's taut tummy.
        "GUGH!"
        SMACK!
        The whip hit across Ian's chest and nipple clamps.
        Ian's nipples erupted with a white-hot thrill and he torqued his
body to the right and kicked his long, long legs.  Ian began to swing in
wide arcs as he spun, oscillating above the floor.
        The child never looked skinnier, stretched taut and swinging, his
reflection sweeping across the mirrors and his shadow moving over the
floor.  With each impact of the whip the little boy's head snapped back and
forth, the cowboy hat brushing between his skinny arms.  The boy's small
face grew flushed un the gag and blindfold.  The spiked collar at his
throat gleamed.
        "Getting ready to wet your pants?" Matthew asked, masturbating now.
        "Uh huh!  Uh huh!  UNGH!" Ian gurgled, knees bending and legs
flashing as the whip smacked them.
        BAM!
        "OOOO!!!"
        Matthew spanked the little boy's ass.  The boy's ass clenched
tightly, and he let go a shriek of intense delight, feeling the butt-plug
gripped in his rectum.  That toy was going something good in there!
        CRACK!
        The whip hit the boy's tiny ass.
        "GUGH!"
        Ian went dizzy, from the wine, building orgasm, and the butt-plug
stimulating his prostate.  Ian did not know he had a prostate.
        WHAM!  WHAP!  BANG!
        "UGH UGH UGH!"
        Ian's lips sputtered around the gag, and the sliver nipple clamps
on his kiddie titties shined.  He strained in his chains and arched
backwards, lean, long legs stretching and extending so that he formed a
semi-circle of his body.  His tiny penis pulsed in the sexy leather short
pants.
        The whip spanked the boy's ass repeatedly.
        Ian was lost in a private heaven of pleasure, and every nerve of
his body sang with falsetto delights.  The whip hit his ass and made the
skinny boy jerk each time although he remained arched backwards, straining
and trembling.  His ass was rock-hard now, buttocks marbleized, and his
rectum fluttered and sucked on the butt-plug as if trying to pull it in
deeper.  His prostate gland was smashed against his urethra, and the boy
felt himself charging to impossible limits.
        WHACK!
        "EEEEE!!!!"
        Ian orgasmed.
        Ian remained arched as the whip lashed his legs front and back,
Matthew whipping overhand and underhand.
        Ian's tiny penis poured forth its love-juice, soaking the crotch of
his little leather cowboy shorts.
        Ian suddenly jerked and squealed and torqued and spun, dancing in
his chains, high peeps of a child's erotic release like a siren in the
basement.  He sensed that he'd never had a climax to equal the one tearing
through him then.
        Matthew dropped the whip, ran forward, hugged the child from behind
and rammed his cock between the boy's thighs.  He fucked once, twice, and
then shot his load, too.  His sperm jetted from between Ian's spanked,
oiled thighs and shot across the floor.
        Low-groans of man, high-shrieks of little boy.  Naked man and S&M
cowboy cumming.  Wriggling together.  Giving up their fluids.
        In time, Matthew gathered his senses, found himself clinging to
Ian's back.  Ian was gasping, semi-conscious in the aftermoment of sexual
climax.  The big man quickly took the boy down from his chain and cradled
him in his arms, purring and cooing, heading for the stairs.
        By the time they reached the bedroom and Matthew tenderly lay Ian
on the mattress, the little leather cowboy was asleep, exhausted and
content.  Surrendering to his need for rest and the safety of this
wonderful, loving grown man, Mr. Way.
        Matthew left the child as he was, and only in the morning when he
felt Ian wriggling against him, grunting, did the man remove the gag,
blindfold, collar, ankle and wrists straps.  Only then did he reach into
the cowboy's cummy leather short pants and ease free the butt-plug.
        Ian lay, watching silently.  His eyes glowed.

THE END
  

And now, a different story by the same author :

Date: Sun, 5 Nov 1995 01:13:01 -0600 (CST)
From: SBP
To: Mercury, the Master of A.S.S.
Subject: True Stories

Dear Merc,

I always like what you include in my postings, but I still hope you will 
include the following autobiographical story, which I've sent you before?
Please consider it: it is the closet memory of my being with a beautiful 
and good little boy I possess, and of the closeness and affection he 
innocently, strongly, and deeply shared with me.  Ethan was very aware of 
our friendship, sensing the true respect and delight I took in his 
companionship, and it was very important to him that he let me know, 
again and again, how much he loved me, too.  I know now he was as 
surprised and charmed at his feelings for me as I was with my feelings 
for him.  Not sexual but something deeper.  Something much more soulful.
Please post it.


I'm sending this along to you to include when posting Chapter seven.  It 
is a true reminiscence of my first, genuine, full-blown love for a wonderful, 
beautiful boy.  I ask you to include it because the emotions were so redemptive 
and pure, and because I think all men have felt love for a beautiful 
boy and sensed that the boy loved them in return.  After all, boy-love isn't 
genital but something spiritual, a connection to the memory of being a boy and 
the realization that a boy will someday be a man.  There is an androgynous 
and inherently miraculous process in seeing a boy entering puberty.  Gay or 
straight, men are genetically "hard-wired" to recognize that no woman could 
ever hope to match a pubescent boy's beauty.  The allure is undeniable as any 
man's honest self-exploration will prove.  The bursting promise, so soon to be 
discovered by the boy, of joyous ejaculation, orgasm, sperm shooting like 
magic from his self-stimulated penis -- us men remember, and the memories 
shape us all, join us in an unbreakable, glittering chain of malehood.


I was a camp counselor and feel in love with a boy of thirteen (he turned 
thirteen on the third week of camp).  I didn't expect it to happen
but Ethan was a great kid.  Cute, polite, with a quiet sense of 
humor, and intelligent.  He liked my dry sense of humor and understood 
when I was joking even when the other kids didn't.  

Ethan weighed 95 pounds and stood about 5'1".  He had dark brown 
hair and brown eyes and a smooth, olive-skinned body.  He won the 
"healthy camper" award because he was always cleand and took care of 
himself.  He often wore brightly colored polo shirts tucked into elastic 
waisted short pants -- real pants, not gym shorts -- thigh-high and with long 
white knee socks.  Such a beanpole, and so sporty-looking.

We buddied up and he often sat next to me by the campfires at 
night.  Side by side on the log, we'd talk about all kinds of things and 
surprise each other with our jokes and observations, and he had a habit 
of patting my arm and knee.  He wasn't  self-conscious at all.  We 
just really liked each other.

At night, when the Wisconsin air grew cold, and ten-thousand 
stars spiralled in the blue sky overhead -- the wind sighing through the 
pines, crickets and bullfrogs sounding from the dark beyond the circle of 
firelight; wild rice swaying in the lake and the water rippling, 
sparkling with moonlight and lapping the stones along the shore -- my 
heart swelled with affection and romance for the boy.  We'd wear 
windbreakers.  Ethan's was light blue and on one occassion I reached over 
and playfully pulled his jacket around him to keep him warm, my hand 
brushing his chin as he looked down.  And then he reached over and did 
the same to me but in a serious, affectionate way.  We got embarassed and 
cleared our throats, squirming on the log, our knees touching.  Ethan had 
the most beautiful smooth legs I'd thought I'd ever seen.  They looked so 
touchable, glossy and buttery in the firelight, and his grey shorts were 
so short I could see most of his thighs.  He was too young to have any 
muscle, and when he shifted there was just a kind of tightening under his 
tan, baby-soft skin.

I would tell stories at bedtime, reciting Jack London or Ray Bradbury from 
memory, and Ethan would ask me to make up my own, usually about a boy scout 
since he was one himself.  He slept on a top bunk and would pat the mattress 
for me to sit, and I'd sit and tell a story until Ethan and the other 
campers fell asleep.  He wasn't trying to be seductive or anything and neither 
was I.  He was treating me like a friend.

I never did anything, of course, but I would have hugged him and 
kissed if I could have.  When we went swimming in the lake we'd wrestle 
and I loved to hold his slim, smooth body, feeling him struggle against 
me.  We'd stare into each other's faces and laugh, enjoying 
everything camp is meant to be.  Sometimes I'd carry Ethan around.  He'd 
climb onto my back and I'd hold his thighs strongly in my hands, 
my fingers sinking into that smooth, beautiful flesh, his feathery weight 
and long, thin legs clamping tight around my waist.  Sometimes I'd carry 
him on my shoulders and feel his butt there, the soft bulges of his 
crotch brushing the back of my neck, my hands squeezing his tiny feet or 
closing around his warm, round, brown-apple knees.

I took lots of pictures at camp, and when I look at Ethan I 
remember every detail.  The smell of the trees, the warm sun, games of 
soccer and volleyball and Ethan's high, clear voice.  HIs character 
grin, happy eyes, thin cheeks flushed rose.  And his beautiful naked legs 
flashing with sunshine.

I didn't expect to have those feelings for a kid 7 years younger, but I did 
and they were some of the strongest and purest feelings I have ever felt.  It 
wasn't lust but something better, a mix of friendship and older, 
brotherly love.  On the last day of camp most of the kids were sad and even 
cried, hugs all around.  I was incredibly depressed and surprised by that.  
Ethan was the last boy to say goodbye to me, walking up shyly and shaking my 
hand.  There wasn't much to say, and it's a shame that we didn't live near one 
another to keep up our friendship.  As he turned to walk to the bus I stepped 
forward and closed my hands over his shoulders, squeezing tight, tousling his 
hair.  He stood still, not wanting me to let go, and I felt his body relax in 
my grip.  I could have hugged him then and I know he wouldn't have minded.  He 
liked me as much as I liked him.  I was invited back to work at the camp the 
next year -- and Ethan and some of the boys made me promise to come back -- but
I didn't because I couldn't go through that heartache and strange, 
wonderful attraction again.

I know what the Greeks meant about boys and why they made so many statues of 
them.  Sometimes, things happen, and people connect in deep and startling ways,
gender and age made irrelevant and, at the same time, terribly important.  Life
is strange, isn't it, and sometimes I can feel the roof of my house balancing 
the night onits point, and I wonder how anything every happens.  Ethan and I
were beautiful together. 


IAN, ONE MAN's PRINCE
by Short Boys-Pants

Chapter Eight
"The Golden Ropes of Love"

        Ian rummaged through the refrigerator for a snack, searching the
full racks.  Today's outfit was purple shoes, lavender cuffed knee
stockings, dark purple linen short pants, a dark purple sweater vest, a
lavender short-sleeved Oxford and a knit, purple and lavender tie.
        Ian decided on left-over Chinese food: an egg roll, rice and
sweet-and-sour chicken.  He almost reached for a can of soda -- the man
would never miss it -- but then chose the carton of milk.  Mr. Way was a
doctor and very strict about nutrition, and Ian wanted to be a good,
healthy boy.
        He went about his little business of preparing his meal, pulling a
dish and glass from the cupboard, warming the food in the microwave oven.
The man had taught him how to use a microwave, and Ian felt very modern and
kind of like an astronaut, the electronic beeps and digital numbers making
him smile.  Snack ready, the little boy say on a stool by the island
counter and ate, his appetite good.  He drank two glasses of milk.
        "So thirsty," the boy wondered aloud, not realizing he was slightly
hung over.  After the man had removed Ian's cowboy outfit and various
accessories, the boy had gone back to sleep, exhausted from a full day of
Christmas surprises and nighttime play.  He'd awakened rather late, and it
was now almost noon.  The kitchen was bright.
        Ian heard a sound behind him and spun around on the stool.
        "Hi!"
        Ian smiled up at the cleaning lady -- Consuelo -- who turned the
corner and entered the kitchen.  The woman was short and dark, middle-aged,
dressed in a simple flower-print dress and carrying a basket of fresh
laundry.
        "Madre!"
        Ian's smiled faded: the woman looked scared.  Then the boy
remembered the day's note; Mr. Way had explained that Consuelo didn't speak
English and was "undocumented."  Ian didn't know what "undocumented" meant
but he knew that the woman was a foreigner, and figured she was just
shocked to see him.  After all, they'd never met.
        "My name's Ian.  I'm Mr. Way's friend."
        Consuelo stared open mouthed at the child.
        Ian took a bite of his egg roll and tilted his head quizzically,
munching.  Woman and boy stared at one another.
        "It's OK!  He knows I'm here.  You're Consuelo, right?"
        The little boy smiled his dimpled smile, trying to make friends.
        "Dios!" said the woman.
        "No.  Ian.  I'm Ian," the child repeated patiently, pointing at his
chest.
        The woman narrowed her eyes and glanced at the basket of laundry.
        Ian followed her gaze innocently.  He saw his clothes and his underwear.
        "Thank you for washing my clothes," the boy said politely, drinking
his milk and leaving a moustache.  "Mr. Way says you come once a week?"
        "Si.  Yes.  Once a week," gasped the woman.
        Puzzled, the little boy looked down at himself, and after a moment,
felt he'd put the pieces together.
        "Oh!  I see what you mean!" Ian chirped, bashfully hunching his
shoulders and running his hands over his bare thighs.  "Mr. Way likes to
dress me.  He says short pants are a boy's pants."
        The cleaning lady hurried from the room and up the stairs, leaving
Ian to confusedly study his outfit.  The little boys scratched his head,
shrugged, and continued to eat.  He was so hungry!  So thirsty!

                        *                       *                       *

        "Hi!"
        Matthew stepped through the door and Ian ran and threw himself in
the man's arms.  The man dropped his briefcase and caught the little boy,
spinning him around.  Ian's long legs swung wide, white skin flashing.
        "Wheee!"
        "Did you check the mail, baby?"
        "Uh uh."
        "Let's make that your chore, OK?"
        Ian nodded, wanting only to do his share.
        The man carried the little boy out onto the porch.  Naturally
affectionate, the little boy touched the man's face, frail white fingers
brushing the man's lips and strong, square jaw.
        In the circle of bright porch lights, the tall man -- in black ear
muffs and black wool coat -- opened the mailbox and began sorting
envelopes.  The little boy sat in the crook of the man's left arm, pretty
and sissified in his purple and lavender short pants suit.  Made gentle and
insecure by his abusive father -- and finding acceptance with Mr. Way over
the past few days -- the little boy was reinventing himself in the desired
image of his new, surrogate father.
        Ian Brendan O'Donnell truly felt pretty in his shorts suits.  The
barely pubescent homosexual boy was not aware that he was acquiring
effeminate characteristics.  All he knew was that Mr. Way was so much
bigger and stronger than himself.
        "Brrr!" went Ian, goose bumps rising along his smooth thighs.  He
watched the man read the important-looking envelopes and tried to hold
still, knowing that, as a doctor, Mr. Way had many responsibilities.  But
the polar wind and wool coat were so cold against his legs.
        "Finish reading inside, Mr. Way!  I'm freezing!"
        "I would think so!" said Matthew, handing Ian the mail.  The child
took the mail, gazing at the envelopes, then down as the man began to
examine his thighs, brown fingers sinking into the shining white flesh.
        Ian saw the man's studious expression and furrowed his brow.
        "What's wrong?"
        "Nothing.  Just checking my baby's legs."
        The man poked and prodded.  Ian tolerated the examination, then
rest his forehead against the man's.
        "You didn't hurt me," he grinned knowingly.  "Can we go in now?"
        Matthew laughed and entered his majestic home, kicking the heavy
oak door closed.  He sat the child boy on the living room couch.
        "How was your day?"
        "Good!" Ian chirped, setting the mail aside and rubbing his arms
and legs.  "I met that lady!  She was weird!"  He told the man of how
Consuelo had walked upstairs to put the laundry away without saying
goodbye.  "I tried to be nice but I don't think she likes me."
        "Of course she likes you!  She just doesn't know you," said the
man, removing his coat and tossing it over Ian.
        The little boy giggled and playfully hid beneath the coat.
        The man smiled and dropped his pants, stepping out of them.  In
black silk boxers, black socks, shoes and white shirt and tie, he knelt
before the child.
        "Let's play cowboys again!" Ian sang.
        "You liked that game?"  Pleased, the man opened his briefcase.
        "Uh huh!  It was neat!"
        "I didn't hurt you?"
        "Not really."  The whip had stung more than being spanked with a
belt or hands, but hanging by his wrists while blindfolded and gagged had
been amazing!  He could move and twist in the air -- like dancing -- and
the thrill of not knowing when or where he'd be whipped next made
everything a surprise.  The butt and nipple toys had been neat, too.
        "We'll play cowboys another time.  Right now I want to play a new game."
        "A new game?"  Ian peered out from under the man's coat and smiled
broadly to see the man with his pants down.  He watched the man remove
several coils of soft, gold braided rope from his briefcase.
        "You gonna tie me up?"
        "Yep."
        "Why?"
        "So we can wet our pants.  Ever read poetry?"
        "Uh uh," Ian chirped, tossing the coat aside and setting his purple
shoes on the man's hairy thighs as if he were being fitted for shoes in a
store.  The child was deliriously happy, penis instantly erect.
        Matthew wrapped the gold rope around and around the lavender
stockings at Ian's ankles.
        "In poetry, there's a figure of speech called a metaphor.  It's
when you use a symbol to represent an idea."
        "Mr. Way.  I'm on school vacation, remember?" Ian teased, batting
his long eyelashes.  He leaned forward to watch, hands on his knees.  When
the man made a knot the boy spread his baby-legs wide, testing the ropes.
His inner thighs were planar with tendons.
        "Too tight?"
        "Nope!"
        Matthew reached for the boy's arms.  Fascinated, Ian accepted the
second rope around his wrists.
        "In this instance, the ropes are a metaphor for the love between
you and me.  That's why they're gold and that's why you're wearing them,"
said the man, tying the knot.
        The skinny boy squirmed, raising his hands to his face.  The ropes
felt neat and looked pretty.
        "Really, though.  How come you like tying me up and stuff?"
        "So you won't run away."
        "Run away?"  Ian gasped, shocked.  His blue eyes went wide and he
shook his head, speaking seriously.  "I won't ever run away from you, Mr.
Way."
        Matthew stroked the child's twiggy arms.  "I know.  I'm just teasing."
        "Well, don't.  OK?  It's not funny."
        The man blinked, surprised by the boy's change in demeanor.
        "That wasn't funny.  You're right.  I'm sorry.  Do you forgive me?"
        "Forgive a grown up?" peeped Ian.  Could a little kid do that?"


        In a vivid flashback -- as if he were watching a movie -- Ian saw
himself begging Mr. O'Donnell for forgiveness.
        "DADDY DADDY NO!  I'M SORRY!  I'M SORRY!"
        "LIAR!  LIAR!" screamed the drunken man, hairy and flabby in white
boxer shorts and undershirt.
        "I'M NOT LYING, DADDY!  I'M SORRY!  PLEASE!"
        Ian saw himself dressed in just his ragged black gym shorts, crying
and backed against a wall, trapped.
        "BAD BOY!  BAD!"
        Crack!  Smack!
        "WAAAAHH!!"
        The skinny little boy staggered under the beating, trying to defend
himself with his arms.  His head snapped left to right, lips sputtering
with each blow.
        The sobbing child slumped down against the wall.  Begged on his knees.
        While laughing, Mr. O'Donnell dragged the frail child by his hair,
kicking and screaming, to the child's bedroom.  Ian remembered burning
hatred as he clutched the man's wrist.  The faded, framed photograph of his
dead, unknown mother hanging on the hallway wall was always the last thing
Ian saw before he was thrown into bed and spanked.
        Night after night, the little boy wept, trying not to move as his
drunken "father" beat and beat his bony bottom with a belt.  Aching with
pain, his pee-pee hard in his gym shorts, dreaming of deliverance...and
finding it finally with his best friend, Mr. Way, who spanked him, too, but
with love.  Ian knew the difference.


        Shaking his head to clear it, Ian smiled.  "Sure, Mr. Way."
        Matthew closed his hands around the boy's narrow thighs.
        "Oh!  You're hands are cold!" Ian gasped, thrusting out his chest.
        "I'm sorry."
        "That's OK.  You forgot the camera."
        The man tousled the boy's hair and stood.  "Be right back."
        Matthew dashed from the living room.  Ian scooted forward on the
couch, tongue sticking from the corner of his mouth, and tried to make his
shorts slide up high and tight around his pee-pee.  Wanting to expose as
much of his legs as possible.  Successful, the boy smiled, staring at his
shorts.
        In his special purple shorts suit, the little boy knew that Mr. Way
would spank him and make him forget all about that other, mean man.
        Matthew returned with the cam corder and 35 mm.  He set up the wide
and began taking photographs.
        Ian smiled a toothy smile.  The child absolutely loved having his
picture taken and making movies.  No one had ever wanted to take his
picture so much.
        "My little prince.  You like like a giant grape!"
        Ian laughed and raised his skinny arms, wriggling his bony fingers
in a wave, the golden ropes around his wrists.
        "You're wearing the ropes but I'm the one who's really tied up.
Bound to your love," said Matthew, his cock suddenly flopping out from the
fly of his black silk boxers.
        "Is that your pee-pee?"  The child's doe-eyes were wide in
amazement.  It was huge!  It looked like one of the child's arms, the
circumcised head like one of his fists.
And the glans were as purple as the child's shorts.
        "Yeah," Matthew blushed, charmed by the boy's reaction.  Flattered
and proud, he lifted his shirt tails and turned sideways, giving the boy a
good look.  His turgid dong stood out parallel to the floor, his hunky legs
flexing.
        "Wow!  I think so!" Ian nodded, surprised at how much he *did* like
the man's pee-pee.  "Can I touch it?"
        The boy's unchanged voice rang out loud and clear.  Matthew gasped.
Embarrassed, the boy dropped his head.
        "Well...you said you were gonna touch mine....  But I guess only
men can touch boy's pee-pees, huh?"
        The man knelt and pecked the boy's lips.  The boy felt his hair
stand on end.
        "You kissed me," he giggled shyly.  Kisses were neat!  He sat back
-- so tiny on the blue couch -- and watched as the man began to stroke his
big pee-pee with both hands.
        "See?  you do it like this.  You just take it in your hands and pull."
        Ian watched his friend masturbate, not knowing that he was
masturbating.  The man's pee-pee seemed like another toy to the child, a
curious thing somehow not part of the man.
        "Does that hurt?"  Ian remembered the time another boy kicked a
soccer ball into his crotch.
        "No.  Not if you're gentle.  It feels wonderful."
        Ian watched thoughtfully.  "How come you're so smart, Mr. Way?
About short pants and legs and cowboys and stuff?"
        "Oh, honey!  It's not about being smart but about knowing what
feels good.  I'll teach you everything I know, OK?"
        Ian nodded, ready to learn.
        The man stroked, smearing pre-cum and leaving his cock shiny-slick.
        "I can do that," Ian declared with confidence after a while.
        Matthew knelt, stroked himself with his left hand and ran his right
over the boy's creamy thighs.
        The little boy shivered at the touch.  He saw the man make that
goofy, "lovey" expression and Ian wanted to feel that good, too.  He slid
down further in the couch -- tiny purple pants wedged in his crotch, tiny
cock bulging -- and spread his legs wide, the rope tightening at his
ankles.
        "Let me try, Mr. Way.  Can you do that to me?"
        Matthew's large hand closed over Ian's crotch, his thumb curling
against the boy's anus, his fingers scratching the kiddie erection.
        "OOO!"  Smiling, Ian bounced up and down, jabbing his cock into the
man's hand.  This was what he wanted!  This happy feeling in his pee-pee
that made all the bad feelings go away!
        The man's long fingers fondled and groped the child's genitals.
The child whined and humped, knees together, white thighs straining and
tensing.  He jerked his bony shoulders left to right and gasped like a
fish, charging fast.
        Ian's eyes jumped from the man's pee-pee -- so big! -- then down to
his own, so small and hidden in the man's hand.  The boy thought with
amazement:  He's touching my pee-pee!  He's touching my pee-pee!
        "MR. WAY!"
        The man spanked the boy's thighs.
        WHACK!
        "Yeow!"
        The handsome adult-male -- in white shirt, black tie and black silk
boxers -- squeezed his fat cock in one hand, squeezed the child-male's cock
in the other.  Muscles bulging, the adult-male froze, head thrown back and
eyes closed.
        Thick, rich streams of man-sperm spurted in a silver arc and down
onto the child's naked thighs, clinging to the white flesh.
        The child screamed with surprise, having never seen sperm, having
never seen himself or the man ejaculate.  Is *that* what came out of happy
pee-pees?
        "OH!  OH, IAN!" Matthew cried, finishing, dizzy with pleasure.  He
opened his eyes and studied his little prince, gasped and began
administering to the child's needs.
He began to spank the boy's thighs.
        WHACK!  CRACK!  SMACK!
        Droplets of man-sperm splattered out from under Matthew's hand and
sprayed over the boy's silky legs and purple short pants like liquid
diamonds.
        "UNGH!  UNGH!"
        The little boy screwed up his baby-face, writhing in his ropes,
head whipping left to right.
        BANG!  WHAP!
        The little boy clawed at his sweater vest, drew up his shiny white
knees and stiffened.  His narrow creamy thighs clamped around the man's
muscled forearm.
        "NGH!  NGH!"
        The little boy ejaculated.
        Breath whistling through clenched teeth, Ian's head bobbed back and
forth between his knees, black bangs swaying.  He poured out the sexual
tension he'd felt all day but didn't recognize for what it was.  His
miniature penis pumped and pumped as the man's had pumped, and it thrilled
the boy to know that he was filling his purple short pants with fluids
identical to the man's.
        Slowly, slowly, the little boy was sated.  He lowered his legs and
watched the man's sperm drip and run over his spanked, hairless thighs.
        Several tears trickled down the boy's flushed cheeks.  He was smiling.