Date: Fri, 14 Mar 2003 21:56:22 +0000 From: Ganymede Subject: Paradise 1 Paradise, Part 1 of 7. By Ganymede WARNING: This story contains descriptions of sexual acts involving men and MINOR boys. Such descriptions are an integral part of the story. While the story may appeal to prurient interests, it is intended to have serious literary value. If you are under the age of 18, if this material is illegal in your place of residence, or if man-boy relationships aren't your thing, then exit now and save yourself from a life of sin! As a friend recently said: "Everyone has the right to fantasy. No one has the right to censor an imagination, or dreams." With that in mind, know that this story is not true! Further, it is not intended to promote illegal acts against minors, but to demonstrate that men and boys can love each other despite the prevalent attitudes of western society. It is my goal to help readers appreciate that love. The sexual acts described in the story are the result of my imagination. I have not performed these acts, and I do not encourage others to perform them with minors. If the subject of man/boy love offends you, if this material is illegal in your place of residence, or if you are under the legal age for such material, do not read further! By downloading this story: "... you implicitly declare and affirm under penalties of perjury that you are not a minor or in the company of a minor and are entitled to have access to material intended for mature, responsible members of society capable of making decisions about the content of documents they wish to read...." The story is copyrighted under my pseudonym, Ganymede. A copy has been placed in the Nifty archives for your enjoyment. The story cannot be used to derive monetary gain. The story cannot be placed in archives that require payment for access, or printed and distributed in any form that requires payment either directly or indirectly. Any similarity to individuals, living or dead, is entirely accidental. My sincere appreciation to two friends whose comments have been very helpful. And one more thing, a special thank you to Susan. You know who you are and what you mean to me. Thank you for the dedication. THE NIFTY ARCHIVE: The Nifty Archive needs your support. If you enjoy reading this story, please remember that it is available only because of the Nifty Archive. Instructions are provided on the Nifty home page for how to provide support. Paradise. By Ganymede Technical Note: The hypothalamus produces GRH ganatotrophin releasing hormone. The GRH goes right down the stalk between the hypothalmus and pituitary and causes the pituitary to produce ganatrophins. The ganatrophins go to the testicles and cause them to produce testosterone. Body temperature is also controlled by the hypothalmus, a section of the brain that acts like a thermostat. That is, if the body gets too cold, the thermostat sends out instructions to warm things up, and if it gets too hot, the thermostat tries to cool things down. Prologue Steve Adams absently watched a fishing boat approach the dock. He was more than slightly inebriated, he was fast approaching intoxication. It was that, rather than the need to be seated for the purpose of relaxation that caused him to be reclining in his foam- cushioned lounger. Where he sat, overlooking the teak after-deck of the motor yacht, 'Candyman', he was in absolute control, or so it might have seemed at first glance. However, nothing was ever quite the way it seemed. He checked his watch abruptly, jerking his arm nearly enough to spill his drink, Bourbon and Coke, three cubes of ice. Nearly four p.m. Thirty minutes late. He thought about that with restrained emotion. He didn't like to wait for anyone. He lifted his glass again and drank with a trembling hand. To anyone else, he appeared to sit without displaying even a passing interest in the world around him. Yet, he was excited. His mind was dulled by the heat and liquor, but his penis was hard. Thick and long, and lodged up the leg of his shorts with nowhere to go. His mind churned relentlessly over the last week, replaying yet again what he expected to do in short order. Vincente should arrive at any moment, but there was no telling with the boy. Sometimes he dawdled. Errands that should have taken minutes, took hours. Adams closed his eyes and sighed, remembering the previous day; a week of wonderful; unforgettable days and nights spent with the tight-assed brown-skinned kid. He would have liked to go for a walk earlier during the day, before it got too hot. There was a lot to do in Georgetown. He could begin by checking out the market. He needed to buy some gifts for his wife and kids, maybe visit one of the nearby resorts. Now, he had to wait until the hottest part of the afternoon to do it. That was the trouble with young boys. There was no getting around the problem that they were supposed to be in school during the week. To do otherwise invited suspicion and police involvement, the last thing he wanted. Still, they needed a few things from the nearby store that couldn't wait much longer and Vincente was eager to get off the boat for a while. Knowing that the store was only a few hundred yards up the street, did not help much. Adams was impatient by nature. Constant worry was also part of the problem. Nowadays, people noticed men with boys. It would have been a lot safer had he stayed on the island. He told himself not to worry for the tenth time in as many minutes. The boy would be back with him soon enough. Then, he would get what he wanted. And he wanted it, he wanted it bad. That little boy-ass spread wide. Sure, he still had the rest of the day, and then there was the night to follow, but he wanted more. His heart rate quickened at the thought. Vincente's ass was everything he had ever dreamed of. His penis throbbed relentlessly under his linen shorts, a massive engorged stake of man-flesh. He baked in the afternoon heat and dreamed of what he would do to Vincente as soon as he got the boy's clothes off. They'd do it in the cabin on the settee. Quick, because he needed to get off, and hopefully not too dirty. It would be the appetizer that preceded the main course. The best sex with a boy was to be had at night in the comfort of a bed. Not that Adams needed the cloak of darkness to sodomize a boy. Any time, any place would do. He was not so drunk that he had forgotten the previous day. They'd done it right there on the deck, in view of the resort at Rolleville. Dangerous no doubt, but fun. Just the thought of what he had done to the boy's small buttocks was enough to keep him aroused. Bent him over a couple of life-preservers. Got him wide open with a finger, then two. Lots of KY. The kid squirmed around, but boys often became squirrelly when the moment of truth approached. He slammed his cock in, all eight-plus inches of it. He forced it into the willing twelve-year-old and watched the boy writhe and wail. Vincente took it all, then backed up for more. The kid had a well-used hole and he knew how to use it to mutual advantage. They did it all the time, but mostly in the cabin where it was cool and quiet, where there was no chance of interruption. It was the best sex a man could have. There had been a few times when Adams realized afterwards that the boy hadn't climaxed with him, but they could be counted on one hand. It was no secret that the boy liked getting deep-dicked. He liked it good and hard, fast and furious, no holds barred, and Adams was the man to do it. He also enjoyed knowing that the boy was there for more than just the money. There was exactly one night left of his one-week vacation. Seven days and as many nights of pure, unadulterated paradise with Vincente. Just one more night before he had to say good bye to Vincente, drop him and the motor yacht off at Candy Cay and return by motor-launch to Nassau. Then, he had a day of business in Miami before flying home to Chicago. He tried to put the idea into a safe compartment of his mind where it would not depress him any further. It had been the best vacation of his life, bar none, except perhaps the year before, when he had spent the entire time on Candy Cay. He'd stayed with Vincente then, too. Sexy little Vincente. There was not a hair on him, cumming dry with little squeals of pleasure. He provided almost enough incentive to consider getting a divorce, even if he was costing him $250 a day. Chartering the motor yacht, was quadruple that. Then, there was the crew, the food and drink, and a thousand gallons of diesel fuel that cost an arm and a leg. Adams smiled, wondering what his business associates would say if they knew the company had picked up the bill. Or his wife? Then, thinking that it was a pity there was not a weekly or monthly rate available for Vincente, he laughed aloud. It was a lot of money for a week. However, it really did not matter. Vincente last-name-unknown was worth every cent of what he paid. Momentarily, Adams glanced over his shoulder and looked directly at the approaching boat. It was, he decided at first impression, quite unseaworthy. However, his first impressions about most things were often negative. At least that was what his wife said. She derided him constantly. The dumb bitch! He took another gulp of his drink. Next time, he needed to include more ice, or he needed to drink it faster. Strangely, 'the bitch', as he often called her to himself, did not deride the money he gave her to spend. He put his attitude down to life experiences, the frustration of being a boy-lover at a time in history when it cost a man five years of his life for a single feel of an under-aged dick. He mumbled his favorite saying. 'People are ass-holes and life is about fuckin' shit.' And then he took another drink, still thinking about Vincente and his firm small butt, bending over in front of him on the life-preservers, or better yet, lying on top of a pile of cushions down in the air-conditioned cabin, his little brown cheeks spread far apart, his gaping anus shiny with the water-based lubricant that he had purchased from the pharmacy in town for three times what it would have cost in Chicago. He licked his lips hungrily. There was nothing quite like fucking a sexy young boy, he mused. He had been with many other boys over the years, but that was before he joined the Candy Club. They were mostly Mexicans and Puerto Ricans, some of them cute as buttons, but none could be compared with Vincente. He had it bad for Vincente. Now, there were rules to follow, but they were worth it because Vincente was special. There was simply nothing that could compare to the sensation of slowly sliding his engorged penis through Vincente's tight little sphincter. It did not matter how often he did it, the boy's opening remained tight. He knew why of course. His cock was big enough that Vincente would always have a problem with it. Every time he got behind the boy, there was a minute or two when Vincente would whimper and complain that it hurt like hell. It probably did. His ass was being stretched to the point of bursting, but he never wanted to stop. Usually, the only relief he received came from pulling away slightly before quickly pushing back to impale himself again. As if trying to prove his manliness, once the cock-head was inside, Vincente took over for the few minutes it took to complete their union. He had a habit of huffing and puffing with effort while he slowly forced the man's cock further into his rectum. Again and again he did it, a rutting routine that happened whenever Adams' oversized cock had to breach his little ass. Adams loved the sensation of quivering, frantically straining boy-muscle. It made him pause and put aside his lust when all he wanted to do was to penetrate deeper into the looser luscious void beyond. Even still, he couldn't help thinking that Vincente's ass was put there by God for the sole purpose of containing his cock. Adams smirked and sipped his drink, rubbing his bulging crotch with his other hand. It was no secret that the boy wanted his cock inside him. Vincente wanted it every bit as much as he wanted to be inside Vincente. The best boys were like that, Adams mused. All of the boys on Candy Cay were like that. 'Hot for cock', he called them, those sexually hungry boys who could never get enough man-cock in their little hairless asses. He had learned to spot them from a distance, although exactly what it was about them that said 'I want to fuck', he could not have elucidated in words. It was a look, a smile, a way of moving, everything about a boy that turned him on. Still watching the other boat's slow approach, Steve Adams found himself contemplating whether a sexually immature boy received the same pleasure as a boy who was capable of producing semen. There was no way of being certain. He had long forgotten what it was like to be a boy. He'd had sex with younger boys, of course. He enjoyed their hairless smooth bodies, tiny dicks like fingers and balls the size of marbles. He liked how they gasped and groaned and carried on. It was enough to make a man think that they enjoyed being fucked, but did they? More often than not, prepubescent boys ended up jerking and writhing around, flailing their arms and legs and begging for more, certainly giving the appearance of orgasm even though nothing was ejaculated. There was a lot to be said for younger boy who still had undersized testicles and a hairless groin. However, he liked that Vincente came, even if it was not a lot. It was more like skim milk, droplets that spat first and dribbled second. There was never any question of when Vincente came, but younger boys could fake it. The thing was that for any other boy, Adams would not have cared whether the boy was erect or not, but for some reason he wanted Vincente to enjoy it as much as he did. He savored the liquor, rolling his tongue languidly to pick up the taste. With his eyes nearly closed, he could simulate the sensation of squirting his semen into that small grasping void. The joy was overwhelming. He possessed Vincente completely, dominating him as only a man can dominate a boy. Finding Vincente was like finding paradise. It really didn't matter that his groin was shaved. Even when he was with his wife, Adams always fantasized about having sex with a boy like Vincente. In fact, the night he was married, he dreamed about a young boy with a small penis, a boy whose anus stayed tight the entire time his penis was lodged inside him, a boy who could climax again and again before he was done. He often had that dream about a boy who was just like Vincente, only younger. He put the thought aside while he drank some more. Vincente's body was such a delight to hold that the notion of being in bed with his wife sickened him. Vincente was slim and soft, with sleek brown skin. It was so incredibly, wonderfully hot and tight inside his small body that it really didn't matter that the boy's enjoyment was real, or faked like his wife's orgasms. With Vincente in front of him, his excitement ended with copious spurts, sometimes so much of it that some of the milky fluid oozed out. He liked to look down between them to see his cock disappearing into the boy, his small dick still reasonably hard and two boy-balls that were so very small compared to his own. However, what was in front of Steve Adams at that moment was not so small. His eyes continued to follow the vessel's approach to the dock. Definitely unseaworthy, he decided! In his considered opinion, it was indicative of sheer irresponsibility of a captain to put to sea in such a vessel. It was low in the water, perhaps several inches below the anti-fouling line, far enough that the dark-blue scruffed boot-stripe was nearly submerged. To confirm the presence of one or more unseen leaks, a stream of grey oily water pulsed erratically from a garden hose hanging over the side. At one time, the fly-bridge cruiser, the term itself being almost a misrepresentation of its present reality, had been painted white. Under the mismatch of what was now white and cream-colored patches, the hull appeared to have been built of steel, despite the absence of welds to show where the metal plates had been joined. There were long streaks of rust-colored stains to mark the passage of water from the deck scuppers into the sea. The accumulated stains, peeling paint and salt at the bow all but obliterated the name of the once-proud vessel, 'Conundrum'. The bridge was also variously patched with cream colored splotches, and was as rust-streaked as the hull. It looked considerably older than the ten years since its construction. The boat appeared to be well constructed and had simply been neglected. Yet again, Steve Adams tastelessly sipped some more of his Kentucky Black-label Bourbon and continued to watch the boat's approach to the dock. Like most sailors who were sufficiently familiar with nautical engines to detect the difference, he immediately recognized the healthy exhaust gurgle of twin Cummins diesels. The sound of the boat was puzzling, posing a question that could not be easily answered. It was as if there was far more to the vessel than first appeared. Even the name was unsettling in its appropriateness. It posed lots of questions, all without obvious answers. On the surface, it appeared to lack civilized efficiency, but it was unquestionably sturdy. Judging by the sound of its engines, it was also very powerful. The high 'tuna-tower' and outriggers gave him further cause to smile, if cynically, because unlike his boat, the approaching vessel was highly suited to its intended purpose of offshore sport-fishing. At 40-plus feet, it was barely two-thirds of the length of his well-cared- for boat, yet being of a similar beam and displacement, it would convey confidence in a heavy sea. Unlike his boat, with its over-sized fly- bridges and shallow-V planing hull, this vessel would be stable in almost any conditions that nature could provide. Indeed, Conundrum looked as if it had already taken on the worst conditions of the sea and managed to survive. There was only one person on its deck, a gray-haired man of otherwise indeterminate age who casually steered into the crowded dock area as if there were no other boats there. It was with the same casualness that the man stood up, placed a bare suntanned foot on the wheel, and used both hands to coil a line, feeding the thick nylon rope into precise loops so that it would not tangle at an inconvenient moment. Adams half-closed his eyes when the vessel turned through the afternoon sun. He raised his nearly empty glass to toast the new arrival in an equally empty gesture, swilling the last of the Bourbon and Coke in the bottom. In return, the man waved absently, suddenly yet casually spinning the wheel with his foot, and turning the vessel sharply to port. The engines idled listlessly, a faint haze of white exhaust smoke eddying in the still air. The man stepped onto the ladder, descended from the fly-bridge in two long-legged steps, and walked quickly to the bow. As he went forward he released a scuffed stained fender on the port side. Adams smiled, waiting for the sound of the unavoidable collision with the dock. Yet, the imminent impact was miraculously avoided. A line arced gracefully outward and fell neatly over a dock cleat. With the bow restrained, the stern of the boat began to drift outward. Adams mouthed the word 'fuck' and started to leap to his feet with the vain hope of being able to push the 'Conundrum' away. At the same time, the man who had until that instant been standing in the bow watching what was happening with what appeared to be vague interest, leaped nimbly onto the dock. The distance between the two boats narrowed to less than a yard before the man reached the end of the dock. He secured the stern line that he had been coiling while he stood on the bridge. With seemingly no effort at all, he brought his vessel to an abrupt halt. The man smiled and acknowledged Adams with another wave. "I'm a bit slow today, I'm afraid! Sorry about coming so close! It's been a hell of a long day. Reckon I was thinking about something else." "Yeah, right!" Adams replied sarcastically. He fumed that his afternoon Bourbon and Coke had been interrupted. Worse, Vincente still had not returned. Every second was becoming precious. In just a matter of hours, he had to leave Vincente and return to Chicago. Just one more night of paradise. He had to go back to his bitchy wife and a business that demanded more and more of his time. If he had a choice, he would much rather stay right where he was, just so long as Vincente was lying in his bed at night. Closer now, indeed much closer than he would have preferred, Steve Adams could see the man was about his own age. He was around fifty, but it had been a hard life that had taken its toll in physical appearance. The man's hair was unkempt from the wind, his face darkened by the stubble of several days of beard growth. He was beyond suntanned. His upper torso was a dark brown color with shoulders flecked with paler spots left by peeling skin. Both man and boat had the same look, weathered by long exposure to the wind and sea. However, as Adams eyes continued to linger, he began to realize that the man looked vaguely familiar. The man continued to smile, but not from amusement. He seemed to be enjoying himself while he adjusted the boat into position and secured the lines. From the stern of `Candyman', Adams waited for Vincente to return while he kept an interested eye on the new arrival. Vaguely familiar? No, make that very familiar, except that he could not place where he had met the man before. Then, Adams remembered. Out of the blue it all came back. Detective Kingston. Wasn't that his name? Two, or was it three years ago? Two years ago was right. How could he have forgotten so quickly? The detective had taken over the murder investigation of his friend and fellow boy-lover, Robert Hardy Junior. The worst thing was that the last time he had seen his friend, he was happier than he had ever been. He'd just met up with a darling nine-going-on-ten-year-old boy who was, as Bob Hardy put it, 'to die for'. There was no arrest despite the detective's excellent reputation. However, Detective Kingston had solved another crime he was also working on at the same time, and that was within a week of being assigned to the case. 'Brilliant detective work,' the Tribune had called it, the reason being that the case had been assigned previously to a team of six other detectives for nearly four months without any result. Because Adams' name was in Hardy's rolodex, Detective Kingston had interviewed him for nearly an hour. Right away, Adams recognized that the detective was more perceptive than any person he had ever met, his wife excepted. However, in her case, slyness dictated what she deciphered. Kingston possessed an innate ability to make him feel comfortable, comfortable enough that he would say things he might not otherwise have said. More than once, he had nearly said something that might have led to his undoing. The secret he shared with Robert Hardy, Junior, endured. Bob had introduced him to the Candy Club. Indeed, it was only because of his friendship with the now-deceased Bob Hardy that he was sitting where he was in the Exumas, sipping Bourbon, and waiting for twelve-year-old Vincente to return so they could have sex again. After the interview, Adams had reflected on what had occurred. The detective had been both perplexing and unrelenting. Yet it was far more than that. He asked questions that disturbed him, and in a way that reactivated a person's memories of an event. Kingston's ability to probe in new directions while he sifted though evidence to find unrealized connections was uncanny. It was more than seeing the crime from a fresh perspective. In the high-technology world of modern criminal investigation, the detective was an anomaly. He had a discerning understanding of people and the criminal mind. Detective Kingston was nothing short of an enigma. It was little wonder that the Chicago Tribune had referred to him as the 'Sherlock Holmes of the Mid-West'. He wondered how the man had ended up on a charter-fishing boat docked at Georgetown in the Exuma Cays. "Nice boat you got there," Kingston said absently as he ambled along the dock. >From aboard the luxury cruiser, Adams nodded back, keeping his head down. Kingston paused, almost if reflecting on obnoxious people who found it impossible to return a compliment, or who couldn't find nothing to compliment even when a compliment was in order. Getting nothing more than a curt nod from the other man, he decided to persist, if only to interrupt the stranger's tranquil afternoon. "Yeah, she's a real beauty. A Hatteras, right?" Kingston added with a drawl that wasn't from Chicago. He studied Adams in the seconds that dragged slowly by. The man looked familiar, but he could not place where he had seen him. He was certain of one thing. Both the man and his boat were out of place. The boat was far too fancy to be tied up at Georgetown's public dock. It should have been at one of the outlying resorts. Again Adams nodded grimly. He was toying with his empty glass, a habit that annoyed his wife. Either put it down or refill it. "Damned fine boat builders, those guys in Florida," Kingston acknowledged. "I hear they do a great job on the interiors." It was a back-handed compliment and both men knew it. Hatteras were 'pretty boats', with interiors that were luxurious as all get-out. It was a vessel with reputation for being overpriced. Again, the man nodded. He lifted his glass to sip his drink before he realized it was finished. "It's their biggest one, right? About 60 feet isn't it? All plastic?" Kingston continued, rubbing salt in the wound despite the decrepit appearance of his own vessel. "I didn't know they were using teak on the decks." "They had it done specially." Nothing more than that because Steve Adams was hoping that the detective from Chicago would keep on walking if he limited the talking. There was an unwritten code among sailors. `Ignore and ye shall go on about thy business'. In the heat of the day, he felt obliged to offer the man a drink, and if he did so, the conversation would surely drag on until Vincente made his appearance. The last thing he wanted to do was to explain to a policeman from his home town why he was in the company of a twelve-year-old island boy who obviously didn't belong to him. However, by then, even squinting in the afternoon sun, Kingston had recognized him. He immediately made the connection to his last case in Chicago, the murder investigation of a stockbroker, Robert Hardy. Even though there had been no arrest, the likely motive was simple greed and vengeance. Hardy had been churning investment accounts at his brokerage, building his personal fortune at the expense of fifty or so wealthy clients. It cost Hardy his life. One of Hardy's clients, Mafia more than likely, had taken the matter into his own hands and used a 38- caliber pistol at close range. There was not a lot left of Hardy's head. Adams, as a rolodex-friend of the deceased, had been peripherally involved. Hardy's calendar revealed that they'd taken vacations together. To the Caribbean too, Nassua if Kingston remembered accurately. There was a possible implication that Hardy, who was on the Board of Directors of Adams Electrical Supplies, might also have been guilty of insider trading. An e-mail on Hardy's computer implied that Adams' was manipulating that company's share price for their mutual benefit. If the SEC chose not to investigate the material Kingston had sent them, that was their business. From the look of Adams' expensive yacht, he had apparently managed to avoid prosecution. "It's turning into one hot son-of-a-bitch day," Kingston remarked. He wiped his perspiring brow, watching the distant entrance to the dock for a sign of someone. "Yes it is," Adams replied abruptly. Kingston glanced over the stern of Adams' motor yacht, looking at vanished mahogany, polished fiberglass, brilliantly polished stainless-steel fittings, smooth gray sun-bleached teak. It was spotlessly clean. Perhaps he felt a momentary pang of jealousy. It was only human to be envious of something that was so desirable, but so out- of-reach. If he was jealous, his grudging resentment was short-lived. At that moment, called by a sixth sense, that familiar awareness of someone's nearness, he turned away from Adams. A boy was walking down the long gangway that lead out to the floating dock. Kingston smiled happily, resisting the immediate impulse to wave for a reason that even he did not quite understand. His subliminal consciousness kicked into gear. He smiled, but only just. Yet, evident in his slightly changed expression was just how much he loved his son, his precious Joey. Suddenly, both father and son simultaneously lifted their arms and recognized each other with a spontaneous wave. That afternoon, there was also another boy, a boy who was a step or two behind Kingston's son when they came down the narrow ramp. He was not a local boy, at least he was not a boy who Kingston recognized. There weren't that many twelve-year-old boys in Georgetown. The logical assumption was that the second boy was probably visiting from one of the other 360 Exuma islands. However, one thing was clear. The two boys were friends. They talked while they walked along. The boy in front held a backpack by its remaining strap, the other carrying a plastic shopping bag. Kingston's son was half-Hispanic and darkly suntanned, yet he was still much lighter than the other boy who had Caribbean blood in his veins. That boy was taller, and older too, but he was still very much a boy. >From where Kingston stood, it almost looked as if the second boy trailed behind like an obedient puppy dog, walking a feet behind his son. For a few seconds, he focused on the other boy, but for a very different reason than when he looked at his offspring. That boy was physically attractive too, no doubt about it, yet there was no comparison to the boy in front. Close to six inches separated them in height, and there was at least a few months' difference in age. However, differences in height and age did not account for what Kingston felt The second boy had the appearance of belonging where he was. There were three reasons why boys were to be found on the Georgetown docks at that time of day; boys came to fish, to clean tourist boats, or to rent their bodies to men for sex. There were always one or two boys to be found loitering around the dock during the tourist season, and if there was enough money to be had, they would do whatever was wanted of them. Enough said! The two boys approached, their footsteps growing louder as they padded down the wooden planks of the dock. Adams shifted in his seat, seemingly to find a more comfortable position. He was agitated that another man was nearby, yet seeing Vincente again had brought his cock back to full erection. Thinking the other man could not see except by turning around, he rearranged his crotch. Kingston smiled, for he had been watching from the corner of his eye. It was plainly obvious that Adams had an erection. It was huge, like a log stuffed behind his shorts. However, he wasn't the only man with a hard-on. Retired detective, Trevor Kingston also had an erection. He was aroused because he was thinking of what they had done before his son left for school that morning. His ass-sphincter tightened with fond memories of the passion they shared every time they had sex. He was far beyond the self-recrimination that came from incest. Sometimes father and son were awake for most of the night. He fucked into his son's hot little hole until he could barely move, let alone stand and walk. He could not stop his smile from forming while he saw his son walking towards him. Even then, and it had been before breakfast the last time they had sex, it seemed that the boy could still feel the thick man-cock buried deep inside him. It was the way he walked, not quite bowlegged, but not far from it. He walked like a cock was still inside his ass, clenching his buttocks to feel it move around inside him. The boys came closer. They passed a fishing boat strewn with green netting. Only then, could both men see that one boy was noticeably better endowed than the other. The lumps in their shorts were very visible. Both boy-pricks were as hard as wood, and jutting up. There was nothing new about that. Boys that age were often aroused. Vincente was proud of what he had been his legs. He walked with the same hip-swinging 'I'm ready to fuck' swagger that the other boy had. Any man could easily discern, just as he was intended to see, the pronounced bulge that was lodged behind the boy's skin-tight jean-shorts. In a few more years, his cock was going to be big, matched by a pair of balls that would be the size of chicken eggs. For now, and luckily for both him and the man who watched him, it was still boy-sized. Kingston glanced at the man who was gazing at the approaching boys. He stared with eyes that were unquestionably lust-filled. Unnoticed, Kingston observed Adams's appreciative smile. If ever there was a pedophile, it was this man. He hadn't noticed it in Chicago, but then no boy had been around to arouse suspicion. No question about it, the other boy belonged on the Gerogetown dock. He was of an age when he was perpetually horny, and with his budding sexual maturity, he was exactly what men like Adams craved. Not too dark, a long way from being African, but brown enough to make a person think of chocolate. Some men liked boys like that, not pale and white. Kingston did, yet there was something different between him and Adams. Kingston's eyes expressed feelings for his son that were entirely about the love they shared. When the shorter boy stepped to the side of his companion and came into full view, Kingston waved again. The boy ignored his talking friend and waved back instantly, his face coming alive with welcoming joy. Kingston beamed. Whatever Vincente meant to the man on the boat, it was meaningless compared to how Kingston felt about his son. He lived for the boy. Most of the time, no, make that all of the time, his entire life was dedicated to his son's happiness. Adams glanced back at Kingston with evident distraction. In his mind, the new arrival had interrupted his afternoon of debauchery. It was going to be embarrassing for him when the dark-skinned island boy finally climbed on board his boat. At the same time, Kingston wondered what the other man would say if he knew that he had docked his luxurious motor-yacht next to a man who had sex with his soon-to-be twelve-year-old son on a non-stop basis. For a moment, his expression was smug, appreciating his exaggeration. Sex was not 'non-stop' but it was certainly a frequent occurrence. They had figured out once that it happened about every seven or eight hours. Like clockwork, although the sex was anything but mechanical or repetitive. The boys passed behind the fueling area and disappeared from sight. Both men, standing only a few paces apart, considered leaving the dock as soon as possible. There was no reason to court disaster. While Kingston reflected, he kept an eye on his neighbor. He found him fascinating. Another man who loved boys. In all his years, he'd only known one other man like himself. He couldn't help but smile. Adams' sideways glance at the man next to him, caught him by complete surprise. The new arrival was staring at the shorter boy, smiling and deep in thought with what could only be infatuation. Adams smirked, instinctively recognizing the look for what it was. He had seen that boy- lover look all too often on Hardy's face before he died. Vincente and Joey walked slowly along the dock, seeming almost reluctant to break apart their newly formed friendship. That it would have to end when they reached the end of the dock was very obvious from seeing the men who watched them. Neither of them wanted any compication. The boys neared the motor yacht and Steve Adams finally raised his arm to greet Vincente. He might as well demonstrate to the stranger next to him who the boy belonged to. "Hi guy," Adams called out. "You sure took long enough." Vincente grinned and swung easily over the stern rail onto the teak deck of the yacht. The heavy plastic bag of cans and bottles dropped onto a seat. His hand wiped across his sweaty brow. "Ese sure hotter 'ere dan Candy," he returned tiredly. He gestured good-bye to the other boy who, after returning the wave, kept walking, coming closer to his father. For barely an instant as he passed by, he glanced at the recently arrived boat. He had no preconceived notions about what a yacht should look like, but he recognized money when he saw it. His eyes lingered, then moved away to his father. The man looked back at him with gentle eyes, eyes that conveyed understanding and patience. Both man and boy were transfixed. The sun was behind the boy and the afternoon light sparkled in his hair. In that first shared look of the afternoon, the boy saw love. And then the man smiled at him. A moment later, he was standing before his son. "I'll pass your bag up when you're on board, Joey," he said. He confidently took hold of the boy's bulging backpack. It was heavy, full of books as well as groceries that had been purchased at the store on the way home from school. Joey nodded dumbly. Confronted by the man he loved, all he could do was to nod his head. His heart was already beating quickly. Try as he could, he could not think of something to say. Not the weather, not about the boy he had met at Grendal's, not how was the fishing, nothing that could be said in public. All he could think about was getting naked and getting fucked again. He grinned and climbed aboard. Chapter 1. Rain or sunshine, the waters of St. Angelique Cay were always a thousand shades of blue. The colors of the palette ranged from the palest watercolor tint of turquoise in the shallow waters of the lagoon at dawn, becoming midday azure at the outer reef, then darkening suddenly to reveal where the deep ocean currents surged with the denizens of the night. Throughout the day, there were verdant patches scattered among the turquoise, clumps of weeds that hid outcrops of rock where spiny crayfish could always be found, or the red-brown shapes of miscreant coral heads that for some reason or other refused to grow out on the reef, where it was supposed to be. I loved to gaze out across the lagoon, but it was beyond the reef, in water that was deep and cold, where I made my living. There, the water became so dark that it was the color of indigo, had that infamous dye still been traded in the islands. To my mind, the sea beyond the reef, like a night spent in the ghettos of Chicago, was decidedly threatening. When I ventured out to fish it was never for enjoyment, but as a means to make some much needed cash. If I had my way, I would not stay out beyond the reef for very long, if I went at all. I much preferred to stay close to land, in the shallow safety of the lagoon, ideally within sight of Fernando's bar. It was because of my cautious nature when out at sea that within a few weeks of going into the charter-fishing business, I discovered the essentials of business success. The trick was to quickly catch a marlin or half-a-dozen of the big yellow-fin tuna, just enough for my passengers to believe they had received value for their $250 for the half-day, plus the cost of diesel fuel to feed Conundrum. More often than not, my clients had no interest in eating what they caught, and I made another $100 at the fish market at the end of Farley Street for the fillets and steaks I cut. After a few hours of cruising up and down the sound, my clients were content to spend the rest of the day talking about their 'catch' while they sat on the deck and drank my $2-a-bottle beer. Usually, once they found out the price of diesel at the Georgetown dock, they were more than happy to lie at anchor with the shore in distant view, or pay to take my flat-rate $50 tour around the bay, ending up at Fernando's for margaritas and chicken. For some of them, the free floor show of women sunbathing on the beach usually resulted in a companion for the night. I was content to eat jerk-barbequed chicken for lunch, and in the heat of the early afternoon, to spend my time sipping frozen margaritas while I dozed and dreamed of the boy I loved. Sometimes, it seemed as if I lived on chicken, not boys in New York street lingo but the scrawny island bird that was drowned in Fernando's home made jerk-sauce. Either way, I was happy. I never showed the nearly naked women on the beach more interest than a passing glance because I had my own real live chicken-that's b-o-y as in 'boy-pussy', as in the best fuck ever. Now, I know what you're going to say. 'I'm kidding myself that boys like getting fucked.' It's true most of them don't like it one bit, but those are the boys who aren't gay. From personal experience, I know that gay boys are into getting their tight little butts loosened up just as much as the men who fuck them. Indeed, I saw it as my personal responsibility to fuck Joey a couple of times a day. It kept him happy. Me too. Enough said! I enjoyed my 'job', the real one that is, the job that paid the bills, if it could be termed a job. It really wasn't a job in the sense that most people thought of going to work. The money was not a lot, maybe a thousand dollars on a good week, but after paying overhead on the boat it was barely enough to get by on. Food and drink, mostly beer, a few dollars a week for clothes-shorts and tee shirts and the occasional pair of shoes. It was just enough for the essentials of island life, and even the clothes were optional if one kept away from the inhabited areas. What extra there was, or whatever came in tips usually went either to the fund I had set aside for Joey's medical bills. I had another fund for college, retirement, and whatever. Sometimes the tip went directly to him if he worked for me with anything approaching a modicum of motivation. The work he did was not very much because I had a rule that he could help out only on weekends or during school holidays, although if he had his way he would happily have worked aboard full-time. School was important, even though I loved to have him near me all day long. In fact, I was seldom content until Joey came home from school. And when he did, I rejoiced to see him. As soon as he had deposited his bag on board the boat, we hugged. Sometimes we wandered down to the lagoon to swim or try to catch fresh fish for dinner. Usually, he played with any of half-a-dozen friends on the beach while I busied myself in a futile effort to clean the boat or perform some necessary but disagreeable task of maintenance. If I had my way, I would spend most of my days with a pitcher of frozen margarita or a six-pack of ice-cold island beer, listening to the outrageous squabbling parrots, watching the colors change or the palms blowing in the ocean breeze and waiting, enduring the time until I would take Joey's slender suntanned body in my arms again. If I was lucky I would be able to control my lust until after dinner. Then, we watched the fiery sun settle in the west before we fucked ourselves all but senseless in the quiet stillness of the inky night. Usually, not. Usually we did it while the sun was blazing hot. He wanted to fuck as much as I did. I always called him Joey, never Jaivin. That was the name that his mother had given him despite my wish not to saddle our son with a name from somewhere else. He was stuck with the name, her last name too, because she changed both hers and my son's name after the divorce. She did it to eradicate any memory of me. I never used his last name even on the papers I had to fill out for his school. Not because of resentment, but because I did not want to remind him or me of what had happened in Chicago. Jaivin Navarro had become Joey Kingston as far as I was concerned. He was my son, although in many ways I had stopped thinking of him as my son for the last two years. Joey said I liked to sweat while having sex. At least that was his explanation of a habit that once started, could not be stopped. Fernando and Vincente thought we were crazy not to wait until it was cooler, yet there was something wonderful about joining our perspiring bodies together, our bare flesh slipping and sliding on the oily wet film we shared. Then, it was the same on the outside as it was inside him, a cacophony of physical sensations that every man needed to have at least once before he died. Inside a boy, and I do mean a boy, where the only hair is the hair on his head, I discovered paradise. It wasn't like pussy, nothing like it! Over the years, I had fucked enough women to appreciate the difference, but I hasten to admit that was before I had made love to Joey. Don't get me wrong. I've always been a boy-lover. I was smart enough not to do anything about it. Back then, it was another life. I dreamed of boys but I didn't know what I was missing when it came to sex. Inside my boy, was what I had been looking for all my life. I soon discovered that there were muscles surrounding his rectum, strong muscles that could squeeze hard enough to make a man's cock throb with delight, enough to cut off the blood flow. lmake my cock become bloated and turn dark purple. Joey always waited until I was completely inside him before he took over. He was always tight at first. I could never have gotten my cock inside him if he didn't want me to. Then, with his face contorted, he exerted all his strength. It was enough to feel like the flesh we shared was about to burst from the pressure that formed deep inside him. And then, when he relaxed again or the muscles dilated as they did after a few minutes, the void within him became so loose and sloppy that I churned his innards like the proverbial hot knife through butter. Truthfully, and because I gave a lot of thought to it afterwards, I could not be certain of what I enjoyed the most. Tight or loose, Joey's ass was heaven sent as far as I was concerned. It was a good life. It was not quite the life of a beach bum, but it was so close that money was always in short supply. No matter how many charters I took, how many over-priced beers my passengers consumed, or how many fish I sold at the market, it seemed that there was never enough money to get the boat air-conditioner replaced. It was beyond being repaired, although I tinkered with it once a week just in case there was one-in-a-thousand fluke that I could get it working again. On the priority list it came in third or fourth, never higher, not when safety had to come first in order to retain my charter license. After doing what was needed to keep the business running there was never more than a few dollars left over. I had given up trying to save for a rainy day because every time I had saved a few hundred dollars, it rained. There was always something else that needed to be repaired. The last time was a bilge pump. Before that was a new VHS radio. The list was endless. So during the heat of the day, when the cabin was too hot even for me and my sweat fetish, Joey and I went outside. It wasn't just for sex, although it usually ended up that way, either lying on a towel placed over the scorching deck or going down to the beach. Either way, the sun beat down mercilessly upon my back whenever I knelt above him. He preferred doing it that way because he could look up at me. I liked it too, partly because I enjoyed looking at him as well, but it was also the natural way for a man to fuck a boy. His legs parted further, sometimes with his feet wrapped around my back or lifted up on my shoulders, or with his ankles by his ears, or splayed wide like a dissected frog with his arms locked behind his knees. In those positions his buttocks opened up for me, not like when he was lying on his belly or kneeling and bending forward, which tended to bring his cheeks closer together. It was easier getting inside. One good push was all it ever took. On the beach it made a lot more sense to do it standing up. The radiant heat, baked into the sand since early morning, seared Joey's much smaller body from beneath, but we seldom got up from the sand. When we writhed with animal passion, shamelessly ecstatic, gorging ourselves with lust, I gazed down at him and smothered him with kisses, and fucked him and me into orgasmic oblivion. In and out, pistoning like a mad man even as Joey humped back at me, both of us fucking frantically. Sometimes, make that often, it was difficult to believe I was fucking a boy who was still months away from his twelfth birthday. The real thrill came because he wanted me to do it, submitting willingly because that was the way he wanted it. It had been the same way when he was ten. He needed to be fucked every bit as much as I needed to be inside him. Gasping, pounding my dick into his quivering little ass, never mind that rivulets of sweat dripped from me to him. Sand stuck to us, to every part that wasn't used for sex. I teased him endlessly about getting grit inside his hole and he responded with obscene comments about my having such a withered rough old cock that he wouldn't know the difference if half the sand on the beach was inside his ass. It was a good life. Just the thought of the expression on Joey's face when our bodies finally separated was enough to make me happy for the rest of my life. There was no question in my mind that he enjoyed the sex as much as I did. Whenever he squeezed down hard to keep my cock inside him it felt and sounded a little like pulling a cork from a wine bottle. By contrast, it had become remarkably easy to slide it into him. All he had to do was push outward as I pushed inward. Mutual penetration, mutual longing, mutual loving. It was all about sharing ourselves.. After each afternoon's shameless copulation on the beach I carried Joey down to the water's edge. It was a bizarre ritual of absolution, although guilt was never in my repertoire. He clung to me, still too exhausted to do much except wrap his legs around my hips. My milky semen dribbled out of his distended ass, dripping onto my legs, sometimes oozing so much that even I was surprised by how much I had put inside him. I carried him out into the lagoon until it was deep enough that I could release him to swim away. Cleansed of sweat and the slimy smelly mess of sex, he soon swam back to me. After a long kiss to seal our secret, we would frolic in the crystal clear waters of the lagoon as if nothing had happened. Only Fernando and Vincente knew the truth about us. Others probably suspected we were more than father and son, but never said anything. We were lovers. A father and son only in the surname and the genes we shared. It had taken two years to leave our previous life behind, but at times it seemed as if our relationship had always been predestined from the moment of his conception. In truth, I could never identify the moment when we changed from father and son to become a man and a boy who loved each other. Of course, we had always loved each other because Joey was my son after all, but all too often I found myself thinking that we had never loved each other the way that other fathers and sons loved each other. There was always that something extra that extended our relationship beyond what it was supposed to be. During those first five years we spent together, we wrestled for what seemed every minute of the day. We showered together and I soaped and rinsed his skinny brown body with great delight for both of us. And when we kissed, even as a toddler, our lips lingered longer than they should have. I got erections when we cuddled in front of the TV, but he did too, and we hid them underneath a blanket and giggled whenever our secret tickles strayed to private places. I think Joey's mother discerned that something was not quite right by the time he was five or six, for that was when our marriage began to falter. It was only a few months later when she finally told me to leave and not come back. It was phrased in no uncertain terms. 'Get the fuck out you perverted ass-hole'. The words stung because they were true although there was no evidence she could produce to back up her statement. Perhaps she had finally figured out that I loved our son more than I loved her. Nothing happened for years after that, because between my job and my ex-wife's machinations I managed to see Joey only once or twice a year. I missed him sorely, tried to remember his birthday by marking it on my calendar, sent lavish gifts to him via UPS that probably went unopened despite the polite thank-you card that came in the mail. I avoided telephoning him because it made his mother angry at him. I hated myself almost as much as I hated her. And so it went, living a half life until the terror of that night in winter. It was a long night that I spent standing outside the emergency room, waiting for news, somehow knowing that it would never be the news I wanted so desperately to hear. It could have been worse, but not by much. There was no damage to his spinal cord. He would walk just fine. His injuries weren't life-threatening. However, the impact of the blow had caused injury to a tiny gland at the base of Joey's skull. Despite my job as a homicide detective, I didn't know much about the anatomy of the brain. The doctor had to explain what a hypothalamus and pituitary gland were and what they did. He had to tell me twice. The strange thing was that there was almost no sign of where the baseball bat had struck Joey's head. His baseball bat, the one signed by Sammy Sosa, the bat had been given to me, and then handed from father to son as a surprise gift for Christmas. What I could not understand was why the man had attacked my sleeping son after he had killed his mother. When I asked Joey about what had happened, he merely shook his head and cried for half-an-hour. I never asked again. None of it made much sense. There was nothing I could do. The investigation was in a different precinct, and while I was kept up to date, there was little information added to what I already knew. His mother's funeral came and went in a cold December afternoon with freezing rain in a forecast that never happened. There was a perfunctory hearing in early January that restored my rights as Joey's father. I thanked God at the time, but I wasn't able to change his name from Jaivin Navarro to Joey Kingston. I needed to ask his permission for that, and that was not about to happen. Then, I waited three weeks, weeks instead of months that he could have spent in hospital. It was what the doctor called a remarkable recovery, except there was no recovery. There was a shard of bone, a mere sliver embedded in his hypothalmus that was too dangerous to remove until he had recovered properly. His next appointment was to be a month later. I would never forget driving Joey to my apartment still dressed in pajamas. His face was ashen, which for a boy with that much Hispanic blood was unsettling. Our love renewed itself in a rush of emotions that never went away. That night before he fell asleep I discovered that he still got erections that wanted to be tickled, and for the first time in almost five years, my hand strayed onto a cock that wasn't much larger than it had been the last time I had touched him. I tried to convince myself that it was innocent, something I did only to comfort him until he fell asleep and then I intended to carry him into what had previously been my study, but which had been converted to his bedroom. However, from that moment forward, the change in our relationship was profound. I had touched his body in a way that caused him pleasure and he had no qualms in letting me know that it was what he wanted me to do. Even that first time it was expressed as mutual lust and not a matter of seduction. He had sex with me again the following morning. I could not resist for it happened at his instigation. He was awkward and silent yet very eager as we explored feelings that were unfamiliar. Then lying on top of me, both aching hard, we began grinding our cocks together. He was smooth and soft and as hot as can be as he wriggled and humped against me. After a while he sat up and straddled my thighs. He inspected his new toy meticulously, eventually bringing my cock to his lips, nervously touching with his tongue before he opened his lips and took the head into his mouth. That a young boy could feel and act that way shocked me at first. Of course, I made him stop, but it was already too late. It had happened. The dam had burst. Our spontaneous lust was already changing to love. In truth, we became lovers before I realized what was going on. Otherwise, I probably would have taken steps to prevent the inevitable change from being father and son, or at least tried harder. It happened in a way that seemed as if nothing had changed between us, while our emotions were running out of control. It took a few days until it became impossible to stop the inevitable desires from being satisfied once more. Indeed, I went out of my way to stop it from happening again. I tried to avoid the obvious truth of what I felt by avoiding him. I paid my cleaner an extra $100 to stay all day. I went back to work, reviewed the cases I was supposed to be working on. There were fifty people who could have murdered Robert Hardy Junior. There was nothing new on his mother's murder. Those few days passed slowly. They were miserable days when he cried or moped around my apartment, blaming himself, crying frequently. I assumed, rightly or wrongly, that his tears came from hating what he had done in a moment of out-of-control lust, probably imagining that I hated him as well for being queer. Perhaps it was worse because I wasn't there when he needed me during the day. I had not rejected him. I was too busy to spend the time with him that he deserved. That weekend, we moved the rest of the things he wanted to keep from his home into mine. One carload, then another, and on the third and final trip he smiled for the first time since his mother's death. Something snapped inside me and the frustration of our long separation dissolved. We shared the same bed again that night. By the next morning it was too late to stop. What had started as another gentle consoling touch late that night when he said he could not go to sleep, had, before we finished, left my semen in his mouth. Things were different after that, although I was slow to realize that after what he had been through, he needed me around constantly. However, it was not as his father, but as his lover that he needed me. I loved him with all my heart. Every day of the next few weeks we spent together was a day I would never forget. We made love with a tenderness that I had never known before with any woman. Progressing slowly, cautiously experimenting with the things that men and boys were supposed to do together. There was no manual, no guide to follow. I would have given a thousand dollars to have a copy of 'The Joy of Man-Boy Sex' if such a thing existed. Instead, we learned by trial and error, repeating what felt good and right, always getter easier, always improving our technique. Those two weeks passed very quickly. We soon discovered that he liked my finger in his ass. From then on, he encouraged me at every opportunity, practicing at our favorite sixty-nine with him receiving anal stimulation from my tongue until we could time our climaxes to be simultaneous. The next meeting with his doctor was an exercise in futility. There must have been a dozen x-rays and ultra-sound scans spread out on the desk. It was impossible to miss the piece of bone. It was shaped like a pointed triangle. It was not large, smaller than I expected. It had moved slightly since the last time, burrowing deeper into the hypothalmus. There was no rush to remove it. Joey might not even be badly affected by it. The doctor repeated his explanation about hormones, using terminology that I forgot as soon as I heard the words. There were substantial risks associated with getting it out, compared with no immediate life-threatening effects if it remained. It was impossible to say whether there would be a noticeable improvement in Joey's condition even with surgery. The damage might already be done. Perhaps in another year or two. There might be better surgical procedures if we waited. It wasn't the end of the world, but there was no reason to be happy beyond the fact that I was head over heels in love with my son. My decision was made on the way home. I was eligible for early retirement under a recently announced plan to restructure the Police Department and reduce costs. It was gobbledygook, of course. It was the politically correct approach to eliminate inefficient senior employees with high salaries. They didn't want an age discrimination suit. It wasn't intended that detectives would take advantage of it, but I did. For as long as I could remember, I had wanted to run a fishing charter business in a place where it didn't snow. We went south, all the way to the Exumas. It was a good life, operating my charter boat out of Georgetown. It made for a long hard day, fishing for a living. The usual catch consisted of marlin, a tuna or two, a couple of wahoo, some bonito. It was enough to keep the passengers happy. Usually, I got through the day thinking of cold beer and a boy. The boy was my beautiful, sun-tanned, over-sexed son. He was headstrong and independent and ready to try anything. He also a boy who would never take no for an answer when it came to having sex. Joey lived for sex. At times it seemed as if all there was to his life was being fucked. For that matter, as far as I could tell, all Joey wanted from life was to have sex with me. I loved to look at him. I loved his smell, sweet and sweaty, the smell of boy. And the taste of his bare skin, especially when it was tangy with salt. I also loved to hear him speak and laugh, attentive to the sound of a voice that was still unravaged by puberty. It didn't matter that I was his father. I lived for the sole purpose of making love to him. I loved him dearly. Indeed, even though we lived apart for half of his life, I never stopped loving him from the day he was born. I entered his life again when I cradled the frightened, badly injured boy in my arms two years earlier. Then, I silently promised myself that we would never be separated. Joey and I had been through a lot together, not all of it as father and son. For good reason, he had stopped thinking of me as his father, if indeed he had ever done so once his mother was out of his life. Now, after two years of constant loving, I had little hesitation in plunging hard and fast into his hot, hungry bowels. We rutted furiously until my cum spurted in thick hot gobs. There were times when I filled him up so much that when my cock finally slipped out, the excess dribbled from his ravaged hole and made wet spots on the sheet. I loved Joey's smooth body, still in the bloom of enduring childhood. Lean and wiry and very much the body of a boy. Joey was a kid in lots of ways, but he possessed the sensual eroticism of a much older boy. I loved watching him grow up, but I could not help thinking that it was unfortunate that in another year he would be a teenager. The sex was always good. No, make that great, incredible, wonderful, unforgettable, but without love it was just plain wrong for a man to fuck a boy. I didn't need to fuck my son. Just being near Joey more than made up for my devoted love. Merely seeing his beautiful face, the lips that I knew to be incredibly passionate, always brought back a memory of waking up with him beside me, that first sleepy early morning kiss, ignoring morning-breath and lingering while we exchanged hugs, then at Joey's insistence, rolling onto my back. Most mornings, we did it jockey style. I would fuck him for a long while with him on top, sliding in and out of his boy-chute, popping my cock-head through his anus with quick jerks. Usually, we climaxed together, and rested for a while. Then, we had to hurry to get him to school on time and for me to meet a charter on the Farley Street Dock at the standard departure time of 9.30. If his butt was sore from the night before, we found other ways to quench our lust. Sometimes, when I saw him off on the ferry from St. Angelique, his beaming smile suggested something else. Then, with his tongue sliding back and forth across his pure white teeth, he revealed to me, if not the rest of the world, that he could still taste my semen from when a half- dozen spurts had emptied down his throat. At times, we were so late that he missed the ferry to Georgetown, and I conveyed him across the channel instead. Those times I spent an hour or more waiting on the Farley Street dock fondly remembering what we had done. More than once, Joey had sucked me off again while we motored across from St. Angelique, eating my cum for breakfast. Laughing, he would tell that me it tasted just like thick cream, or, in a fit of giggles, like eating a salty slimy clam. I gave him some extra money to buy lunch in case he was still hungry. It was no secret that, as he crudely put it one time, 'I loved to be fucked and you love to fuck me. Why fight it?'. It was a mutual adoration society. I loved the mahogany smooth skin of my young son's chest, his firmly muscled thighs, his slender sun-bronzed legs, his compact waist leading to a diminuitive dick and even smaller balls. His sex organs, which as far as I was concerned also included his pinched buttocks and the treasure hidden between them, were as tanned as the rest of him. When we sucked each other, which we did just about every afternoon, he would lie with his head cradled between my legs, his mouth stretched wide open, deep-throating my cock while his fingers played in my nearly black pubic hair, a patch that had been trimmed to a neat 'V' especially for him. Finding St. Angelique Cay was the second best thing that had ever happened me. It was the perfect place to love a boy.