Date: Wed, 11 Feb 2004 08:31:05 -0800 (PST)
From: Ganymede
Subject: Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy, ACT 10

The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy, by Ganymede.


WARNING:


This story contains descriptions of sexual acts involving a man and a MINOR
boy. 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 relation- ships 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 penal- ties 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 capa- ble 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.

Now that the preliminaries are out of the way.....

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The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy, Act X



OVERTURE



Alesha danced. Danced in that high-up tower room. He revealed himself in
dance, his secret self, the side so few people ever knew. Alesha was a
sensitive child, intensely so, although no one had ever said that to him,
not beyond a few vague suggestions that were intended to explain his
talent, the need to dance to express some inner purpose. Despite that, and
unlike many other boys who danced and resented the demands that dancing
placed upon them, Alesha's disposition was never sulky He accepted that he
could not enjoy the same freedom that other boys enjoyed. There were no
games, sleepovers, or times set aside for play, not even other sports. He
was born to dance. For that reason, he was seldom sad, if only because long
ago he had realized that he possessed a skill that was in short supply.
There was so much for him to live for, but that afternoon his mood was
nothing short of ebullient. He was increasingly aware of his feelings, but
that day he was more aware, far more than ever before.

For no reason at all, it struck him when he stopped to catch his breath,
why he was happy. It seemed to him, that among the many things that he had
discovered over the last few days there was a sense of finally belonging.
The loneliness that had caused him such pain when his mother departed for
Texas had finally gone. He belonged to someone else. Just knowing that
warmed his heart much in the same way that his mother gave him comfort
whenever he thought of her. For days, perhaps even weeks, whenever he was
close to Mr. B, he felt the same intense awareness.  There was joy that
came from simply being near him, an inner glow from knowing that he, Alesha
Yaroshenko, was in the right place at last.  Finally, his breath regained,
he smiled. He belonged where he was, it was true, yet it was not a place
that he could call home. He had never known any home longer than a few
months, but now, wherever he went, if he was with Mr. B., it was where he
fitted in. Another smile, this time borne from his distorted reflection in
the window, lingered.

Whether it was AppleBoys, or having lunch at the Russian Tea Room, dining
at Marius' house, or walking in the Central Park, just as long as he was
with Mr. B., he would not change a thing. And then, his mind was filled
with images of the wonderful plane trip to France, the excitement of Paris,
the enchanting ride by car through the countryside, Martin's effusive
welcome, the Chateau Vienne, the horse ride in the woods, and more. He was
always happy when he was with Mr. B. Yes, finally he realized what it was
that made him happy. He belonged with someone other than his mother.

He smiled outwardly once more, now exposing inner thoughts. Once again he
had found himself going through the motions of the steps instead of trying
to make each step better. He could hear his mother's voice. 'Alesha,
practice makes you perfect only if you try to improve every time you do
it'. He paid it no heed. His mind was busy attending to things other than
his practice.  His mother scolded him, his teachers called him 'dreamy'
when he was like that. He had to close his mind to concentrate, block out
the thoughts that came and went, or lingered for a moment too long.
Dancing was hard work. Because of that seemingly constant effort, practice
often became a labor, a chore that no one, not least an eleven-year-old boy
could enjoy. However, he seldom complained, even to himself. He was born to
dance.

Still, as he stretched and arched, he contemplated his life, for there was
always a part of his mind that was thinking.  One thing that amused him was
how Mr. B. always managed to find him both a place to practice and a CD
player wherever they went.  This time the CD player was a boom-box that
belonged more in Harlem than in the turret of a medieval castle, yet it was
more than ample for his needs. And even at Martin's Chateau de Villeau, a
room had been set aside and readied for him to use even before he arrived.
It wasn't ideal, not like the room he used on the top floor of Mr.  B.'s
house in New York.

For the first time he realized it was not just Mr. B's house, it was his
home as well. He smiled at that. Yes, it was his home. His home was there,
not the almost forgotten apartment he shared with his mother. His home was
wherever Mr. B was. All of a sudden, it delighted him to think of spending
his life with Mr.  B, both in New York and in Paris, and at the Chateau
Vienne once it had been repaired. Never did he think that there were
certain advantages that came with being Mr. B's protege, yet he was not so
conceited as to believe that he deserved it all.

He shivered, quaking in mid step. He tried the steps again, then trembling,
finally had to stop. His secret fantasy was no longer hidden to him. It was
out in the open where everyone could see it.  He shuddered at the thoughts
that immediately rushed to fill his head. It was an epiphany in its way for
he was forever altered at that very instant. What had happened since
leaving his mother's side was not a daydream or a youthful whim, but his
life revealed to him again and again. Something that until that very moment
had existed deep inside him had finally broken free.

His calf-muscles quivered, but not from tiredness or over- exertion. His
fingers brushed his prominent bony hips and for an instant he felt the
sheer silken gauze of the panties that he wore. His heart responded with a
thump. He stood still, thinking, trying to grasp all that it meant. None of
it made much sense to him. He was a boy, not a girl. Until then, he had not
doubted it even though he suspected other people did, but his excitement of
what had happened could no longer be overlooked.  Unable to concentrate,
his dancing became mechanical precision once again.

Finally, he risked a downward glance. He was almost naked. Limbs that were
lean and pale, became vivid red where the panties covered him. Just the
silky panties and his white ballet shoes. He admired his slender bare legs
in a fleeting moment of self- awareness. All of his teachers said that his
legs were ideal for dancing. Long, lithe, well-shaped legs with small
rounded knees, not knobby lumps like most boys his age. And narrow hips
that the other boys coveted, hips that tapered noticeably to an even
narrower waist. His was a waist that some of the girls in his ballet
classes envied, but never voiced aloud. The Polish doctor who examined him
before the scholarship competition had been very impressed. He said his
compact chest and square shoulders were perfectly shaped for a dancer. His
mother often said that too, that he was built to dance, built like Nureyev
or Barishynikov.  There was not a single imperfection on his body that he
could see.  He had agility and ample strength without the burden of excess
flesh. His mother called it the perfect combination for a dancer, and he
was beautiful as well. Of course she never said that to her son, only to
her friends when he was out of the room for fear that adulation could make
him conceited and vain.

Alesha quickly turned away from modest self-assurance and began to exercise
once more. Again he tried to concentrate, but the awareness of those bright
red panties would not go away. Again and again he found his fingers
reaching down, caressing the delicate silk, just to make sure it wasn't a
dream. It was noticeably loose on his hips. It felt so good, so sleek and
smooth that it was like a second skin.

Alesha knew that he wasn't supposed to think like that, but increasingly he
did. He blushed and stopped to catch his breath once more. And in that
momentary relief, freed of repetition, only then could his rapacious mind
feed once again. His thoughts sprang free, devouring with carnivorous
intent upon a barely realized desire. For a while that day, not long, not
nearly long enough, he had become a pretty precious thing like the Sugar
Plum Fairy.

To make it even more confusing, Mr. B was acting very strange, yet Alesha
could tell that the man was happy, and as hard as any man could be, and
that was enough to make him happy as well. And that other thing, the sudden
need that formed inside him, arose again out of almost nothing. That thing
that men and boys enjoyed, or pretended that they did. All it had taken was
a single lick, the touch of a man's spongy tongue to the tiny puckered anus
of a boy.  The tremble he felt again was because of that alone, and it had
happened some days before.


Of course, he had known for some time about 'that'.  He knew about it
because Roland had confided in a moment of veteran authority that Julian
did similar things to his anus. Alesha knew it was called 'ass licking'. Oh
god! He trembled again. It had started with a single lick. After that the
man's tongue had swirled and poked, and suddenly it seemed to go upward,
pushing inside him. He hadn't tried to stop it. Far from it. Stopping it
was the last thing on his mind. He couldn't move, barely breathing as his
heart pounded relentlessly, and all the while the tongue pressed on, going
ever deeper.

It was hot and wet, and after just a few seconds, it began moving around
inside him, liberating a cacophony of sensations. It was something that
Alesha had never wanted, but once it began,. it was impossible for him to
think, to stop from shaking, from crying out at the sheer delight he
felt. It was smooth and sleek, and alive.  Slippery, so slippery. It seemed
to slide in, then back and forth, and around, expertly dabbling with a
tender virgin anus that quivered and pulsed in tightening spasms that came
in waves. He tried to relax, naturally becoming looser with every stab. He
groaned in ecstasy when Mr. B sucked and gnawed at the still puckered
opening, both hands firmly kneading the boy's small cheeks as his tongue
darted in and out. He felt it become even wetter and he heard the smack of
lips drooling saliva.  He found himself moving instinctively, pushing back
and then beckoning with his strong gluteus muscles in the vain, yet
gluttonous hope that the mouth might somehow consume him. The tongue
penetrated even further then, but not nearly far enough. There was a
timeless erratic pattern to it. He'd push back, trying to get even more
inside him and when it seemed to almost reach a magic spot, it would recede
again. No matter that Mr. B's tongue, that alive and probing tongue, began
to move easier. It moved around and around and back and forth. He could
feel the tension leaving him, opening up his body until the thing inside
him was no longer stabbing but licking and slurping, and slipping in and
out, and saliva was dribbling over his scrotum. He loved every wonderful
moment of it.  Roland had told him the first time was more fun than
anything anyone would ever do to him, that getting 'ass-licked' was 'out of
this world'. It was true.

Not for the first time, Alesha considered the possibility of making love,
of taking Mr. B's cock inside his body.  After all, that was what men like
Mr. B did to boys like him.  Sooner or later it would happen. Sooner rather
than later too, if other boys were to be believed. All of them said they
did it with their men.  'Fuck' was the magical word at Appleboys, used in
jest or making claims, or even whispered at the ballet school. Still, it
was hard for him to believe that he could do that with Mr. B, despite what
everyone said. Whether it would fit was the first question that he came to?
He worried about it being too big, for it was the one thing that always
seemed so huge to him. His experience with the ivory dildo only made it
worse. He had marveled at the size and Mr. B's cock was even larger. In his
hands, it was daunting.

Somehow, he had to quell his fear. He had to prepare himself for the very
same thing that his mother had once muttered would eventually go inside
him, and not just in his mouth.  For them to make love, it had to go inside
his bottom, through the hole where he pooped from. His mother hadn't
worried about the size of it, so why should he? In fact, her tone had been
perfunctory when she told him. At the time, it was so matter-of-fact that
he accepted it without really thinking it through. She said it was what was
expected of him if he accepted the scholarship and stayed in New York with
Mr. B.

Now, just two days after trying to force the dildo inside his body, his
fears were fading. Instinctively, he sensed that it was the only thing he
really wanted. A fledgling part of him hoped that it would not be long
before Mr. B decided the time was right, while the rest of him dwelled on
the thought of where Mr. B.'s tongue had often been. Suddenly, he smiled as
he wondered whether Mr. B's penis would feel much different even though it
was so much larger than his tongue. They were both so hard, and soft.

In the ethereal silence of the turret-room, Alesha giggled. There was no
one around to hear him in the tower, yet he mouthed the words at
first. Then, he said them softly, words that he would never have dared to
say aloud if there was someone around to hear him. The thought alone of
what he said was enough to make him tremble.

'Suck my ass.'

It was quickly followed by something else, something even more forbidden.
The words came out slowly at first, then with surprising urgency from the
breathless boy.

'Please,...  put,...  put your cock in me.' Then, after an awkward pause,
'Fuck me, Mr. B'. , which made his face hot for a moment.  He paused and
then faintly added, 'Fuck my ass,...  fuck it hard', because that was what
the other boys said felt the best. Hard and deep, like he's driving piles
up your ass, Roland had told him in a moment of frankness.

Suddenly, the brazen boy was gone and Alesha giggled again at the words
he'd just said aloud. There had been a time in the Chinese Room when he had
almost asked Mr. B to 'fuck him'. At first, he wasn't really sure he really
wanted to do that. He was confused at the time, and frightened too, if only
by the sheer intensity of what was happening to him. He could almost feel
it, like something big and thick and very hot was pushing, pushing,
stretching the hole between his cheeks, making it larger, larger and
larger, until it hurt, until,...  Until it felt wonderful the way that the
other boys said it would feel. Was it for real, or part of a dream, or just
another game?

Nearly a minute passed before Alesha finally accepted that he was not
pretending, but meaning every word. If only he had been brave enough to say
it to Mr. B. For the last few days, he had almost said it several times.
The urge to join together came from nowhere in particular. It was simply
there. He had almost said 'I love you' too, but he hadn't. He wasn't sure
why. He wasn't sure of anything any more. Everything had happened in a
rush.  A flood of passion had been unleashed in the innocent boy. His
excitement seemed boundless, released amid a distressing torrent of
emotions that he didn't know existed. For the first time in his life,
unspeakable desires were running out of control.

When Alesha had finally noticed Martin standing in the doorway of the
Chinese Room he hadn't been shocked at all. With his orgasm rapidly
approaching, and on the receiving end of more pleasure than he had ever
dreamed possible, he had simply accepted that he was past caring. Now,
thinking back, he smirked, for instead of being embarrassed, he felt pride
in being seen.  Another man, Mr.  B's lover from many years before, had
watched them having sex.  Instead of shame there was delight, but it was
far more than merely exhibiting his budding sexuality to a man who Alesha
wanted to be jealous. There was acceptance in Martin's eyes.

Understanding, and appreciation too. There was no reason for a boy to be
ashamed by something that was so very natural for him to do.  Once, when he
had looked up, he was met with a fond and very- knowing smile. It was as if
Martin understood exactly what he was feeling. That Martin had taken
pleasure in their intimate act reassured him in a way that he had never
expected.



He stopped dancing and leaned against the rail. His muscles ached
constantly, but that was nothing new. He was trying to do too much.
Dr. Reismann from the New York Center for Children's' Orthopedics had
examined him again only days before they left New York. Proclaimed him to
be in satisfactory physical condition, but warned him to take it easy when
he became sore.  His bones and muscles were still growing. The doctor had
emphasized not over- doing his practice sessions, to take lots of breaks
and relax in a hot bath whenever he completed a session. For once Alesha
agreed that it was time to stop.

Alesha smiled wryly, wondering what Doctor Reismann would think if he saw
how he was taking a break. He fingered his penis, his hand behind his
panties. Dreamily, he imagined Mr. B's hand there, touching the part of him
that was very much a 'boy'.  His penis hardened quickly. Expertly, he
retracted the foreskin to expose the tenderest part of all. A fingertip
began a cautious discovery of what felt good. He shivered. His fingernail
scratched around the flared head, pressing into the ridge like Mr. B's
tongue did whenever he took Alesha's penis into his mouth. Yet, despite the
feeling that threatened to become much better, he stopped. Today was the
wedding day, and he would surely have a chance to talk with Martin because
they were supposed to get ready together.




ACT X, SCENE I.




Only a few minutes remained before we were to attend the late- afternoon
ceremony that would formally recognize the love that Martin and Raffi
shared. It would be a wedding unlike any other wedding, and not only
because a boy was being married to a man.  After nearly an hour of final
preparations, we were finally ready to go downstairs. Alesha looked
fabulous as he stood before me for inspection. He was attired almost
entirely in white as becoming his official duties as ring bearer and
pageboy. His special role in the wedding was the result of a request by
Martin, which most other boys would have rejected categorically had they
know what they would be asked to wear. However, it was an honor that Alesha
relished, as much because of his developing friendship with Martin as
because of the costume he was required to wear. He clearly liked dressing
up.

The theme of the wedding was tongue-in-cheek Louis XIV.  Appropriately,
Raffi would be the young dauphin.  Although I had yet to see his outfit,
without question it would be superb since Martin told me that he had
ordered it to be specially made for his young lover. And Alesha? He was the
ideal attendant for his young majesty. He even looked something like a
pageboy of the period, although his clothes had been acquired at some
expense from an antique shop in Dijon only two days before.

His eyes sparkled with merriment, knowing full well that he had an
irresistible effect on me. I smiled back at him, holding back my admiration
because it would only embarrass him. He wore a white shiny silk shirt with
lacy ruffles in front and elaborate cuffs.  His vest was also white, with
silver floral patterns and small pearl buttons. A pair of ivory
knickerbockers and long white- leather boots completed his attire. He was
truly beautiful, but to tell him so was never a good idea, I thought. His
hair wasn't just brushed neatly, but had been properly coiffured in the
salon in Beaune earlier in the day. While Alesha was at the hairdresser, I
was in the market buying flowers to decorate the chapel, and a special gift
for him that I wanted to be a surprise.  And later, while Alesha and Martin
were being attended by a tailor for last minute alterations, I was with
Guido and Stephen, decorating the chapel. Indeed, I thought I still smelled
of flowers, mostly white lilies, for Martin had often said that
Mapplethorpe's photographs of lilies were among the most beautiful pictures
he had seen. They reminded him of boys' bottoms with their sensuous curves
and smooth texture.

"We're going to be late," Alesha announced.

I studied my watch abruptly and checked the time for the fifth time in as
many minutes. "Do you remember all you have to do, dear boy?" I was nervous
enough to be the father of the bride.

"Duh. It isn't that hard," he said confidently. "I follow Martin down the
aisle without tripping. I give him the ring when they tell me."

"Are you sure you have the ring?"

"Yes, I have the ring, Mr. B," Alesha answered with gleeful self-
importance and just enough impatience to let me know he was worrying about
being late. "It's in the pocket of my vest," he added, tapping the side of
his vest.

Before I could say anything else, he skipped out of the room. His jubilant
mood was clearly unaffected by anything I could say, which surprised me
because the situation that awaited me downstairs was unsettling tot say the
least . Indeed, he had been so highly trained that the ability to perform
was innate.

"You look great," he called out over his shoulder.

I laughed as I followed after him. He was partially right. I did look good,
I thought. Not great, however, because I was very aware that my white
tuxedo did little to minimize my bulk.

At the entrance to the chapel, I handed Alesha over to Martin's butler and
passed through the nearly regal black double doors. The chapel was
illuminated entirely by candles, a long line of them on either side. The
podium before the altar was spectacular. It had been decorated at some
point in the distant past by one of the Chateau's more religious Marquis.
Pre-revolution and aristocratic, it was an excellent example of the Baroque
style. An elaboration of wrought metal and hand-carved plaster, and gold
leaf on almost every surface. The altar and pulpit were all but covered
with white lilies.

To Bach's glorious organ music, I walked down the center aisle with such
decorum that my mother would have been pleased, and took my place. There
were no less than two dozen people who had gathered in the chapel. I
recognized most of them even if I had not formally made their acquaintance.
Robert Dupain was one of them. I wondered what the ambassador would do if a
press photographer made an appearance. And of course, Martin's mother was
present. She waved in acknowledgement, using her other hand to brush a tear
from her cheek. She was always emotional when it came to Martin. And there
was Cal Ryder. We shared a smile.  The last time I'd seen him was in
Mexico. Without resentment, I had encouraged him to befriend one of the
young beach boys who was the best looking of the bunch.

Guido was my oldest and dearest friend, if I excluded past lovers.  He
nodded as I passed him. He, perhaps more than anyone else had no difficulty
accepting that Martin had chosen me to be his best man. I was the only
logical choice. In the way that was important to every man who had gathered
to witness the nuptials, I truly was the only person there who could be
called Martin's man. I smiled at the thought, reflecting on how much he had
changed, and how much of the young boy I fell in love with still remained.
It was vaguely reassuring.

] waited only a few moments before the organ pipes began to fill the chapel
with sound. Over my shoulder, I saw Martin begin the brief walk from the
rear of the chapel. Every head turned in his direction. He made an imposing
figure. Steven Kaufman smiled at the spectacle, and even I risked a
momentary smile.  Where ever had Martin managed to find the clothes was all
I could think of. The Louis XIVth theme suddenly became clear. Martin was
dressed in a gold and silver brocaded coat befitting the Le Roi Soliel. He
made a resplendent Sun-King if ever there was one. His outfit could have
come from a Hollywood movie. It wasn't the sort of thing that Martin would
have selected for himself. I sensed Steven's role immediately and winked at
him as he turned to watch Martin ascend the stairs.

"You look divine, dear boy," I whispered under my breath when he stood next
to me.

"And so do you, old friend," Martin quipped. He examined the flared cuffs,
complete with no less than a half-dozen glistening buttons and quatrefoils
executed in gold thread. "It's very sexy, don't you think? I'll have to be
careful. Steven borrowed it from the studio and it's worth a king's
ransom. He'll have my balls for breakfast if I spill anything on it."

"Like I used to nibble on in the morning all those years ago?" I rejoined.

"Ha, yes, I remember all too well. You did enjoy more than your share of
boy nuts, didn't you?"

"Indeed I did. I assume you're partial to them too now as well?"

"Funny you should mention that," Martin replied quietly. He glanced away.
No one could hear, but he still spoke quietly. "I can get him off just by
sucking on them. You taught me how to do that."

"Me?"

Martin chuckled. He glanced back over his shoulder.  "Sh! Here's
Antoine,...  finally. Do you know, Shel, Raffi says he's been doing the
little tyke of his non-stop since he arrived? I'm surprised he can still
walk."

"I'm not surprised he's late," I answered. "That's probably what he's been
doing just now," I added, observing what was very obvious to anyone who
cared to look, and under the circumstances, highly probable.

Antoine had dispensed with the black and red formality that was appropriate
to his position in the Church. Instead, he had elected to wear a long white
robe and a simple gold cross. It was plain and rather dull, even to my
eyes, yet it was also a good choice given the elaborate setting. He had a
serious expression as he plodded down the aisle. He was followed closely by
Emile who scattered white flower petals after him. As Antoine ascended the
steps, Emile stepped back and took his position beside Guido and Marco.

Martin almost choked in the struggle to keep from laughing. "Oh my! He is
walking bow-legged, isn't he? Sheldon, I still love you, you know. You were
always able to make me laugh.  Alesha is so lucky to have you."

"You should tell him that," I said. The words were out before I could stop
myself. Martin intervening on my behalf was the last thing I wanted. What I
wanted was for Alesha to fall in love on his own accord.

"And here he comes," Martin said with a longing sigh as his young lover
began the promenade. "Oh my, isn't he just too beautiful for words?"

"Indeed he is," I answered.

I could not express the same awe that Martin showed.  Raffi was splendid,
if a little self-conscious in his dauphin finery. For this as much as any
other reason, the boy who confidently walked two paces behind him clearly
stole the limelight.  Alesha was simply magnificent. He possessed far more
grace, and with his stunning looks, it was impossible not to be affected.
It was more than stage presence. He had that certain something that made me
stare. I was lost for words. Any other boy would have felt awkward at best
in the clothes Alesha wore, but not Alesha.

On the way from our bedroom Alesha had confided to me that 'if you forget
the weird pants I think I look like the Prince in the Sugar Plum Fairy'. I
had to agree with him. Indeed, he was a prince among boys. He gave me a
warm smile as he followed Raffi up the stairs and took his place adjacent
to me. If I detached myself from the immediate reality, it actually felt a
little as if Alesha and I were being married. The very possibility made my
heart glow.

As I expected from the attendance, the ceremony was conducted in both
French and English, and a far cry from the traditional wedding. It began
with an organ crescendo that was loud enough to reach beyond the chateau
walls, lest anyone think that Martin and Raffi had something to be ashamed
off. Then, as the pipes finally became quiet, Antoine began his address.

"Dearly beloved friends of Martin and Raffi. Welcome one and all.  We are
here this day to share with them a most important moment in their lives.
They have learned to know and love each other and now they have decided to
live their lives together. And so we have gathered here in the presence of
God to celebrate the most holy of unions. That is the union of two people
in love. For those of us who are enough fortunate to know Martin and Raffi,
we have seen for ourselves the strength of their love. We know,...  ."

Antoine stopped and gazed around the room. He was going to diverge from his
prepared statements, if he had not already done so.  Martin nodded
slightly, giving permission to a trusted friend.

"All of us gathered here know something of that love for themselves,... ."
Antoine began again, but now the words came from the heart. He spoke with
passion. "The love between a man and a boy is unlike any other love. It is
the love that Jesus spoke of.  It is nothing less than the love that binds
us to our maker. It is the love of the Father, the Son, and the Holy
Spirit, a love that does not discern between what others proclaim to be
right and wrong. It is a special love that a man and a boy share, a love
that by its very nature excludes the other sex."

He paused, looking at the attentive understanding faces before him. He took
a deep breath. "The love between a man and a boy is a love that has no role
in reproducing, yet it is a love that has always existed. It is a love that
should not exist in shame. It is a love that should not be despised, but
should be welcomed into our lives as I welcome you today to celebrate the
joining together of Martin and Raffi."

A ripple ran through those people gathered in the chapel because Antoine
was talking to each and every one of us. I glimpsed Alesha's face and
thought I observed understanding, recognition even that what was being said
applied to him, and to me as well.  Did he understand how much I loved him?

"In a few moments I will have the honor of joining Martin and Raffi
together. They stand before you on this their special day fully prepared to
exchange vows. I think I speak for everyone here when I say that there is
no doubt in my mind that they love each other very deeply."

I smiled and nodded in agreement, although doubtless an outsider to that
select circle, would consider my assent to be more a matter of guilty
complicity. One had only to see the way that Martin and Raffi gazed at each
other to know that they were as deeply in love as any man and woman could
be.

"With the difference in their ages comes a very special responsibility,"
Antoine continued. "We must not forget that Raffi is in the fleeting years
of boyhood. He is at that wonderful time in his life when he is emerging as
the man he will become, with all the feelings and emotions that attend
growing up. I can think of no better man than Martin to guide Raffi into
manhood."

He smiled at the people before him and acknowledged the truth of it for
himself by nodding his head.

"Friends, I will now read a passage from the scriptures that I think
expresses what we all feel. I Corinthians 13:4-1. Love is patient and kind,
love is not jealous or boastful; it is not arrogant or rude. Love does not
insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not
rejoice at wrong, but rejoices in the right. Love bears all things,
believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends;
as for prophecy, it will pass away; as for tongues, they will cease; as for
knowledge, it will pass away. For our knowledge is imperfect and our
prophecy is imperfect; but when the perfect comes, the imperfect will pass
away. When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I
reasoned like a child; when I became a man, I gave up childish ways."



"Let me speak a little of love's responsibility," Antoine said as he looked
at Martin and Raffi. "All of us know that you are deeply in love. But
beyond the warmth and glow, the excitement and romance, what is love,
really? Real love is caring as much about the welfare and happiness of your
partner as about your own. Real love is not possessive or jealous; it is
liberating; it sets you free to become your best self. Real love is not
total absorption in each other; it is looking outward in the same direction
together. Love makes burdens lighter, because you divide them. It makes
joys more intense because you share them. It makes you stronger, so that
you can reach out and become involved with life in ways you dared not risk
alone."

I gazed at Alesha, wondering how much he really understood of those words,
wondering whether the words applied as much to how I loved him as I thought
they did. His expression was inscrutable, leaving me in doubt as to whether
he had even listened. I glanced at Martin, then Raffi, finally returning my
gaze to Antoine as he brought the ceremony to its conclusion, the betrothal
vows.


"Martin, do you find within you a love that unites you and Raffi?"

Martin smiled, holding Raffi's much smaller hand in his. "I do," he said
simply.

"Do you find within you the courage to love Raffi hereafter, to care for
him, respect him, and nurture him into adulthood, and through trial and
tribulation to love him for ever more?"

"I do."

"Raffi, do you find within you a love that unites you and Martin?"

"I do," Raffi squeaked. He had always been nervous in front of people.

"Do you find within you the courage to love Martin hereafter, to care for
him, respect him, and through trial and tribulation to love him for ever
more?"

"I do."

"Martin and Raffi, as you have affirmed your willingness to join together,
I now invite you to make the promises of your covenant together."

Martin's hand tightened on Raffi's hand and lifted it up so that all could
see their hands joined together.

"Raffi, I now join you to share all of life with you, its responsibilities
and freedoms; its joys and sorrows, to love and care for you. As we
continue to grow in our love for each other, I shall adore you and listen
and speak the truth to you and seek to live each day as a gift of God, as
long as we both shall live."

"Martin,... ." Raffi stopped to gather his confidence.  He smiled at
Martin, their eyes locked in each other's gaze. "I now join you to share
all of life with you, its responsibilities and freedoms; its joys and
sorrows, to love and care for you. As we continue to grow in our love for
each other, I shall adore you and listen and speak the truth to you and
seek to live each day as a gift of God, as long as we both shall live."

"Alesha," Antoine intoned majestically. "The rings please."

With pride, I watched as Alesha's small hand delved into his coat pocket to
retrieve the two gold rings he had placed there earlier.  He stepped
forward and held them out. The rings glistened as only gold could. Antoine
raised his hands after blessing the two rings.

"These rings are the symbol of the vows Martin and Raffi have taken, a
circle of wholeness; the perfect form. These rings mark the beginning of a
long journey together filled with wonder, surprises, tears, laughter,
celebrations, grief and joy. May these rings glow in reflection of the
warmth and the life which flow through the wearers today."

He handed the first ring to Martin. It was much smaller. All too soon, it
would have to be resized.

"I give you this ring as I give you my love and faithfulness," Martin said
to Raffi.

In a hushed silence, he placed the ring on Raffi's finger. The boy could
not stop himself from grinning back in return.  His own attempt to place
the ring on Martin's much larger finger brought forth a hushed giggle, a
muted whisper in French of 'you have huge fingers'. There was no
instruction given for them to kiss. It was simply expected that they
would. They leaned into each other, Raffi lifting up onto his toes as
Martin lowered his head. They joined their lips together. I heard Martin's
mother choke back a cry. Someone else sighed longingly. A few people
uttered whispers of admiration. Indeed, the moment was memorable for
everyone there.

Antoine brought their hands back together and ceremonially wrapped a piece
of white silk around them to symbolically bind them together.

"Our Father," he intoned. "We rejoice with Martin and Raffi. We thank you
for their friends who have helped to shape their lives.  We thank you for
their ever-deepening relationship and their decision to share the future
together. We pray that we may be responsible witnesses to them enabling
them to share their lives for the sake of all people."

"Go into the world my sons and fulfill your lives.  Hold fast to your
ideals. Give one another new experiences of joy.  Challenge one another
that you might grow together. May this love, now sealed with your mutual
covenant, mature and enrich the experiences of you both. May your home be a
happy one and your lives fulfilled. Amen."



ACT X SCENE II



And so it ended. The boy who I loved many years earlier, had grown up and
become a man. In turn, he found a boy of his own and perpetuated that
special relationship that only a man and boy can know. The organ began to
play again. Not Bach, but something infinitely more uplifting, exulting the
spirit of the moment.  There was a future to look forward to. I did not
recognize it.  More than likely, it was one of Raffi's favorite
songs. Alesha seemed as cheerful as I had ever seen him, at least if his
smile was anything to judge by.

"They're really married, Mr. B," Alesha confided to me as soon as we were
outside the chapel again. He bubbled with nervous excitement. For an
eleven-year-old boy, witnessing what had transpired in the chapel was
almost impossible to believe.

"Um,...  It's not exactly a marriage, Alesha," I admitted quietly, "because
that wouldn't be legal. It's more like a,...  " I searched for the right
word.

"But they exchanged vows, Mr. B," Alesha countered.

"Yes, they did, Alesha. That's the important thing.  The rest of it, well,
it's really just a way of showing other people, their friends, how much
they mean to each other."

"If it's not a real marriage, then what it is it?"  Alesha asked curiously.

"Hm,...  It's hard to explain. In a way it's more like an agreement to
share their lives, only it has vows instead of lawyers signing papers."

It struck me then, that unlike Martin and Raffi, my relationship with
Alesha was constructed on a better legal foundation. At least, my lawyers
had executed a document to the effect that the Beaufort Scholarship
contractually bound me to be both his guardian and benefactor. Then, there
was the small matter of making him my beneficiary. In the legal sense, I
was but a few steps away from adopting him. That in itself was probably a
good thing I decided, because Alesha Beaufort didn't sound right at all. He
would always be Alesha Yaroshenko for me.

"It really doesn't matter if it's legal," Alesha decided for himself. "If
they want it to be a marriage, then it is."

"Yes, I think you're right dear boy."

"What happens now?"

"Well, they're going to take some photographs of Martin and Raffi, and a
few of us too, I suppose, and then we'll join the rest of the guests in the
garden for a reception."

"I'm starving," Alesha announced agreeably.

"Yes, I suppose you are," I realized aloud. He had not had much to eat that
day, certainly not more than the croissant and glass of milk he had for
breakfast. "Didn't Martin have food brought up when you were being fitted
for your clothes?"

"Yes, but I didn't eat anything," Alesha replied. He smiled shyly.  "I
didn't want to get food on the clothes. It's a rule at school.  Once you're
in a costume you aren't allowed to eat," he added by way of explanation.

"Oh, you poor darling. No wonder you're starving."

"You must be hungry too, Mr. B."

"Me?"

It was true. I hadn't eaten since breakfast as well. I wondered whether I
looked a little thinner because of it. One could only hope so. The
fascinating thing was that until Alesha had mentioned it, I had all but
forgotten I was hungry. Perhaps there was something to the Alesha diet
after all.

"Not after all the work you did getting the chapel ready?"

"Oh that! It wasn't just me. Anyway, it was fun," I chuckled.  "That
Chrissie is a very funny boy. He had us in stitches telling us what
happened when Steven adopted him."

"What happened?" Alesha asked as we followed Martin and Raffi and the
photographer into the garden.

I suspected the photographer had selected a place where romance was the
theme. More than likely we would end up at the basin fountain with its
lichen-covered states of Daphne and Chloe.

"Well,... " I began. "According to young Christopher he was rather naive
when he first met Steven. His words, not mine, by the way."

"A bit like me, huh?" Alesha smirked.

"Hm,...  no,...  Actually, you're worldly by comparison, Alesha.
Apparently, Chrissie didn't know anything about sex."  I laughed.  "He and
his mother were invited to Steven's place in Palm Springs for what he
thought was a family reunion, only it turned out that Steven was actually
using that as an opportunity to meet him."

I hesitated when we approached the stairs, staying back as the photographer
posed Martin and Raffi overlooking the terrace. They didn't have to feign
the kiss they shared. Martin was always a good kisser, but he seemed to
have met his match with Raffi. Then, as the photographer began to take more
pictures of them embracing and making doe-eyes at each other, I went back
to the story.

"Anyway, after a few days Steven formally adopted him.  You'll never guess
what happened at the adoption?"

"What?"

"Well,...  Steven's Jewish, Alesha, and,...  well I don't think he's overly
religious, but I've met his mother, and she's very kosher."

"So?"

"Chrissie wasn't Jewish."

"Why would that matter?"

 "It doesn't. Except for Steven's mother, that is.  What I'm thinking is it
mattered to her." Judging from Alesha's expression I wasn't doing a very
good job explaining. "I don't know for certain, but I suppose it would have
been something of a problem for her if he adopted a boy who wasn't like
him."

"So? Why couldn't Chris become Jewish?" Alesha asked simply.

His gaze wandered momentarily. Like me, he was distracted by watching
Martin and Raffi. Perhaps he was envious as well. They certainly weren't
reluctant to express their love for each other.

"That was the plan, I believe," I said. "Only there was a problem.  No
doubt it was something of a small problem at the time, but it was still
important." I smiled.

"What's that?"

"The thing is, Alesha, all Jewish boys are circumcised. It's an important
part of the religion. According to Steven, Chris' real father hadn't wanted
him to be circumcised when he was born."

"Oh?" It took a few more seconds before what I had said sank in.  "OH!"
Alesha's look of surprise was priceless. "You mean,... "

"Yes."

"So that means,...  Then,... so Chrissie is really circumcised?"  He
sounded curious.

"You don't think he is?"

"We were talking about that yesterday," Alesha confided. "He said his was
like everyone else's. Every boy here has the skin on the end still. It's
not at all like America. I was the only boy like that at school." He
inclined his head. "Mr. B,...  Why would he lie about it?"

"He didn't lie, Alesha," I explained. "They only pretended to do it so that
Steven's mother would be happy."

"Why would doing that make her happy?"

"It's an important tradition for Jews. Jewish parents always have their
boys circumcised when they're babies. I'm not sure why exactly, something
to do with a covenant with God, but I do know that it's done in front of
their families and friends.  I've only been to one Bris, and that was a few
years ago. It was quite a show they put on with chanting and special
clothes, and the food was extraordinary."

"So is he or isn't he?" Alesha asked impatiently.

I laughed. "According to Steven, Chrissie was done in the best Hollywood
style. Imagine how it must have looked, complete with red dye and him
bawling his eyes out, because at the time he really thought they had done
it. Apparently, the doctor squeezed the end of his penis very tightly so
that it hurt enough to make him cry."

"Poor Chrissie," Alesha giggled. He glanced around surreptitiously. "So
he's still a skin head like me then, Mr. B?"

"Skin head?"

Alesha smirked. "That's what it's called, Mr. B, when you've still got the
skin on the end," he explained.

It sounded like reverse logic to me, especially when the only skinheads I'd
seen had shaved heads and all manner of jewelry inserted through their
skin.

"Where on earth do you pick things like that up?" I asked.

"Well that one I think I learned that at school. Or maybe it was
Appleboys," Alesha said smugly.

"Oh. Hm. You learn a lot there, don't you? I'll keep that in mind when
we're back in New York," I teased.

Alesha shrugged nonchalantly. "I'm only learning what I need to know,
Mr. B. "Of course, I learned a lot at Marius' party too."

"You did?"

He nodded teasingly. He was obviously holding something back. The boys had
been upstairs in Ramon's room for a quite a long time.

"Yes, I suppose you did learn a few things that might be useful," I said
suggestively.

He turned away then, watching Martin and Raff pose before the camera. The
kiss was staged for maximum effect, yet it was still nice to watch them
together.

"They really do love each other, don't they?" he mused almost to himself.

"Yes, I believe so," I ventured. "One never knows of course. Only they can
know what is really in their hearts."

"I think they love each other so much that they want everyone else to
know."

"I agree, Alesha. I think that's the reason behind today."

Alesha sucked on his lower lip thoughtfully. "I do too," he said very
softly. Perhaps he thought I could not hear him.  Perhaps I didn't hear
what I thought I heard.



ACT X Scene III



In the best traditions of Bacchanalian revelry, the party that followed the
garden reception lasted until the early hours of the morning. Cases of wine
and champagne were consumed almost as quickly as they were brought in and
opened. And the food? The tables were spread with every delicacy I could
imagine, including many of my personal favorites. It was a true gastronomic
feast if ever there was one, which was only to be expected since Martin had
sought my advice in preparing the menu. With Alesha's reluctant concurrence
that taking one day off my diet would not be the end of the world, I
reinforced my reputation as connoisseur of fine wine and food. However, it
was in moderation. Only a few months earlier I would have gorged myself to
the point of indecency, however that evening I delighted in sampling the
foods for their taste and smell, without indulging in excess.

Fortunately, the party did not descend to the level of some of the parties
I had attended over the years. The men drank more than they should, and
even most of the boys imbibed enough champagne to put them over the legal
limit in New York. A few couples disappeared for long periods at a time,
but never all together, which would have precipitated an orgy.

I delighted in watching Alesha. Although he was far from the social
butterfly that Chris Kaufman had become over the last year, he could hardly
be thought of as being introverted or socially inept. He spent much of the
time on the dance floor with the other boys, demonstrating steps and moves
that they could only aspire to. That alone was gave a great boost to his
self-confidence. He was by far and away the best dancer in the room even if
he lacked his usual exuberant and flamboyant moves.

Perhaps I should have made a super-human effort and joined Alesha on the
dance floor for that was clearly his intention as well as being the
expected state of affairs for every man and boy there.  Yet, the mere
thought of shaking my body into near heart-stopping paroxysms, of jumping
up and down in front of everyone in some sort of sweating corybantic frenzy
that pretended to be dancing was disheartening at best. I kept a good
distance away and watched instead.

It was easy to keep track of Alesha. He was no longer attired in the same
period clothes that he'd worn for the wedding, for it would have looked
quite out of place and been very difficult for him to dance in. Instead,
he'd changed from being a costumed pageboy to a boy dressed all in
black. For good reason, black was not my color, but it was supposedly the
style of the New York intellectual, either in mourning or in denial as I
preferred to think of it. Black suited Alesha that night. It was sensuous,
but it also had the effect of making him appear both sophisticated and
mysterious, in the way that a cat-burglar is mysterious. The clothes fitted
his lean small body like a glove, emphasizing his shapely form simply by
absorbing light and muting contour and angle. He flitted like a shadow, but
with no less presence than any of the other boys, most of whom were dressed
elaborately in the latest Parisian fashion. Instead of vibrant color and
pattern, Alesha wore just black. He was black from shoulder to toe, and
topped with a head of glistening unruly blond hair. He was exceedingly
sexy, sufficiently arousing to overpower a man's good sense and discretion.

There were a few times during the evening when one of the other men managed
to lure him away from the company of boys.  It was only to be expected
because he possessed that aura that men were naturally attracted. Then, I
watched covertly, giving him his independence yet never losing sight of
him. In truth, I hovered mother-hen-like in the background, just to make
certain that he came to no harm, you understand. I kept a responsible
distance so that I could not hear what was said to him, but I always
worried that somehow another man might entice him away from me. And even if
Alesha stayed faithful to me, it might only a take a few minutes for
something bad to happen. I realized the full nature of my situation that
night. With even a modicum of success, another man could easily take the
source of my happiness from me.

And later, after the evening had turned into night, when my heart ached
with love for him, there were those other times when Alesha came up to me
and smiled his joyful smile. Then, he tried to get me to join him on the
dance floor. Those were times when I found myself become nervous, and like
an unsocial boor, I would mumble a feeble excuse, pleading tiredness, or if
not the effects of indolence then over-indulgence of the cuisine. Each time
that he came and went I knew that I had hurt him with my rejection. It was
the fourth or fifth instance of such requests, when Alesha, more cautious
than ever, suggested that we dance. That one time, instead of reason and
inhibited reluctance speaking, champagne answered for me. Before I could
reconsider, he swiftly grabbed my hand. Grinning with emboldened glee, he
led me out onto the floor.  The music immediately gained in volume and
momentum.

"Heavens," I gasped, even before I had moved a muscle, "I'm not sure I can
do this wild stuff."

Alesha laughed as if I'd said something that was very funny. He began
jerking his pelvis in a manner that would have been obscene anywhere
else. On that dance floor his erotic gyrations and thrusts were not unusual
in the slightest except in the high degree of control he exerted. Indeed,
the way some boys and men were dancing might have led one to think they
were copulating. I glanced around quickly as I tried to prepare myself for
some semblance of dancing. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Guido and
Marco making out. Their lips were tightly sealed as Guido's slender
dark-haired catamite hung wantonly about him.  Like everyone else, the
centers of their bodies ground together, but their pelvic thrusts lacked
the frenetic pace of some couples. It was almost as if climax had come and
gone and they were lingering in the bliss that followed.  From where I
stood, it was very apparent that their physical contact was not limited by
the separation afforded by clothing. They might as well been stark
naked. If that was the dancing that was required of me, I could do it.

I took a moment to marshal my thoughts and dispatch my

inhibitions.

"Come here, beautiful," I commanded, reaching my hands out to catch him.

Alesha had no need of further encouragement. He leaped forward with the
grace of the prima ballerina in a first rate company's production of
Giselle. His springing motion was effortless, easily lifting his body up
into the air and into my embrace. I grasped his hips to support him. His
thin legs locked around my hips, his arms lifting up and dropping around my
neck in a manner that bound us together as tightly as any rope.

Given the force of his leap, I had intended to step back to keep my
balance, but instead his weight was barely noticeable. He hugged me
closely, and then without warning he made a quick swipe of his tongue
across his lips. Only a moment, his mouth sought mine. Was this the same
Alesha who was so introverted at Appleboys? His lips locked onto mine
without shame or hesitation.  He was rapidly becoming a very proficient
kisser. We shared tongues and saliva from the outset. It was incredibly hot
and wet.  The sensation of his lips against mine was made even more
enjoyable by knowing that he embraced me willingly. I had never seen him so
intense, so eager and hungry to be ravished that it was all I could do to
hold on to him and try to breath.

"Yes," Alesha panted when our lips finally separated.  "Yes. Yes.  Yes. Oh
Mr. B,... " He trembled urgently, moving his thighs and pelvis with great
agitation as he struggled to express his feelings. Finally, he gave up and
rested his head against my shoulder. He did not stop shaking.

If only for the duration of that kiss I had been transported back to my
childhood, to the very first realization that boys had an effect on me. It
was always the same, an effect that made my heart beat surge wildly. I
could feel it even then as he clasped me to him, the endlessly pounding
inside my chest, a rush that demanded fulfillment of something that I knew
was terribly wrong but could not hold back. No matter the cost. There was
no point in fighting that urge for it would never diminish. It never went
away. It was always there. I closed my eyes and allowed myself the sheer
pleasure of Alesha's warmth. We trembled together.

With the sort of emotional need I felt, it was no surprise that I was
always nervous around young boys. As a youth, I quickly realized that some
boys affected me far more than others. Some boys brought me to the point of
trembling simply from the sheer thrill of being close to them. Other boys,
I had to touch first before my heart began to beat faster. By nature I was
articulate and loquacious, but I soon acquired the habit of being
completely lost for words in the presence of those special boys.  And as I
stood there, holding Alesha to my breast, I reflected on my childhood. In a
flash I realized that all of it, as painful and happy as it was, was as
applicable to Alesha as it had been to me. The only difference was that the
object of his affection was a man rather than a boy. The desire would
torment him forever. The worst part, perhaps also the best part, was that
it came in waves, overpowering like the waves on a beach, wearing away
inhibition, buffeting sanity, demanding satisfaction until it was finally
tempered by sexual release.

Alesha clamped his legs around my hips and gasped and strained as hard as
he could against me, giving his lower abdomen shameless rutting jerks.
Perhaps he was imitating Marco in that because he could see them over my
shoulder, but I was not about to complain.  He was hot and alive, and when
we kissed again, I felt the air being drawn from my lungs. Had I been of
the weak-hearted type, I surely would have swooned and collapsed on the
dance floor. Again and again, his lips sought mine even before I had a
chance to regain my breath from the last kiss.

For the sake of safety, I grasped his thighs to hold him up to me, only to
discover that I needed more leverage. My hands naturally found their way to
his petite buttocks. One hand more than cupped an entire cheek. I easily
supported him, clasping his small mounds of muscled firmness. Whoever
claimed that a woman had buttocks like a boy, didn't know what they were
talking about.  There has never been a woman who was built like Alesha. I
fondled and caressed his bottom. Short of inserting my hand beneath his
clothes, I took liberties that I would never have dared to take only a few
days earlier. And when I held his bottom, his urgency increased. Although I
doubted the possibility because it was so far fetched, it seemed that he
was achieving orgasm again and again.

His tongue pushed all the way into my mouth, seeking mine and dueling for
position. Kiss after kiss, each becoming more passionate, more
enthusiastic, more wonderful than the last. My lips felt like they were
becoming raw, yet I was perfectly happy to kiss him until we could take no
more and collapsed on the floor. Fortunately, we needed to breath before
that happened.

"You've been eating garlic, Mr. B," he announced with a giggle when our
mouths parted.

He was breathless, inhaling deeply every time, seeming to wince when he
moved against me.  He wiped his lips with the back of his hand, then almost
impatiently, he licked his lips again. From his expression, it was no
secret that he was ready for the next bout.  His lips would be sore in the
morning. I carried him to a corner of the dance floor where we wouldn't be
pushed and shoved by other men and boys who were dancing. Our dancing was
minimal at best, barely moving.

"Garlic? Why yes, I expect the snails were sauteed in a garlic sauce. Of
course, that's it. Did you have some dear boy? They were very good."

"Just one. They were really oily, Mr. B," he reprimanded playfully. He
smooched my cheek, blowing against my ear. Despite his mood, he was
exhausted.

"Yes they were, but they were delicious, weren't they." I smiled at his
mocking expression. "Don't worry, I only had two."

"Two?"

I nodded, and gave a smack of my lips. My show of appreciation was not
exaggerated. The snails were among the best I had ever eaten.

"Then, you've behaved yourself. That's very good,... I think,...  Hm,... "
Alesha said mischievously. "Maybe I should give you a reward."

I nodded, thinking of the many wonderful delicacies that I barely been able
to ignore, and silently asking myself whether any of them could even begin
to compare to the sweet taste of Alesha's lips. Of all the boys I'd known
over the years, only Martin kissed like the same way. Was it my imagination
that Alesha's kiss was sweeter than anything with sugar? I played along

"You can ask Martin. I've been very good, Alesha."

"He's not here to ask," Alesha confided. He grinned.  "He's probably
upstairs fucking Raffi."

"Oh? You really think they'd do that with us down here?" I teased.  I
smiled and Alesha giggled. He nodded shamelessly, his eyes alive with
mirth.

"Of course. It's their wedding night. That's what you're supposed to do
when you get married. Did you have some truffles too, Mr.  B.?" he asked
with a raised eyebrow.

"Just one or two."

"One or two?" He tried to sound serious, yet with his thighs gripping my
waist and my hands cupping his bottom, it was impossible to take him
seriously. If he pushed against me, he was able to wriggle against my
erection, pushing it against his own small crotch. Finally, unable to keep
a stern expression, he began to giggle.

 "Do you want your reward now, Mr. B?" he murmured.

He looked very tired as he gazed up at me. I thought of the way that Martin
had looked at me when he was a boy.  Surely, it was the same deep love he
felt for it had the same appeal to my soul.

There had been a time, late one evening when I'd carried Martin into my
bedroom. Then, he had pressed his lips to my ear and formed the words 'I
love you' with a soft sigh. Now, Alesha's breath grazed my cheek, but there
were no words even though his expression seemed to say much more than words
could ever say.  Would those words of love ever come as easily to him as
they had been for Martin? Would he ever be able to say the words I wanted
so much to hear?

"Yes please," I squeaked.

"We can't do it here, silly," he whispered.

I pretended to look around for somewhere to go, causing Alesha to smirk at
me and grip me even tighter with his thighs.  The end of my penis was
squeezing into the small dome between his thighs. It couldn't possibly be
comfortable for him, not with my bloated organ ramming into his testicles.

"I can feel him, Mr. B," he said, pushing his groin even harder into my
lower belly and rubbing slightly from side to side.

"Shhh," I said awkwardly. "There's no need to tell everyone."

"You're not the only man here with a stiffie," Alesha whispered back. Was
it my imagination that he sounded proud that he had caused it to be that
way? A shared smile with just a hint of smugness could say so much.  It was
an expression that was out of place for the unassuming and ever-shy Alesha.

He nudged me. "Look at them. That Guido has a big one.  You can see it
sticking up near Marco's butt."

"Yes. Poor boy. It's like he's about to be skewered.""

He giggled nervously. "Don't you wonder how they do it?"

"Do what?"

He rolled his eyes, mocking me. "Have sex, of course," he replied
willfully. "What did you think I was talking about, Mr. B?"

"Marco's not so small," I observed guiltily.

Side by side, Marco wasn't that much smaller than Alesha. He was two years
younger than Alesha and perhaps a few inches separated them in height. He
was old enough to have sex with a man if that was what he wanted. It was
Marco's brash Neapolitan character and natural eroticism that implied the
physical maturity that Alesha lacked. Certainly, Alesha's graceful movement
tended to compensate for his seeming innocence, almost enough to make one
think he was capable of having sex.

"I didn't say he was small, Mr. B," Alesha rebuked with a knowing smirk.
"What I meant was that Count Guido's dick is nowhere near as big as yours."

I almost laughed aloud. Alesha was not the first boy to make that
statement. I had heard it myself beginning with I was barely thirteen. I
studied him with as much seriousness as I could muster.

"You sound very sure of yourself, young man. And how exactly do you know
that might I ask?"

Of course, I knew exactly how large Guido's penis was.  We'd spent several
years together as teenagers, and there had even been many times, both then
and during the years that followed when we'd shared boys if not ourselves.
His penis was a little shorter, and quite a bit thinner than mine. Need to
say, Guido's response was to propose that his was ideal for making love to
a young boy while mine required some accommodation and was less likely to
give him pleasure as a result.

Alesha smirked and gave me his patented 'you must be joking' look.  "Do you
want your reward now or later, Mr. B?"

 "Hm,...  I think that rather depends on what do you have in mind?"

"Guess!"

I laughed and nodded with pretended eagerness. Alesha nodded his head as
well, no less enthusiastic.

He brought his lips closer and pretended to kiss me.  "I'm glad you have a
big one, Mr. B."

I smirked at him and he lifted his hips up and slowly rubbed his small very
hard bulge against my belly. My clothed member throbbed under his bottom as
he squirmed against me. We were so stiff that it was almost painful.

"Judging by what I feel sticking into my belly I think we'd better say
goodnight and go upstairs," I muttered obliquely.

"I think so. You're hard too," he whispered back.

"Hm, so you don't want to dance again, huh?"

"No. And neither do you, Mr. B," he observed pointedly.

"You're right about that. Are you sure you want to go upstairs, Sweetie?"

He nodded again, assenting as much with his wanton eyes. He was perfectly
agreeable to going upstairs to our bedroom.  Unlike some of the boys, he
could leave a party even if it was still going strong.

If there was any doubt, his body lifted up as he tensed the muscles in his
thighs. His pelvis pushed firmly, jerking against my groin to give an
indication of what he expected me to do when we reached there. I wasn't
shocked. The look he gave me was nothing short of being lewd. It was time
he lost his virginity. My heart pounded. Was this to be the night I had
been looking forward to since I had seen Alesha dancing at the Scholarship
Competition?  Or earlier, when I'd fallen in love with him as another
name. My heart was positively randy.

With unspeakable depravity at the forefront of my mind I began to walk,
still carrying Alesha. My route of escape passed close by Guido. He smiled
lasciviously at me, and when I smiled back, he playfully cupped his hand
underneath Marco's bottom and squeezed his fingers into one cheek. Marco
immediately giggled and, with some agitation, promptly kissed him back on
the cheek.  That alone was sufficient cause for me to slow my pace. Guido's
hand stayed there, working the tips of his fingers into Marco's crevice,
where I was certain that only the boy's trousers prevented him from
penetrating further. Marco slobbered over the man's cheek until it was wet.
There was no question of what they were going to do before much longer.
From the corner of my eye I perceived a conscious wink and returned one of
my own, much to Guido's amusement. It was almost ludicrous, but a great
deal of fun nonetheless.

My heart began to beat even faster as we continued across the dance floor,
finally leaving the Great Hall behind us.  I felt Guido's eyes on my back
until we were gone from sight.  No doubt there were other men and boys who
watched us leave, whose thoughts were also of the lust and lechery that
awaited me, for Alesha had that effect on every male there. I couldn't
blame them if they jumped to the conclusion that we were going somewhere to
have sex.  It would be difficult to think otherwise given how Alesha was
clinging to me, his pelvis still thrusting, his thin arms locked around my
neck.

Once away from the crowd and noise, I slowed, looking for a place to gather
my champagne-addled wits. I reached an alcove where a suit of brilliantly
polished medieval armor was placed for effect. Every castle I had ever been
in had the requisite collection of antiquated armory. There in its
protection, I stopped walking and hugged Alesha to me. He stopped moving
and relaxed, exhausted in my arms. His face was flushed.  His ragged breath
was hot. His body was hot. Everything about him was hot.

"You were the most beautiful boy there tonight," I said quietly.  Could he
detect the awe I felt merely by being in his presence? "I was honored
today, you know Alesha. I was truly honored just by being beside you, by
being fortunate enough to know you as well as I do. You're a very special
boy, my Alesha Yaroshenko."

Alesha smiled weakly at me. Could he even begin to understand the depth of
my feelings for him? The effect that he had on me? He made my life worth
living in a way that no one else could ever do.  His eyelids fluttered. Our
heads came closer together, mine lowering, his barely lifting up. He kissed
my chin, barely grazing, and nuzzled his hair against my nose. He smelled
fresh and clean even though it had been many hours since he got out of the
bath tub. There was a familiar smell, what I thought to be the same flower
scent that had been in Martin's shampoo so many years earlier. I put the
thought aside as the meanderings of

infatuation.

"I think it's time you took me to bed, Mr. B," Alesha purred tiredly.

I think my mouth dropped open. Alesha's response was to giggle and reach
between us. His small hand grasped the hardness beneath my trousers,
capturing my erection against his thumb. He applied pressure with his
fingers, forcing the swollen lump into his palm.  My penis was excreting
juice, so much so that a small dark circle soon appeared in the woolen
cloth. Alesha smiled, no longer curious because he was familiar with the
differences between our bodies. Nonetheless, his smirk revealed that he was
shamelessly pleased with himself, with no thought given to the dry-cleaning
bill. I winced as my penis throbbed. His hand gripped tighter still, but
only for a second or two before easing the pressure in his grasp. No doubt
he was tired after the long day.



And so, accepting that I would carry Alesha all the way to our chamber, I
started walking once again, along the stone-flagged hallways of the
chateau. Under other circumstances I would have been sorely tempted to stop
and point out details of heraldry, examine some of the hand-tinted etchings
of hunting scenes that Martin had acquired in his early twenties, or study
one or two of the better Flemish tapestries that lined the walls, however
the task of carrying Alesha to bed demanded my full attention. We reached
the grand stair and I paused to secure my hold on him. His head nodded
against my shoulder, urging me onward.



I was glad that our bedroom was on the second floor.  Not that I was tired
from carrying Alesha, but I shuddered within at the possibility of
stumbling on the stairs and injuring him. I heaved a sigh of relief when I
reached the landing and took a moment to regain my breath. It wasn't that I
was out of breath as much as the fact that I had barely breathed at all
while I was carrying Alesha up the stairs. I wished I hadn't been so
liberal in the consumption of Martin's champagne, but I'd never been known
to turn away a glass of Veuve de Cliquot.



The door to Martin's bedroom was ajar as we approached, It offered a
glimpse within. The bed was disheveled, and very obviously used for
something other than sleeping. I smiled. There was no sign of Martin or
Raffi, not until Martin suddenly appeared in the doorway. He was dressed in
a robe, but it was sufficiently open at the front to reveal his chest and
lower abdomen.  Politely, I averted my eyes.

"Bon nuit, Martin," I said.

"Tres bon," he smirked.

We exchanged knowing smiles. In that momentary glimpse below his waist I
had observed his wet shiny penis, although shriveled from its recent
exertion. It had been a very good night for him, and probably for Raffi as
well.

"I'm very happy for you. And Raffi too," I said quietly. "A boy couldn't
ask for a better man to love him."

"Et tu, mon ami," Martin replied. "It's true for both of us. I have my
Raffi and now you have your precious Alesha."

He could see that Alesha had fallen asleep in my arms and his voice was
lowered to a whisper.

"Alesha's a very special boy, Sheldon," Martin confided. He regarded Alesha
with something more that fondness, but what man could look upon a sleeping
boy and not feel awe. "I cannot think of any boy who is more perfect."

I chose not to amend Martin's unnecessary embellishment. Instead, I said,
"As you were too, old friend." He smiled, appreciative of my compliment.
"Raffi's a wonderful boy too. I'm very happy for you."

"Ah, that's true.  But the boy in your arms is very different to the others
downstairs," Martin continued. "You have a special responsibility for that
boy, Sheldon."

I nodded, and clasped Alesha to me with just a little more effort.  Now, I
was freed from the worry of climbing the stairs, there was no load at all.
I could carry him all day if need be.

"How is he?" I asked.

"Raffi? He's cleaning up." Martin smirked. "I did him twice. Poor boy. The
second time was a little messy."

I smiled back at him.

"It won't be long before you have the same problem," Martin chided.

"We'll see," I said noncommittally.

"He's eleven."

"Yes."

"Don't wait too long, Sheldon. After all, these are his best years. He's
growing up quickly," Martin added.

I shrugged ambiguously, knowing that Martin was right but reluctant to show
it, not even to him. I knew all too well that the years from twelve to
fourteen went past in a flash. He had changed from a boy to a youth before
my eyes.

"He needs you, Sheldon."

"I need him too, Martin. God alone knows how much I need him, but I don't
think that means that he needs a sore bottom.  At least not yet."

Martin grinned. His hand extended and gently caressed Alesha arm.  Moving
down to the boy's small hand, he took hold of it.

"He has such delicate hands," Martin observed. He glanced up at me. "But
it's more than ready to hold your cock, Sheldon."

What was it about a boy's hand that seemed to make it so natural to hold a
man's penis even if it did not fit in his grasp?

"He's not large is he?" Martin observed.

"He's a lot smaller than you were when we first met."

"I was twelve."

"Yes, you were. And a well-endowed twelve at that."

"Perhaps, but I wasn't as big as some boys, especially where it counts."

"True," I agreed.  I had difficulty not yawning. "I've always said that
bigger isn't necessarily better when it comes to boys, Martin. And not just
to save their feelings," I reminded him. "The Greeks were of that opinion
too."

"Ha," Martin grinned. "There's nothing quite like a boy with a tiny dick,
is there?"

Like me, he was thinking of the afternoon we spent in the Louvre many years
earlier. There, in the Ancient World of Greco-Roman Art, he made the
discovery that Greek boys were less well-endowed than modern boys, at least
judging by what the sculptors left behind.

"I've always been of that belief."

"Now we both know that not every one would agree with you Sheldon.  Take
that boy of Antoine's. He's quite big, at least from what I've heard. A
good five inches already apparently. And Marco is too. I've even seen him
hard, and he's very nicely built. Of course, it's really too soon to be
certain, but I expect he'll end up with a tool to be proud of."

I nodded in agreement. The last time I had stayed with Guido, Marco spent
most of the weekend running around the villa without a single piece of
clothing on. I had ample opportunity to examine him again when we stopped
at the stream.

"That's one boy who'll more than likely fill out his briefs in a few
years," I agreed.

Martin laughed softly so as not to awaken Alesha. It was an old joke
between us. "How about that Chrissie huh? Now, he's much more your type, I
think. At least he sounds like he is after what Steven said about him,
Sheldon," he added pointedly.

"Well, dear friend, it's getting late," I said, interrupting a discussion
that was guaranteed to make me sexually aroused. "I'd better be carrying my
little Sugar Plum Fairy over the threshold and put him to bed."

 Martin grinned crudely. "Lucky you. As far as I'm concerned I'd take him
to bed in a second. Unless I'm much mistaken, you'll be at the altar
yourself before much longer."

"Shame on you, Martin," I rebuked cheerfully. "He hasn't even started
puberty and you have him taking vows."

Martin smirked shamelessly. "And you wouldn't like that?"

"I didn't say that." I glanced down at Alesha's face.  That very thought
had been in my head since the afternoon. "We'd best say goodnight before I
say something I'll probably regret later," I quipped.

Martin waited, still smiling.

"Even though I still love you, Martin, I'll be angry if you don't go easy
on dear Raffi. He won't be able to go to church tomorrow otherwise."

He laughed and followed a pace behind me as I carried Alesha down the hall
and into the Chambre da Lune, as it was called, because of the moon theme.
They color scheme evoked the night sky, complete with silver stars. It was
unquestionably the nicest of the guest bedrooms.

 I would rather that Martin had not followed me, but it was apparent that
he had more to say to me. I changed the topic to something that I thought
was safer territory.

"So what did Steven say about Chrissie?" I asked after I laid my beautiful
boy down on the bed.

"Of course, you didn't hear did you? You were off gallivanting about the
countryside at the time," Martin said jokingly, changing the subject
slightly and bringing pleasant memories back despite my inebriated state.

I thought about it for a moment or two, watching Alesha playing in the
water with Marco, then just the two of us wandering along the stream until
we came to that special place. How close we had come to having sex. I had
been so ready to do something that would have changed our relationship.
Could I ever do that to Alesha? And all the while, I couldn't help but
wonder exactly what Steven had said about his youthful companion while we
were gone.

"I can only imagine," I said simply.

My response provoked a smile. From that alone, I could tell that he wasn't
about to tell me what I wanted to know.

"Is that Chrissie one heck of a doll or what?" Martin said boldly, using
the language as if he'd been born in America.

It was all I could do not to laugh. "Yes, he is."

"He's a bit on the small side though apparently."

We both knew what he meant. There was only a hint of a bulge between
Chrissie's legs even when his clothes had been tailored to achieve maximum
effect.

"Hm, I'm not surprised. Not that it would matter with a face like his."

"He's a beautiful boy alright, but he's a bit effeminate for me," Martin
added quietly. "I've always enjoyed boys because they're boys."

I understood what he meant. I wasn't sure where I stood. When it came to
boys I could see all sides of the issue.

"They are who they are. Each one is different," I remarked quietly. Alesha
was who he was. There was nothing I would change about him.

"That's true enough. Alesha's the one exception as far as I'm concerned."

Like me, Martin was gazing down at the sleeping boy on the bed.  His
disheveled hair glistened as if it had been brushed for hours, his face
partially buried in the white satin pillow, but even his profile showed a
contour that was pleasing to the eye.  His slightly upturned nose, full
passionate lips, a brow that conveyed thoughtfulness and distinction, all
of it was the epitome of beauty. I could think of nothing as charming as a
sleeping boy. Martin agreed with me. The lingering silence conveyed what we
were both thinking. No words could express our awe.

"He's absolutely perfect, Sheldon. If it wasn't for Raffi, he'd be the only
boy here tonight who would interest me!"  Martin said emphatically.

His voice seemed to say something else. Perhaps it was better that I didn't
know what it was.

"Not Chrissie?"

Martin laughed and raised an eyebrow.  "This one's for me. We share the
same taste in boys, well this boy at least."

"Bon nuit, Martin."

"He's a very special boy if ever there was one."

Martin chuckled behind me. I was aware that he was leaving the room, yet I
stayed there, watching over Alesha, my breath bated, waiting for the door
to close.

"Don't be too surprised, Sheldon. It isn't what you find tonight, but what
you do about it that counts," Martin said mysteriously as the door
closed. I heard another quiet thud as his door closed further down the
hall.



ACT X SCENE IV



I undressed Alesha. Only a man who has undressed a sleeping boy can begin
to understand what I felt that night. I was tired, yet the sense of awe and
reverence, and yes, respect as well, as I carefully removed each item of
his clothing, was something that would always stay with me. That simple act
so easily taken for granted by a parent, became a special responsibility
for me. I exerted all the care and attention that I was capable of. First,
his shoes, handmade by Fergamini of Vicenza, especially for a boy who
danced.

I untied the laces so that each small shoe could be slipped off easily.
Then, just as every time that had gone before, I marveled at the size of
his feet and even gave passing if amused thought to Cinderella. Yet Italian
calf-leather was not glass, and no matter how much I imagined that narrow
foot to be feminine, it was not.



Although not unpleasant, the smell was quite distinct.  I began to smile,
feeling both glee and sexual arousal. Until then, I all but mocked those
men who claim to love boys' feet. I bent to kiss his toes even though they
were still enclosed by socks.  Then, the socks came off, rolling the black
synthetic down his leg like a short stocking until I held a bare tender
foot in each greedy hand. Inhaling deeply again, but still finding only a
hint of something other than the fresh smell of a recently washed boy. I
smiled to myself and then cautiously licked over his instep. I kissed his
ankle, then his toes, took them inside my mouth, all five of them like tiny
precious morsels to be savored by my tongue. Such beautiful perfect feet
deserved to be adorned by something besides black patent leather shoes

Then, as my lust grew stronger, I eased his feet down onto the bed. I took
a deep breath and tried to calm myself. My thoughts and heartbeat raced
ahead. I leaned over him and dared myself to kiss him on the lips. I won,
or lost the dare, for I succumbed to lust even as the desire began to grow
inside me. I tasted sweetness. Softness. Purity. Utter perfection. It was
all that I could imagine, and more. A kiss stolen from a sleeping boy, but
no less something to be treasured because of it.

For a few moments, I thought of ravishing him while he slept, silently
considering the sheer pleasure to be gained from abrading his delicate lips
against mine, of pushing my tongue deep inside his mouth. I doubted whether
he would complain, yet I held back, sat back, waited until my heart ceased
its interminable pounding.

His clothes had to be removed eventually. There was no getting past it.
Like me, he did not like to sleep with anything against his body save a
satin sheet and goose down-filled cover for the nights could be cool.

Again, another deep breath, another vain effort to exert control over
raging lust. Reaching for his waist, that too-narrow-for-a- boy waist,
plucking at the little black button that secured the front of his trousers.
I took notice of the looseness of his waist, and felt envy of his lean
body. Even as a boy I had always been overweight. A half a lifetime later
it was still depressing to think about. And Alesha, he was so slender that
I could easily slip my hand beneath the waistband of his trousers.  His
clothes were warm from him, sleeping and inert, but very much alive. His
chest rose and fell in slow undulating waves. So quiet, not even a whisper
of breathe.

"Alesha, my darling," I whispered. "Do you have any idea how beautiful you
are, my precious boy?"

There was no answer except a confirming conclusive voice inside my head. I
touched my own crotch, feeling the hardness that had formed so quickly and
stayed so long. I knew exactly what it needed for relief. I sighed
longingly and smiled. My mother often said that I lacked self control, that
I should try harder to resist, but it had no effect. Always, the same
persistent voice had nagged its need for gluttony in my guilt-ridden
consciousness. Now, at a time in my life when I lacked for nothing, I was
very aware that something was lacking in my life. I gazed down upon him,
knowing full well what it was.  Did he have any idea how much I loved him?
It went without saying that he was perfect in every way, yet I posed the
question to myself whether any other boy be his equal.

"Alesha?" I murmured sleepily. "Dear boy, would you mind if I undressed
you?"

Of course, he didn't answer, but the same silent ever-hungry voice gave me
the reply that I wanted. I fumbled with the little button until it was
unfastened, tugged at the metal tag that closed the zipper of his trousers,
drew it down so slowly that it would not disturb him.



My excitement came in waves as I contemplated Alesha, desire building until
lust all but overwhelmed what little self-control I possessed. Common sense
dictated that I should remove his shirt before I gave in to it. My hands
trembled as they came closer to the line of black metallic buttons on the
front of his shirt. Both his shirt and trousers were of Italian design, not
Armani because that was pretentious, but elegantly crafted by a merchant
who was well known for his sophisticated line of clothes for boys. It went
by the name 'Picolla Firenze', translated literally as 'little Florentine'.
It was the very same label, if not style that Guido often purchased for
Marco.  Already, I had placed an order for a second outfit, something less
'New York' in its intent. It would be more continental in fashion,
something that would no doubt draw unnecessary attention to Alesha when we
attended the next dinner party in Paris. However, I was quickly getting
used to the looks that people gave him. That night, some of the glances in
Alesha's direction were nothing less than wanton lust.



With that thought in my mind, and accepting that it applied to me as much
as to any other man at the wedding reception, I unfastened the shirt
buttons. One by one, working downwards, each open button revealing another
few inches of bare smooth skin. When at last all the buttons were undone, I
lifted the sides of his shirt to the sides, pulling the tails free where
they had been tucked under his trousers. He was wearing what I expected,
although there was no sign of it until I peeled the trousers back from his
front. He was wearing bikini-style briefs, very unlike the baggy boxers
that most of the boys wore in the U.S., yet not out of place in Europe
where tight and colorful was still very much the fashion of young males. My
choice of underwear had been deliberate.  Nothing too tight because knowing
Alesha as I did, he was going to spend a large part of the evening on the
dance floor, and certainly nothing that might cause him embarrassment were
other boys to see him in the bathroom.

His briefs were simply adorned with the word 'garcon' directly above the
groin, the smallish accent under the 'c' being placed precisely above his
penis. It was an appropriate accent, not large but very important to the
whole.

My hand brushed his bony hip, lingering in the delicious warmth of his bare
skin. Then, as casually as I could, I allowed my hand to continue around
him to caress his small firm buttocks beneath his trousers. A single cheek
could barely fill my palm. My fingers pressed into his crack as I cupped
that hemisphere of smooth skin.  The separation afforded by his briefs did
little to cool my ardor.  I felt the hot moistness of the most private part
of a boy's body.  As my fingers pressed further into that cloth covered
crevice I encountered something hard, hot, unyielding. There was something
else, several little lines beneath his briefs, that reminded me of fine
cords that I'd once tied around Martin's waist.  With trembling hands I
began to ease Alesha's briefs down.  An inch at a time, carefully tugging
both briefs and trousers underneath the sleeping boy, until the waist came
past his bottom.  >From then on, it was a relatively simple matter of
pulling his briefs and trousers down his very slender legs and off his
feet.

I leaned back and studied the naked boy. He was flawless. Perfect.
Unspoiled in every way but one. There was a small reddened patch on his
lower belly where I had been too aggressive in my oral ministrations to his
delicate skin. And the silk ribbons, one on either side of his groin,
attaching to a slightly thicker ribbon that was secured a few inches below
his waist. Was I surprised?  Excited, mostly. For those yellowed silk cords
were like old friends, familiar in every way.  How many times had I tied
them? A hundred times or more. No, many more than that. Martin had worn the
ivory plug for at least a year before he no longer needed it.

Instinctively, my hand felt behind Alesha once again.  His bare bottom was
softer than any cloth that I had ever touched. Again, I searched between
his buttocks, discovering the hardness of an ivory stake that had all but
disappeared inside him.

His penis was limp, like a slumbering child, lying contentedly on his inner
thigh, making tiny folds in the delicate skin of his scrotum as it
stretched to enclose his testicles. Such perfect little things, I thought,
yet largely wasted if their only function was procreation. Cock and balls,
the delightful boy parts of a boy, the parts that were intended to be loved
more than any other, except perhaps his bottom. It was as if divine
inspiration had been brought to bear for his creation rather than being the
result of the copulation of a man and woman.


Smiling, or smirking, I'm not quite sure which one it was, I leaned over
him, just to make certain that what I suspected was fact. I parted his
cheeks with my hands. The ivory dildo, yellowed with age and use, was
barely visible. Yet, the carefully incised drawing on the nether end was
very clear. Martin's dildo was being used for its intended purpose after
all.

In my mind, I heard Martin's parting words: 'It isn't what you find
tonight, but what you do about it that counts.'  He had known all along.
And then it struck me. It was the only logical explanation given that I had
returned the ivory dowel to Martin when we returned from our horse ride. Of
course, Martin had shown Alesha how to use it.  Perhaps he had even
inserted it. I doubted that Alesha could do it by himself. I wasn't at all
certain that I liked the idea of that, yet there was nothing that I could
do about it. The deed was done, as some would say. If not me, then who
better than Martin. Indeed, the question that Martin posed to me was the
one issue that I was afraid of dealing with. He understood my dilemma and
took it upon himself to preempt the situation.

Then, as I thought about it, my heart went out to Alesha. He wanted so much
to please me that he had gone to Martin for what he needed. Even more
disturbing was the realization that followed.  The poor boy had danced so
energetically throughout the night with that thick unyielding rod buried in
his backside.

I yawned tiredly, despite the thrill that formed inside me. He was getting
himself ready to be loved by a man with or without my help. I wondered
whether I should remove it. However, there had been many nights when Martin
slept with it buried deep inside him, and after wearing it for hours on the
dance floor, it was unlikely to do any further damage. There was a good
chance that I would wake him up if I tried to remove it while he slept.
There would be a better time to take it out and talk to him about what it
meant.  It would wait until the morning.

As sleepy as I was, one thing needed to be done, and that was to give
Alesha his surprise gift. It was the symbol of my love. From the drawer
beside the bed, I removed the small cloth-covered box that had placed there
earlier in the day. Inside was a diamond and sapphire bracelet, the latter
whose color was matched to Alesha's pale blue eyes. The stones were
square-cut, or what a jeweler would term a 'princess cut'. They were fitted
between plain gold links to form a design that was both modern and timeless
in its simplicity. It was intended for a woman, but it also suited a boy
like Alesha.

With growing excitement, I lifted Alesha's right arm and placed it on my
lap so that I could see what I was doing. I positioned the bracelet close
to his wrist and carefully closed the clasp. The problem was immediately
apparent. A woman's wrist was much thicker than that of a very slender
eleven-year-old boy.

"Oh no! It's too damned big," I said aloud.

I hadn't given the size of the bracelet any thought since they were all of
much the same size, if not price. I was too excited when I came upon the
ideal gift for Alesha. Perhaps it was possible to adjust the size? Of
course, he would eventually grow into it, but until then? It was so loose
that it might even fall off his hand. And then, in a flash of inspiration,
I realized that there was another place for him to wear it, a place that
was even more appropriate for a boy who danced. I unfastened the clasp and
placed it on his foot, just above the ankle. Alesha's ankles were girlishly
thin. There was very little room for play, yet it was loose enough that it
would not be uncomfortable for another year at least. I smiled, turned off
the lights and climbed into bed beside him.



End Act X



Intermission.