Warning: The following is a work of fiction and does not relate to any real person or event. It describes explicit sexual activities between adult men and young boys. If this is not what you are looking for, you have no excuse for reading any further. If it is, then enjoy!

 

 

THE PORN BOYS

 

by

 

Cosmo

 

Chapter 3: Knowing Yura I

At bed time, I ensured that Yura had everything he needed. I drew a bath for him in the ensuite bathroom of his room, and I retired to my room on the other side of the hallway. I kept my bedroom door open so I could keep an eye on him, and in case he needed anything before he went to sleep. I left his freshly laundered SpongeBob pajamas folded neatly on the edge of the bed. From the small writing desk in my room, I could see straight across the hallway into his room, and that was when I observed through the open doorway, Yura emerging from the steamy bathroom. He was enrobed in a large bath towel which he was wearing like a cape, and proceeded to dry himself off. He was humming away to himself, half whispering some obscure Russian lyrics and half humming the tune under his breath, and he alternated between the two as he dried himself. It was heartening to see him so cheerful and relaxed. He spotted the magazines I had left for him on the bed, next to the pajamas, and to my delight he stopped humming for a moment. He seemed to brighten, and was instantly drawn to them. They were only some past editions of prestige sports car magazines and the like, an interest I thought he might share. I figured it was perhaps a way of connecting with him. He seemed to like the magazines. I watched him for a while, from my room directly across the hallway, and saw how innocently and obliviously he went about his business, in that preoccupied way that all children have, for the moment his deeper fears and concerns all but forgotten. Unaware that I was watching him, he settled himself on the bed, his legs drawn up to one side, and the towel still draped across his shoulders. His hair was all ruffled, still a little wet and sticking up in uneven spikes all over his head. He propped himself up on one arm, his shoulder taking most of the weight, and started leafing through one of the magazines. That made me smile to myself as I watched. He was still humming away to himself, and at the same time absently fondling his hairless little dick and balls in between turning the pages.

Pretty soon, it was his boydick that became the focus of his attention. As he continued to grope himself, the magazines were soon forgotten, and so was the fact that he was supposed to be getting ready for bed. He stopped humming altogether and his interest moved to stimulating himself. I could see his little hand touching himself, tentatively at first, and then with more purpose. His hand clenched tightly around his stiff little organ, which was clearly hardening in his grip. Slowly, he pulled on his boydick, manipulating the soft, elastic skin up and down over the hardness beneath. Gradually, he picked up the pace and eventually settled into a speedy rhythm with increased urgency, his fist hammering away at his crotch with some vigor. As he did so, the towel slid off his shoulders, so that he was sitting there naked. He started to pant, screwing up his eyes and occasionally throwing his head back in an effort to induce the ecstasy he craved.

I felt I should not be watching, but I couldn't turn away. If he had looked up and focused any further than the door of his room, he would have spotted me, but he was too deeply into his pursuit, lost in the reverie of pleasuring himself, indulging the age-old compulsion that every boy eventually comes to know. Fascinated, I stared at the compact little figure, huddled neatly on that big bed, his arm working himself up into a frenzy, all his efforts centered on that little iron pole of hardness that was giving him so much pleasure, extending from his hairless crotch like some wayward accoutrement. He was engaged in the solitary pursuit of that elusive place we all reserved in our minds that special place we could all go where only sex exists. It didn't take him long. His pace reached such a pitch that he was stroking his little pole with almost painful abandon. Suddenly he stiffened. His little body shuddered violently and he elicited a single involuntary high-pitched cry, which echoed off the walls of his room. He clutched his little dick spastically as his head dropped forward. He stayed like that for a moment, hunched over, then raised his head, opening his eyes, and he let go of his little dick. He was panting softly. Bringing his hand up to his face, his fingers still clenched in a loose fist, he looked at it closely for a moment, studying the liquid dripping over his knuckles with a curious fascination. Then, tentatively, he put his little hand to his mouth and licked it.

I moved out of the line of sight of the door and gasped inwardly. I realized I had a hard-on. There was no doubt that Yura was a good looking boy with an incredibly attractive body, and I had just witnessed him work his own little boy spunk out of himself. I was immediately turned on by the thought that he could actually ejaculate. He was a little young, but obviously was already producing cum. I felt breathless and slightly resentful, and I wasn't quite sure why. Memories of those boyporn videos flashed through my mind. I had to remind myself that this boy had seen and done things that most boys of his age rarely experienced. He was obviously very sexualized. He had to be, and had probably been sexually aware from a very early age. But he was still only ten years old, and I had not yet figured out what his feelings were towards me. No matter. I only had one rule when it came to young boys: the rule that John himself had instilled in me never make the first move. If I had learned anything from being on the street, and later from helping those street kids, it was that all little boys had a dormant place in their hearts and minds that was reserved especially for older men. It just had to be activated. Once activated, it was permanent and irreversible. But they had to be agreeable, or at any rate acquiescent. Some boys would extend an invitation, and were openly willing to be shown the way. Some expressed an interest, others merely a passing curiosity. But it always had to come from the boy. If anything was going to happen, I would never be the one to initiate it. On that score, John had taught me well.

Slightly frustrated and confused by my own feelings, I waited until Yura was in bed. I tucked him in and switched off the light, closing his bedroom door softly. I then crept back into my bedroom to pick up the case file that I had been issued with when I was first briefed about Operation Ganymede. I still had the slim leather file containing all the paperwork, and there, in a little wallet inside the front cover of the file, was a DVD sleeve with a disc in it. It was an unabridged compilation of all Yura's videos. I shouldn't really have been tempted to watch it, but I figured it might help me to make sense of what I was feeling. I felt I needed to be reminded of what Operation Ganymede was all about. Perhaps I needed to reconnect with what my mission in this operation was supposed to be; to reassert my purpose for being stuck in this house with this wonderful little boy who was at once lovable and desirable, and who, perhaps without even intending to, was slowly worming his way into my affections. With the disc in my hand, I crept back down to the drawing room and switched on the big plasma TV. I fed the DVD into the machine and sat back on the sofa, fingering the remote.

The DVD was of exceptionally high quality. It may have been illicit, black market material, but it was the most polished I had ever seen. The indoor locations were tastefully conceived. The camerawork and lighting were utterly professional. The editing seamless. It was clear that the production crew obviously knew what they were doing, and had a clear objective in mind in terms of their finished product. Most of all, the boys themselves were stunningly beautiful. They appeared willing and enthusiastic, and infinitely capable of performing in front of the camera. They were slim and tight, their naked prepubescent bodies bursting with the vibrancy of youth, exuding the energy and vitality that only boys of that age could possess. But more than that, they were sexed up beyond belief, doing things which even I, as a consenting adult, would never have conceived of doing. It was mind-boggling porn. Porn of the highest caliber. Porn that was deliberately contrived to induce the utmost horniness in anyone who viewed it. It was just so beautifully done.

In one scene, Yura appeared with a little blond boy perhaps that was Vladik, the boy he had spoken of earlier. He, too, was breathtakingly pretty. Yura was younger, perhaps more innocent looking, which I am sure was part of his appeal. He might have been only eight or nine when that video was made. The sequence began with both boys coupling amorously and falling onto the bed, their lips locked together in a lascivious embrace. Fully clothed, they became more and more intense, kissing, smiling, stripping each other, looking so lovingly into each other's eyes as they relieved each other of their clothing. They appeared to be really into it. There was not a hint of reluctance, or a sense of this being stage-managed or coerced in any way. They looked like they were really enjoying it. The soundtrack seemed genuine too, their little high pitched voices whispering encouragement, emitting little squeals and moans as they went along. God, it was good. The close ups revealed little hairless dicks, foreskins pulled back, their little cockheads shiny from each other's spit. Young, stiffly sprung little cocks, dueling each other, being pressed against tight, shiny little boyholes which they penetrated with consummate ease. They fucked each other with an almost reckless familiarity, inserting their hairless little dicks into one another's tiny boyholes with all the compatibility of a key in a lock. They were obviously well practiced. And yes... they were good together. Yura was bucking and hunching over the other boy, expertly stabbing his little boydick into him from behind, and appearing to be really engaged in it. He even looked into the lens and smiled as the roving camera insinuated its way all over every intimate part of the two boys' hairless bodies as they fucked. There was a kind of forbidden fascination to the whole thing, a kind of artistic perversity that was difficult to quantify. But it was beautiful, even if it was just the simple admiration of two gorgeous young boys eliciting such blissful pleasure from each other.

I fast forwarded the disc and stopped it randomly at various intervals. It was easy to trace a clear degeneration as the videos got more and more adventurous and depraved. At the beginning it was only the young boys together. There was a sequence where Yura and another brown haired boy, were busily inserting thin little dildos into each other's holes. In another sequence, two different boys were engaged in a sixty-nine. There was another where all five boys were together, sucking and fucking in various positions. One that caught my eye was a close up shot of Yura with a rather large speculum firmly lodged in his boyhole. He was up on all fours with his knees splayed open, and the blonde boy lying beneath him. Yura's little boydick was rigid with horniness and, without anybody even touching it, was loudly squealing in ecstasy and forcibly ejaculating little boy spunk onto the tight tummy of the pretty little blond boy beneath him.

But then, the videos became much more serious, with adult men appearing, and they seemed to go from eroticism to outright abuse. For example there was one scene where the blond boy was being spit roasted by two older men, their big fat cocks invading his little body with reckless force one in his ass, one in his mouth. The one in his ass was obscenely stretching his little boyhole to the limit, while the one in his mouth was grabbing his head roughly, with his cock stuck so far into his mouth that it was almost as if he was fucking it down the boy's throat. The blond boy bore their assault with a resigned stoicism and bravery. In the next scene, Yura's sweet little face was being blasted by three big cocks, their copious spunk erupting with an almost unimaginable fury, drenching his pretty features in big gobs of cum. He seemed to flinch and was trying to pull away. In the next scene the blond boy was laying stretched out naked on a mat with a gag over his mouth, his arms and legs bound with leather straps, and two men standing over him, enthusiastically pissing on him. In the next, Yura was spread-eagled on a bed, a big hairy man covering him from behind, and forcing his big fat cock into Yura's tiny, hairless body. He was thrusting into him with such brutal force that Yura was rocking into the bed, and he was crying out with each thrust. They were cries of genuine pain. After one last, almighty lunge, the man pulled out, leaving Yura dazed and obviously traumatized. The camera focused on Yura's still dilated hole, stretched open by that fat cock. The man spread Yura's ass cheeks as the camera zoomed in. His ravaged little boyhole was leaking thick, pure white spunk, but it was also clearly smeared with dark red blood.

Breathless, I hit the stop button, and tossed the remote aside contemptuously. The screen went blank and silent. It was mind-blowing stuff, graphic in the extreme and shockingly explicit. And this was only the tip of the iceberg. I suddenly became aware of my own breathing. I was sitting there panting softly with a mixture of horror and confusion. Porn, like prostitution, was inevitable, John used to say, that's just the way things are. But how could I reconcile that with what Yura had suffered? When he was found, he had been beaten and abused so badly that he could have died. Most of the other boys in those videos were actually dead. Porn may be inevitable, but it was not worth someone's life. The thought of what that poor little boy had been through left me feeling utterly horrified, frustrated and confused. Confused by my own conflicting emotions. I got up, powered off the TV and decided to go to bed, not forgetting to take the disc with me.

The next morning, when I awoke, I realized that the door to my room was ajar. I usually slept with the blinds drawn, so when a single sliver of sunlight fell across the bed from the open door, it woke me up. It was the sunlight penetrating from the hallway. I thought it strange. I never would have left the bedroom door open, so I got up to investigate. I was still naked of course, and completely unprepared for the sight of this dark, imposing heap on the floor which automatically drew my eye. As I rose from the bed, I saw that the unfamiliar obstruction on the floor was Yura, asleep at the foot of my bed. He was lying on the floor shirtless, wearing only his SpongeBob pajama bottoms. He was curled into the embryo position, his head resting on one of his pillows, which he had evidently brought with him into my room. I stopped and stared at the sweet little bundle on my floor, momentarily confused and unable to work out quite what was going on.

My movement caused him to stir, and at that moment he started to wake up. I reached for my bathrobe and put it on, sitting down on the end of the bed, looking down at him. He twisted slightly, executing a long, slow-motion stretch, just like a cat, and opened his eyes. He spotted me straight away, sitting there above him, and seemed to smile.

`Good morning,' I said.

He turned so that he was laying flat, and stretched his arms above his head, his eyes straining against the dull morning light.

`Morning,' he said, contentedly.

`Sleep well?

`Uh huh,' he nodded, affirmatively.

`So what's going on?' I asked him.

I suspected he had wet the bed again.

He raised his head and looked around, probably to re-orientate himself and confirm where he was, and then collapsed back onto the pillow.

`I had a nightmare,' he said, `I was scared, so I came in here to be close to you.'

`You didn't wet the bed?'

`No,' he said, with genuine honesty, smiling at the suggestion.

`So why didn't you just wake me up?'

He shrugged indifferently, even as he lay there at my feet.

`I didn't want to disturb you,' he said, plainly.

I stared at him blankly for a few seconds trying to work out if this kid was for real. He had a nightmare and was scared, and he came into my room in the night because he wanted to be close to me, but was too considerate to wake me up? It was just too quaint. I wondered if perhaps the poor boy had feared my reaction if he woke me up.

`Really?' I asked, incredulous.

He shrugged again, apparently thinking it no big deal.

I reached out, extending a hand down to him.

`C' mon little buddy, get up. We can't have you sleeping on the floor.'

He allowed me to grab his little fist in mine, and I pulled him up. He sprang up to a standing position in one swift movement. I took both his hands. He was incredibly cute as he stood there half naked before me. His flat little tummy tightened as he inhaled, the cute little innie belly button winking at me just above the waist of his pajama bottoms which hung loosely on his hips. I looked up at him, holding onto both his hands.

`Listen to me little buddy,' I said, very distinctly, `Don't be afraid to wake me up. Next time you have a nightmare, just call me, or come right in. I promise I don't mind. Understood?'

His clear cobalt-blue eyes looked down at me, looking into each of my eyes in turn, and I could see he was thinking it over, trying to decide if I was serious or not. Evidently he decided that I was and, after a momentary hesitation of uncertainty, he nodded.

`Good,' I said, letting go of his hands, `Now, why don't you go downstairs and watch some TV or something. I'll take a shower, and then fix us some breakfast.'

He gave a series of nods, apparently reassured, and turned to go, even stooping to collect his pillow from the floor on the way out. Just as he reached the threshold, he opened the door, but paused and turned. He stood there clutching a corner of the pillow in one hand.

`I don't really like being on my own,' he explained, very matter-of-factly, `They used to lock me in a room on my own. I still have nightmares about it.'

`Who?' I asked.

`Oh, you know...'

`I see,' I said, saving him any further explanation.

It was an extraordinarily candid statement, related in such an un-self-pitying manner. He seemed to think nothing of it, but to me it was a watershed statement. It was the first time Yura had shared anything quite so personal with me. He was already opening up to me and I felt quite flattered that he should trust me with such intensely personal revelations.

He shuffled off and I went into the bathroom, switching on the light, and stood in front of the mirror, musing over what had just happened. The thought of Yura waking up in the dark, frightened and lonely, and coming into my room in the night without waking me, was very moving. Was it really conceivable that this kid was so considerate, so acutely aware of other people, that even in his own moment of distress, he had the presence of mind to think of others? The sheer altruism of that simple act was almost beyond me this kid was only ten years old and yet had a maturity and wisdom way beyond his years. God, he was so remarkable it simply took my breath away.

It turned out to be a day where we both found out a lot about each other. After breakfast I thought I would use some of my old bonding strategies. There were plenty of activities I had employed when working with the street kids, just to promote good relations with them, to get them to trust me, and most of all to offer them some guidance on just doing very ordinary, unremarkable things. Some of those street kids lacked even the most basic social skills, and when you took them out into the community they could not relate to people on even the most fundamental level. Not that Yura was like that. Yura actually had very good social skills. He was mature and thoughtful and considerate, and from what I could see was exceptionally astute and intelligent for his age. But I thought we would spend the day together and perhaps get to know each other better. The events of the morning had already set the tone for what followed, so I thought it appropriate somehow.

We spent the day engaged in various activities around the house. After breakfast we went down into the games room in the basement. The basement had a low ceiling, but was quite a large open space, with a small gym situated at one end, then a little walk-through lounge area with sofas and a cocktail bar in the middle. At the far end was a pool table and a darts board. It was an ideal place for hanging out or entertaining. We had not made much use of it so far. Yura asked if I would teach him how to play pool. Of course I agreed, although it was a frustrating if at times pleasurable experience. We circled the table, taking turns, chatting idly, and it allowed me to interact with him in a very intimate way. As we played, I showed him how to hold the cue and how to shoot the balls into the pockets. It allowed me to get up close to him, leaning in over his little body as he bent down and reached across the pool table with his cue. I positioned myself above him as he was stretched across the table beneath me and I covered him much as if I was fucking him. His thin t-shirt was stretched tightly across his boyish frame, and it separated from his jeans just enough to expose the waistband of his underwear and the small of his back. The hard little muscles at the base of his spine were just visible, sheathed beneath flawless young skin. I guided his hands on the cue, noting how beautiful his hands were, his graceful little fingers curled lightly around the polished wood. My crotch brushed gently against his neat, round little boy butt, that squishy firmness shielded by the tight stitched denim of his jeans. I had a view of the back of his head and watched him as he took his shot, and as he did so I closed my eyes in stolen pleasure. The heat of his little body was tangible as I pressed up close to him. I breathed deeply and caught a whiff of his smell, a clean, heady scent mixed up with his little boy odor, like warm milk. I was momentarily dizzy from the way he totally consumed all my senses, and I wondered how it was possible for me to be so totally awestruck by this wonderful little boy.

Later, I suggested we do some cooking. I knew that cooking was always a good bonding activity. It was reasonably safe and something we could do together without having to leave the house. I remember asking Yura if he liked tiramisu. He flashed me a puzzled expression and confessed that he didn't think he had ever tried it. Since tiramisu was my specialty, and didn't actually involve any cooking, I decided it would be the perfect recipe to get him involved. So it was that I found a rather nifty pair of aprons in the kitchen drawer: one had a Bart Simpson motif, which I gave to Yura. I took the other one which had Homer Simpson on it. I didn't particularly like Homer Simpson. I thought Homer Simpson was an asshole. But I wore it anyway because I thought the shared theme lent us a sense of unity.

We managed to get all the ingredients together and assembled them all on the central island of the cavernous kitchen. I loved cooking, so I was able to appreciate the advantages of having such a well-equipped and roomy kitchen in the house. Yura looked quite cute in his apron, which I drew up around his waist because it was a little too long, and tied it for him. He quickly fell into his role, taking the task in hand quite seriously and I could see he was determined to give it his best shot. He was so compliant, so cooperative and enthusiastic. Why couldn't all boys be like Yura?

Soon we set into a comfortable little rhythm as we worked, mixing the mascarpone and arranging the sponge fingers. I gave him the task of dipping the sponge fingers in the hot chocolate and arranging them into the bottom of the tray. I always used hot chocolate instead of coffee because it was infinitely more appealing to young boys. As we worked, we chatted idly. Yura was talking about Vladik. He liked talking about Vladik. His whole face brightened and he always sounded so happy when he was talking of Vladik.

`Oh yeh, we made a lot of videos together. That's why we became such good friends,' Yura was saying, `I liked Vladik. He was funny. He always made me laugh. Sometimes we were locked in the room together and we talked about escaping. We made up stories about how we would run away and what we would do when we got out. We talked about going to a place where there were no adults, where we could live together, just us, in peace, where no one made us do things we didn't want to do, and where we were free to go out and play and just be ourselves. Vladik used to cuddle me in the night when I cried. He knew I was afraid of being alone. He looked after me.'

I was stunned at how revealing that was. As I listened, I stirred the mascarpone mix, cradling the bowl. I slowed down and flashed him a pained, sympathetic look.

`Was Vladik more than just a friend?' I asked, probing a little.

He looked up, a freshly dipped sponge finger still suspended in his little hand.

`Sometimes,' he said, cryptically, but didn't elaborate any further.

He was so sparing with some of his responses, that it was almost as though he deliberately censored himself from giving too much away. His pauses and his timing made his conversation quite dramatic. Talking to Yura felt quite theatrical at times.

He carried on arranging the sponge fingers in the tray, then drew a deep breath, maybe sensing that the conversation was getting a little heavy.

`What about you?' he asked, with a brighter tone in his voice, `Did you ever have a special friend?'

A special friend? I had never heard it put quite like that, but I think I knew what he meant.

`Yes,' I nodded, `A very long time ago.'

I put the mixing bowl down and pulled out the leather wallet which was in my back pocket. I flipped it open, and showed Yura the photo I still kept in there. He wiped his hands on his apron, smearing it with little smudges of chocolate, then he moved around the corner of the island to stand next to me. He grabbed my open wallet and pulled it towards him. He stared for a few seconds at the photo of John. It wasn't even a particularly good photo but it was all I had. It was just a head and shoulders shot, taken on a trip to Europe. He was standing on some windswept bridge when I took it, squinting into the sun, and he was smiling a toothy smile, all trim blond beard and sunglasses.

`Oh cool,' said Yura, `Who's that?'

`That's John,' I said, introducing him as though he was in the room with us, `My best friend.'

`Cool,' Yura said again, sounding pleased for me, `Where is he now?'

`He died,' I said, plainly, and sat down on one of the high wooden stools, my open wallet still in my hand.

Yura looked sad.

`I'm sorry,' he said, genuinely solicitous.

We went on looking at the photo together for a while longer. I could sense Yura mulling things over in his mind.

`He was your lover wasn't he?'

It was such a perceptive and mature statement. Yura knew. He understood immediately, and I knew there was no point in avoidance or diversion.

`Yes,' I said, honestly, `He was my lover, my father and my friend.'

As I was sitting there, looking at the photograph, reminiscing over John, I will never forget what Yura did then. It is a moment that I will treasure and remember forever. He stood next to me for a few prolonged moments just looking at the photograph with me. Then, tentatively, he reached out and put his little palm on the back of my hand as it rested on the counter top, still holding the photo out in front of me. The warmth of his little hand on mine was strangely comforting. He looked at my face as he did so, as though watching for my reaction. He was so astute, so tuned-in to other people's feelings that he automatically sensed my emotions, and I took it as a gesture of his sympathy and solidarity. It was a touching little boymoment. It was an endless mystery to me that despite the wrongs this little boy had suffered, despite the awful hurt that had been done to him, he could be so capable of showing consideration to other people. I looked at him and smiled, and put my other hand over his, as though to thank him for his sensitivity and to acknowledge his gesture.

When the moment had passed, I put my wallet away in my back pocket and we carried on.

`I never had a father,' Yura said, shifting back to the other side and picking up the sponge fingers again.

Now it was my turn to feel sorry for him. The way he said `I never had a father,' in such a resigned, matter-of-fact way, touched me deeply. It was as though he had come to terms with it as something that was lost forever. Sometimes the things he said left me breathless. His words were always couched in genuine childhood innocence, and yet he could also display extraordinary maturity and wisdom. He was such a paradox.

`I never had a proper family,' he went on, `I grew up in a children's home. Maybe if there had been someone there to look after me...'

He let his words trail off, but then his chain of thought seemed to bring other memories to the fore.

`It was horrible in the children's home,' he said, and he studiously continued arranging the sponge fingers in the bottom of the tray. `There was one man in particular, his name was Kirilenko. He used to like watching me pee.'

He looked up at me with a really serious stare, and blinked deliberately, his long eyelashes making a seductive down-up sweep.

`He seemed to get off on that. I still have trouble peeing. I can never do it in a public place.'

I watched his expression change from detached conversation, to solemn contemplation, then to pained reminiscence.

`Other times he would come into my bed at night and stick his thing in me,' he said, and I could see that even as the words left his mouth, they touched off a memory that was profoundly painful to him.

`I was only six,' he went on, in a strained whisper, `It hurt.'

His painful memory transformed into suppressed anger, and I could sense the rage in his expression.

I moved around and threw an arm around his shoulders, giving him an affectionate squeeze. It had not been my intention to revisit painful memories. I had only wanted him to unburden himself, but now I had only succeeded in upsetting him. I cursed myself for being so tactless and stupid.

Yura had a lot of issues to contend with. His experiences had clearly affected him psychologically, and I knew that a child psychotherapist had been assigned to work with him, courtesy of the Moscow Police.

`You know that's the kind of thing you can talk to your therapist about,' I suggested, giving his shoulders another squeeze.

He didn't seem impressed by that.

`I had one of those in Moscow,' he said, almost contemptuously, `She didn't really help.'

I let him go and moved away.

`Those people are trained and experienced. They can really help you if you give them a chance.'

`I'd rather talk to you about it,' he confessed, holding up his sticky hands, apparently happy with the arrangement of the sponge fingers.

`I'm not trained to help you with things like that,' I said, discouraging the idea.

He looked up me appealingly.

`Then you should be. You'd be good at it,' he said emphatically, `You understand.'

He was looking at me in a really admiring way, and he paused, cocking his head thoughtfully.

`You know Mark, you're a really good person.'

I stared for a moment utterly amazed by his forthrightness and his ability to express himself so candidly and honestly. I looked at him, standing there so cutely in that apron, the motif on his chest of the yellow-haired Bart Simpson, with that annoyingly inane expression and that eternal orange t-shirt, sailing through the air on his skateboard. I had to turn away. I felt the sting of tears in my eyes and I didn't want him to see me welling up. I stuck my knuckles firmly between my teeth and tried to choke back my emotions. Coming from the lips of a ten year old boy, it was probably one of the nicest thing anyone had ever said to me. But he had a habit of doing that. So many of the things that Yura said managed to bring a tear to my eye.

The rest of the evening passed off pretty uneventfully. It had been a long day, and we were both tired, so after dinner I encouraged Yura to go to bed early. I waited until he was in bed and turned his light out. I had time to slope off to the little office upstairs to catch up on some work. There was a small book-lined study at the other end of the upstairs hallway, with a computer desk and an impressive collection of books. It was perfect for catching up on messages and making calls or just some quiet time away from the rest of the house. I thought I had better check and see if my unit had been in touch, or if Nikolayev had left further instructions. I spent about an hour just catching up on emails and then thought I had better go to bed myself.

I returned to my room and decided to slip out onto the terrace for a bit. My bedroom, across the hall from Yura's room, had a convenient little terrace which overlooked the well-kept grounds at the back of the house. It was nice and cool out there, a balmy evening with a cool breeze just the right climate for reflection. I was pleased with the way things were developing with Yura and felt we were bonding really well. I decided to reward myself with a cigarette. I rarely smoked these days. My cigarettes were so few and far between that it was almost a special treat when I did allow myself one. That was another throwback to my life with John. He was very healthy. He exercised every day, played sports and swam. He was the one who got me into the routine of working out regularly, keeping fit and eating right. On the whole we were fairly disciplined. Except when it came to sex. We could never get enough of that. We did smoke the occasional joint, sometimes experimented with other things, but it never became a habit.

I was barely into my cigarette when I was startled by the glass door of the terrace sliding open behind me. It was Yura. He stepped out onto the terrace, leaving the sliding door wide open. He was barefoot and shirtless, as usual, wearing only his now familiar SpongeBob pajama bottoms.

`Hey little buddy, what...?'

`Couldn't sleep,' he announced.

He paused on the threshold just watching me for a moment, and spotted the cigarette in my hand. He stepped towards me, and reached out, nodding towards the cigarette smoldering away between my fingers.

`You want this?'

He had wrested the smoldering white stick from between my fingers almost before I had finished speaking, and took a long, deep drag, savoring the smoke with all the aplomb of a seasoned smoker. He exhaled with relish, blowing a thin stream of blue smoke up into the air. Then he looked at me and put a finger to his lips. It was something to the effect that nobody was to know. I was delighted that he was building alliances with me. I nodded with a knowing smile, allowing myself the boyish pleasure of being in league with him.

I watched him as he smoked, not altogether surprised that he was out here now. It was getting late and I knew he was just stalling. He took a couple more drags and offered the cigarette back.

`It's okay, you finish it,' I said, waving it away.

He thanked me and continued puffing away, turning to admire the view from the terrace. I stepped up next to him and we both continued to take in the view together. It was a clear, midnight blue sky, dotted with the tiny little pinholes of light of the many distant stars that were too numerous to count.

`It's beautiful isn't it?' I ventured.

`Uh huh,' he affirmed.

`Aren't you cold?' I asked him, touching his shirtless body gently on his upper arm.

He turned to me and smiled, as though I had said something vaguely ridiculous, perhaps complimented by my concern. I reflected on the miraculous transformation in his mood in such a short time. I was seeing him smile more and more a welcome counterpoint to the tears he had shed. He really did have a beautiful smile, with thin pink lips which parted just enough to expose his perfect little teeth, and tiny dimples formed in his cheeks just above the corners of his lips, like quotation marks. This little boy had something very special and it really showed when he smiled. It was endearing and intriguing, at once charming and playful, yet complex and mysterious.

He continued smoking away and staring out into the grounds below, which stretched away before us into the darkness. Whilst he did so, he leaned over the balustrade, oblivious in his near-nakedness, surveying what was below and looking around inquisitively as though looking for something to do whilst he finished the cigarette. As he did so, I stepped back slightly and watched him, admiring his shirtless little body. I was in awe of his beauty. I could see his smooth back, the perfect defining line of his spine, as his torso stretched and flexed with his movements. Despite his boyishness, he had good musculature and an unusually fine physique for a boy of his age. The thin pajama bottoms hung loosely about his waist, beneath which it was clear he had no underwear on, and which showed off his small round, pert little boy butt. There was already a hint of the slim waist and broad shoulders that were going to make him a very handsome man one day. I imagined how the pornographers must have relished ever having got hold of a kid like Yura. His looks would have been particularly prized, and he had no doubt suffered because of that. But even as these thoughts came to my mind, Yura flicked the spent cigarette over the balustrade and looked over at me, catching me off guard. Once again, he had caught me checking him out. I smiled guiltily. He smiled back endearingly, looking more flattered than offended.

We both turned back and looked out, leaning over the balustrade side by side, admiring the night sky. Then, without any prompting from me, he shuffled closer and I felt him put his little arm around my waist, gently tilting his sweet head against my elbow. It felt like such a natural and affectionate gesture. We had shared so many hugs and tender moments that it seemed the only appropriate response was to reciprocate by putting my arm around his shoulders. He was such a tactile little boy. He enjoyed closeness and was quite responsive to gestures and touch. Despite what he had suffered, he still appreciated and seemed to welcome bodily contact. I pulled his shirtless little body closer to me and couldn't help stroking his smooth back in a very fatherly way, rubbing him up and down a little as though to warm him up. We stayed linked together, enjoying the view and each other's presence and we remained like that for a good long time. I basked in the tangible proximity of his little body which was now connected to me, and I savored the exquisite pleasure of having this wonderful little boy hanging onto me. It was another perfect little boymoment.

It was Yura who broke the reverie. Even as his head was tilted against me, his thick hair brushing against my arm, he took hold of my hand and squeezed it, as if to attract my attention. He looked up at me longingly and questioningly.

`Mark?'

`Hmm?'

`Can I sleep in your bed tonight?'

His request was so plain, and was delivered so simply, so innocently, that it almost sounded like it should have been more complicated than it was. But it wasn't. It tripped off his little tongue so easily, it was as though it was the most natural thing in the world. It was funny, I thought. I had wanted and desired this little boy so much, and my heart was brimming with so much love for him, that out of all the convoluted scenarios I had envisaged in my mind, a simple request from Yura was the one I had never imagined and much less anticipated. For a moment I wondered if it had anything to do with his fear of being alone. He certainly had plenty of reasons not to sleep in his own bed. Then, a more sinister side of me wondered if he was only saying that because he had been groomed to think that way. Perhaps, after what he had been through, he had been conditioned to read the signs and maybe there was something in my face, my demeanor, that betrayed what was in my mind. Maybe recognizing how to satisfy the boylovers had become second nature to him. But I dismissed it. Yura was more perceptive than that. He was too intelligent, too aware, and I had no doubt that he knew exactly what my feelings were towards him.

He held onto my hand, squeezing it tightly. I could feel the urgency in his grip. He tugged gently, trying to coax me back into the bedroom. I let him lead the way. He steered me towards the door, and as we went I stared down lovingly into his hopeful little face. Looking down at him, I recognized his expression and the needy way he was clinging to me. I saw the way his piercingly blue eyes were shining up at me, like two little liquid pools of pure desire. He had that familiar look, the look I had learned to recognize from the street kids. It was the same indefatigable specter that was ever-present in their eyes. That haunted, hungry look. The look of longing. The longing that all little boys had hidden within their psyche. The longing that could only be satisfied by an older man.

 

******

 

If you enjoyed this story, please write and tell me. We writers thrive on feedback, so give us some encouragement. I am quite amenable to comments and discussion and welcome ideas and suggestions: cosmonaut@hush.com