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 7: Developments

I heard a voice behind me.

`Mark?'

I turned around and saw a face that was unthreatening, curious, even friendly. He was wearing a pair of round, wire-rimmed spectacles which, close up, you could see had tiny grains of dust on them.

`Yes,' I said.

`Anton,' he said, holding out a hand.

It was a friendly gesture, so I shook his hand. He was a slim, lean young man, perhaps nineteen or twenty years old, and he looked a bit scruffy and disheveled. But despite his outwardly shabby appearance, his hand was warm and pliant and his handshake was firm and sincere.

`How do you know my name?' I asked him.

`I know all about you,' he said cryptically, `But that's not important. What's important is what I have to tell you.'

Although his English was perfect, I detected a hint of Russian accent. Not strong, barely distinguishable, but it was there.

`Okay,' I said, `I'm listening.'

So he sat down in the deep armchair opposite me, and we started talking. And that was how Anton introduced himself at the Saxon Club. In truth, it was a fairly low-key introduction which did not expound the mystique and intrigue that was suggested by the cryptic note he had left scrawled on that napkin.

In the event, it had been something of a struggle to get to the Saxon Club on time, but I managed it. By sheer coincidence Yura had his first appointment with the child psychotherapist that afternoon, and for security reasons it was decided that this session would take place at HQ. I opted to drop him off at two thirty, which would give me enough time to drive across town to the Saxon Club for my furtive rendezvous at three o'clock. I was quiet and not very talkative in the car on the way to HQ. So was Yura, though for an entirely different reason. I was keyed up about my rendezvous. He was not looking forward to his session with the therapist. I already knew he reserved a subtle kind of contempt for psychotherapists, judging by the lack of confidence in them which he had alluded to in our previous conversations. But it was not negotiable. He was obliged to go. So, I dropped him off at HQ and climbed straight back into the car to head over to the Saxon Club.

The Saxon Club was one of those places that was busy at all hours of the day or night. There was a pub-type bar in the basement which was tasteful, but had a slightly subterranean feel to it, I guess because there were no windows. I decided to wait in the slightly more salubrious cocktail bar on the first floor, not only because it was more conducive, with its polished chrome and smoked glass decor, but because I guessed it would be easier to meet whomever it was that I was supposed to be meeting. It was funny, I thought, that despite taking a table directly opposite the door, and studiously watching everyone who came into the club, Anton still approached me from behind and I never saw him come in.

As Anton sat down across the low table, and we started talking, I reverted to my old police officer's instinct and studied his demeanor. He looked genuine enough. He was relaxed and open, and I decided I could trust him. Underneath those round spectacles, he had an oval face, with a neat, narrow nose and big, bright, hazel eyes. His shaggy, mousy-colored hair was long and brushing his shoulders. There was a sparse coating of lightly-colored soft young stubble on his jaw. On his head was crammed a woolly cap, which he had pulled down over the tops of his ears. His corduroy jacket was worn and crumpled, and looked like it had never been pressed. Looking at his body language, he seemed very approachable, certainly not shifty or defensive. There was something very appealing about the way he draped his lean body over that armchair as he sat down. He was fully clothed, but the bits of his body that did show were strangely alluring. I studied the open neck of his shirt, and I could see the young skin where the tendons met in a little V-shape at the base of his neck. His hands and wrists were smooth and hairless, and his fingers had a graceful dexterity to them. One thing was for sure: beneath that long hair and woolly cap, under those shabby clothes, spectacles and stubble, was an extremely good looking young man. His face was captivating in the extreme, and his very presence, as he languished there in the armchair, had a strangely magnetic appeal.

`First of all, sorry about the scribbled note yesterday,' he began.

I guessed he was referring to the paper napkin.

`Oh that,' I said, `I know you've been following me.'

`Yeah, sorry about that. I was just getting an idea of where you hung out. Then when you stepped into the restroom yesterday, I saw my chance to leave you a note. The napkin was all I had to hand.'

`Why didn't you just talk to me there?'

`I didn't want to approach you just like that. I knew that if you were willing, you'd meet me. But I wanted it to be your choice. I didn't know if you'd come, but I'm glad you did.'

It was plausible, I decided.

`You must be wondering why all the cloak and dagger stuff?' he went on, looking at me a little sheepishly.

He had obviously given some thought to how he was going to handle this meeting.

`Just a bit,' I said.

He took a deep breath, and put his hands together, forming a little bridge with his fingertips.

`It's about Yura.'

`How do you know his name?' I asked, shocked.

`I knew Yura back in Moscow.'

He leaned forward, looking about him nervously, then he fixed me with an intense stare. He rested with his elbows on his knees.

`I can trust you right Mark?'

`Is it in Yura's interest?'

He nodded.

`Yes, I think it is.'

`Then you can trust me,' I replied.

He took another deep breath and readdressed his stare.

`I was in those videos,' he said.

`The porn videos?'

`Yes. I was one of the older boys that sometimes played with the younger ones.'

I looked at him for a prolonged moment, trying to remember if I recognized him from the videos. I couldn't. But I knew one thing: his good looks certainly bore testimony to his claim. As I have already said, all the boys in those videos were exceptionally pretty.

`I've known Yura since he was six years old. We were at the children's home together. I was thirteen at the time.'

`How old are you now?' I asked.

`I'm eighteen.'

God, he was younger than I thought.

`I was only in the videos at the beginning. Usually it would be one older boy with two younger boys. Thankfully, I was able to get out before they got too extreme.'

He paused, looking up, `I heard what happened to Yura. I'm glad he's okay.'

`The other boys weren't so lucky,' I added.

He nodded sadly.

`So how can I help?' I asked him, anxious to bring things to a conclusion.

`It's more about how I can help you really,' he said, `Can I show you something?'

`Sure, what?'

`Come with me. I'll explain everything.'

So, after finally meeting the mysterious Anton, and acceding to his suggestion that we should go somewhere to talk, I left the Constellation in the parking lot and rode with him in the now familiar Dodge Trader, over to his apartment. It was only a short drive away. It was odd, I thought, that this was the same car that had followed us on the freeway, and suddenly I found myself in it. On the way, I looked about the interior of the car and saw how messy it was. There were old takeout cartons and empty drinks containers rolling around in the footwell, with the straw still inserted into the lid, as well as little scraps of paper, old store receipts, candy wrappers and what looked like bits of used chewing gum. As well as checking out his car, I studied this enigmatic young man. I was apprehensive, but not scared. I guess I was slightly more perturbed wondering about the possible nature of what it was he had to show me. But I sat patiently in the passenger seat, and let him drive us over to his apartment, curious to see what he had in store for me.

Anton's apartment was more of a studio room, with living, dining and sleeping areas all combined. It was squalid and messy. As soon as we entered I could see that the bed in the far corner was rumpled and unmade. There were dirty clothes on the floor. The carpet looked oily and covered in fluff and was adorned in places with some sickly looking stains. Just about every surface was covered with some kind of abandoned or forgotten object. There was a dining table by the window with dirty mugs and plates with remnants of food on them. The sofa was worn out and torn in places, where the stuffing was hanging out. There was an open pizza box sitting on it, with the crusts of a left-over pizza. It was impossible to tell how long that had been there. Next to it were discarded candy wrappers, empty soda cans, and some unwanted take-out cartons from a long-forgotten Chinese meal. On the coffee table was a pile of old newspapers that had started to turn yellow, and there was even an ashtray that was piled so high with ash and cigarette butts it looked like it had never been emptied. Everything was coated in a thin film of dust. On top of that, the whole room was dark, mainly because the curtains were still drawn, and the sunlight barely penetrated, giving the whole place a musty, stagnant air.

`Come in,' said Anton, leading the way, leaving me to shut the door.

He made no apologies for the state of the place. In fact he seemed oblivious to it. I wondered how long he had lived like this.

In amongst all this squalor and filth there was one single feature in the room that looked shiny and new – a gleaming silver computer with a large LCD screen that dominated a big trestle work table in the corner. It was quietly humming away in the background, still switched on, with little blue and amber LEDs lit up on the fascia.

`I would offer you a coffee,' he said, `but I don't think I have any.'

Just as well, I thought.

He went over to the computer, taking off his matted jacket and slinging it over the back of the sofa as he went.

`Come here,' he said, beckoning me closer, and proceeded to pull up a moth-eaten chair, sweeping off the papers and other debris from it for me to sit down.

He leaned over towards the screen and touched the mouse, cancelling the screen saver, and he opened up his internet browser.

`Look at this,' he said, pulling up his swivel chair next to me, and we both stared into the screen.

I watched Anton type in some obscure URL and up onto the screen flashed what appeared to be some kind of discussion board. It was called `The Yura Fan Club' and seemed to be a networking site, a forum devoted entirely to Yura. With a few clicks of the mouse Anton had opened up a whole series of pictures which he scrolled through with the arrow keys on the keyboard, pausing for a few seconds on each one to let me take it in.

I gasped and grimaced in horror and shock. All the pictures were of Yura. Clearly they had been taken at the same time as the videos – the locations were easily recognizable, and so were the other boys who appeared in the pictures with him. They showed him in all kinds of compromising and suggestive poses. He was variously pictured either with his legs spread open, or his ass up in the air, or with some object inserted into his boyhole. In some he was playing with his hard boydick, with his head thrown back. In others he was sucking cock, his lips impossibly stretched around some enormous adult organ. Others showed him being fucked, either by other boys or men. In some of those pictures he looked positively out of it, with his eyes half closed and an expression of dazed disorientation. He looked drugged. In other pictures he was bound, blindfolded and gagged. There was a particularly repellant series where he was being pissed on, with two robust streams of yellow piss being directed at his face and crotch. In yet others, he had visible signs of injuries. For example, in one particular picture he looked like he had a split lip, a cut on his cheekbone and a black eye, and yet, despite his injuries, there was some fat cock ejecting a copious load of thick spunk onto his already abused face.

I turned away, unable to view any more.

`That's enough,' I said, disgusted.

Anton was staring at me intensely, perhaps anticipating my reaction, perhaps perversely pleased by it, I couldn't tell.

`There's more,' Anton said, and he pulled himself closer to the keyboard.

He went to the discussion pages and clicked on one of the threads posted by the members. He waited while I read what they were saying: things like `would luv to cum on him' and `imagine sucking his lil cock' and `bet Yura is a good fuck' and things like that.

`What is all this?' I gasped, incredulous.

Anton looked at me with a serious, almost manic grin.

`You mean you're not aware that Yura has a big following on the internet?'

`I knew his pictures were out there,' I conceded, `But I never expected anything like this.'

`Why not. He's a good looking boy isn't he?'

`But.. this is almost bordering on obsessive,' I said, `It's creepy.'

Anton huffed.

`Are you telling me you haven't tapped his little pussy?' he said, critically.

`What would you know?' I retorted, with a flash of annoyance.

`I know Yura,' he replied, suavely, `he's probably in your bed every night begging you to ride him hard. Am I right?'

I was stunned, but at the same time I resisted the impulse to laugh. His postulation was frighteningly accurate.

`I am aren't I? He's probably begging you to hurt him and giving you all that dirty talk. That kid is obsessed with sex. He's addicted.'

His observations were spot on. Indeed, I had reached the same conclusions myself. But I elected not to comment.

`What makes you think I'm into all that?'

`I've done my research. I know all about you,' he said, smugly, `I know you have a weakness for little boys.'

`How do you know?' I challenged him.

`I know all about you and Boyscape. I've spoken to some of the boys you were involved with. And I know John Bergman was your sugar daddy.'

Sugar daddy? I had never heard him described like that before.

`That was years ago,' I scoffed.

`Still,' he said, `I had to know who I was dealing with before approaching you.'

`You mean you've found out all this on your own?'

`Forgive me for wanting to be careful,' he said, `But you're a police officer. I had to know if I could trust you.'

`And can you?' I asked him, sitting back.

He cocked his head, considering my question, and taking in my presence as I sat before him.

`Yes, but I think you're taking a risk too.'

He readdressed his stare and took a deep breath.

`I've been following Yura's story for a long time. I've been tracking what's being said on the internet, and I know all about Operation Ganymede. What I've learned is that there is a whole bunch of people out there who are interested in Yura. Some are just lonely guys who like to fantasize, and some are interested in hunting him down for real.'

This guy was good. He looked like a naïve, inexperienced amateur, like a kid who was out of his depth, but boy, he had done his homework. I stared at this strange young man who I had only just met and wondered why he was telling me all this.

`Okay,' I said, `But you didn't bring me here just to reminisce and show me pictures, did you?'

He shifted slightly in his seat and swiveled a little from side to side, a sure sign of apprehension. He looked down at the floor and took a few moments, as though preparing for something that was going to require some effort.

`I think I've found Yura's father,' he said, looking up.

`He doesn't have a father,' I replied.

`Yes, he does,' said Anton, clearly and distinctly, `he just doesn't know it yet.'

I stared at Anton, stunned.

`Are you sure?'

He nodded slowly, steeling his jaw affirmatively.

`I haven't met him, but I've been in contact with him. I have a picture. Of course it may be a fluke, but when you see his eyes...'

`Of course, those eyes,' I concurred, knowing exactly what he meant.

`I've checked him out. Everything fits. I think he's genuine. I just wanted you to know. And of course I want Yura to know.'

`Of course,' I said again.

I stared down at the floor, realizing that this revelation, if it was true, changed everything. If Yura's father really was out there, it would be a profound development in Yura's life. A strange mixture of emotions suddenly welled up deep within me. I was happy for Yura, especially when I recalled the way he had said `I never had a father' in that doleful, regretful way of his. Perhaps his father appearing might redress some of the deprivation he felt. But at the same time, this joy was mingled with a feeling of sadness and despair. I guess there was a selfish element to my thinking. This was a seminal moment. I remember it because it may have been the very first moment I was confronted by the possibility that this might signify the beginning of the end of my time with Yura. It only made more tangible the realization that the day would soon come that Yura would no longer be in my life. The way I felt for Yura at this moment, I wasn't sure if I could ever face that day.

`Why didn't you just go straight to the police?' I asked him.

He raised his eyebrows and stabbed a finger at the bridge of his nose, pushing his spectacles back up.

`I was going to. But I didn't want to implicate myself.'

`You won't be in trouble,' I said, trying to reassure him.

I watched the way he hung his head down and his tone became solemn and regretful.

`I was involved. I was what you might call a procurer – I helped to find boys for the videos. I was like an older brother. I befriended them. They trusted me. Then I helped to abduct them.'

`You were manipulated,' I said, trying to put his sentiments into context, `You were too young to know any better. You were a victim too.'

`No,' he said, refuting that, `I betrayed them. I pretended to be their friend, then I abused them, and I helped others to abuse them. I'm sorry for that.'

`Is that why you're doing this?' I asked, `To make amends?'

He looked up and his spectacles glinted from the glare of the computer screen. I thought I saw a trace of moisture in his eyes, almost as though his regret had touched off a twinge of sadness that conjured up a little tear. In that instant, what I saw was an insight into this young man's soul. And I could almost correspond with his sorrow – I could empathize with his suffering, in the same way that I recalled my own suffering as an unwashed, directionless street kid that nobody wanted, and I remembered how desolate and alone I felt.

`I'm just trying to do what's right. I want to get myself in order and make a better life for myself.'

That was such a bold, optimistic and brave statement, and I admired him for saying it. I looked around at the state of the room and saw how squalid and neglected it was, and I knew that the sheer effort of living day to day was too much for this young man. Perhaps he was going to need a helping hand.

`So what happens now?'

`I'm going to contact Yura's father. I'm going to ask him if he wants to meet Yura. Then I guess we'll have to see how Yura feels about it.'

That was a very measured proposal. It made good sense. He seemed to have it all planned out.

`You do realize that if his father is going to make contact with him in any way, the police will have to be involved? The Moscow police are calling the shots here. This is not something we can handle by ourselves.'

`I know,' he said, `I'm prepared for that. I just wanted you to be the first to know. It was better this way.'

`I agree,' I said, `And I guess I'm the only one that needs to know at this stage.'

He nodded positively, looking reassured.

`So are you gonna keep in touch?' he asked.

`Sure,' I said, `but no more scribbled notes okay? Here's my number.'

He laughed at my reference to the paper napkin. And with that, I reached into my back pocket and took out one of my calling cards and handed it to him.

`Thanks,' he said, slotting it neatly into the breast pocket of his wrinkled shirt.

`Next time, I would like for you to come to the house and visit Yura. Then we can talk some more. Okay?'

`I'd like that,' he said, with a more positive note, `It'll be good to see that kid again.'

I gave him a reassuring smile, wanting him to know that he had made a friend and that I was on his side.

`So tell me the truth,' he started up again, shuffling the chair closer on its castors, and he leaned over towards me confidentially, `What was it like?'

`What was what like?'

`Is Yura a good fuck?' he asked, with a wry smile.

I stared at him, not sure if he was for real, and I laughed.

`I think you already know the answer to that,' I said.

`Sure I know,' he laughed, `I must have fucked nearly all of those boys. The evidence is right there,' and he jerked his head at the computer, `But out of all of them, Yura really stood out. There is something very special about that kid.'

And I knew exactly what he meant.

So that was my first meeting with Anton. He was a strange young man. A little odd, perhaps unorthodox in his approach. He was probably the most unlikely person I would have expected to meet in such strange circumstances, but I liked him. More than that, he did not strike me as someone with evil intentions. He was gentle, softly spoken, maybe even a little shy and unforthcoming. Not in the least bit overbearing. Quite innocuous actually. I approved of the way he went about things. He was clever and resourceful. He had succeeded in tracking me down and knew everything about me. He knew all about Yura and Operation Ganymede, and had even tracked down Yura's father. Everything he had done had gone as planned. I respected him for that. He may have been scruffy and not very domesticated, but under that stubble and shaggy hair, and beneath those grubby clothes, he was actually quite a handsome young man. I was pleased to have met him. I felt a very special warmth and affinity for him that went way beyond his natural good looks and undeniable charm. I looked forward to our next meeting and hoped it would not be too long before I saw him again. In the meantime, all I had to do was carry on as normal.

******

`We don't have anything quite like this in Moscow,' Elena was saying, `At least not the restaurants we used to go to.'

It had been Zhukov's idea to bring us to this restaurant. Zhukov was the Senior Investigating Officer from the Moscow Police, and Chief of the Moscow side of Operation Ganymede. He was also Nikolayev's boss. He had been a prime mover in getting Yura out of Moscow safely, so in a way Yura probably owed his life to Zhukov. Since Zhukov was in town, on one of his many visits, he had made it his priority to take Elena and Yura out for dinner. It was purely a formality for him, and considered it a courtesy since they were here to assist us in our investigations. Of course, I had to go wherever Yura went. So here we were, all four of us, sitting in a booth, in this bustling classic American restaurant with an extensive menu and oversized portions, and with overfriendly and attentive waiters taking our orders. Yura was sitting opposite me with Zhukov next to him, and Elena was next to me.

It wasn't that exclusive a restaurant, actually, just overpriced, I thought. But the food was good and I could see that everyone was enjoying themselves. It was one of those restaurants where the waiting staff introduce themselves ingratiatingly and embark on some convoluted spiel about the `specials'. It made no difference to me. I couldn't have eaten half the stuff on that menu anyway. I played safe and went for the Caesar salad. Zhukov went for steak, but he was a big man anyway, thick set and very imposing. It seemed appropriate somehow. Elena opted for fish and, perhaps not surprisingly, Yura wanted a burger. No ordinary burger of course – this one had all the extras and was built like a little skyscraper. It was real boys food, I thought.

Yura had been quite hyper and excitable all day. It was a stark contrast to his downbeat surliness of yesterday, when I had returned to HQ to pick him up following his session with the psychotherapist. Like I said, if Yura was quiet, it meant he was either upset or contemplating something. I concluded that his time with the psychotherapist merely served to open up memories he would rather forget. He was obliged to talk about things which usually came more spontaneously and unexpectedly from him. Every now and then, as I had often seen, he would relate some thought or memory about what happened, but it was never forced when he was with me. Yesterday, he was quiet for the rest of the day. Coincidentally, so was I, as I silently contemplated my meeting with Anton and the inevitable consequences of what we had discussed.

Today, Zhukov had visited the house early in the afternoon, so he had been with us most of the day. Thus far, Yura and I had found very little opportunity to be alone. Hence, we had not spoken much today. Though we had been in each other's company, Zhukov had really been the center of attention most of the time. He was loud and showy, the type who takes over and talks a lot, and has something to say about everything. Even if Yura had not been over-enamored by him, Zhukov kept talking to him in a very chummy way, kidding him along with lots of winks and smiles, and calling him Ivan all the time. Sometimes it felt like I was the only one who knew it wasn't his real name. Zhukov had a very patronizing way about him, talking down to Yura as though he was six years old. Or perhaps it was just me that perceived Yura as being more mature than he really was. After all, no one else knew Yura in quite the same way as I did. But Yura indulged him, pretending to be interested in Zhukov's over-familiar banter and playing up to his avuncular manner. I could tell he wasn't really interested in Zhukov, but Yura was aware of Zhukov's importance, and was probably just keeping him sweet. I knew that Yura was very switched-on, and was much wiser than he let on.

Zhukov drank an incredible amount. He had started off with an aperitif and had also ordered wine. I already knew that Elena was fond of a drink, so it did not surprise me that they were getting through the first bottle rather quickly, even before our entrees arrived. During the entrees, Zhukov ordered another bottle of wine, and it was clear to me that he and Elena were settling down for the long haul, talking animatedly, their conversation lubricated by the wine. They were talking away in Russian about how things were back home. As far as I could tell there was very little talk about the investigation itself and they kept the conversation quite light and inconsequential.

After the entrees, Zhukov decided he wanted to go out for a cigarette. There was a terrace at the back of the restaurant where we could sneak out for a quick smoke and I offered to join him. It was a good opportunity to talk to him about the investigation in an informal way, without introducing too serious a tone into the conversation across the table.

Once outside, we found a secluded corner of the terrace, which was more like a little porch overlooking the parking lot, and stood facing each other. Zhukov produced a rather expensive looking cigarette case from an inside pocket, and flipped it open in his palm. I accepted one gratefully, and reciprocated by producing my lighter, offering him a light. When both of us had savored the initial puff, and were settled into our cigarettes, I asked him how Operation Ganymede was going.

`Good,' said Zhukov, tersely, exhaling smoke with the words, `Very good.'

It was exactly the opposite of what I had expected. Up till now all I had been hearing was how it had all ground to a standstill from lack of progress.

`I think we might just be onto something,' said Zhukov, with a very upbeat tone.

I observed his grey hair and his thick jowls and considered what an imposing man he was. His hair matched the color of his eyes.

`We've just had some new videos come into our possession,' he went on, waving his cigarette around.

`Boy porn videos?'

He nodded.

`New ones. Videos that were made very recently.'

`What sort of content?'

`Same as before,' he replied, `We think it's the same group, maybe trying to reestablish themselves.'

`That could be useful,' I observed.

He went on nodding enthusiastically.

`It might lead us straight to them.'

`Who's in the videos?'

`Vladik,' he said.

`Vladik? The boy that's missing?'

`It's definitely the same boy,' he said, gleefully.

Then he fixed me with a serious stare, his steely grey eyes looking directly at me and spoke very slowly and very carefully.

`I think Vladik is still alive,' he said.

`Do you think you'll be able to find him?'

`We're getting close,' said Zhukov, knowingly narrowing his eyes, `This could be the breakthrough we need.'

Zhukov touched me on the arm by way of warning.

`But don't repeat what I've just told you. At the moment it's only a hunch... but my hunches are usually right.'

`Vladik?' I said again, almost in disbelief.

Zhukov took another puff of his cigarette and carried on nodding.

`It won't be long now,' he said, exhaling smoke with a satisfied grin.

Vladik was alive! If Zhukov was to be believed, a breakthrough was imminent. Yura would be overjoyed, though of course I couldn't say anything. Nothing was definite just yet, but I was confident it would only be a matter of time. Vladik was alive, and for the moment that was all I needed to know. And it was with this knowledge that, after we finished our cigarettes, Zhukov and I returned to the table and sat down. He resumed his conversation with Elena and Vladik was not mentioned again.

Meanwhile, Yura was hiding behind the dessert menu. He held the oversized laminated card up and was using it as a little shield to hide behind. For some reason he procrastinated on the ordering of dessert and was using the menu to hide his face, lowering his head right down so that he was almost completely out of sight. Before long I could feel an insistent nudging against my leg under the table. There was something soft caressing my thigh. I realized it was Yura's little foot. He had slipped off his sneakers and was sitting there in his socked feet, extending his foot under the table to stroke my thigh. I thought he was just being mischievous, and was initially happy that he was at least paying me some attention. I had started to get frustrated that we had had no opportunity to hug each other today, and I think he had come to the same conclusion. It was strange how quickly I had grown this physical need to be close to him and to hold him, almost as though some invisible force bound us together, linking our energy and our spirits. The imposition of Zhukov's visit had thrown our usual quiet together time out of kilter. I was starting to miss my little boymoments with Yura, and I felt a deep physical need for his body. I soon discovered, however, that despite Zhukov sitting next to him, Yura had other things on his mind.

Initially I didn't respond, partly because I didn't really know what to do, and I thought Yura was just reminding me that he was there and wanted to acknowledge our secret little affair, deliberately hiding behind the menu and avoiding having to make eye contact. It was a nice gesture. But before long he had worked his foot right into my groin, and was pressing the soft arch of his little foot right onto my cock. He had sunk way down in his seat, still hiding behind the menu, and he placed the sole of his little foot firmly over my crotch, feeling out my cock, pressing and rubbing in quite the most erotic way. What a little cock teaser! It was such a sweet little game he was playing – but a very risqué one, which left me feeling somewhat at a loss. Yura was so daring and so sexualized that even here – in a public place – with a senior Moscow police officer sitting right next to him, he had the sheer cheek to feel out my cock with the only part of his body that could reach me, and work me up, once again, into a state of extreme sexual arousal. He was good at doing that, and he knew it.

The tactile little toes pressed insistently on my crotch and of course I had a hard-on almost instantly. That seemed to be what he wanted. He could feel it. He pressed his little foot onto the underside of my cock, and was manipulating it from side to side, getting the measure of my cock as it laid upwards against my abdomen, held in place by my tight jeans. He knew exactly what he was doing, but what made it all the more arousing was how he was completely in control. He never faltered once – never looking at me, never lowering the menu. He just went right on feeling me up with his toes. I was trying to talk to Zhukov and Elena, and as I did so he pressed particularly hard and made me almost wince. I don't think they noticed, but I almost lost the thread of what I was saying. He was such a tease and so mischievous. God, he was an amazing little boy.

To stop him doing that again, I put a hand under the table and held his foot firmly in place, pressing his little sole against my hard-on, and making sure he could really feel how hard I was with the soft arch of his foot. He let me press his foot right into me and I massaged his little toes as I was doing it. I curled my palm around his toes and manipulated them back and forth. Though I couldn't see his face, I could feel his little foot relaxing and I sat as far forward in my seat as possible, right up against the edge of the table, so the others couldn't see that I was doing. It was funny, I thought, that little boy feet held no attraction for me until this moment, but when I had his little foot in my hand, and I could feel how perfect it was, I was not exactly repelled by the idea of having his naked little foot on my cock, or even the prospect of spurting my spunk all over it. Yura had that effect on me. Everything about him was so alluring, so sexual. He was so sexualized and sexually precocious, and that in itself was an enormous turn-on. There was almost nothing sexual he wouldn't do. In fact, sexually he was probably more experienced, more adventurous and more demanding than I was. He had certainly taught me a few things.

Presently, Yura indicated that he wished to go to the restroom and asked if I would take him. Finally emerging from behind the menu, I could see him glance strategically at Elena as he did so, and she nodded her approval. I think it was a given that I would accompany him, especially here in a public place. Elena and Zhukov carried on talking, apparently thinking nothing of it. I said I didn't mind accompanying him and followed Yura to the restrooms. He led the way, not even looking back to check that I was behind him.

Inside, the restrooms were deserted. It was cool and quiet in there, spotlessly clean and ultra-modern, with granite counter tops and chrome fittings. Yura went into the furthest cubicle, where the lighting was quite subdued, and I followed him in. He put the lid down on the toilet and sat down. I locked the cubicle door and turned to face him.

`What's up little buddy?'

But he was in no mood for conversation. Wordlessly, without even looking up at me, he reached out and unclipped my belt and started unbuttoning my jeans. I could see his tactile little fingers expertly manipulating my fly buttons with great dexterity. In no time, he stripped open the front of my jeans and was pulling down my underwear.

`This is what I want,' he said, releasing my big hard cock from the confines of my tight underwear.

His eyes widened at the sight of my cock, sticking out in full length before him. It seemed to genuinely please him. He even licked his lips in anticipation. Without hesitation, he kissed the tip, then opened his mouth and let me stick it in a little. He sucked hard, hollowing his cheeks and really savoring the feeling of having his little mouth full of cock. I took hold of his sweet little head and buried my fingers in his thick black wavy hair, resisting the temptation to pull his beautiful head hard onto my cock. He took my cock right into the back of his throat, enveloping almost its full length. I was almost overcome by the exquisite pleasure of that warm wet little cavern that was creating a perfect haven for my cock. He sucked the head of my cock in and out, and in perfect coordination, was using his little hands to jack the shaft up and down as he did so. God, he was good.

We knew that we couldn't take too long in the restroom, as we had left Elena and Zhukov at the table. But somehow I didn't think this was going to take very long. Yura was so expert at this, and seemed to have such an innate understanding of how to stimulate my cock, I knew I wasn't going to last long. He would alternately suck my cock, then take it out of his mouth, slick with his saliva, and cuddle it against his face, licking the underside and stroking the top. Not only did it feel incredible, visually it was extremely erotic. His little face with my big, hard, wet cock pressed into it. God how I wanted to spunk that little face so badly.

It didn't take long for me to cum. He kept on sucking and playing with my cock and I could see the concentration on his face as he was doing it. And he knew when my orgasm was building. He was waiting for me to start breathing faster and he judged it perfectly. At precisely the right moment, he stuck my cock back into his mouth and literally sucked the spunk out of me. I gasped and my whole body tightened in ecstasy. I shot really hard into his mouth, my orgasm all the more accelerated by the sight of him manipulating my cock with his little hands even as it was spunking. It was a delicious orgasm, the intensity of which took even me by surprise. The first and heaviest jet of spunk went into the back of his throat, the next half into his open mouth, and the rest went over his lips and cheeks.

He swallowed the first and most substantial mouthful of my cum with a big gulp, then continued jacking and sucking my cock until my orgasm had subsided. I gently pulled away, starting to feel the sensitivity. He drew out the last few drops of spunk and licked them up with great relish, then let go of my cock. I put a finger under his chin and tilted his head up towards me, so I could appreciate the sight of his beautiful little face covered in my spunk. The gobs of pure white liquid lay there so tantalizingly on his young face. The spunk which he had worked out of me glistening on his perfect skin. He smiled, his little tongue licking all around his mouth. God, this kid was so into it.

I reached over for some toilet paper and ripped off a good handful. Cradling his head, I gently started wiping his face. Obediently, he sat there and let me clean him off, eyes closed and smiling. I felt like I was his dad, protectively cleaning the gunk from my little boy's face.

With the bundle of paper still in my hand, I knelt down so I was more at his level and leaned over him as he sat there.

`What about you?' I asked, reaching for his crotch.

He put his little hand across his lap, barring me from touching him there.

`I'm saving mine,' he said.

I hesitated a moment, disarmed by his resoluteness and stunned by his presence of mind.

`I'm saving it for you... later,' he said.

I put a hand up to his face and admired him closely for a moment, incredulous, then leaned in and kissed him gently on the cheek.

`You're really fuckin' special little buddy,' I told him.

He smiled back tenderly, looking pleased with himself, and we hugged. It had been our only opportunity to hold each other all day. It was a lovely, if fleeting, little boymoment.

`C'mon, let's get you cleaned up,' I said, standing up.

I straightened up my clothes and did up my jeans. Yura hopped off the toilet. I tossed the spent paper into it and flushed it. Then we prepared to go.

Just at that moment we could hear someone else come into the restroom and was using the washbasin. Before we left the cubicle, Yura beckoned me closer and whispered to me.

`Pretend that I've been ill and you're helping me.'

I was stunned by his ingenuity, once again taken aback by his sheer presence of mind. It was an excellent ruse. So we left the cubicle together. I opened the door and we emerged, with me guiding Yura along before me, my hands on his shoulders. He held a little hand up over his mouth, looking as though he had just been sick.

`Are you feeling better now?' I said, in English.

He nodded feebly, just as the man at the washbasin shot us a cursory glance, his tinted spectacles glinting in our direction, but apparently not in the least suspicious.

I took Yura over to the washbasins and he leaned over. I splashed some water onto his face and dried him off thoroughly, benevolently dabbing a paper towel all over his little face. The man finished drying his hands, tossed his paper towel into the bin, and promptly left. As the door closed, Yura turned to me and giggled.

`He thinks you're my dad,' he said, somewhat amused by the notion, and he chuckled to himself.

It was observations like that which often demonstrated how astute Yura really was, and how his perception and understanding of things around him was so very advanced for his tender years. He was such a remarkable little boy.

Back at the table, Elena and Zhukov were so engrossed in their conversation that they barely noticed how long we'd been gone. Yura squeezed back into his seat, just as Zhukov was ordering more drinks. Yura asked for another Coke. I stuck to mineral water.

Elena asked Yura if he wanted dessert.

`No, I'm pretty full,' he said, screwing up his little nose, with a satisfied smile.

`Not even an ice cream?' she suggested.

He shook his head. As he did so, I noticed a little droplet of spunk glistening on his lower jaw, which I must have missed. I reached over with my napkin and wiped it affectionately. He smiled mischievously. I don't think Zhukov or Elena even noticed.

`Not like you to turn down an ice cream,' Elena observed.

`What I just had was enough for me,' he said, patting his stomach, and he glanced at me with a cheeky and knowing grin.

******

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