Date: Sat, 13 Aug 2005 07:58:03 -0400
From: parrafan <parrafan@ureach.com>
Subject: The Rescue

DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. The author (me) does not
recommend or encourage this sort of behaviour. None of these
characters is based on real life (whatever that is).

DEDICATION: This story is dedicated to the Nifty author Randu -
whose tale 'Double Trouble' is one of the best I have ever read.
Also to those loyal readers whose gracious words of
encouragement keep me writing.

* * *
The Rescue

"For God's sake, you've got to help me! Now! I mean it, Bob,
I'm...I'm desperate here, and...and I don't know who else to
turn to! Help me, please!"

Impressive words, especially from a guy who swore to me not six
months earlier that he would cut my throat if I ever went
anywhere near his family again. I thought I'd let him suffer a
bit longer.

"Whoa, hold up there, Ray! Now just you hold up a darn minute."
I shook my head to clear it. "You take a few deep breaths and
get a grip! Now whatever it is, you gotta just calm down a
minute there, and give me the whole story from the beginning!
Right now you sound like a ten ton elephant in a tar pit. Now
just what's so urgent that you think you can wake me up at-" I
glanced at the bedside clock- "2 a.m., even though you've not so
much as given me the steam off your piss for the last year?". I
was enjoying his discomfort - it was a small repayment for what
he had put me through in the preceding twelve months.
Prohibiting me from seeing my nephews, blocking my phone calls,
even returning my letters and cards to his sons without opening
them.

"It's the boys, Mike and Marky, they're gone, kidnapped, lost
or... something, I don't know. Help me, you've got to help me!"
my brother-in-law blubbered.

Hearing the two boys' names made me sit up in bed, my mind
immediately much clearer. Mikah and Markus were my nephews, the
only good things my idiot sister and her worthless husband ever
produced.

Gathering my senses, I cast my eyes around the motel room, lit
only by the glowing red digits of the clock. I noted with
satisfaction that little Timmy, Agent 009, still had my knob in
his mouth. He was asleep, curled in a ball alongside my bare
thighs like a cat, his face in my lap. Timmy is what I would
call a 'fringe benefit' of my employment. By the way, I'm a
P.I., a private eye. Bob London's the name, London Detective
Agency is the game. I specialize in what you might call reverse
industrial espionage - I don't steal secrets, I just steal them
back, mostly by unorthodox methods.

I stroked the silky hair on Timmy's head, not roughly enough to
wake him. Timmy's Dad had phoned me only last week. He runs a
small but profitable microelectronics business on the fringe of
Silicon Valley, Barrett MicroSystems.  A breakthrough technology
that his R&D section spent thirty five million dollars and the
last  three months developing had walked off the laboratory
floor in the jacket pocket of one of his less-than-scrupulous
researchers, and Ted Barrett wanted it back at any cost. I
received a full dossier from Ted about the ex-employee, and also
a briefing on Ted's own family. Timmy Barrett was Ted's second
child, the first being a girl aged just over twelve. After
reading the dishonest researcher's personnel file, I concluded
that Timmy's older sister would be of no use to the recovery
operation, but Timmy would be perfect.

I always like to involve a member of the client's family in a
case, wherever possible. It makes them more committed to the
process, keeps their minds focussed. In Ted's case, I suggested
to him that the only way to get his electronic gizmo back before
it found its way into the pocket of some offshore generalissimo
was to enlist his son Timmy's help. He said his wife would never
go for any plan involving her darling boy in any possible
danger.

"Just tell her you're taking him away for a 'Father-Son' bonding
weekend at a resort or camp or something, then give him to me.
Either that, or kiss your secret gadget Sayonara." I was a bit
callous with him, but he was a businessman, used to making hard
decisions. He agreed.

I spent the next few days tracking the thief down, and finding
out all about him. It wasn't that hard - he was an amateur,
probably dazzled by the lure of a big wad of cash to steal the
device from Barrett MicroSystems. I didn't really care about his
motives. Once I located his motel, I contacted Barrett and put
phase two of the plan into effect. Ted delivered the boy to me
last Friday afternoon. His wife was all in favour of a
father-son fishing weekend. Little did she know that Ted was
going to spend a nervous, sonless weekend at a two-and-a-half
star fleapit, while I was using Timmy as a diversion to keep Dr
Orren Lester  (the light-fingered scientist) occupied while I
liberated Barrett's micro-whatzit.

* * *

Timmy was excited about the prospect of helping Daddy in an
important mission. Ted had impressed on the boy that he was to
do everything I told him, then left us together. I began by
asking Timmy whether he ever thought of being a secret agent.
Well, what boy hasn't? I added to the intrigue by assigning
Timmy a code-name, Agent 009 (based purely on his age, but Timmy
didn't know that). The boy was hopping around the room with
childish energy, bouncing off the walls. Naturally he wanted to
be a secret agent to help Daddy. He would do anything for Daddy.

"The first thing I need to find out, Timmy, is whether you can
keep your cool when you are being tortured. Let's say you've
been captured by the enemy, and they've tied you up and are
trying to get information out of you. Information that could
hurt your Daddy's factory," I proposed.

"I can take it, Bob!" Timmy declared bravely. "We could
practice, and you could tie me up and do anything to me, and I
won't talk, I promise, you'll see!"

That was exactly what I wanted to hear. I quickly tied a willing
Timmy on his back spreadeagle-fashion to the fourposter motel
bed with a few lengths of nylon twine. He grinned up at me as he
flexed his bindings, proving that he couldn't escape.

"The enemy might be a bit rough with you, Timmy. They might
spank you, or even worse!" I tried to frighten him with the
prospect of serious physical torture.

"I can take it, I told you!" he declared. "I'm tough! Go ahead
Bob, try me!".

"They might take all your clothes off, and do horrible things to
your private parts," I cautioned him.

A worried look flitted across the boy's face momentarily, only
to be replaced with a stern visage of determination. "It don't
matter," he declared, "I can take anything. Go on, torture me!".

I had heard enough. "Okay," I agreed, "but here's how we'll do
it. For this training exercise, the secret word will be, um,
'GIZMO'. I am going to torture you, to try to get you to say the
secret word. You have to try not to say it, but if you think the
torture is too much for you, just say the secret word, and the
torture will stop. Got it?"

Timmy smiled as he declared that he understood. I started with
his 'torture'. I pulled his tee-shirt out of his shorts and up
to his armpits. Grasping a nipple, I carefully squeezed. I
didn't want to actually hurt the little fellow after all, only
give him the sensation of discomfort.

"What is the secret word, Agent 009?", I demanded, twisting his
nipple (but not too much). Timmy merely poked his tongue out at
me.

"You are much tougher than I expected, Agent 009. Let's see how
tough you are with no pants!". He gasped as I wrenched his short
trousers as far down his thighs as his spread legs would allow,
leaving him only with a pair of briefs covering his modesty. I
wasn't sure, but I thought I detected a slight lifting of
Timmy's hips as I pulled his shorts down. This might not be as
difficult as I feared.

"Now, you will tell me the secret word, 009, or you will lose
your undies!" I threatened (in a theatrical voice). It might
have been my imagination, but I thought I saw a small movement
in the front of his underwear.

"Never!" the boy exclaimed. Here's where the real artistry of my
job comes in. Instead of simply stripping the boy outright, I
dragged it out for  what must have seemed like ages to him, but
was really only about five minutes. I took hold of the waistband
of his loose underwear and slowly pulled them down to just above
his pubic area. My fingernails scraped his lower belly, making
him shudder.

"All this will stop, you know," I whispered in a conspiratorial
voice as I ran my fingers from one side to the other under the
hem of the light garment, touching his little doodle with each
pass, "as soon as you tell me the secret word!"

"I'll never tell you!" he yelled. Thank goodness the motel had
invested in thick walls.

"I'm going to rip these undies right off your body unless you
tell me the secret word!" I promised, still gripping the hem of
the flimsy garment. Timmy set his face in a grimace of
determination, and whispered "Go ahead!" through clenched teeth.

I moved my hands to the middle of his briefs, so that when I
pulled them down my fingertips would graze his little tool
again, which I could see was already stiff. It was a tasty
dagger of flesh, no more than two inches long fully erect,
curved outwards like a hitchhiker's thumb. I deliberately
scraped my thumbnails over each side of it as I slowly pulled
down the front of his underwear, exposing his tiny pink parts.

"Now you will tell me the secret word, or I will torture your
little dicky!" I proclaimed dramatically, pointing to his
aroused genitals. I had to hand it to Timmy, he was a tough
little nut. Lying there, tied up, his shorts down to mid-thigh,
his undies slightly higher - he wasn't going to give up. I liked
that in a boy. He set his teeth in a grimace of defiance and
said nothing.

"You think your torture has finished, 009?" I asked him in a
menacing voice. "It has only begun!", I yelled, as I ripped his
undies apart, tearing them clean off his legs. "Now I will
extract the secret word from you!" I  grabbed his scrotum (what
there was of it) and carefully pressed one of his little testes
between my thumb and index finger. Timmy flinched, but remained
silent.

"Tell me the secret word, 009, or you will surely lose this
ball," I whispered in what I hoped was a menacing voice. For a
moment, I thought Timmy would chicken out, but he gritted his
teeth and whispered back "Never!".

I released his little nut, and grabbed his tiny stiff cock. It
disappeared inside my hand, not even long enough to poke through
to the other side. "I will give you one last chance, Agent 009.
If you do not tell me the secret word immediately, I will bite
off your penis and testicles. Do you hear me? Bite them clean
off!"

Timmy's determination impressed me. He made no reply, but
clenched his lips together. I guess if he had a free hand he
might have made the 'zip lip' gesture.

"Very well. You leave me with no other choice. Your father will
be very sad when I hand him back his son, with his dickie and
balls all chewed off!". Saying this, I untied his ankles, and
pulled his shorts all the way off. Timmy, little trouper that he
was, lay calmly on the bed awaiting his fate, even though he
could have protected himself a little with his legs. His eyes
did widen somewhat as I removed my shirt, then a little more as
I took off my belt and trousers. His jaw dropped when he saw me
slip my tented boxers down my legs and onto the floor. I lay on
bed alongside the partially bound boy.

"Last chance," I urged, running my hand over his chest and tummy
and genitals. "It would be a shame to have to eat these lovely
little snacks and ruin my dinner," I added, waggling his still
stiff tool. He snapped his mouth shut, in defiance. I thought
that he would try to defend his private parts with his legs, now
that they were released, but Timmy lay still, open, exposed,
before me. I opened my mouth and slowly moved my head towards
his slim immature hips. His eyes followed my every move. I
opened my mouth wide like a shark, and captured his hard rod in
one gulp.

"GI-ohhh", Timmy gasped, but did not speak. I went to work on
him, devouring his small prick and scrotum, pulling his thighs
apart for a minute to lick his crack, returning to lap his
balls, then sucking vigorously on his dark pink glans. Not a
word did he utter. I kept sucking, licking and stroking him
until his hips began to arch off the bed, as if by their own
accord. He started making soft grunting noises,
"uh...uh...uh...uh...uh", which then got a little faster,
"uh.uh.uh.uh", finally with his hips pumping up and down in time
with his grunting, he seemed to stop breathing in, he only kept
up his grunting, like a little steam train, "uhuhuhuhuhuhuh",
and he finally yelled out in his immature orgasm, then slumped
back onto the bed.

"Marvellous, Timmy, simply marvellous," I praised him as I undid
his wrists. "You did not give up the secret word! I am so proud
of you." I cuddled him to my chest and stroked his head and
shoulders, one hand running down his back to his smooth hip
while his heartbeat slowed back down to normal. "You passed the
test! You are now officially Agent 009," I proclaimed. "You will
help me get your Daddy's property back tomorrow, and be his
hero!".

Timmy beamed with pleasure (some of which came from his orgasm)
and allowed me to hug and stroke him. "But now we need a plan.
We have to distract the thief somehow, and retrieve your Daddy's
gizmo." Timmy gasped as I said the secret word, but then smiled
as he realized that the test was over now and the serious secret
agent business had begun.

"What sort of plan do we need?", Timmy asked, lying nearly naked
beside me. Happily, he had made no move to recover his clothes
now that he was free of his bonds.

"Well, I have examined the thief's file, and I know where he is.
I suspect he likes little boys. All I need is a diversion of
some kind, to keep him busy for about ten minutes while I
recover your Daddy's invention from his room. Hmmm. What to
do..." I trailled off, hoping Timmy would take the hint.

"Uh, Bob?" he began. I raised my eyebrows, letting him do the
talking. "You know that thing you did with my, er, dick
and...uh, balls before?"

"You mean when I sucked you off?", I replied bluntly.

"Yeah, that. Do guys, I mean, grown ups, er...like that?" The
boy was on the right wavelength, I just had to let him home in
on the signal.

"Sure they do. I like it. I bet Dr Lester would like it. Why do
you ask?", I answered, my voice full of innocence.

"Well, we need a diversion, don't we? And you said he, er, likes
boys. Maybe I could, you know, do... that to him for the ten
minutes?" He looked up at me expectantly.

I frowned for a moment. "Maybe you're onto something there, 009.
But I wonder could you make it last for a full ten minutes, I
mean, have you ever done it before, maybe with one of your
buddies?"

"Nah, we ain't never done nuthin' except grab each other
sometimes when we wrestle." Timmy almost looked regretful at the
mildness of his sex play with his chums.

"Well, it's one of those things that you have to be able to do
properly to pull it off" I replied with a straight face. "If
only you'd had some practice  with your friends..." My voice
trailled off as I bumped my still-hard tool against his thigh.
He looked down at it and I could hear the **clink** as the penny
dropped.

"I could practice on you!" Timmy yelled, reaching for my rampant
rod. "Uh, that is, if you don't mind."

"Tell you the truth, 009, your Daddy hired me for this job in
good faith, and I aim to do everything in my power, everything,
to carry it out, even if it means making sacrifices. What the
hell, let's give it a try. Why don't you just settle your lips
down over my dick, just like I did to yours, and we'll see if I
can't give you a crash course. Scoot down the bed here, and I'll
lie down. You see how many different ways you can use your
mouth, tongue and lips on my doodle, and if you're good enough
by morning, we'll put 'Operation Gizmo Getback' into effect.
Whattaya say?"

Timmy's answer was to pounce on my lance and slobber all over
it. There are some things a boy is just born to do, and Timmy
took to his task like the proverbial duck. Over the years, I've
found that there is a wide variety of oral technique among boys,
especially untrained novices like Timmy. Some boys are lickers,
some are twirlers. You got your bobbers and your pumpers, your
hummers and your gobblers. Some boys nibble, others scrape.
Timmy, now he was a slobberer, as I said. Inside five minutes he
had stimulated me to a crashing ejaculation. I pulled his head
off my firehose just in time to shoot onto his nose and cheeks.
I wiped his pretty face with the bedsheet, then looked at my
watch theatrically. "Still five minutes to go," I advised.
Without complaint, he licked his lips and dived down for Round
Two. More attention was paid to the scrotum and pubic bush this
time, so I was able to hold out for fifteen minutes. I amused
myself by pulling his thighs around and tickling his arsehole.
Didn't bother him a bit. I let him swallow the second course,
then turned him around to lie alongside me, where we slept until
breakfast.

* * *

Breakfast was the weak spot in my plan. I needed Timmy to get
the egghead into the sack. It required a little acting
performance in the dining room from my diminutive Secret Agent,
and we had practiced his lines for half an hour before coming
downstairs to eat. Looking back, it was the easiest part of the
whole deal. Following my script to the letter, Timmy wandered
over to the scientist's table and spilled his cereal and milk
into the Doc's lap. Profuse apologies followed, along with a
whispered offer of oral sex in the randy goat's ear by way of
reparation, but with a plea to not involve his father (played
ably by yours truly, of course). Lester led Timmy back to his
room, his face showing that he did not quite believe his luck,
and a small laundry bill would be well worth it. Luckily Timmy
had not visited his father's factory in the last year, so Dr
Lester had never met him in the workplace.

I loitered in the hallway outside Lester's door. After twenty
minutes the plucky boy opened it up, letting me in. He was
wearing only briefs.

"I did it to him two times", he whispered. "He's having a sleep
now".

"Good work 009. Go back and make sure he doesn't get off that
bed until I find the gadget. I'll come for you when I've got
it." Timmy tip-toed back to the bedroom, shutting the connecting
door behind him.

My search took another ten minutes. The naive fool had only made
a cursory effort at concealment. I located the device inside a
cigarette packet inside a side table drawer, pocketed it, then
put the final part of my little plan into action.

"What the Hell do You Think You're Doing With My Son?" I yelled
at the top of my voice as I stormed into the bedroom. Timmy
sprang off the bed as if scalded, although he knew exactly what
I was doing. Lester woke immediately, a little disoriented but
awake enough to look terrified.

"Daddy, daddy, it was my fault, I'm sorry, I couldn't help it,"
Timmy gushed as he clung to my waist. "Don't hurt him like you
did the last one, pleeeeease, Daddy." Timmy's performance was
quite convincing - it sure sold Lester, who didn't like how his
morning romp in the hay was turning out one bit, especially when
Timmy referred to 'the last one' being 'hurt'.

"What the hell did he do to you, boy? Did he cornhole you?
Answer me!" I demanded roughly of my accomplice. Before Timmy
could reply, Lester started to protest feebly, but I cut him
off.

"You better keep that trap of yours shut, Mr Kiddy-Fiddler,
less'n you want it jammed full o' your wedding tackle," I
growled menacingly. "Lay face down, and start prayin'," I
demanded. "Spread them arms 'n' legs."

Lester complied, his chest beginning to shake with  sobs. I was
able to ignore his plight by keeping my mind on the $35 million
theft he had attempted on my client. I secured his wrists and
ankles to the bedposts with cable ties, then pulled a handful of
digital photos of Timmy I took yesterday and pressed them onto
his fingers. I dropped them on the bed alongside Lester, and
pulled out an untraceable mobile phone.

"Police!" I advised the emergency operator. "Hello, Police? Room
247, Midtown Motel, you'll find a child molester who wants to
confess."

I grabbed Timmy's clothes and the two of us hustled back to our
room on the next floor. We heard the cops' sirens fifteen
minutes later. Since I did not have to return the electronic
device, or Timmy, until Sunday morning, that left me the rest of
the day to watch cable, order room service (at Ted Barrett's
expense, of course), and explain in graphic and practical detail
what 'cornholing' was, to Timmy, who I must say was a quick and
enthusiastic student.

* * *

All of the events of the preceding thirty six hours with Timmy
Barrett raced through my brain in an instant as I listened to my
frantic brother-in-law's ravings. I cut him off abruptly. "Be in
my office at 8 this morning. Come alone. And bring your cheque
book with you". As I turned off my mobile phone, Timmy stirred
briefly, possibly because he heard my voice in his sleep, but
did not wake. His warm mouth worked my knob like a pacifier as I
reached over to set the alarm for 6 a.m., plenty of time to get
Timmy and the expensive gadget back to Ted Barrett's hotel. I
still didn't know what the little gadget actually did, but that
was 'need-to-know' according to Barrett.

* * *

The alarm woke both of us at 6, but I had a little difficulty
making Timmy get out of bed and take a shower.

"But I need some more training", he whined when I told him to
get moving. "I wanna do the torture again, can we?", he pleaded,
sitting naked on the bedsheets. "What if I need to help Daddy
again?", he argued. I had half hoped this might happen, which is
why I allowed myself an extra hour before my meeting with Ray.
Breakfast could wait.

"Timmy", I began, pulling two lengths of nylon twine from the
drawer of the bedside table, "you're right. I think you are
ready for a little more advanced training". His smile broadened
when he saw the twine in my hands. He scampered over to the head
of the bed, kneeling forward and spreading his arms out to grasp
the bedstead with wide-spread hands. I tied his wrists lightly
to the wooden bed head, then placed pillows under his hips. By
the time I wedged the fourth pillow underneath him, his knees
were off the sheets, his back was horizontal and his bare bottom
nicely elevated. He looked over his left shoulder at me
expectantly.

"Okay Timmy", I began, slowly stroking his skinny frame from
shoulder to thigh, "here's today's lesson. Do you remember our
cornholing practice from yesterday?" I felt a shudder ripple
through his body under my hand when I used the 'c' word. It's
funny, sometimes, that some words can have an almost physical
memory, as well as the more usual mental one. Timmy gave a
little groan, recalling the pain and pleasure of penetration
during my initiation of his bottom the previous evening.

"Well, from today onwards, your new role is what we call in the
spy business a 'sleeper'. You are still Agent 009, but you must
resume your normal daily life. At some time in the future, maybe
a month, maybe a year from now, I will reactivate you. But while
you are 'sleeping', you will not be completely inactive. I want
you to maintain your skills by seducing a man from time to time,
just like you did with Dr Lester." As I spoke, I crawled around
the bed until I was behind him, and, grasping my prong at its
base, began to rub the knob end up and down his crack. It was
still slippery from his saliva, and Timmy gasped each time it
passed over his puffy anal lips.

"The man you seduce will require careful observation, to ensure
he is a suitable target. He may be your church minister, a
neighbour, teacher, scout patrol leader, a relation, even your
Daddy". I poked my knob at his tight but bruised opening,
testing his resistance. Timmy gasped each time I pushed. "Is
there anybody you think might be a good target for your first
practice mission?"

"Uh, the man won't get into trouble, will he? I mean, if I do
stuff...ooh... ooh...with him it will be okay, right?", Timmy
asked as I pressed forward into his anus, pushing his hips
further into the pillows.

"That will depend on how well you cover your tracks, Agent 009",
I replied, easing another inch into the boy's hot orifice. "Who
do you think you might like to try first?".

"Well, my Uncle Leo, he's my Mom's brother, I think he likes me.
He comes over our house a lot, and he likes to play-wrestle with
me. He gives me lots of hugs, and he lets me sit on his lap.
Sometimes when I do, his, uh, dicky is hard, I can feel it."
Timmy moaned as I gave him a further inch.

"Uncle Leo sounds like a good first assignment for you, 009", I
agreed. "Here are a few suggestions to get things moving along.
If Uncle Leo is visiting you around your bath time, you might go
into your living room after your bath wearing only your towel.
Ask him if he would dry your hair for you, and take the towel
off and give it to him. If you've got a stiffy, so much the
better. If your Dad or Mom is there, turn away from them so they
can't see your hard dicky. Only show it to Uncle Leo". Timmy
giggled, then groaned as I took advantage of his distraction to
feed him another half inch.

"Ask Uncle Leo to tuck you in when you go to bed, then when he
gets to your room, tell him you've got a bit of a tummy ache and
ask him to rub it for you".

"Maybe when he's giving you a hug sometime, try to wrap your
legs around his waist so he will hold you up with his hands on
your bottom".

"If Uncle Leo sleeps over at your house some night, wake up
early in the morning and climb into bed with him. If he doesn't
kick you out, cuddle up close to him and pretend to sleep. Try
to pull his hand down to your dicky and see what happens".

"I expect to see regular emails or webcams from you, advising me
of your progress". Timmy nodded in agreement, then shuddered as
he felt me nearing my climax, pistoning in and out of his hot
little rump at a faster rate than he expected.

I slumped onto the boy after spending inside him, resting for a
few moments. Timmy snuggled beneath me. I think there are some
boys who actually enjoy the weight of a man's body on them.
Timmy already mentioned his play-wrestling with Uncle Leo. I bet
Timmy ends up underneath his uncle more often than not. Many
boys go through a submissive, obedient phase near the end of
their first decade. Most of them become more assertive in their
eleventh and twelfth (and subsequent) years. A few - and I
suspected Timmy would be among them - retain that feminine
characteristic, becoming followers rather than leaders, ' yes
men' to bigger boys and eventually, maybe even homosexuals as
late teens and adults.

* * *

I cleaned Timmy up, and took him and the device back to Ted
Barrett before breakfast, then drove to my office for my meeting
with my jerk brother-in-law. Barrett seemed more enthusiastic to
see the return of his electronic toy than his own son, but he
did remark that Timmy appeared to be happy about his weekend
experience. "Anything you need - I owe you big time". Barrett
was mucho profuso in his thanks, which I humbly accepted, along
with a paycheque and a raincheck for his future assistance,
should the need arise.

Ray was an entirely different matter. He hated me, but he needed
me. Actually 'hatred' was not quite the right flavour - he
deeply resented the fact that both his sons liked me more than
they liked him, and related to me better. Ray had the sort of
petty personality that would be bothered by what he saw as an
inferiority on his part. It was a beaten and desperate man who
faced me across my desk. Must have really galled him to have to
beg me for help. I tried to stifle a huge smirk.

"So, do you know their last movements?", I enquired, notebook
poised.

"Hell, how should I know? Wait. Uh, Margaret was going to take
them to the shopping mall to get some new clothes. For school, I
guess". He wrung his hands, avoiding my gaze.

"And where is my dear sister now?", I countered.

"Margaret? She's in the damn hospital, isn't she. Nervous
breakdown, they said. Haven't been able to get a sensible word
out of her. Stupid bitch blames herself of course", he muttered,
then looked up to see whether I was offended by such a
disparaging characterization of my sister.

"No ransom demand yet?", I asked, as gently as I could.

"Do you think someone did this for money?", Ray retorted, a wild
look in his eyes.

"Ultimately, everything comes down to money. Your money, someone
else's money. I'm pretty sure they didn't run away of their own
volition. Which shopping mall does Margaret use? I think I'll
start my enquiries there".

"The Megamall off the highway", Ray said. At least he knew that
much about his family. "You've got to find them. I...I'll do
anything...whatever it takes..."

I decided that he had dangled on the line long enough. "Write me
a cheque for four thousand. That's my retainer. It will allow me
to drop everything else and concentrate solely on getting Mikey
and Marky back. I'll give you a full accounting, and refund any
amount not used - when I get the boys back".

"When? or If?" he replied.

"That four grand buys my exclusive services for two weeks. If I
haven't found them inside that time, well, I don't need to tell
you that the chances of survival after fourteen days..." I
trailled off and let him draw his own conclusions. Boys of Mikah
and Markus' age who disappear under mysterious circumstances are
usually targeted by people who are not interested in ransom. I
needed to find them before their usefulness ran out. I would
have like to interrogate my sister, at least to identify the
store they shopped in, but given her condition, old-fashioned
legwork would have to suffice.

* * *

Armed with photos of the boys and a roll of twenties, I
questioned every clerk in every store of the Megamall. Lucky for
me, most of the Saturday staff (when the boys went missing) also
worked Sundays. By mid-afternoon I had a pretty good idea of
their last known location. I returned home to sort through my
notes, and rest up. Before turning in, I ran a list of names
that I had obtained (for fifty bucks) from a junior manager of
all the staff who worked on Saturday at Jangle, a teen clothing
outlet that was the place where the boys and Margaret were last
sighted, through my computer. Actually it was the Police
Department's mainframe, I just had a backdoor into it on my home
computer.

Of the six staff, two were female. I discounted them as being
low percentage leads. Women were unlikely to participate in
kidnappings, unless the kid was related to them, and I knew all
of the boys' relations. Of the remaining four, one was
promising. Mister Robert Folks had been in gaol for twelve
months a few years back for 'indecent dealing with a minor'.
Apparently Mr Folks had picked up a rent boy and was being
serviced by the lad in his car when a passing policeman
interrupted his pleasure. The boy turned out to be thirteen, not
eighteen as he had claimed (so Folks swore later). It was a
first offence, and Folks had a good lawyer and a lenient
magistrate. The one year term was suspended after four months,
and Mr Folks had kept away from Police attention ever since. I
was surprised that Jangle would employ a man with such a
criminal conviction, but it happened so long ago they probably
did not check back far enough to detect it.

My next move was to investigate Mr Folks' background, but that
would have to wait until morning when the banks opened.

* * *

In addition to my Police Department computer link, I was also
fortunate to enjoy the services of a tame Bank Security officer,
Tom Phillips. I had done Tom a service some time ago, recovering
some sensitive documents for him. A monthly cash retainer kept
me on his good side, and I never misused my position by using
Tom's computer access to interfere with other people's money
electronically. All I ever did was look at the pattern of
deposits and withdrawals of people in whom I was interested.

I met Tom at his office at Midtown Bank first thing Monday, and
was soon knee deep in Robert Folks' finances. It didn't take
long to see some curious transactions. Mr Folks had been making
electronic payments of one thousand dollars every six weeks or
so, always on a Friday, to something called the Fullwood Youth
Foundation. A grand was quite a bit of money to be spending so
frequently, for someone on his salary. Last Friday, however, the
flow of money reversed. Fullwood made a deposit of nineteen
thousand nine hundred and ninety nine dollars into Folks' bank
account. Hmm. Just a buck under the mandatory financial
transaction reporting amount. Clearly, someone wanted to pay Mr
Folks twenty grand, but not attract the attention of financial
regulators.

I had another very good reason to be suspicious of anything to
do with Fullwood. I had only seen that name one other time, and
that was when I did a similar finance check on Dr Orren Lester.
Coincidentally, the light-fingered scientist had also been
making donations to Fullwood, also of one thousand dollars a
time. Lester, however, never received one red cent back from
Fullwood, unlike Folks. It was time to find out more about this
prodigal Youth Foundation.

* * *

Back in my office, I Googled "Fullwood" and struck gold straight
off the bat. Whatever they were, they weren't shy. I clicked the
link and was taken to the Fullwood Youth Foundation website.
Several photos of sandstone buildings, high fences and spartan
rooms adorned the website. The Board of Governors (who were too
modest to supply their own names on the site) invited members of
the public to assist them in their work of rehabilitation and
guidance of troubled, indigent and unemployed youth. The Board
had thoughtfully supplied a Table, to assist its benefactors in
selecting the amount they felt comfortable in donating. For ten
dollars, a homeless boy could be provided with a bed for two
nights. The benefactor, when his donation was cleared by the
bank, received a photo of the boy who was the beneficiary of the
assistance.

Fifty dollars provided wholesome, nourishing but plain food for
one boy for a week. The benefactor received a personal thank-you
note from the boy whose hunger had been satisfied for that week.
The list went on. My eyes zeroed in on the bottom line. For one
thousand dollars, a boy received one month of accommodation,
meals, and an intensive (but scientifically well-grounded)
tuition in Turning His Life Around. The good samaritan who
donated this sum was invited to Fullwood's premises where he
could see for himself and be personally introduced to the boy
whose life he was Turning Around.

The pieces of the puzzle were starting to fit together. Both
Lester and Folks had demonstrated their liking for boys. Both
had made sizeable donations to Fullwood, a facility that
apparently houses boys. Folks worked in the shop where Mikey and
Marky were last seen. The day before the boys vanished, Folks
received a large sum of money from Fullwood. Unfortunately, if
Fullwood was involved in what I suspected they were involved in,
they would cover their tracks at the first sign of police
interest. That would certainly put the boys, not only my two
nephews but any other unfortunate residents of Fullwood, in
grave danger (pun intended). I decided it was time to put Ray's
four grand to work.

* * *

The Fullwood Youth Foundation had carelessly left its physical
address details out when compiling its website data, so I had no
idea where they were located. The obvious and simplest way to
find them was to cough up a thousand dollars of Ray's
hard-earned, and wait for the Board to invite me to visit the
boy whose life I was improving. I emailed them (using an alias)
immediately, advising that I wished to donate a grand for a
grand cause. Their reply was cautious: 'How had I heard of their
work?' I suggested that my esteemed colleague, Dr Orren Lester,
spoke very highly of the Foundation and its sterling work with
boys. I did not add that Dr Lester was currently on remand
awaiting trial for possession of naughty pictures of a young
boy.

It seemed that the Foundation obtained most of its donors
through word of mouth. I must have passed the first obstacle,
because I was given the branch and account number for the
deposit of my donation. As soon as my funds cleared, I would be
sent a photo of the boy I was 'helping', and directions to the
Foundation's compound. I keyed in the data and sent it off, and
waited. And waited. Three hours later, I decided to lock the
office for the day and headed for home.

* * *

Tuesday morning found me driving in to my office, about an hour
earlier than I normally would have done. I hoped that my
thousand dollar donation did the trick, and some progress could
be made. The boys had been missing for nearly sixty hours, and
the odds were starting to weigh against them. Ray phoned me at 6
a.m. and I told him (somewhat abruptly) to leave me to do my
job. Margaret was not responding to therapy, he said. A resident
psychiatrist advised Ray that Margaret blamed herself for not
keeping the boys safe (what a genius!) and would probably not
improve until she saw her boys again, if ever.

I booted my computer into action, and clicked straight on to my
email account. I scanned through the twenty or so emails,
marking the crap for deletion as I went. You know the kind of
stuff: pre-approval for a home loan you never asked for; info
about the latest penny stock that was sure to skyrocket; online
pharmacies to supply all of your Viagra needs at low, low
prices; a new patch to enlarge your penis; several adult pay
sites; the usual spam. One email stood out - the sender was FYF
Support, and the basic text stated that my donation had been
received with thanks. Directions to the Foundation's premises
followed, and there was an attachment - a photo.

I clicked on 'download', disregarding the warning about viruses,
and within twenty seconds a picture of a very sad looking boy of
about eleven appeared on my screen. It was a head-and-shoulders
shot, shirtless, down to just below his tiny nipples. The boy's
Dumbo-like ears stuck out, his hair was unkempt, and the corners
of his too-wide mouth were turned down in a frown. Hazel eyes,
slightly puffy, a little too far apart to be attractive, and a
small pockmark scar on his forehead from a childhood bout of
chicken-pox.

The boy in the picture was Marky.

* * *

I suppose an impartial observer would have pointed out that
neither Marky nor his older brother were good-looking in the
classical sense. Nor could they be fairly described as "pretty"
in the way that some boys are. The boys were not blondes: their
hair was an unfashionable mousy brown colour. They both had long
faces, which combined with their skinny frames made them look
like ungainly, newborn foals. They were unmistakeably brothers -
if it were not for the four inch difference in height between
them, they might have been taken for twins. Mikah had a tendency
towards buck teeth (I had offered Ray and Margaret several times
to pay for braces, but they refused), and both boys had ears
that stuck out like the wing mirrors on a truck. Markus wore
glasses for reading, which only exacerbated his 'geeky'
appearance.

Their beauty, to me, was on the inside. They were, both of them,
the most affectionate boys I have ever known. By the time they
started school, they both realized that their parents had only a
proprietorial interest in them. The boys were their property, to
be possessed, not cherished. They turned to me, pouring out
their innermost feelings, hopes and dreams. In the last five
years I had become their confidante. It was not a role I
welcomed, or even desired at first. But I always have been a
sucker for an underdog. Some days when the boys talked to me
about their lives, their longings, the depth of their emotions
shone through like a lighthouse's beacon in a fog. I felt like I
was holding their very souls in my open hands. I became bound to
them, and I would kill or be killed defending them.

* * *

Fullwood's email suggested that Wednesday evening at 7 p.m.
might be a good time to visit, so that I could see for myself
the boy who was being helped by my donation. I took down the
details of Fullwood's address and headed for the City Library.
Several hours later I found all the plans and schematics I
needed to begin thinking out a way to spring the two boys. The
architectural layouts of the buildings were straightforward,
even for a non-specialist like myself, but the electrical
circuitry of the buildings was way beyond my rudimentary skills.
But I knew one person who might help me.

Ted Barrett welcomed me into his office like a long-lost
brother. I explained that I was working on an urgent, important
case, and that I needed half an hour of his valuable time in
understanding the purpose of certain electrical wiring systems.
I also enquired about his family; it seemed that his wife was
enjoying a few days at a health spa in the mountains with their
daughter, and Timmy was on a camping trip with his Uncle Leo.
Hmmm.

We set straight to work on the drawings. "This whole sequence of
wiring here - and here - looks like some kind of barrier array",
Ted explained, pointing to bunches of wiggly lines, circles and
rectangles.

"Oh yes?" I smiled at him stupidly. "Can you put that in
laymanese for me, Ted?"

"Sorry Bob, I'm so used to talking with the guys that work
around here. This whole setup looks like some kind of
interdiction system", he continued, then seeing my inane grin he
dumbed it down even further. "It's a system for initiating a
signal when an electromagnetic field is broken".

"So it's some kind of elaborate...burglar alarm?" I asked,
wishing I had paid a little more attention in Physics 1A at
school.

"Well, as a burglar alarm, it would be pretty useless, unless
you could persuade all the burglars to wear some kind of
electronic collar. And, if the burglars didn't mind getting an
electric shock when they broke in", he replied, scanning the
blueprints expertly. "Look, you can clearly see the main control
point here", he murmured, indicating a rectangle with a large
concentration of lines radiating from it. "These numbers along
here-" again he pointed at the complex diagram "-suggest that
the field carries a five thousand volt charge, at thirty amps.
Anyone wearing the receiver, say in the form of a collar or
bracelet, would get quite a nasty blast from it".

"So, it's like those ankle bracelets they put on convicts who've
been sentenced to home detention, something like that?", I
asked.

"Well, I suppose it could be modified to work like that", Ted
mused. "Those home detention bracelets don't give the wearer any
kind of shock, however. They can only act as electronic alerts.
This system here is designed to hurt. Mind if I ask where you
got these schematics?".

I was tempted to tell him it was 'need-to-know', but I realized
that Ted could be a seriously good ally in getting the boys back
safely.

"Well, as I said, it's part of a case I'm working on  - a client
has retained me to recover something very valuable from that
premises, and I have to find a way in and out", I explained. Ted
gave me a searching look, then set his face in a hard frown as
though he had just made a difficult decision.

"What I'm going to tell you now breaks all my own security
rules, but hell, if it wasn't for you...well, anyway, I know
you're not going to the Press with any of this", he began. I
just shut up, waiting for him to continue.

"Security systems, both private and governmental, are the growth
industry in the electronics biz at the moment. Everybody wants
to keep their own goodies secure, and maintain a watchful eye on
their neighbour's backyards. This applies equally to
individuals, companies, government agencies and even countries".

"In addition to creating security systems, it is also
advantageous to be able to subvert the security arrangements of
one's business competitors, or of unfriendly governments. My
company, along with a few others, has been, uh, requested by a
certain government agency to develop methods for overcoming
interdiction systems - deactivating or disabling the shock
collars, to put it bluntly. This Agency feels that it may come
in handy if elements of our military forces are captured alive
and need rescue".

"We came up with the DefUser - that gadget you recovered for me
last week. It's portable, lightweight, keeps its charge for up
to an hour, can be manufactured relatively cheaply, and -" here
Ted grabbed my arm as though he was a new car salesman
expounding on the latest model to a potential customer "-it can
be fitted with autoextinction software!"

Ted's wild grin told me I'd better respond with something
intelligent. "You mean..."

"Yes! Once it has been activated, the user has to enter an
encryption code every ten minutes or the gadget shorts itself
out and the internals melt and fuse! If the enemy ever manages
to capture one, it will shit itself in ten minutes! Luckily the
one Lester pilfered had never been switched on. Only I have
access to the codes."

I tried to digest what he had just told me. I desperately did
not want to know which government agency commissioned such a
device, but I could see it might have peaceful applications.

"Uh, how does it actually work?...if it's not, um, hush-hush", I
ventured.

Ted was right into story-telling mode now. He probably never got
this kind of chance, to brag to someone outside his field about
a device that would never ever come anywhere near a patent
office. His eyes flashed as though he was actually visualizing
the gadget being deployed in a battlefield scenario, a staggered
formation of elite camouflage-clad troops with blackened faces
each holding his personal DefUser as they traversed unfriendly
terrain to rescue captured comrades, immune from electronic
detection. He almost salivated as he briefed me.

"The DefUser acts like a blanket, muffling electronic signals to
a radius of about two metres. Anyone inside the two-metre
footprint would be undetected, even if they wore a tracking
device, such as a collar".

"So it's a kind of jamming device", I said, finally glad to be
able to hold up my end of the conversation intelligibly.

"Oh, it's much more than a jammer. It is able to detect the
frequency of the electromagnetic field and selectively mask only
that particular signal. You see, if it was merely a jammer, the
control system of the interdiction field would be able to tell
it was being jammed. Like cutting an electrified fence with a
pair of pliers. With the DefUser, the alarms are not triggered
because the field cannot even detect that it has been masked.
It's like casting a shadow over yourself and passing un-noticed
through a crowd of people in broad daylight, electronically
speaking". He gazed off into the distance, probably watching his
brave soldiers walk blithely through enemy contrivances without
a care.

"Um, can I borrow it?", I murmured. Well, I gotta ask!

Stopped in mid-reverie, Ted turned to me and began to speak.
Then halted, mouth agape. I hoped that right about now he was
remembering his promise of "anything I need". I sensed he was
trying to justify to himself a potential act of industrial
treason.

"This case you're working - it's not industrial or governmental,
is it", he queried.

"Nope - strictly personal". I sensed that some honesty might
help me here. "Two relatives of mine, who are naturally very
dear to me, are being detained, illegally in my view, in that
facility, in circumstances which preclude police  involvement.
In fact I believe the Police might be implicated, or at least
compromised, in this situation". I didn't have any actual
evidence for that, only suspicions. "Time is a factor. I fear
for their continued well-being".

Ted stroked his chin. "It could be like a field test", he mused
eventually. He stiffened his back, having made a decision.
Holding out his right hand for a shake, he declared "Well, Timmy
thinks the world of you. If anyone has a right to ask, it's you.
I can let you have it, overnight, for twelve hours tops. When do
you need it?"

"I have an appointment to visit the facility tomorrow night.
Between now and then I'll carry out my reconnaissance of the
grounds and buildings. I hope to spring them on Thursday night.
Can I come get it on Thursday afternoon?"

"I'll alert the front gate to let you in at 5 pm. Good luck".

* * *

The remainder of Tuesday, and much of Wednesday, were spent
scouting the terrain on the outskirts of Fullwood Youth
Foundation's rather large establishment. It resembled an
old-style prison farm, but without guard towers. The fences
looked designed to keep intruders out rather than inmates in. I
suspect the Board relied more heavily on its electronic security
rather than burly guards. I had seen all I needed to see.

At 6 p.m. I dollied myself up to look like the sort of person
who would have a thousand bucks to donate to a charity for
wayward boys. You have to use your imagination a bit to picture
it. If you saw me, I guess the old-fashioned word "fop" would
probably spring to your mind. I wanted to appear totally
non-threatening, a sheep in sheep's clothing. The half-hour
drive out to Fullwood saw me press the gate's intercom at ten to
seven. Dusk still gave out enough light to read a newspaper by,
but not for much longer. I was buzzed through after identifying
myself as Martin Banks, the alias I had assumed for this
operation. In case Fullwood checked (as I was sure they would),
the savings account the thousand bucks came from was also in the
name of Martin Banks.

After parking my car, I was escorted to a reception room by a
smallish man who reminded me of one of those Nazi 'scientists'.
Balding, bespectacled, slightly hunched over in appearance, the
sort of guy who would have to pay to get a date. He advised that
he was the secretary to the Board of Governors, and invited me
to refer to him simply as "the Secretary". I stifled a giggle at
this bit of petty secrecy. It would have made more sense for him
to use a false name, as I was doing. He gave me a rundown of the
work of the Foundation.

"We feel that society can only be enhanced by giving our youth,
who are so often led astray by the glittering lure of evil, a
firm guiding hand. So many young people are on the road to ruin
these days, whose parents (if they have them) have spared the
rod of correction. But thanks to the generosity of donors such
as yourself Mr Banks, we can remedy the failings of others who
see less clearly than ourselves that a well-disciplined child is
a productive child".

"I see, Mr Secretary", I muttered. Any minute now, I thought,
he's going to choke on his own platitudes.

"Now, take the boy whom you are going to visit this evening. He
was actually caught in the very act of stealing; the willing
tool, if you can believe it, of his own mother. I hope, in
addition to offering him some sound words of advice and
encouragement towards goodness, that you will give him a dose of
the sort of physical chastisement that you and I received at the
hands of our own fathers and schoolmasters. It did us the world
of good, Mr Banks, did it not, and you should feel free to slap
the evil out of this boy before wasting any words on him".

"I should also warn you, Mr Banks, before you are cloistered
with this boy in our private interview room, that he is an evil
little liar. All boys are filthy liars, as we both know, and
this fellow is no exception. You will have one uninterrupted
hour with him, and I can assure you that anything he dares to
tell me after your interview will be completely ignored as the
disgusting lies that they most definitely are. Why, only last
week, after an interview with another benefactor, he claimed to
have been raped by that very benefactor. He even showed me his
bottom as proof. But I knew better. It was clear that he had
invented the whole affair, probably injuring himself with his
own fingers in a futile attempt to implicate an upright citizen.
Rest assured that nothing this sinful little demon ever says
will be believed in this establishment". With that, the
Secretary pulled back a small curtain which was covering a
two-way mirror. Inside the stark room revealed beyond the glass,
a frail little boy of about ten sat on a bed, the only
furniture.  He wore shorts and a tee shirt, both white. He was
hunched over, his shoulders hitching a bit as he sobbed. The
most alarming thing about the boy was that it was not Marky.

"It's not the same boy", I said immediately, trying to keep the
desperate concern out of my voice.

"I'm sorry?", the Secretary looked puzzled at me.

"The photo you sent me. I thought I was going to, uh, help the
boy in the photo", I stammered, trying to remain calm.

"My dear Mr Banks, I apologize if there has been any unwitting
confusion on our part. We have quite a few boys in our care
here. No doubt the boy you refer to is engaged upon some other
task. We felt that a philanthropist such as yourself would be
willing to succour any boy in need. Is this going to pose a
problem for you?" he enquired solicitously.

"No, no, not at all. I was just surprised, is all. The other
boy, the one in the photo, just out of curiosity, is he also,
uh, able to be helped, perhaps following a further donation? On
some later date maybe?" I struggled to keep my emotions in
check. My plan was collapsing around me.

"The boy to whom you are referring has only been resident here
at Fullwood a few days. He has not quite settled in as yet. I do
not see him receiving the help of any benefactors before, oh,
next month, say". There was a hard glint to the Secretary's eyes
behind his frameless glasses. I wondered whether he took a
personal hand in the 'settling in' of new boys. "Shall we
proceed?", he asked, implying that the topic of the new boy in
the photo was closed.

"Of course. Er, what is this boy's name?", I asked.

The Secretary gave me an unctuous smile, clasping his hands in
front of his chest. "We don't encourage our benefactors to get
sentimentally involved with any of the lads here, for a variety
of reasons. You may call him 'Boy', to which he will respond, I
assure you. He will address you as 'Sir'. One hour".

I was getting somewhat tired of this awful little man's
'assurances', and I needed some moments to re-jig my plan on the
fly. I allowed the Secretary to show me to the door, which he
opened. The boy did not look up at me, for which I was silently
grateful. I heard the door close and lock behind me as I walked
to the bed and sat alongside him.

In the glimpse of the room that I took earlier through the
two-way mirror, I saw a small video camera mounted high on the
wall. A casual glance around the room confirmed that it was the
only surveillance fixture present. It looked video-only, no
audio. Possibly for blackmail purposes as well as security. I
decided I'd better get into character. I took hold of Boy's
waist and turned him over my lap, in the spanking position,
placing his head towards the camera. His sobs had slowed to
whimpers by this stage.

I pulled the flimsy tee shirt out of the waistband of his
shorts, and ran my hand underneath, up his back. After a few
rubs up and down, his whimpering diminished. I leaned over and
whispered into his ear "You like that, Boy?"

"Y-yes, Sir", he answered softly.

"Do you know what I am going to do next?", I continued.

"S-spank me, Sir?", he gulped.

"No, not spank you. We are going to put on a little show for the
camera up there on the wall. I am going to pretend to spank you,
but I'll really be hitting my own leg, not your lovely bottom.
Your bottom is pointing away from the camera, so if anyone is
watching, it will still look like a spanking, okay? Do you
understand me Boy?"

"N-no, Sir. Why aren't you g-going to s-spank me?" he stammered.

"Because I don't want to hurt you. I am here on a secret
mission, and I need your help. If you help me, I'll help you.
I'll get you out of here, if you want", I added, hoping to get
through to the kid quickly.

He twisted his head and looked me in the eyes for the first
time. His eyes were like those of a caged animal, frightened,
shocked, angry and sad all at once. "You're not like the other
men, are you", he stated more than asked.

"Why, what do the other men say to you?", I replied.

"They don't say anything. They just spank me and then- then
they- f...". His soft voice trailled off. "Are you going to
f-fuck me as well?". The word sounded so vulgar coming from the
lad's innocent mouth.

"No, I'm not going to fuck you. But we might have to do some
playacting that looks like fucking, for the camera, otherwise
they'll get suspicious", I answered.

"I don't mind if you do, I- I guess, if you want to, I mean",
the boy murmured. I noticed he had already stopped calling me
'Sir', which was a positive sign, maybe. He settled himself
across my lap, and I began to feel the same compulsion to
dominate and punish which brought Dr Lester back here so many
times. I loosened then removed my necktie, followed by my shirt
and undervest. I pulled the boy's shirt up to his armpits,
whereupon he raised his arms to allow me to slip it over his
head. He looked like a swimmer, diving into the water. I rubbed
his back a few more times, still conscious of my one hour.

"What made this mark on your neck? A rope?", I asked as I lifted
his long darkish streaky blonde hair off the nape of his neck.

"We have to wear a collar all the time, except when we're in
here. It stops us running away", the boy answered.

"What does the collar do?", I asked, even though I already knew.

"It gives a bad electric shock if you try to escape. Every day
they pick out a different boy and give him the shock in front of
everybody, just so we all know it is always working", he stated
matter-of-factly.

"What does the shock do to you? Have you ever been shocked?" I
pressed on, hating myself for asking but still wanting, needing
to know.

"I got shocked the first day I came here. It made me fall down
and shake all over, and it felt bad inside me. I- I wet myself,
too", the boy sighed. I determined, there and then, that this
lad would also be freed from this hellhole somehow. "You better
start to spank me, I think", the boy added.

"Before I do, tell me your real name", I asked. He looked me in
the eyes again.

"N-nobody ever uses their real names here. But mine's Rodney". A
single teardrop ran out of his eyes when he said it, and it was
all I could do to stop my own blubbering.

"All right, Rodney, I'm going to start now. Should I pull your
pants down first, or what?", I began, rubbing his bottom.

"Most of them pull them all the way off first", he said. "A few
just pull them down to just below my, uh, butt", he added
helpfully.

"Okay, now remember, we're playacting, so you have to make out
like I'm hurting you a lot. Then we can talk again". He gave me
the tiniest of nods as I dragged the elastic waist down over his
gorgeous cheeks. Honestly, if ever a dictionary needed a
pictorial illustration of 'jailbait', it would be this boy. His
bottom was as rounded as a girl's, his skin taut and smooth. It
showed no signs of previous spankings. I gave it a little tap,
and he jerked. Instead of trying to miss his cheeks and hit my
leg instead, I decided to bring my hand down swiftly and stop
just above his beautiful derriere, lightly touching it so Rodney
knew when to react.

We began our charade. Rodney was a real trouper, flailing his
legs, jerking his head up, shouting and yelling, drumming his
fists on the bed above his head. I was beginning to worry that
he was overdoing it when I called a stop. My arm was tired, more
than if I had actually spanked him, I thought. The stopping
motion just before hitting his soft flesh was beginning to cause
a soreness in the muscles of my upper arm. I rubbed his bottom
to try to bring up a bit of redness, to convince the camera. I
bent down to his ear again.

"You okay, Rodney?" I whispered.

"Yes, thank you. You're nice", he replied.

"Don't smile, sweetie. You're supposed to be in pain, remember.
What should I do next?".

"They usually take my pants off by now, and make me suck them a
bit. You can do that, I don't mind". I wrestled with the tight
shorts, pulling them past his knees and off his bare feet. He
jumped off my lap, making an atrocious grimace from the 'pain',
hopping fully naked around the room holding his bottom cheeks
with both hands. wailing at the top of his lungs. Really, if the
situation with my nephews wasn't so serious, I would have found
it hilarious.

I pointed to the floor in front of me, and Rodney obediently
scampered over to kneel in front of me. He untied my belt and
the snap of my trousers and pulled down my zipper. I knew from
watching adult movies that professional XXX-actresses can
simulate oral sex in a quite convincing way, but I wasn't sure
whether Rodney was so accomplished.

I need not have worried. Rodney did not bother trying to
simulate, but proceeded with the real deal. He carefully fished
my already hard tool our of my boxers and clamped his lips over
the head. Sensation shot straight to my brain, the part that
keeps going "Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!". I think it's the hypothalamus,
or the gimmemoresexamus, or something. I leaned back on my
elbows and allowed Rodney room to pursue his craft. I suppose
the little fellow was showing gratitude for my tender care of
him thus far. Who was I to deny him this gesture?

His eyes flickered up at me and he actually winked! Mid-slurp!
For a boy that didn't have much to say, his tongue was speaking
volumes! He could have given Timmy (Agent 009) lessons. I guess
Rodney had practiced on a variety of dongs. I was debating with
myself whether to shoot off in his mouth, or pull out and try
the simulated sodomy, when he squeezed the bottom of my rod near
my scrotum. My hips cringed into the bed and I began to wilt. He
released me, and I stood, pointing to the bed. He crawled on,
laying face down. I pulled my trousers and boxers off the rest
of the way. I was not worried about blackmail because I was sure
this establishment would not be operating for much longer.

I lay alongside Rodney, running my fingertips up and down his
spine.

"I'll get you for that, when we both get out of here", I
whispered in his ear, playing with his silky hair.

He giggled, then whispered back "I'll do it properly when you
get me out, I promise".

"Turn over so we can talk", I suggested. Rodney rolled over onto
his back in one smooth movement, pulling his knees up to his
shoulders and presenting his arsehole. Although he probably
would have allowed me to do it, I wanted to keep a bit of
control of the situation. I climbed on top of him, making a show
for the camera of lodging my lance in his furrow, but really
resting it alongside Rodney's own small hairless tackle. His
willy was encouragingly stiff, so he would receive as much
pleasure out of the meshing of our bellies as I planned to get.
I rested my weight on my elbows (as a gentleman should) under
his armpits and nuzzled his hair and neck. That put my mouth
conveniently near his ear, as I started to rock my hips.

"I'll be honest with you Rodney. My intention in coming here was
to rescue my two nephews that I think are here. But now I've met
you, I am determined to shut this place down and free all of the
boys, especially you, that are here against their will".

"I knew you were a good person. Can you tell me your name?", he
peeped.

"Call me Martin. That's the name I used to sneak in here. When
we get out, I'll tell you my real name. Not that I don't trust
you, but it's better in case you slip up. Is that okay?"

"Yes, Martin. How can I help?". This was one level-headed kid,
considering what he had been through.

"Tell me how you got brought here", I suggested.

"My Mom took me shopping for clothes. We were in a shop called
Jangles, and I was trying on some jeans for school, when a guy
came into the change room and grabbed me. He said I was
shoplifting, trying to steal the jeans. He dragged me and my Mom
to an office, where another guy was sitting behind a desk. Then
he made me strip off completely. Mom was crying. He said I was a
shoplifter, a filthy thief, and I had to be punished. Mom didn't
say anything, she just cried. The other guy said I had to go to
a reform school where I would learn not to steal. I said I
didn't steal anything, and he just slapped me in the mouth. Mom
cried harder. Then he called me a liar for denying I stole the
jeans. He bent me over the end of the desk and spanked me a few
times, really hard. He looked at my Mom, I guess to see what she
would do, but she just covered her face with her hands. So he
smacked me some more. It really hurt. Then he asked my Mom was
she shoplifting too, and maybe they should strip her to find
out. She shook her head and cried even more. The guy behind the
desk said to my Mom 'Don't bother telling the Police, they have
already been advised. If you call them, that will only give your
thief of a son a Police record'. He threw my clothes at my Mom
and told her to get out of his store. Then they took me here in
some kind of van".

I let out a large breath. Rodney's story was indeed
heartbreaking, and I could easily imagine the same scenario
playing out with Margaret and the boys. I mentally added Jangles
to the list of premises that I was going to destroy.

"When you're not, er, with a benefactor, where are all of you
kept? Are you all together? How many boys are there, anyway?". I
had too many questions that I needed answers for.

"In the day we mostly work in a big garden in the grounds. I
think they just make us do that to keep us tired, because they
don't care if the vegetables grow or not. At night, after visits
from the benefactors, we all sleep in a big long room on mats.
There are about thirty five boys, I think. Which ones are your
nephews?"

"Their names are Markus and Mikah. Have you seen them?" I pumped
my hips a bit harder when I thought of the two boys. Rodney
sensed my urgency, I think.

"We don't use names here, it's forbidden. What do they look
like?" he asked, pushing his slim hips back at me.

I began to describe the salient features of my nephews to him,
trying to stick to characteristics that another boy would
recognize. As soon as I mentioned their stick-out ears and
mousey hair, Rodney knew them straight away.

"They only came a few days ago. They're all right, but very
scared. I haven't talked to them yet but I've seen them".

"Tell me about the collar", I urged Rodney.

"They put it on us when we first arrive. It stays on all the
time unless we are in this room with a benefactor. Every
morning, the Secretary picks out one boy to come to the front of
the room where we sleep, and demonstrates what happens if we try
to take off the collar, or climb over the fence. The boy who
gets demonstrated on doesn't have to work in the garden that
day. He just sleeps".

"Is the door to the room where you sleep locked?", I pressed.

"I've never tried the door - it might be but I don't know. At
night everyone is too tired to try to get out, and too scared of
the collars".

I considered this information for a bit. I was distracted by
Rodney's hip movement underneath me, which didn't help the
higher mental processes.

"Rodney, darling, I'm, uh, gonna cum if you keep doing that", I
whispered in his ear.

"That's okay. Lots of men have shot on my tummy. Then they don't
like me anymore. You'll still like me, won't you?", he pleaded.

"Rodney, I already like you, sex or no sex. Now can you stop
with- with that thing you're doing with your hips so I can
think?". He giggled and lay still beneath me.

"Okay. Tomorrow night, be ready at, um, eleven o'clock. Tell
Mikey and Marky to be ready too. If they don't believe you, just
tell them 'Uncle Bob loves you', and they will know that you are
the real deal". Plans made on the run are always fraught with
danger, but I had little choice. A raid of the premises by
Federal Agents would have resulted in bloodshed, or worse, which
I could not risk.

"How will I know when it's eleven o'clock?', Rodney asked
innocently. Of course, none of the inmates would be permitted to
keep a wristwatch.

"When you see the moon rise past half way, count slowly to two
thousand. The boys will know how to measure halfway. Count on
me, Rodney. I will be there". He looked into my eyes again, and,
apparently satisfied with what he saw, shuffled down the bed
between my legs to capture my tool between those fantastic lips.
There was no question of stopping this time.

* * *

I had dressed myself before my hour expired, lacing my shoes as
I heard the door unlocking. I left a naked Rodney face down on
the bed, mentally resolving to come back for him. Driving back
to town, I mentally reviewed my plans. I'm definitely not the
Rambo type, so a full scale frontal assault of the front door,
bazookas blazing, was not really my style. Stealth,
intimidation, cajoling, that's more my scene. I slept fitfully
that night, waking often to turn things over in my mind (not
least Rodney's magnificent body).

Thursday dawned. It was now nearly five full days since the boys
were taken. I kept myself occupied during the day by reviewing
the plans of the Fullwood fortress, memorizing every notable
feature. It was clear from the plans that the owners did not
seriously consider an outside assault of any kind to be a likely
threat - all of the defenses were oriented towards prohibiting
escape. Even those were rudimentary, relying on barbed wired and
height. Clearly, the Board trusted their electronic collars way
too much.

I waited - somehow - until darkness overtook the landscape.
Parking my vehicle behind a dune some five hundred metres from
Fullwood's fence I slipped quietly into the night, clad all in
black. I held Ted Barrett's DefUser in one hand - he had
surrendered to me the code to keep it working - as I crept
towards a point in the fence where it joined a ridge. I thought
it would be simpler just to keep the device tied around my neck,
but Barrett warned against that. He said that in their lab
trails, soldiers who kept the device in their hands were more
like to remember to keep inputting the code. The ones who kept
it around their necks forgot.

Scaling the fence, I slinked towards the first outbuildings.
>From the maps, I knew these to be unoccupied. The only building
that matched Rodney's description of the boys' dormitory lay
beyond these. Dodging through bare patches of land between the
structures, I arrived at the only building that could have been
the dormitory. Pressing my ear to the wall, I was relieved to
hear the familiar sound of snoring boys. The lock succumbed
readily to my set of picks and I eased into the room.

The only light came from moonlight through a few high-set barred
windows near the ceiling. It occurred to me that I had no idea
which of these recumbent bodies might be my nephews. All of them
were naked. In the starlight I could see the glint of the metal
collars around every throat. I stepped gingerly down the middle
of the long room, peering carefully at each sleeping form.
Several of the boys slept on their backs. their little cocks
stiff from whatever dreams they were having. Two or three of the
boys appeared to be pleasuring themselves in their sleep. Near
the far end of the room I saw two bodies spooned together. The
configuration of their bodies was instantly familiar: it was
Mikah and Markus! They were comforting each other in their
sleep.

I crept alongside the thin mat that they were lying on. Fearful
of causing a commotion, I clasped a hand over Mikey's mouth. He
jolted awake. I whispered in his ear "Uncle Bob is here for
you". It was a phrase that I had said to the two boys often.
Mikey relaxed, so I uncovered his mouth and bent across him to
give the same  message to his brother. Markus woke slowly, but
as soon as he was alert he leapt to his feet and grabbed me
around the waist. I have never had such a tight hug as the one
he gave me in the darkness of that prison room. He began sobbing
into my chest, so I tried to comfort him by stroking his hair
and rubbing his ears. (I was the only person who was allowed to
touch his ears).

"Marky", I whispered. He kept sobbing. "Markus!" I whispered,
with more urgency. "I need you to be strong. We are getting out
of here tonight, but I need you to be brave". His sobs slowed,
then stopped. Mikah had come around behind him to make a cuddle
sandwich, another little thing that was precious for the three
of us in happier times. We didn't usually do it when the boys
were naked, though.

"I know you've got the collars on, but this thing I've got here
will neutralize them", I explained. I showed the boys the
DefUser. Mikah looked at me dubiously. No doubt the boys had
already seen the effects of the collar, on others or even
themselves. They had to invest a lot of trust in me right now.

"Where is Rodney? Did he contact you?"

The two boys looked at me blankly. Obviously another part of the
plan had failed, but not a crucial part. However the problem
remained - the boys did not know who Rodney was, and thus had no
idea where he was either.

"Okay. You've got no clothes on, you're frightened, but you have
to listen to me and do what I say without arguing. Can you do
that?", I  knelt before both boys so I could whisper more easily
to them. I noticed Markus was erect, and squeezing his knob
absently as he listened. "Follow me quietly, and stay very
close. The collars will not hurt you if you stay close". I hoped
that was true. I had to put my trust in Ted Barrett, just as the
boys were trusting me.

We crept towards the door, ignoring the snores and whimpers from
the other boys. Earlier today, I had toyed with the idea of
staging a mass breakout , but discarded the idea because of the
damned collars. I retraced my steps to the fence, and helped the
boys climb over. They were still naked, of course, so I took
special care about keeping their dangly bits clear of the razor
wire. In any case, only Markus dangled. Mikah was still too
young to dangle.

We cleared the fence and scampered for my car. Along the way,
Mikey stumbled over a stone and fell. I was already five metres
in front of him before I realized - he was outside the DefUser's
footprint. The collar did not affect him! Of course - we had
gone beyond the range of the electromagnetic field, the collar
was ineffective now!

I picked Mikah up and threw him over my shoulder in a fireman's
carry. Markus and I skipped our way in the moonlight to the car.
When we found it, my first task was to take the boltcutters to
those wretched collars. Two quick snips broke them, and I got a
couple of hugs (again) in return.

"Hurry, Uncle Bob, let's get out of here!" Mikah exclaimed,
jumping into the back seat.

"You got that right", I returned. There's some clothes in the
back for y- oh shit. Shit Shit Shit".

"What is it, Uncle Bob?", Markus whispered frantically as he
dragged a pair of jeans up his legs.

"Rodney. We haven't got Rodney. I can't leave him behind. If it
wasn't for him, I probably wouldn't have found you guys. I have
to go back".

The two boys looked at each other. Marky spoke first. "We'll
wait here for you. Hurry back".

"You're good boys", I reassured them, leaning into the back seat
to give them each a kiss on their foreheads. "I'll be back
before you know it. Count to five hundred and I'll be here".

I ran back to the fence, using only starlight as a guide. Twice
I tripped, sprawling on my face in the dirt. Where on earth
could Rodney be? If he was in that dormitory, I am sure he would
have contacted the boys. So he must be somewhere else. Scaling
the fence in the same place, I wracked my brains to remember
details of the plan of the property. He could be anywhere. Wait
a minute - the control room. Ted had pointed it out to me on the
plans. If those collars worked like Ted said they should, they
might indicate where Rodney was.

I found the room easily enough. It wasn't locked, I guess the
Board didn't imagine there was any danger of infiltration. I
scanned the bank of monitors in front of me, with absolutely no
idea of how to go about using any of them to find Rodney, when I
heard a muffled sobbing sound, then cries of "No! Don't". They
were coming from behind an inner door.

I crept up to it and listened at the keyhole. It sounded like
Rodney's voice. The door was unlocked, as I found when I tested
the knob. I pushed the door open quickly to reveal a sight I
shall never forget. Poor Rodney was hanging naked from the
ceiling by chains attached to manacles. The Secretary was
sodomizing him as he hung there, his bare legs held apart by the
offensive little bureaucrat. The Secretary must have heard me,
but he only had enough time to turn his head and exclaim
"Banks-" before I walloped him across the jaw with my fists
joined. He dropped to the floor like a sack of potatoes, his
pathetic little tool already beginning to shrivel back inside
his fly. I lifted Rodney's body up to give his wrists and arms a
rest, then saw a key on the table nearby. I gently lowered him
back down, then grabbed the key and undid the manacles. He fell
sobbing into my arms.

"I knew you would come back for me. I knew it. I knew you
would", he blubbered.

"Okay, shhh, it's okay, I'm here now, shhh, I've got you, it's
okay", I tried to comfort the poor boy, holding him with one arm
and patting his bare back with the other. I tore the Secretary's
lab coat off him and draped it around Rodney's shoulders.
Activating the DefUser, I escorted Rodney back to the fence,
dragging the skinny unconscious body of the Secretary along by
the scruff of the collar. I pocketed a spare collar from the
control room and fastened it around the Secretary's throat. When
we got to the fence I helped Rodney climb over it. I dropped the
Secretary roughly to the ground and climbed over the fence. As I
walked away with Rodney towards my car and the boys, I realized
Ted Barrett was wrong. His device actually had a footprint of
five metres, because I was at least that far away from the fence
when I looked back to see the Secretary writhing and twitching
on the ground, clutching at the collar and making odd choking
sounds, which I found strangely comforting.

I thought about the rest of the boys, but then realized my car
wouldn't hold them all. I called the Federal Agents on my
mobile, and drove off  only when I saw the plumes of dust from
several vehicles rising from the main road to the Foundation's
front gate.

The boys and Rodney spent the rest of the night at my house. I
could always ring their father in the morning. I had to remember
to give Ted his electronic gizmo back as well. The boys slept in
the room they used to sleep in back when their father allowed
them to sleep over. They slept together, holding each other all
night.

Rodney slept with me. Although "slept" is not quite an accurate
description. Rodney kept his promise to me, just as I had kept
mine. By morning I had another secret agent, fully trained.

End

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