While I Breathe I Love You Chapter 1

‘Pederasty is as old as humanity itself, and one can therefore say that it is natural, that it resides in nature, even if it proceeds against nature. What culture has won from nature will not be surrendered or given up at any price.’

Dedication 2

The Act of Revelation 4

Scene I: Revelation 4

Scene 2. Jubilation 17

Scene 3: Adjudication 32

Scene 4: Application 42

Scene 5: Preparation 57

Scene 5: Desperation 82

The Act of Initiation 101

Scene 1: Fascination 101

Scene 2: Inspection 110

Scene 3: Fascination 120

Scene 4: Investigation 123

Scene 5: Negotiation 133

Scene 6: Instigation 159

Scene 7: Sensation 164

Scene 8: Inspiration 175

The Act of TRANSMOGRIFICATION 181

Scene 1: Indication 181

Scene 2: Visitation 190

Scene 3: Provision 200

Scene 4: Crucifixion 209

Scene 5: Exultation 222

The Act of Delectatio 264

Scene 1: Admission 264

Scene 2. Instruction 270

Coming Acts 281

The Act of Revelation

Scene I: Revelation

“Welcome, my friends, to the Lord’s House.” Pastor Ernest Mordecai Bonaventure raised his voice and both arms to the heavens. “Our Savior, Jesus, bless us on this glorious morning.”

He took a breather before launching into his sermon, surveying his 9:00 a.m. congregation of 638, according to the final head count. His services always brought a horde compared the competition, a half-mile down the road. As Easter neared, attendance was enough to fill his house of worship, the Church of the Blessed Baptism.

Unlike 143-year-old Saint Bartholomew’s church, the Papists’ house of worship, his church was a cathedral fit for Christ. Obsidian glass and black granite symbolized the ubiquity of sin in the earthly world. The New York architect, allegedly famous, said 1970s skyscrapers inspired it. The cylindrical corner bell tower was reputed to be a Baptist evangelist reaching for Heavenly guidance--it was often mistaken for a minaret. Bonaventure’s critics, of whom there were many in liberal Ithaca, New York, said it was so ugly that Satan inspired it.

“We sit in His House, my friends, surrounded by purity…” Bonaventure gestured at the grand interior, mostly pristine white marble. “All the while, we are burdened by impure thoughts. Who among us does not look sin in the face every day? Almighty Lord, abandon us not to Temptation.”

Vested in a plain black robe, he strode across the dais as a murmur rippled through the congregation, certainly not voices raised in exaltation that he expected. He looked humbly up at St. John the Baptist in dazzling stained glass, proffered a silent prayer, and pivoted to face his flock. On the way back to his lectern, he put his hand to his ear, wondering what people would say if they knew what he was thinking.

I say and do the same damned thing every Sunday. Whenever I say ‘Almighty Lord,’ you’re supposed to repeat what follows back to me. Someone please say ‘Abandon us not to Temptation.’

“If I can’t hear you, friends, Our Lord can’t hear you.” He raised his voice a notch to again deliver his personal version of Matthew 6:13. “Almighty Lord, abandon us not to Temptation.”

Temptation was a recurrent theme in Pastor Bonaventure’s fiery sermons. At that very moment, temptation stared him in the face. Mrs. Rebecca Caine sat just a few paces away from his lectern.

As the echo faded, Bonaventure again stretched both arms to the crystal skylight high above. Hidden halogen lamps provided divine light when a feeble sun could not.

Three hundred emboldened fans of Pastor Bonaventure shouted as one; the rest too awed or reticent to join in. The loudest voice of all sat third from the end in the third row. Simon Manson was a New Orleans Catholic before he was born again as a virtuous Baptist. He attended every one of Pastor Bonaventure’s pre-sermon sessions, a kind of ecclesiastic focus group. More toady than fan, he also coached the Baptist Youth Soccer League team, the Guardian Angels, nine- and ten-year-old boys.

With a peek at his svelte Patek Phillipe Calatrava wristwatch, encroached by copious black hair, Ernest Bonaventure restarted his sermon. However, his mind dwelled on Rebecca Caine. Seated directly opposite his lectern, she was impossible to miss. So was her sulky son, still unbaptized. His saving grace was a vibrant mischievous beauty, nothing like her.

God Almighty, you’re gorgeous. If only you were humble about it. You act so innocent when I pull down your panties. You’re a Babylon whore, though! It doesn’t matter whether you kneel, take it bent over a table, or I’m sitting down and you climb on top!

“Temptation is but another word for challenge, my friends. We are tempted every day by the Seven Deadly Sins; and they are…”

He waited, his open hand an invitation. After a few moments, he tilted his head as if hard of hearing.

What do I have to do to make these dullards come alive? Perhaps push a button and flash a neon sign, ‘Audience participate NOW!’ Perhaps a cattle prod for the truly dim-witted ones?

He was smiling when he started again. “Friends, I’ve often talked of ways to remember the scriptures. For example, ‘SALIGIA’ is the medieval Latin acronym for the Seven Deadly Sins; superbia, avaritia, luxuria, invidia, gula, ira, and acedia.”

After Bonaventure’s Advanced Oratory professor at Houston Baptist U. pointed out that his C+ was grade inflation, he worked on his elocution. He even hired an actor from the Houston Community Theater to tutor him in his graduation year.

“Surely, someone remembers. It was only a week ago,” he said with a somewhat unpleasant, yet very meaningful glance at his beautiful Becca, always at his beck and call.

A week ago, you said you missed your period. Then, you didn’t mention it at Wednesday’s Fellowship Meeting! God Almighty! If you’ve gotten yourself pregnant, I’ll still want you! Not your brat; although I’ll make an exception if you deliver me a daughter!

Mrs. Filbert, attorney at law and senior partner in Frost, Filbert, and Waters, was certain she didn’t forget. “Isn’t avaricia avarice?”

Her Latin pronunciation was better than Bonaventure’s. His ‘avaricia’ sounded awful, despite taking a class in Latin.

Someone else, in the middle of the flock, declared, “’Luxuria’ is surely luxury.”

Frustrated, Bonaventure put in, “Think of the worst sins for a Baptist, my friends. The modern form of the acronym is…”

Is it time for a hint? They all look bamboozled, even Rebecca. I wonder if anyone else knows her only hair is on her head because of me.

He beckoned, hiding his smirk while praying a gesture alone would incite recollection. His hairy wrist imitated St. John in the window, baptizing naked Jesus in the River Jordan, surrounded by converts. When no one answered, he fumed, and stared hard at Simon Manson.

“You Simon, ponder on your *haggles* over price whenever you buy and sell cars; and you, Mrs. Filbert, you should know some from courtroom gaggles.”

As soon as Simon Manson heard ‘haggles,’ he remembered ‘PAGGLES’ from his youth, Catholic catechism drummed into an altar boy in sweltering-hot Louisiana Acadia. He promptly ahemed and waved with a finger, a sign for Bonaventure to call on him again.

While he waited, he peeked sideways. Two seats away, Jeff Truett and his son, Mark, snuggled, whispering with their heads close together. They definitely weren’t talking ‘seven deadly sins,’ not with their hands clasped.

Goddamn, they’re at it again! Truett’s lucky no one saw him mauling his kid’s privates after last week’s soccer game. Can’t blame him though; Mark’s a sexy little bitch at the best of times.

On cue, Truett looked up, winking right at him, wicked as Mephistopheles. There was no avoiding the shameless delight in Manson’s downward glance, both of them all but salivating over the son’s compact crotch.

Both lovesick, yet father and son played eye-games with Manson, conspirators signaling the unspeakable sin. Nearly hidden by the Baptist Hymnal, 2008 edition, an adult thumb shamelessly rubbed a sweaty little paw. Truett segued to rubbing a small middle finger where Simon could see it, sliding up and down, make-believe masturbating. Stunned that they’d do it in plain view, yet hardly surprised, Simon smirked behind his hand. An accepted voyeur, if not actual collaborator, he’d quickly recognized the signs six months earlier when the Truetts moved to Ithaca.

What I want to know is does he do Mark before they come to church, or does he nail his lover-boy after brunch? Or maybe both?

The very idea of a divorced father and his son sharing that kind of intimacy excited Simon. Endless opportunity with almost no risk of discovery; it didn’t matter if anyone saw them snuggling in the third row of the Church of the Blessed Baptism. With the righteous Simon Manson sitting so close, no one would think the father was abusing the boy, although he surely had reason to.

Mark Truett was born flirtatious, one of those naturally sensuous boys who could get whatever he wanted with a single glance. A blue-eyed blond with luscious lips, he was very good-looking. He was also smart, funny, athletic, and captain of the Guardian Angels soccer team.

Simon Manson was beyond envious when he saw Truett slyly reposition the Hymnal over the bulge in Mark's Sunday-best chinos. His thoughts soon segued from PAGGLES to paddles:

Boys like Mark need a good paddling. Make him aware that his cute little bottom is God-given for pleasure.

However, as tempting as ten-year-old Mark Truett was, Simon Manson daydreamed about another boy, six months younger and even more delectable. His pert posterior was planted on the pew next to Mrs. Caine, dead center of the front row. When it came to appearance, Xavior Caine put handsome Mark Truett to shame.

Surely, you’re as gay as a goose. Even if you aren’t, I’d sacrifice my right nut to give your beautiful boy-bottom a few barehanded whacks!

After a few moments, Pastor Bonaventure nodded to his flock, and to Manson in particular, hopeful he’d hear the right answer. However, Manson was so into adoration, he gawked and offered a wistful sigh of homage, utterly besotted with Xavior Caine…

I’d even marry your mom for a chance at your ass! I’ll mount you, all day, every day, the same as young Mark gets. Teach a boy to bend over for the Holy Staff, and he’ll never stand straight again. ‘On the mount of the Lord it shall be provided.’

Seated next to Mr. Manson, where no boy was safe, Mark Truett muffled a guffaw at his soccer coach’s embarrassment.

“Praise the Lord, I was daydreaming,” Manson croaked when Xavior turned around. “I’m thinking ‘PAGGLES.’ Am I right?”

Oh, my God, you’re looking at me! If I wave, and your mother sees, she’ll wonder why. She calls you ‘Save’, not ‘Zaf’ like everyone else, surely because you’re a divinely inspired ‘savior.’ She even spells your name with ‘ior.’

He was so infatuated he didn’t hear the preacher’s answer. What was there not to adore: long curly golden-highlighted brown hair, crimson Cupid lips and brilliant white teeth, angelic azure eyes? With delicate features, and small for his age, Xavior Caine seemed much younger than nine years nine months.

No boy is perfect, yet you come close. Only you can’t cum, can you? You look so vulnerable, but you’re fierce when you want to be, my little champion of the soccer field. I bet you’ll be just as bold in bed.

Slender as a sapling, the spirited bantam-boy jogged Manson’s memory back to the hot-blooded urchins of his Cajun childhood. Even in the third grade of St. Mark’s Catholic School for Boys, they were impulsive, sexually precocious, and entertaining when the nuns weren’t around. However, it was all poetic allusion—after a bitter-cold winter, virginal almond-hued Xavior was anything but a brown-skinned rascal.

You’re definitely not brazen like Mark, but you’re still hungry for attention. Maybe his father should groom you, too. There’s no one better at it. In two or three months, you’ll be taking my cock in your mouth without hesitation.

Suddenly, Bonaventure saluted the skylight and declared, “Hallelujah! Now is the time and place to begin your journey to salvation!” He spelled ‘PAGGLES’ to be sure.

Unaware of the pedophile hiding in the third row, a devout husband and wife team promptly called from the middle. “Anger and Envy!”

Opulently obese, and without embarrassment, Mrs. Filbert contributed, “Gluttony and Greed!”

“A great title for a book,” Bonaventure remarked, smirking. “However, there’s only one ‘P’ in ‘PAGGLES. It stands for Pride, which is the worst sin of all, the social sin of prejudice notwithstanding.”

Mrs. Rebecca Caine, zealous sycophant and generous patron of The Church of The Blessed Baptism, offered her own deadly sin, all but standing and shouting.

She gazed up at Ernest Bonaventure throughout her fifteen seconds of fame. Her post-modern beatific smile extolled blatant mortal beauty, not unlike Andy Warhol’s Marilyn Diptych.

Was there ever a man as handsome as you, or so manly? You’re a righteous American Bulldog at the pulpit, and a randy pit bull in bed. You make pitiful Phillip seem like a hairless wimp.

Despite her young son’s obvious humiliation, or perhaps because of it, he added an exaggerated sigh of relief. Ever serene, she smiled back at him, doe-eyes with flickering lashes, a mistress mimicking the enigmatic Mona Lisa. Simply being close to hirsute Pastor Bonaventure made her wet between the legs. Phillip, her bald-headed husband, had never done that.

Rebecca’s one-dimensional smile made Bonaventure hot. Growing arousal tightened his boxers, excreting slimy juice in expectation.

Only ‘Yul Brynner’ stands in my way, your husband in name only. You say he’s stubborn because he put down his foot about your son’s baptism. Let’s hope he won’t be so stubborn when you ask for a divorce.

According to Rebecca, Phillip Caine was a paltry breadwinner, a miserable conjugal partner, and an indifferent father.

Despite being unyielding before the Lord, Bonaventure returned her now-querying look. A hint of a smile sufficed to signal subsequent ‘fellowship’ in the sacristy, as soon as her son headed off to his Junior Bible Study Group.

I know what you want, Rebecca. Pregnant or not, you’re my beautiful whore of Babylon.

“Thank you, Rebecca. Finally, we have the last deadly sin. ‘When the camels had finished drinking, he took out a gold ring for her nose and two large gold bracelets for her wrists’ (Genesis 24:22). However, I’m sure Rebecca’s nose ring had nothing to do with deadly sins.”

After relishing chuckles from those in the congregation who knew their scriptures, he rambled on, five minutes on each sin in the order given.

“And last, is lust. Uncontrollable passion, longing, and shameful desires. ‘Flee also youthful lusts; but pursue righteousness, faith, love, and peace.’ 2 Timothy 2:22. Is this not the way we should Praise the Lord?”

“Yes indeed, friends! And what if we are tempted by the whore of Babylon? From Revelation 18, 3. ‘…Fallen, fallen is Babylon the great! She has become a dwelling place for demons, a haunt for every unclean spirit…”

Bonaventure smiled, nodding vaguely, turning left to right as if addressing the entire congregation, his eyes flicking back and forth, yet always returning to her.

I know what you want, Becca, my whore of Babylon. You want my cock thrusting into your cunt. Oooh, I ‘m so bad…

“Sadly, many in the body of Christ really don't care to resist lust,” he went on.

His holier-than-thou voice charmed decrepit grandmothers and little girls, yet he looked like a scoundrel. Shaggy long hair and unshaven, Ernest Mordecai Bonaventure occupied a unique niche in Baptist theocracy. Pastor Bonaventure was in-the-flesh testimony that the Lord judged deeds, not appearance, unlike every other evangelist.

“Surely, lust is the worst of sins; for lust alone brings forth Adam and Eve’s Fall from Grace.” He was so off script that he stumbled on what to say next.

‘Praise the Lord,’ Rebecca Caine mouthed; gazing right at him, her magnificent mouth momentarily frozen in the open position. Then, she licked her lips, mentally parting her thighs for him.

You always say Phillip is queer. I’ve never seen him do anything, yet I’m sure you’re right. Most artistes are gay. It’s why he’s so pathetic in bed, the few times we do it. You’d think with schlong a like his, he’d be able to keep it stiff for five minutes.

Not much longer, my beautiful Becca. After I’ve cum in your pussy, you’ll gorge on my cock like last time. I want you to get used to it sliding down your gullet, tasting yourself like a slimy salty oyster.

“’And He said to them, “Follow Me, and I will make you fishers of men.”’ That’s from Matthew, 4:19, friends. As His fisher of men, it’s time to share another fish story.”

“This one is a little raunchy, yet in keeping with a sermon about temptation. ‘A man had a very beautiful wife; however, he was bimodal.” He winked deliberately, generating snickers. “Needless to say, he seldom had relations with her. One day, he went fishing with his best friend from college; and we all know what *that* means.”

From the back row, the same voice snickered. “The sin of Sodom in a bass boat.”

Again, he waited for the muttering to pass. “When he came home, he found a man in bed with his wife; and the man said: 'If you fish, someone else will cut bait!’”

“You ask what is the moral of today’s fish story? Ask yourself who is to blame, the husband, the wife, or the interloper? Would there be temptation if the husband didn’t sin in the worst possible way? A sin so awful, it is worse than the Seven Deadly Sins put together.”

“Praise the Lord; there’s a worse sin than Pride?” Manson called right on cue.

“Sadly Simon, yes there is. I refer, of course, to Leviticus 20:13. ‘If there is a man who lies with a male as those who lie with a woman, both of them have committed a detestable act; they shall surely be put to death.’”

He launched into another denunciation of homosexuality to reinforce his tirade of three weeks earlier. His flock was well aware of evil; there were promiscuous Cornell U. students all over Ithaca, including a handful in his Church of the Blessed Baptism.

Her precious Xavior looks like one. He’s too good-looking not to be queer. That’s right, boy, lick your pretty lips. Your mom does that, too, before she sucks me.

He started on his summary of Baptist morality, fueled on Satan, and Rebecca’s unwavering adoring gaze. As he segued through the sins, he forced himself to scan each row, searching for sinners, sodomites in particular.

The couple on Bonaventure’s far right fit the bill perfectly; both bleeding-heart liberals, and likely lesbians. They looked queer enough to get married. There were also rumors about two high school students frequenting parks in the evening. He wet parched lips with water imported in a suave green bottle, wondering who hung around restrooms.

“Immorality prevails in the den of iniquity that is New York City, or San Francisco. Immorality exists in Ithaca, too; however, it happens in secret. I ask you, ‘What should you do when confronted by the evil sin of Leviticus? Would you pray for His Mercy? Praise the Lord.”

“It’s surely a start; however, begging for forgiveness is not enough, Friends. Only atonement brings salvation! Atonement is a sacrifice; it means ‘at one’ with the Lord. We find the first atonement in Genesis 3:21. The Lord provided animal skins to cover the nakedness of Adam and Eve. A sinless animal spilled its blood on their behalf. Nowadays, we don’t sacrifice animals to save ourselves.”

The moment was ideal. Bonaventure inhaled deeply, raised both arms, and shouted, “Praise the Lord!”

“Atonement is a blood sacrifice, My Friends. The act of sodomy, itself, demands bloody death.” He paused, creating a vacuum of anticipation. “I ask you, what is the punishment just for thinking about that despicable sin?”

Bonaventure gestured, inviting the congregation even as his gaze drifted over Rebecca Caine and her son.

He’s not baptized, but it’s never too late. She says he’s still innocent. By all accounts, he ought to be gay. That would be a problem.

“Make the punishment fit the crime,” Mrs. Filbert affirmed as if reading from a script.

“Exactly right, both of you. So, My Friends, the lesson of today, atone not only for shameful acts, impure thoughts also demand punishment.”

He nodded at the organist; nearly time to wind up the show. Yet again, his unremitting gaze crossed Rebecca Caine’s doting admiration, and stopped on her sulky son. Reticent or reluctant, it was impossible to tell.

The way he looks at me when I’m near you, my dear, he’s either suspicious of us, or he prefers prick over pussy, just like his faggot father. Divorce him, and I’ll drive it out of the brat before I baptize him.

“‘So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.’ Words to live by from Isaiah, 41:10,” he ended magnanimously.

“Friends; all of us gathered here today are Disciples of Christ. We are moved by our love for Him, yet I know that some of us serve Him only as long as He can be served without interfering with our private lives. If Satan makes demands on them, Christ is expendable.”

Oh my beautiful sexy Becca, how many times have I expended my semen in your body? I must’ve put gallons of it in your pussy by now. If I’ve put my child in your womb, you’ll have to divorce him and marry me!

“Friends, I’m here to tell you that Christ is not expendable. I believe if I accept Jesus as my personal Savior, my sins will be forgiven, yet I constantly struggle to serve Him. You, too, must endure the struggle against sin, for the alternative is eternal damnation. Praise the Lord!”

Again, his eyes drifted to the front row, dead center, half-expecting to see her mouth still open. Instead, she mouthed a kiss at him. Beside her, Xavior cringed. Like Simon Manson, Ernest Bonaventure had never seen eyes that blue.

With his sermon, singing, and ecclesiastic homilies on the Baptist Mission completed, he shifted to announcements.

“Remember, friends, next weekend is Easter. Expect to receive an email from the Easter Committee today. It’s packed with information about the Easter egg hunt and our other activities after the Service. Mrs. Filbert’s recipe for gluten-free unleavened bread is there, too. Now, before we go to fellowship, there are a few secular issues I want to discuss.”

First off, he invited the treasurer to the lectern to review fundraising efforts for expanding the outdoor church, including an extra-large baptism pool. Mrs. Filbert followed the treasurer to the lectern to discuss her Wednesday Sunrise Bible Study Group.

“Last but not least, I want to acknowledge our Guardian Angels, our nine and ten-year-old boys’ soccer team. Those of you who attended yesterday’s Baptist Youth Soccer League match witnessed their spectacular performance against the Western Baptist Church Israelites. Perhaps their coach, Mr. Simon Manson will describe a highlight.”

Acknowledging the congregation with friendly waving, Manson, who was on the verge of being overweight, slowly made his way to the lectern.

“Our Guardian Angels played like little demons for their first game of the season, with any number of highlights. The one that sticks in my mind is the demon-in-chief’s goal in the third quarter. That would be Xavior Caine…”

Manson dared not smile at Xavior Caine while he waited for the congregation to settle down, for the lingering chuckles to end.

He even looks like a sexy little demon. My best player is a mischievous sprite with curly hair. All he needs are red eyes and horns and he’d be the devil’s spawn. Pretty and pure on the outside, unspeakable evil within.

“His team nickname is ‘Ten.’ Why ‘Ten’ when he’s still nine years old? Well, one reason is his middle name is ‘Tenney,’ which *no one* has ever heard of before. The other reason is, even though we only have seven players on the field, he’s our number ’10.’ ‘Ten’ is reserved for the attack midfielder.”

Before he continued, he smiled reassuringly at shy Xavior. By the same token, he intended it for the boy’s doting mother. Building trust was an essential first step-- respect and confidence yielded closer ties.

You’re best friends with Mark Truett, so endless opportunities for his dad to groom you. After he breaks you in with a few fucks, Truett and I will get the two of you together, a boy-on-boy sixty-nine with a cock in each rear…

“If you don’t know soccer, the position requires skill and strategic thinking. Our ‘Ten’ may be small, but he’s nimble. He’s a playmaker, too, always setting up other players for goals. Anyway, Xavior had an opening with the team captain, Mark Truett. They ran like the wind, taking the ball right through their defense, an incredibly coordinated attack for two boys who’ve been on the team for only six months!”

A college student with aspirations of being assistant coach interrupted with, “Way to go, guys.”

“Xavior put the ball into the net with his best kick ever. It’s on YouTube, linked from our website.”

Ernest Bonaventure saw surprise on Xavior’s face, a radiant, if roguish grin reserved for his coach, made even more unexpected by exquisite good looks, perfect for a daughter, not for a son.

As surely as I stand here, you’re the same as your artsy-fartsy father, even if the detestable desire has yet to manifest!

“’The Lord Jesus the same night in which he was betrayed took bread: And when he had given thanks, he brake it, and said, Take, eat: this is my body, which is broken for you: this do in remembrance of me. After the same manner also he took the cup, when he had supped, saying, This cup is the new testament in my blood: this do ye, as oft as ye drink it, in remembrance of me.’

Scene 2. Jubilation

Minus clerical robe, and with a pre-Easter yellow-iced cupcake and a cup of coffee in hand, Bonaventure made an interrupted procession through the fellowship hall. Spotting Rebecca with Mrs. Filbert, her lawyer, and likely headed into a divorce if he had anything to do with it, he merely inclined his head and went in the opposite direction.

Filbert’s a bitch, and the just the person to take your damned husband for every cent, including what he’s stashed away for retirement. Phillip’s a faggot if ever there was one. You should ruin the fucker for that alone. It’s what he deserves for ruining your life!

Across the room, Simon Manson, Mark Truett, and Xavior Caine talked to ‘fans,’ all preteen girls who towered over the pint-sized soccer-player. Amused by the weary wariness of a demon-in-chief without flaw, except the obvious one, Bonaventure gulped lukewarm coffee.

Once your mother’s divorced, I’ll go the extra distance for your baptism. It’s the least I can do for a stepson. ‘I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand,’ and wash away unspeakable sin. She’ll thank me in ways you can’t even imagine.

He was still thinking about the magnitude of gratitude while he pretended to be the concerned Pastor in an interminable discussion on the merits of an outdoor church and baptismal pool with three seniors who thought a religious crafts center would be a better use of fiscal resources. Finally, he excused himself, just as Mark Truett and the Caine boy scurried off to study their age-appropriate illustrated Bibles.

With broom and dustpan, Rebecca entered the sacristy, closing the door behind her. She dumped her ‘spring-cleaning’ disguise in the corner, deposited her Sunday-best handbag and a half-eaten iced donut on a sideboard, and strolled to the window to watch the Sunday brunch exodus to IHOP. She was a regular until Ernie Bonaventure entered her life.

Already, she could feel slimy seepage in her panties, her nipples as stiff as pencil erasers. Less than a minute after she entered, Ernest Bonaventure opened the door, stepped inside, and closed it. Already erect, he smirked knowingly at her, turned and latched the door, and checked the handle. What he planned required privacy.

“You were wonderful this morning, Ernie,” Rebecca murmured, so nervous and excited that her voice faltered.

Bonaventure waved it off, closing the distance between them. “You look stunning, Becca, absolutely gorgeous.”

Your boobs are divine. Not saggy at all. I wonder if you breast-fed the brat. Lucky little boy if you did, sucking on your pretty titties. Still, you don’t seem like the type to put up with the inconvenience.

He stopped, his arms inviting an embrace. She stepped up to him, trembling, licking her lips with anticipation. Her breasts squashed on his chest, her crotch grinding on his thigh.

She gushed on until he grasped her head and brought their mouths together. Tongues engaged before their lips met, writhing as their embrace became more passionate, more urgent.

Finally, Bonaventure held her back. He was panting; she was gasping. He grasped her vulva through her dress, his middle finger jammed into her labia, poking pink panties into her pussy.

“Good, because I need to be inside you,” he huffed, grinding his finger into damp hot flesh.

He released her sex and grasped her shoulder, jerking her sideways, trying to turn her around so he could get at her dress zipper. He ripped it down, past half way before she twisted away.

“Xavior’s at Bible Study until 11:30,” he snapped, not the first time he’d cut her off rudely. “You spoil the boy by always putting him first.”

“If I spoil him, it’s only because he’s so small. Only last week, his pediatrician said he’s still in the bottom ten percent for height and weight.”

“He’s lucky he’s still alive. He was so sick as a baby. Failure to thrive; it was awful. He’d eat almost nothing and then puke it up. Anyway, he’s not the problem, Ernie. I don’t have time for both, not today.”

She reached behind, trying to pull up her zipper, shaking with excitement. Her pink panties were clingy, slimy, hot, and tight. She itched so much she dragged his hand back to her crotch and clamped it firmly, swiveling her pelvis wantonly.

I bet you’re leaking into your undies. You want to put Mr. Cock inside me, don’t you? It won’t matter if I’m a few minutes late.

“God, you’re hot!” Bonaventure groaned, pummeling her pussy by shoving his bulging erection into her heat. “You need a good hard fuck, don’t you?”

She giggled. “Mr. Cock-a-doodle-do is excited. I can feel him throbbing.” She squashed her mons against it. “I want him in me so bad, Ernie.”

She grasped through his trousers, squeezing his engorged manhood. It was thick and short, stumpy, not huge like her husband’s.

“Yul Brynner got something planned with Xavior after church?” he jibed, dexterously planting the seed.

“Xavior wanted to go, but I put an end to that last year. He’s spending the afternoon on the Truett’s horse farm.”

“Jeff's the best of the best, a Christian who Jesus would be proud of. And he’s as comfortable around boys as he is with horses. He'll teach him what Yul Brynner can't!”

“Can we get a move on? I don’t want to keep Ms. Filbert waiting, Ernie. She wants to go to the Carriage House for brunch. I’ll swallow…”

She gulped at his authoritative tone, hoping she hadn’t made a mistake as she sank to her knees before him.

I’ll get an abortion if you don’t want our child. Phillip won’t want it. He’s had a vasectomy; he’ll know it’s not his.

On the verge of breaking down and crying, she tugged on his zipper. Having opened the front of his trousers, she pushed purple silk boxers out of the way to expose his manly organ. Exposed, it was much smaller than her husband’s penis. Over eight inches long, and thick, Phillip Caine’s erection was a massive fleshy stake.

Phillip is so big he hurts even when he goes in slowly. You’re small, but so much better. There’s good, better, and the absolute best—that’s you.

“Hmmmm. You’re so hard, Ernie. So hard. And your knob is all swollen, really slippery.”

She leaned in and kissed her man’s oozing glans, finally opening her mouth and allowing it to settle between her lips. Her other hand cradled his testicles.

She caressed dark wrinkled skin with her thumb, a pelt of black fur. She trembled and began to bob, sucking, inhaling sour scent, yet no different than paying homage to a Holy relic.

Pastor Bonaventure was the kind of man who Rebecca Caine desired deep down. He was potent and demanding. Every fuck turned her into a little girl. Subservient, pretending she had no control at all; it was like being raped again and again, ending with a veritable fountain of seed. The very thought unsettled her enough that she looked up hopefully, meeting his gaze.

“Impossible. They’re still at Fellowship, and Bible Study has already started.”

“Can you finish what you started for once?” he whispered, frustration building along with his need to ejaculate inside her.

Obedient to his every whim, she savored his slimy fluids as she sank close to the root, still grasping his testicles to pull him closer.

“Are you still hearing voices?” he said distantly, pressing her head back even as she tried to nod.

“That door’s a four-hour-rated fire door. No one can hear us, except the Lord, and he’s on my side.”

He bumped his slippery knob against her lips, her cheeks, her forehead, even her nose. Suddenly, she wanted to suck him more than she could stand, more than a murmur outside the door could stop.

“He’s hungry for pussy, Becca.” No longer a whisper, no longer smearing his preseminal fluid over her face.

The possibility of having his semen inside her womb made her break out in gooseflesh.

Her fake-fragile voice as much as artless anxiety, annoyed him; however, he checked his frustration. He took her hand from his engorged organ and drew her up.

“I’m certain.” When he frowned, she quickly added, “Ernie, I’m carrying your child. What could be more perfect?”

I’m going to have his beautiful baby. It’s a blessed miracle, redemption for me, his whore of Babylon. I feel just like Mary.

Ernie lifted her chin, locked eyes, and said, “Praise the Lord. I love you. Say it with me!”

She trembled at his touch, anxious for more than gentle stroking. A moment later, his middle finger was right on top of her clitoris, digging in, all but lifting her up.

“Ernie… Ernie, I love you so much. I haven’t felt like this since I was pregnant with Xavior. I’m all shivery inside.”

“I’m so proud of you,” he whispered. “My precious Rebeeca is having a baby, a very special baby, my baby.”

“Your beautiful baby is in my womb,” she whispered back, still worried. “We’re going to have a son. I’m certain of it. I’m having your baby boy.”

Ernest Bonaventure was a ‘sugar and spice and everything nice’ man. Little girls were divine. ‘Snips and snails and puppy-dogs' tails’ were nothing but trouble.

If it has to be a boy, at least our son won’t be queer. And he won’t look like Phillip’s brat, too good looking for his own good.

“Let’s get you divorced from Yul Brynner first. As soon as it’s official, we’ll start making plans, only we can’t rush to the altar; it wouldn’t look right. Then, there’s the matter of Xavior’s baptism. I want to do something very special for him.”

For a Baptist Church, all baptisms were big events—only total immersion adequately symbolized death, burial and resurrection. Bonaventure’ baptisms were extraordinary, 45 minutes of prayer, song, and sermon, ending with Matthew 28:19 and wading into a white-marble walk-in pool. Mini-Jordan, it was as wide as the dais, midway between the altar and the choir

He puffed out his chest. His adoring congregation came in hordes to see him get in the pool, too, personally bathing each recipient to wash away sin.

“I’m honored to do it, my love. Only for your ears, I’ll be using Holy Water for the Ordinance.”

He saved his ‘Holy Water’ for special cases of salvation, and donors who reached the $50,000 level. Prior to immersion, he symbolically daubed it on the recipient while prone on the marble altar. He used a teaspoon of water brought from the River Jordan, placed in a special gilt bowl, mixed with natural spring water (actually Evian), and blessed in an elaborate ceremony. While the church choir sang I am a New Creation, he sprinkled it from head to toe, purifying the soul before immersion in the pool.

“I want everyone to know that Xavior has accepted Jesus.” He paused. “Is there a better way for a boy to experience forgiveness of sin than for me to anoint him?”

“We should’ve had him baptized when he was fresh from my womb. Unfortunately, he got sick so quickly there wasn’t time for anything; and once he was in intensive care… Ernie, he had tubes everywhere. I was so worried. “

He’d heard the ‘failure to thrive’ story so often it bored him, yet he gave a sympathetic nod even as an idea formed and took hold. It came out of nowhere, so wicked that it shocked him to his core, yet so utterly appropriate that he couldn’t reject it.

“I should baptize Xavior like I baptized you, Rebecca; like I’m going to baptize the baby I put inside you.”

He guided her back, towards the wired-glass window, away from the door. Safe from eavesdroppers, her hand moved to his penis, completely enclosing it, both hands stroking lust, making his erection even harder.

“I *baptize* our child with the Essence of Life,” he said, his confidence exploding.

She felt him down there, poking his swollen glans between her thighs, slipping back and forth over her puffy clitoris, seeking entry into her. She moaned, scarcely heard over the reassuring sound of cars leaving the parking lot outside the window.

His erection throbbed mercilessly, no spiky bristle to get in the way, not even fluff, yet the angle was wrong.

“Once I’m divorced, you’ll find out how much.” She sighed as the tip of his penis glided in. “Yes. Yes. Go in me.”

Increasingly aghast as the prospect slowly sank in, yet still disbelieving he’d dare do such a thing in public, she whispered, “You’re teasing. You are, aren’t you?”

He lowered his voice, calm and seductive, no longer probing, letting her feel his presence.

“Imagine your little Xavior with a man’s seed covering his face, his chest, his whole body. Not the seed that made him; my seed. Once I bless it, it’s Holy Seed, Rebecca, the same as what’s inside your womb, making our perfect baby.”

She meant when Bonaventure slathered his ‘Seed’ over her, rubbing semen into her skin until sticky replaced slimy. She went home reborn and revived, smelling like the whore of Babylon.

She felt him probing, not large, not like her husband. Excitement surged, charged with adrenalin.

“Please, will you fuck my cunt, Daddy?” She sounded preteen, and far too loud for the Sacristy, even with a four-hour fire door.

She took a breath, and as loud as she dared, repeated word for word. With his hand on her hip, he prepared to push in all the way. However, he was so excited he spurted prematurely. His stubby penis plopped back, still oozing. Instantly, his middle finger found her cleft, easily penetrating the lubricious fold.

“I baptize our unborn child, Christian Ernest Bonaventure, a wondrous heavenly gift, ‘in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.’”

“Yesss! Oh, Ernie. What a perfect name! I want our son to be special, just like Jesus! I love you, my dear sweet man.”

“Xavior can be special, too. However, you’ll need to do your part. I want you to bring forth my ‘Seed;’ spit it into the bowl, so I can bathe him with it.”

No longer uncertain, she nodded. She gazed into his eyes; mindless adoration, sexual stupor, or hypnotic trance, it was impossible to tell.

“As do I. We’ll need to totally eliminate Yul Brynner from your life first. Perhaps we can save poor little Xavior from wickedness if both of us wash away his sins.”

“Surely, you don’t think he’s…” She couldn’t bring herself to say ‘queer.’

“Who knows? You said his father takes him camping, weeks at a time in the middle of nowhere, just the two of them.”

“It’s only been one time, the canoe trip on the Black River. They had such a good time…” At the last moment, she hesitated.

I don’t have any proof, just how they carried on afterwards, always hugging and whispering.

She gulped hard, pondering the probability of incest for what had to be the hundredth time, unable to resist his middle finger sliding into her clutching spermy vagina.

“I suppose it’s possible.” She gasped, his rotating finger mixing up their juices.

“Like father, like son, Becca. Likely, it’s why Xavior enjoyed the trip so much.”

“Now, Phillip wants to take him camping in Canada. He has a two-week trip at the end of May, but I won’t allow it.”

Flummoxed for a moment, Bonaventure counted on concurrence—it usually worked for religious debates.

“Of course, he molested the poor child while he slept. Otherwise, Xavior would say something...” He waited. She was all ears. “… unless he’s already *that* way.”

“As I said in today’s sermon, he must beg the Lord for forgiveness. Then, to redeem himself, he must atone as appropriate for his sins. He will give testimony of his redemption at his baptism, bathed in Holy Seed by his mother and his preacher. What could be more godly?”

“His faggot father would surely get a thrill if I did. However, I’d never do that. I want to save him, not lead him farther astray, my love.”

“After we’ve baptized him, and he’s freed from the Devil’s clutches, I’ll love him, too. He’ll be just like my own son,” he said, his tone reassuring, practiced temptation.

“I want you to love him, Ernie. His own father doesn’t love him. He won’t even play catch with him.”

“Once we’re married, I’ll fix that. I’ll have to fix the queer thing first, though. That is what you want, isn’t it?”

Not much longer and I’ll need to leave. As soon as we’ve ordered lunch, I’ll send Xavior to wash his hands, and tell Filbert to proceed with haste.

“Never say ‘gay.’ It sounds respectable.” He smirked; even a small victory was worth having. “You must despise evil. Loathe him with all of your strength; it only makes you more virtuous. Frankly, I don’t know how you put up with Yul Brynner.”

“He was so good-looking, I made a mistake I’ll always regret. Loving you gets me through the day.”

She smiled as Bonaventure lifted his hand from her hairless crotch, bringing up his middle finger, wiping her lips with his ejaculate until she licked.

“The best part is the entire church will witness Xavior’s testimony, and no one will know his baptism is truly divine. My Seed will be on him, all over him. Even his faggot father won’t know,” he crooned.

She gulped, tasting herself and his salty semen, so agitated she was unable to think about anything else.

There’s always so much of it. You’re a real man. Your Seed is flowing out of me like egg-white.

He retrieved her attention with a sly chuckle. “You’ll need a dress, Honey. That early in summer your baby won’t show, so it can be tight where it counts.”

As the celebrant’s mother, she’d also be in the baptism limelight, more so if she assisted with the bathing ritual. A church deacon, usually Ms. Filbert, normally assumed that role in her flowery pink and white dress imported from Paris, France.

“I want to show off for you. Should it be steel blue to match his eyes, or pure white? You get to pick, darling.”

“White! Light and flowing, so you’ll look ethereal, like His Seraph come to witness Xavior’s rebirth,” he murmured, watching his semen dribble down her glabrous thigh.

Xavior won’t be happy. Wading across the pool is one thing; you washing him on the altar like a baby, he’ll hate it.

“Unless it’s soccer, Xavior hates being the center of attention,” she added.

“I’m being serious, Ernie. He hates being singled out, even for a special baptism.”

He addressed her worries with a dismissive shrug, even as he had another thought. “When is Xavior’s birthday?”

She looked at him oddly, certain she’d told him a month earlier. “June 21^st.”

Seeing no reason why he should be so animated, she grumped, “Solstice, smolstice; it’s like any other day.”

“Solstice falls on a Sunday this year. You’ll need to be divorced before then. I’ll have a word to Ms. Filbert to speed things along. I’d love to see the look on Yul Brynner’s face when he finds out.”

“Summer is a low point in the Baptist calendar. I’ve been thinking about ways to fire up the Spirit as well as the barbecue.”

“You’re always thinking of ways to excite my spirit.” Her self-centered giggle was suburban upper crust at its worst.

His frown smacked of chilly indifference; she was so infatuated she didn’t notice.

“A Midsummer Service will get the congregation behind the outdoor church. We’ll have a pot-luck Lord’s Supper; and to follow, you and Ms. Filbert will organize the children in a brief play.”

She was certain she was two steps ahead of him. “If we rent a swimming pool, we could do John the Baptist baptizing Jesus in the Jordan.”

“If Xavior plays Our Savior, I could give him a Holy Water rinse with a full immersion and no one would think he’s getting special treatment,” he said, stunned at how easy it was.

“We should do it faithfully.” She giggled like a middle-school cheerleader. “Naked like Jesus when you baptize him.”

“I was joking, Ernie. He’s very self-conscious about his weenie. If he thinks people will see him exposed, he won’t want to do it.”

“The only people who’ll see him up close will be you and me; however, a boy in his birthday suit might be a bit much for some of our flock. I have an idea about that. We’ll do it when it’s dark. If the only light is from a bonfire, no one will see. If anyone notices, we’ll say authenticity is essential in the Eyes of the Lord.”

“The best part is the two of us will plan the event,” Bonaventure interrupted, his leer conveying there would be plenty of time for them to be together while her divorce was going through.

Still, she looked up at him, little annoyed that he hadn’t allowed her to finish, almost as if he wasn’t listening, or he didn’t care what she thought.

Annoyance turned sheepish, with fluttering eyes. “Ernie, I’m always so happy around you. I don’t know what to say.”

Bonaventure’s smile reeked of fake humility. “I know what you can do to show your appreciation.”

He pressed on her shoulders, giving her no option but to sink to her knees before his semen-slick member.

“If you don’t want to keep Filbert waiting, you’d best get started, Becca.”

She smirked up at him, licking her lips. “I better not forget to zip you up again. Last week was too close for comfort.”

“Which reminds me; he’ll need to start practicing his lines if he’s going to play our Savior.”

“I’m more worried about his redemption. He can’t have any impure thoughts. He’ll have to admit his sins and beg for mercy so I can drive out the Beast. The Unholy Beast, the origin of all debauchery.”

“The Beast lives in his mind, Becca. It is everything ugly and evil. If his punishment fits the crime, the Beast will flee.”

Scene 3: Adjudication

Ithaca, New York, sweltered like the Devil himself made the weather, an unseasonably hot Friday in mid-May. It was cooler in the courthouse on Tioga Street, a pretentious edifice of red brick and limestone, a style sympathetic to the American fantasy of Greek Revival. Beaten into fiscal submission by the county auditor, the result was a ‘flattened’ façade, less pedimented temple to jurisprudence than pretentious idiom for democratic expression. On a good day, it was uninspired, well suited to the dreary Family Court, Room 202, on the second floor.

Judge McGhee departed her chambers in floor-hugging black robe, obscuring impertinent pink sneakers on oversized feet.

“Hear ye. Hear ye. All rise for Judge Miriam McGhee of the Supreme Court of Tompkins County, the Sixth Judicial District of the State of New York...”

Her last name was an enduring reminder of her origin, not clan McGhee from Galloway, Scotland. She was born a bastard, and spent her childhood at what remained of the McGhee plantation in Mississippi—three hooded clansmen burned the mansion after they gang-raped the housekeeper, her mother.

She settled 280 pounds, her guilt-ridden burden of trans-fat gluttony, into a luxurious leather seat, and proceeded through her customary sham of reviewing documents.

The Bailiff’s official announcement of proceedings began the instant Judge McGhee looked up.

“Hear ye, all present in the Family Court of Tompkins County; Rebecca Caine and Phillip Caine seek mutual termination of their marriage. The petitioners present an uncontested settlement of assets to reflect their considerably different contributions to 21 years of marriage. The petitioners dispute custody arrangements for their minor child, Xavior Tenney Caine.”

McGhee surveilled her courtroom, her gaze resting briefly on the prim and proper legal powerhouse of Fiona Filbert. Like Pastor Ernest Mordecai Bonaventure, seated at the rear of the courtroom, she was a Baptist legend in Ithaca, New York. Sitting beside her, pale-skinned Rebecca Caine was red-eyed and reserved, decorous in plain pastel-grey business attire.

“In the matter pursuant to the expedited and mutual separation of Caine versus Caine...” McGhee gestured impatiently, both hands held out, inviting either side. “… I see Ms. Caine. I don’t see Mr. Caine.”

Judge McGee had already noted Ms. Caine’s simple silver Tau cross. Minimally ostentatious, it was her ‘touchstone’ for paragon of virtue. Another devout Baptist in a sea of suburban Christianity brought immediate sympathy.

Ponderous, Filbert half-rose, bowing obsequiously, so top heavy that there was a real possibility of her sprawling over the sacred oak table. It had something to do with Abraham Lincoln and Joshua Speed, relocated when the Ithaca Public Library no longer wanted it. Now, it separated jurisprudence from petitioners, plaintiffs, and the guilty.

McGhee nodded generously, more than a little envious of her classmate from Notre Dame Law School. Filbert jammed her plump pink feet into Italian leather, not Adidas sneakers, her attire for court personally tailored by Campbell’s of London.

“If there’s a reason why Mr. Caine can’t present himself in my courtroom on schedule, I’d like to hear it?”

Shell-shocked, Daniel K. Bernstein, J.D. from Ohio State, promptly ceased doodling on his legal pad, an imaginary sailboat drifting in a Polynesian paradise. He leaped up.

“Your Honor, I represent Mr. Caine. Unfortunately, he’s unable to attend today’s hearing. I apologize on his behalf. Perhaps the Court will entertain a motion for postponement until mid-June?”

“Exactly, Your Honor, I’m not sure. I called his cellphone last night to remind him to be here at 9:00 sharp. Awful connection on his end; I couldn’t hear most of what he said. He was still at work, Your Honor. It was ten pm, our time…”

McGhee spluttered something incomprehensible. She hesitated, a moment to restore her official voice.

“Honestly, what is so important about his ‘work’ that he can’t be here?”

Rebecca raised her hand to her mouth to conceal amusement. With few exceptions, everyone in Room 202 knew Judge McGhee’s different tones, either from personal experience or hearsay. Clipped and nasal implied aversion to the recipient, if not outright sanctions.

Attorney Bernstein inhaled. “Mr. Caine is a professor at Cornell, Your Honor.”

“He’s also a very well-known photographer, Your Honor. He’s been in the wilds of Canada for the last three weeks. He said something about strip mining endangering rural environments…”

She cut him off with a curt wave of her hand. “It’s bad enough that he isn’t here. Don’t make it worse with redundant details.”

“I’m sure you would; however, schedules are schedules for a reason.” McGhee inclined her head to Filbert. “I presume *you* can proceed on schedule, literally.”

“Yes, Your Honor. As the Court is aware, today’s hearing is mostly a formality. Both parties have agreed to the division of assets. The sole area of disagreement is disposition of the minor child.”

McGhee flicked a page on her vast varnished-oak bench. “I see Ms. Caine has requested a substantially larger portion of the family assets.”

“Yes, Your Honor. I advised her to do so in lieu of child support. As the present situation illustrates, her husband is far from reliable.”

“The increased portion greatly exceeds the present value of generous child support payments. Should I assume Ms. Caine seeks alimony?”

“No, Your Honor. Ms. Caine brought considerably more to the marriage than her husband. Her trust fund has maintained the family’s lifestyle for 21 years. For example, she purchased most of Mr. Caine’s photography equipment, and his car.”

Attorney Bernstein vacillated between keeping his mouth shut and clarifying that those ‘purchases’ were, in fact, birthday and Christmas gifts; and the ‘car’ had a $20,200 lien.

“Excuse me, Your Honor. The Court should be aware that as a tenured professor, Mr. Caine is the primarily wage earner.”

“Counselor, you should be aware that I have their married-but-separate tax returns for 2010 onwards, since you provided them,” Filbert grumped.

Famous for supercilious exactitude on the bench, she pointed at the empty chair next to Bernstein.

“For 21 years, Mr. Caine worked very hard to provide for his family, Your Honor. His professional expertise has necessitated his taking commissions in inaccessible places, his current trip to Saskatchewan to wit.”

“Your Honor, Mr. Caine’s professional work is best viewed as an expensive hobby that steals resources from his family. With that in mind, the division of assets is very fair. Ms. Caine also suffered substantial grievances during 21 years of marriage,” Filbert added.

McGhee kicked off her right sneaker and rubbed the calloused sole of her foot against a blackened house brick she kept there, out of sight.

“Your Honor, Mr. Caine has largely absented himself from the marriage, greatly distressing his wife. Marital relations have been all but nonexistent since their son was born.”

“Honestly, that’s a long time to go without relations,” McGhee said, her tone icy.

“My client is of the mind that he’s never been interested in fulfilling his marital obligations, Your Honor. She’s also had to live with rumors about him and one of his male students…”

Having delivered social immolation without judicial objection, Filbert segued to seemingly less-contentious matters.

“Ms. Caine found solace in the Church of the Blessed Baptism. Unfortunately, Mr. Caine has strongly resisted his son being baptized.”

“Seriously? Notwithstanding separation of church and state, in my view, that’s totally unacceptable!”

“Yes, Your Honor. The poor boy also has a problem fitting in at school. Because of his father’s indifference, he usually sits out recess.”

“Your Honor, Mr. Caine never taught his son how to catch a baseball, let alone how to hit one. The same goes for basketball. Xavior is, to all intents, fatherless,” she added with an empty sigh.

McGhee pondered before nodding. “Honestly, it sounds to me as if Mr. Caine is more interested in his hobby than teaching his son essential skills.”

Already fuming from a father denying baptism, she turned her gaze on the adjacent table.

Bernstein suspended doodling. “Your Honor, Mr. Caine is constitutionally entitled to his religious beliefs, whatever they are. Also, any allegations of sexual impropriety or lack of performance are irrelevant in an uncontested divorce.”

“Your Honor, my client specifically instructed me not to contest anything concerning his divorce. He made it quite clear that all he wants is to be out of the marriage, and reasonable access to his son. Still, I find Ms. Filbert’s rumor-mongering so deplorable that…”

Filbert interjected. “May it please the Court; I retract my purported ‘rumor-mongering’ and any unsubstantiated allegations I may have made to upset Counsel. Your Honor, the fact remains that given how little Mr. Caine brought to the marriage, he should take little, or nothing from it.”

“Thank you for bringing the Court’s attention back to the proposed division,” McGhee interrupted. “The Court notes that Mr. Caine’s negative religious beliefs and his homosexual orientation are irrelevant. All mention will be struck from the record.”

“Objection noted. Please bear with me while I review the settlement. Mr. Caine retains his 403(b) retirement account with TIAA, a proximate present value of $247,329. He takes $12,343 in cash from their joint savings account. He also retains sundry photography items, value $19,201.37, and a 2015 Jeep with a Kelley Blue Book value of…” McGhee squinted at the page before her. “… $22,250! Tell me about the car, Counsellor.”

“The last time I saw him, he was driving a two-door green Wrangler, Your Honor.”

“I expect he needs it for his photography expeditions, Your Honor. Being green, it wouldn’t disturb the animals as much, as say, red.”

Rebecca Caine looked smug. Her son picked the color. His favorite color was green; it didn’t matter if it was neon lime, military camo-khaki, iridescent emerald, or dark forest green.

Banality bothered Judge McGhee. “Counselor Bernstein, normally I don’t care what color his car is; however, his little green Jeep reeks of waste and inflated ego.”

“By his signature, Mr. Caine has agreed to the unequal disposition of assets. The Court so approves, with a cash supplement of $10,000 from Mr. Caine, leaving his share of the savings account at $2,343.”

“Which brings us to the minor child, Xavior Tenney Caine. What’s this ‘Tenney’ about?”

Filbert quickly conferred with her client. “Your Honor, I’m informed that Mrs. Caine chose ‘Xavior,’ the boy’s first name; and his father chose his second name.” She hesitated. “Clearly, he did it to upset her because the boy was born tiny.”

McGhee glanced up abruptly. “Are you implying that Mr. Caine called his son ‘Tenney’ because he was teeny?”

With a scarcely concealed smirk, Ms. Caine leaned over, a pretense of confiding . “Not all of him is tiny, Your Honor.”

“If it pleases the Court, Your Honor,” Bernstein continued. “Mr. Caine told me that ‘Tenney’ derives from Dionysios.”

McGhee grimaced at Bernstein. “Seriously, he named his son after the Greek God of wine?”

“The names are different, Your Honor. It’s pronounced Dion-isi-os, not Dion-i-sus.”

Filbert interrupted. “Your Honor, Dionysus was also the god of sexual ecstasy.”

“Honestly, I find it appalling that a parent could saddle a child with such a… such a … an awful name.” McGhee spluttered to silence. “Thank you for informing the Court, Counselor Filbert. Perhaps you could also explain the instant situation precipitating disagreement?”

“Certainly, Your Honor. Mr. Caine’s not allowing his son’s baptism has greatly distressed my client.” Filbert gave a consoling look at Ms. Caine. “Despite that, she has offered her husband very reasonable access on Friday evening and stipulated access on Saturday. Given a very busy schedule, it’s the only solution.”

“The child, Your Honor. Xavior is a star soccer player. It’s the only sport he’s good at. He plays for the Guardian Angels. That’s a Baptist Youth Soccer League team. They practice on Tuesday and Thursday evenings, and have matches on Saturday, sometimes both morning and afternoon. On Sunday, Xavior and his mother attend the Church of the Blessed Baptism until noon, and often later if there are church functions.”

“Your Honor, Mr. Caine would prefer something more workable with his schedule…”

McGhee interrupted Bernstein. “Sounds workable to me, Counselor. Xavior will be with his father on Friday evenings and all day Saturday.” She paused, scrutinizing a page. “With Saturday access, they can attend his soccer matches, and he will return to his mother by six pm, if the schedule allows.”

Filbert got in first. “Your Honor, Ms. Caine is very amenable to that arrangement. Unfortunately, Mr. Caine has a different view.”

“Your Honor, it’s unfair to saddle Mr. Caine with taking Xavior to every soccer match. The team only plays other Baptist churches. Some of them are hours away by car.”

“I would’ve thought every father worthy of the title would enjoy the opportunity to see his son play soccer. To be honest, the claim of ‘fatherless’ sounds very real to me,” McGhee said coldly.

“Your Honor, Mr. Caine is not into soccer. He would prefer to do something else with his son.”

“What else, exactly, does Mr. Caine have planned for his son for their Saturdays together?”

“We haven’t talked about it. However, on the phone last night, Mr. Caine mentioned he’d been fly fishing at sunset.”

“Fly fishing?” McGhee repeated, the ‘sanction’ tone again. “Seriously? Between standing in icy water and standing on the sidelines, I’d take the latter.”

“Your Honor, Mr. Caine is an outdoors kind of guy. I expect there’s a lot more he will do with his son, zoos, camping, canoe trips...”

Filbert interrupted Bernstein. “If I may speak out of turn, Your Honor. Surely, the Court doesn’t want to arbitrate the merits of standing in an icy river. Xavior is a valued member of his church soccer team and would be sorely missed by his friends.”

“There’s another complication, Your Honor,” Filbert resumed. “If the Court pleases, once the divorce is final, Xavior will have his pre-baptism training on Wednesday and Friday nights. It will last through the end of June. Fridays are also when he has sleepovers with his best friend.”

McGhee leaned back, pontifical arms folded, foot doing penance scraping the brick.

“With his father lost in the wilds of Canada and unable to appear in Court this morning, I seriously doubt access will be an issue in the immediate future. The Court accepts the custody arrangement as just discussed.”

“Let me repeat myself, so my decision is quite clear. Pending Mr. Caine’s return to Ithaca, the Court approves his access to the minor child, accordingly.” McGhee glared at Bernstein. “Mr. Caine may visit with his son, beginning at 4:00 pm on Fridays, and ending on Saturday at 4:00 pm.”

“Mr. Caine will facilitate sleepovers, and take his son to all soccer games. He will *not* restrict any religious activities concerning his son. Objections?”

“Your Honor, I’d like to point out to the Court, that’s unusually restrictive. It places Mr. Caine in a purely subordinate role. “

“There is one more thing,” Filbert began. “Mrs. Caine is worried about child abuse.”

“Abuse?” McGhee sat up. “Seriously, the father abused the child in the past?”

“Nothing specific that I know of, Your Honor.” Filbert regarded her client, conveying possibility if not actuality. “However, given Mr. Caine’s particular inclinations, and stress from the current situation, there’s no telling what he might do.”

“Objection, Your Honor. This is deliberately inflammatory with no evidence to support it.”

“Your Honor, Mr. Caine was the subject of considerable media attention at the end of last year. His photography exhibition was the subject of contention. There were photos of his son, naked.”

Bernstein was fuming. “Your Honor, if it please the Court. Again inflammatory! No charges were filed against Mr. Caine. The exhibition fell well within the US Supreme Court’s decisions concerning art and legitimate forms of expression. While the public outcry raised important questions of morality, the right to freedom of speech…”

McGhee frowned. “… Abuse of any kind will not be tolerated in my courtroom.” She turned to her clerk. “Add an addendum. Any substantiation of physical, emotional, or sexual abuse of the minor child, full and unobstructed custody will immediately and permanently revert to the other parent. Etcetera. Etcetera. Look at last year’s Gaines’ decree for language.”

“Thank you, Your Honor. I for one appreciate the Court’s consideration and responsiveness,” Filbert said, more smarmy than usual.

“I’m making a note in the decree. Both parents will still need to sign it.”

After both counselors concurred with silence, McGhee signed the divorce decree with a flourish. She picked up the gavel, weighing it as she looked over the courtroom. Bernstein was clearly upset at the outcome, yet she couldn’t help feeling triumphant. Even the dour pastor in the rear of the courtroom was ebullient. Still, something was amiss; she wasn’t sure what.

Hearing the rap of jurisprudence, the bailiff took over. “All stand. The Family Court of Tompkins County is herewith adjourned.”

Scene 4: Application

It was obvious even to an untrained eye that Xavior Caine had superior skill when it came to soccer. Phillip Caine was far from untrained; he was plain ignorant. He knew nothing about team sports; whether baseball, football, basketball, or hockey. He never discussed scores, team draws, or players, and he switched TV channels if the subject of sports came up for discussion. He knew more about the Lambda-CDM model of astrophysics than any of soccer’s subtleties, which is to say nothing; yet, as he watched Mark and Xavior from his apartment balcony, he quickly realized his son was talented. He was not only a better player than his friend, he was always in the right place at the right time.

They practiced on a narrow strip of grass beside the parking lot, kicking, passing, heading, and dribbling, even shooting imaginary goals. When it was too dark to see the ball, they took over the living room, sprawling over the rug. It was tatty and the colors were wrong, another hasty purchase from a thrift shop to outfit Caine’s apartment. Number six was one of 12 apartments crammed into a shabby concrete three-storied edifice reminiscent of 1960s’ Soviet housing blocks. The rent still made a big dent in Caine’s income. Besides having two bedrooms and a tiny room he used as a studio and storage, it had one other saving grace; it was on Tower Road, a pleasant ten-minute walk on tree-lined East Avenue to his office.

While Caine busied himself making homemade pizza, the boys made a game of reviewing soccer rules and tactics with flash cards, arguing good-naturedly, with playful slaps and tickles for wrong answers. Sometimes, a wrong answer was deliberate, an excuse to get physical and wrestle, always ending with Mark on top, and Xavior on his back, like a girl underneath.

Roughhousing ended after they filled up on pizza and pop. The boys disappeared into Xavior’s bedroom to do online research for making a map of an ancient town, that week’s geometry assignment. Caine checked on them twice. The first time, just before he knocked, he heard the boys muttering.

The boys were giggling when he opened the door to find them sitting on the bed. Xavior’s green backpack was open on his lap with laptop, books, notepaper, and pencils scattered over the bed; pillows and bed-cover messed up from preteen shenanigans. Beside him, a very amused Mark Truett cuddled a big white teddy bear. His thumbnail marked four-and-a bit inches on Xavior’s electrified-lime plastic ruler.

He grinned, waving the ruler in front of the bear. “I’m teaching Theo here how to measure, Mr. C.”

It seemed innocent enough, despite Xavior’s trembling treble voice. “We have to draw to scale, Dad.”

When Caine checked on the boys a half-hour later, he heard more muffled snickers, not about using the ruler, blood pressure. Instead of knocking, he quietly opened the door to find them playing a soccer strategy game on Xavior’s laptop computer. Ignoring his ex-wife’s precise instructions about Xavior finishing his homework before playtime, he told them to be in bed and lights off by 10:00 pm.

Caine went to his own bedroom to edit his forthcoming ‘Seen through the lens’ essay, Canadian Wilderness or Coal Mining. With a looming deadline, it took priority over 10-year-old mischiefs.

It was 11:50 pm when Caine discovered his son sharing the living room couch with Mark. They huddled together under a blanket, watching a replay of a 2017 FIFA World Cup game. It didn’t bother Caine that they stayed up late; their shock at being discovered was comical, like brothers in matching soccer-ball pajamas, both with fleecy shirts unbuttoned. He teased them about ‘flashing’ bare tummies when he shooed them off to brush their teeth.

Not for the first time, Mark Truett looked right at him, long seconds with a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. He was born a mischief-maker. However, unlike most of the afternoon and evening, this time the boy smirked as if he knew a secret, and he was daring Xavior’s father to ask. It was as disconcerting as watching the bathroom door close behind a pair of pajama-clad rumps.

With his publication deadline fast approaching, Caine fully intended to go back to work. Instead, he savored a shot glass of Jim Beam Black Bourbon, watching Germany and Brazil in a grueling quarter final. After ten boring minutes, the boys were still in the bathroom. It should’ve bothered him even more than their messing about with the ruler. However, he was so tired, he went to bed.

The next morning, when he went into the living room to make sure they were up and dressed, ready for the trip to Elmira’s soccer game, they were sound asleep under Xavior’s quilt, pajamas discarded on the floor. The implication of his son sharing the couch with another boy, both of them bare, didn’t bear thinking about.

Given their excitement about the upcoming game during the hour-long drive from Ithaca, he hadn’t mentioned the ruler incident, or their absent pajamas. For most of the trip, the boys played cards in the back seat of Caine’s Jeep Wrangler, swapping to build squads for make-believe soccer games. When they talked, it was in whispers, nothing out of place except a possible f-word now and then, no hint of what might’ve happened while they were supposed to be sleeping. Instead, Mark badgered his son about being baptized on his birthday, rumored to be more than the usual full immersion, something about bathing with Holy Water.

Phillip Caine watched from the sideline, surrounded by sedate supporters from the Church of the Blessed Baptism. He was bored before the Guardian Angels jogged onto the field to confront His Apostles, another undefeated team from The Baptist Church of Elmira. He counted himself lucky to have never played soccer, not even a pickup game with neighborhood kids. When he was growing up, team sports bored him. Other than gym classes, he’d largely managed to avoid kicking, tossing, or catching balls.

Ten and under, seven players per side, 25 minute halves, and a #4 ball didn’t offset the problem of size. Xavior Caine was the smallest boy on the field, a shortcoming not lost on his father. The game was not going to end well for his son, which meant he would be mopey all day, what was left of it anyway.

With a shrill blast from the referee’s whistle, devout parents turned into raucous fans. The other team’s players not only towered over his son, they soon made it clear that he needed to stay away from the ball. Whenever he came within range, one of their bigger players automatically guarded him, no pushing or tripping, never risking a foul.

It didn’t help Caine’s mood that the man standing next to him was Mark Truett’s father. They’d met a couple of times, when he dropped off Mark for a Friday night sleepover. The problem was Caine couldn’t stand Jeff Truett. He drove a Mercedes SL 550, the latest model.

The Truetts had lived in Ithaca for only six months and already owned eight McDonalds’ franchises and a fabulous horse farm on Finger Lake; not just any horses, thoroughbred Tennessee Walkers. Somehow, that qualified the father to use Caine’s first name.

What your wife says about you is right on the money. Your kid is awesome and you’re bored to death. You don’t deserve him.

Caine nodded. With nothing else to do, he focused on Xavior, circling around with one of His Apostles on his heels. After the first confrontation, he always veered away from the ball, drawing his menacing guard after him.

“It’s a position, Pop,” Truett chuckled at himself. “Coach has them in his attack formation, that’s 3-2-1. Three forwards, two midfielders, and one defender. My Mark is holding down the rear temporarily. He’s usually in the skirmish with your boy.”

Caine gave Truett a cursory glance. He could pass for a European-car salesman with a close shave surrounding a trimmed goatee, and a hairdo belonging in a men’s fashion catalog. He was stocky, impeccably attired for Republican aristocracy in a cream-and-brown checked sports jacket and khaki chinos. His shirt, open to mid-chest, revealed a silver pendant, time spent in a tanning booth, and a recent wax job.

Manicured fingernails surprised him, more so the tattoo. Men of Truett’s age and stature had tattoos as often as piercings, almost never. However, it was right there in plain sight on the back of his deal-closing hand; ‘I am Jesus’ right hand.’

“I can tell you’re new to the game. The other side is in 2-3-1. That’s defensive, to hold back our Angels,” Truett lectured. “The aggressive kid doing the blocking is a center back.”

“Well, he is the best looking boy on the field.” Truett grinned. “He’s also the best player out there.”

Truett went on regardless. “I’m not surprised, of course; his mom is drop-dead gorgeous. Most husbands would live in fear of another man snapping her up.”

Caine steeled himself. “Now we’re divorced, I don’t have worry about it.”

Truett waved at Xavior, and pointed at Caine. “My son wants him to stay at the farm next week. I told him I’d ask you?”

Caine inhaled; it was nothing new; his kid was small. He’d heard Rebecca’s excuse all too often; she even shared it with strangers. ‘Failure to thrive’ was a catchall, no reliable etiology. Diagnosis of their otherwise healthy child frustrated pediatricians. Most settled on Malabsorption/Caloric Retention Defect. With nothing wrong internally, it had to be organic, some kind of allergy.

“For a while there, he wasn’t going to make it,” Caine said, wondering why he’d shared that tidbit with a man he didn’t much care for, and hardly knew.

She said ‘it was in the Lord’s Hands,’ anything except admit your failure to thrive had a lot to do with her mental state. It started with not wanting to breastfeed you because she didn’t want her boobs to sag when she turned 40.

Caine shrugged. “You wouldn’t know it now, but he didn’t have a hair on his head until he was 13 months old.”

“After Xavior got better, I kept shaving. Virile and intellectual is unusual in academia.”

“I’ll take your word about bald being virile,” Truett chuckled, stroking his goatee. “Anyone ever tell you that you could pass for Yul Brynner?”

“My ex-wife called it a ‘resemblance without the rest.’ I can’t sing or dance, and I’ve got none of his money.”

Feeling inadequate since his divorce, Caine joked with the truth. “Right now, I’m avoiding relationships to refocus my career.”

“If that’s your priority, great. There’s more ass for me.” Grinning, Truett stopped to watch Xavior dart around two players to get to the ball. “It’s easy to see where he gets his good looks from.”

“Most people can’t see any of me in him. Seeing him running around out there, I have to agree. He must be someone else’s kid.”

Where did you learn to run like that? Your feet barely touch the ground. When you zig-zag, it’s as if you can change direction without slowing.

“We’ve got almost nothing in common,” he added. “Well, except for the one thing that really bugs him.”

Truett seemed almost gleeful, as if silence confirmed something he’d been wanting to know.

Like father like son; if the boy’s anything to judge by, both of them are in the top one percent.

“By the Lord’s Will, he thrived; that’s the important thing. With a few more Xaviors, we’d be invincible. If you clone him, put me down for one, maybe two if the price is right.”

“What boy his age doesn’t sin occasionally?” Truett laughed. “Pastor Bonaventure will fix that with baptism. I hear Xavior’s getting more than the usual immersion, on his birthday no less.”

“I heard a Holy Water rinse is planned for next weekend,” Truett confided. “That’s a big deal for the Church of the Blessed Baptism.”

Holy Water, or not, Caine was pissed for any number of reasons. Most recently, to accommodate Friday’s sleepover, Xavior’s mother had rescheduled his ‘dress-rehearsal’ for Saturday evening. He had to get his son to home by three pm at the latest.

“He’s a good kid 23-7. The worst thing he does is pick at his food. It’s like watching a bird eat.”

In response to the Guardian Angel coach’s shout of ‘gopher hole,’ a forward repositioned right. A well-placed kick put the ball directly into an opening in front of Xavior. The other midfielder dropped back as the team captain ran forward. All of a sudden, midfielder Xavior sprang into the fray.

The Apostles’ big center forward careened into Xavior just as his foot struck the ball. After a near recovery and sliding on dewy grass, Xavior butt-splatted. He scrambled up to chase the errant ball all the way to the sideline.

“He could’ve hurt him,” Caine growled, scarcely resisting the urge to shout, ‘motherfucker.’

“I’d say it was deliberate, but you can’t be sure when a boy moves as fast as Xavior does.”

“After last week’s match against The Epistles, Coach Manson expected they’d cover our ‘Ten;’ nothing like this, though.”

As Mark dropped back to resume ‘defender,’ Caine ventured, “I think they had something planned.”

“Not they, Pop. Mark’s along for the ride. Xavior is Pelle’s 90-percent thinker.”

Prudently, Xavior’s pop kept his mouth shut. Side by side, the boys were as different as black and white. Mark was 90-percent extrovert, everything his son wasn’t. It was hard not to like Mark. He was almost a full head taller than Xavior, though still two inches shorter than the kid who’d brought down his son.

“Mark told me Xavior is his b-f-f,” Truett went on. “He couldn’t have a better one.”

Manson’s right. What your son needs is a m-f-f. What would you do if you knew his grooming has already started? Will you scream bloody murder or take a number for a turn in his cute little behind?

Caine just nodded, instantly envious, yet there was no reason why. Most boys had best friends by the time they were preteens. He’d had one, too; and a treehouse. He had such fond memories, he revised his opinion of Mark Truett. It was impossible not to like a boy who grinned nonstop.

He’s a good-looking kid, and very outgoing; however, I don’t know if I want you being best friends forever. Right now, he’s okay, even if he is soccer crazy.

It still bothered him that Mark dominated Xavior, far more than justified for being taller, six months older, and twenty-plus pounds heavier.

I know your type. You have to win, no matter the cost. Give Mark a few years and he’ll be like you. Of any kid out there, he’s most likely to marry a cheerleader and become company president.

Truett cheered for the team, almost in goal territory. “I hope my boy behaved himself last night?”

Any parent might say the same after a sleepover, yet it still sounded odd, as if Truett expected something bad to happen.

“They were too busy with soccer to get into trouble.” Caine waved at his son, wondering if he should shout a catchphrase like the other parents.

Soccer, soccer, and more goddamn soccer. It’s all you talked about from when I picked you up. There’s so much I want to say to you. I know you blame me.

Upon noticing his father’s sudden attention, Xavior was so agitated he stopped mid-field, oblivious to the skirmish going on around him.

Xavior flinched and jogged after the fray, already a dozen yards closer to the Guardian Angel goal.

“Something’s got him upset,” Truett posed, yet fully aware of what caused the distraction.

You’re afraid I’ll say something to your dad, aren’t you? Don’t worry, your secret is safe for now.

Boys will be boys, but you’re not even ten… I ought to tell Truett I found your pajamas tossed on the floor this morning. See what he thinks is the right course of action since it involved both of you.

Though firmness seemed warranted, a looming baptism and the fading prospect of redeeming himself to Xavior caused Caine to take a softer line.

Truett lowered his voice. “That’s been my experience; everything from kicking a ball to having sex.”

With enough grooming, your son will want a man in his ass. He’s so small even an inch of grownup dick will hurt like the dickens. It’ll take practice to get two inches inside him. Once we get to three, he’ll want the rest in his rectum; the same as Mark.

‘Having sex’ was creepy, coming from the father of Xavior’s brazen best friend. Still, Caine forced a smile, not sure about b-f-fs, not sure about naked sleepovers, not sure about anything.

Both sets on the floor, tops and bottoms. Maybe you kept your undies. Maybe all you did was wrestle. Maybe nothing sexual happened, yet somehow I doubt it.

“Xavior’s mom said coming to his games is a problem for you, Phillip,” Truett went on.

Your boy is gorgeous. No wonder Coach Manson is all over him. God only knows why he’s still a virgin. If he was my son, he’d be permanently bow-legged by now.

Most fathers would’ve immediately picked up on the implied insult, if not innuendo. Not Phillip Caine, who muttered something about working on Sunday to make up for it, his thoughts elsewhere.

After what you’ve been through these last few weeks, I’m glad you’re close with Mark. I just wish you were as close to me.

Serenely, Truett waved at the field, Guardian Angels in flashy blue and gold uniforms courtesy of his Truett Enterprises, His Apostles blessed in Hepplewaite Honda’s sanctified white and yellow.

Caine fumed when he heard someone shout, ‘Stop kicking the ball like a girl, Ten.’

“There are lots of skills a boy should have besides kicking a ball,” he grumbled.

When Truett didn’t comment, he went back to watching what seemed like an endless skirmish. After His Apostles scored twice in quick succession, he shouted encouragement with the other parents. Mostly, he tried to figure out the rules and reason of a sport he didn’t much care for, particularly when the other team kept his son in constant containment. It was like playing chess, always being in check.

By half-time, Caine had to admit Xavior gave it everything he had. It pleased him to see commitment to the point of exhaustion, even if it was playing soccer.

“They’d be farther behind if it wasn’t for Pelle’s 90-percent thinker,” Truett pointed out. “Mark expends the same effort, but he’s half as effective.”

Not knowing what he needed to do during the break, Caine remained where he was. Seeing his son interact with his team mates, made him stay on the sideline. He’d never seen Xavior’s extrovert side, grinning, teasing, constantly clowning. He was fascinated, even proud when his boy talked strategy with his coach, gulping a purple sports drink, his hair tangled and sweaty.

Caine wondered how long the man had been standing beside him; as long as his son had been chattering?

“The game’s already started, you just don’t know it.” Truett smirked, unnecessarily.

“Apparently, his coach knows how to get him talking. All I get is uh huh, and uh uh.”

You’re happy about something. Is he telling you what a good player you are? He should be. You’re by far the best out there

“Better get used to being second fiddle, Pop. Coach has a way of filling their heads with all kinds of things. Some he knows, some totally made up.”

“Soccer is the entrée,” Truett remarked. “If a boy’s interested, Coach moves to a deeper discussion. Mark calls him ‘Plato.’”

Caine nodded towards his son and the coach. “So, right now they’re talking the meaning of life?”

“You could say that. He doesn’t drill down all that deep.” He held his thumb and first finger apart.

The difference between Manson and me is give Manson a couple of inches and as any minutes, and your precious little boy will be walking funny. If we have him on the farm for a week, he’ll have fun, and crave cock for the rest of his life.

As soon as the second half started, the Guardian Angels fell back. Very close to their penalty area, Xavior darted around his guard. This time, agility compensated for size, and wile made an opening. He hooked the ball right, out to Mark and the two of them raced up the field for a goal.

“Those two are my favorite boys in the whole world,” Truett announced as the boys jogged back to midfield.

Mark was sexy with his blue eyes and blond hair in a military buzz, always teasing the men in his life

Ten minutes into the second half, Xavior tried a variant, kicking the ball left before running after it. A few moments later, the much bigger kid charged diagonally towards him. Xavior swerved, both of simultaneously kicking at the ball. He went down hard after colliding. The other boy clambered to his feet, head down, merging into his team mates. Xavior stayed on the ground, curled into a little fetal ball. From the sideline, he looked like he was sniffling, or whimpering, clearly disoriented.

“The moms always rush over. It’s best to give the kid some time. They’ll usually get up and keep playing,” Truett counseled.

Caine exhaled. It took all his willpower to remain on the sideline with Xavior’s face so scrunched up he had to be in agony. He squirmed into a crouch, and shuddered as he struggled to his feet. He tottered, his little hands clutching, knees together.

Mark ran up from defending the rear. He supported Xavior’s puny weight as they hobbled towards the sideline, a few staggering paces before their coach arrived.

“That’s a bad one,” Truett touched Caine’s arm. “Let him settle down before you go over. Too much attention embarrasses the boys.”

“Sometimes, when they’re moving fast, like he was, if they take a hard kick… Their cups usually take most of the hit. The shock is the worst part.”

“Goddamn mother fucker!” Caine intended it for the referee, who was still looking the other way, disputing ‘off side’ with one of His Apostles.

By the time the referee noticed a Guardian Angel player was, in fact, injured, Coach Manson had scooped him up and was halfway to the sideline.

“Calm down, Phillip. I know what it’s like. Mark took a kick in the nads last season. Your boy’s hurting for the first time. He needs you to be in control, helping him get past the pain. The first time takes finesse, not acting like a bull in a china shop.”

Caine heard him out, shrugging because none of it helped. He hurried down the sideline towards the team area, coolers, kid back-packs, and folding chairs scattered around the team flag, blue with a golden angel, and a brassy cross on the top of the pole. Team groupies huddled around it, discussing the likelihood of a hospital visit.

With Truett on his heels, Caine skirted the Guardian Angel mascots, a sedate golden retriever, a yippy Boston terrier, and a miniature white poodle in a blue sweater. No dog for Xavior; as much as he wanted one, his mother wouldn’t allow it.

Coach Manson cradled Xavior, one arm around his back, the other arm under his knees. He nodded at Caine. The father was visibly pissed, silently blaming himself; a kind of ‘what did you expect’ look.

Manson returned a withering look. Xavior’s almost greedy expression bothered his father far more than the way he possessively clutched at his coach.

Hearing nothing more than a muffled grunt, he panicked, even though he wasn’t a parental worrier by nature. Kids, boys especially, had to learn to take risk, and push themselves, even if meant an occasional fall. The trick as a parent was to minimize damage without having a fit.

The assistant coach stopped pounding a bag of ice into slush and helped Manson lower himself onto a cooler, while repositioning Xavior on his lap. As he did so, Manson grasped the boy’s slim thigh to keep him from sliding to the ground.

The assistant coach kneeled, unfolding a silver space blanket, spreading it over Xavior’s middle and thighs. He reached under, undoing laces, pulling down loose soccer shorts. He tugged them all the way to little ankles, little knobs under knee-length blue socks. Shiny blue and gold folds puddled around size-four soccer cleats, top-of-the-line Adidas Predator. Green ‘Hulk’ boxer-briefs joined Xavior’s shorts; and a white plastic cup with elastic straps dropped to the ground.

Then, the assistant pressed Xavior’s knees apart. Xavior groaned. He shuddered, shoving his hand into the blanket. Suddenly, Manson’s hand was under the foil blanket, seeming very close to the boy’s crotch.

“Being kicked in the balls hurts real bad, doesn’t it Buddy? I know. I can make it stop hurting, only you have to trust me. Okay?”

For an awful moment, Caine thought the man was going to touch his son’s privates, right there in front of him. However, at the very moment that Xavior’s head swiveled around to look up at his coach, Truett stepped in front of Caine.

“Like I said, the poor kid is embarrassed as hell with everyone staring at him.”

“The family jewels got whacked pretty hard, but it doesn’t feel like anything’s busted,” Manson said distantly. “Just bruised. You’ll be sore for a while, but that’s all, big boy.”

“You’re doing great, Champ.” The assistant coach stood up between Caine and his son.

“See, I told you. It’s no big deal, Pop!” Truett added, oozing parental platitudes that didn’t build confidence.

“It is to me!” Caine retorted, shifting right to see Xavior, now lying against his coach, knees spread wide.

“It’s a rite of passage. It happens to all of them, sooner or later,” the assistant coach said.

He heard Xavior’s squeal before he saw his son’s scrawny smooth arm hooked around Coach Manson’s neck, his other arm flailing as the man clamped the icy bag around his groin.

“First aid, soccer style. It’s always a bit of a shock the first time,” the coach chuckled. “Don’t worry, Mr. Caine. He’ll be running around in no time.”

“They did the same thing with Mark, Jeff,” Truett added. “The slushy pack brought down the swelling in a couple of minutes.”

Caine was an unamused onlooker, his lips compressed so he wouldn’t blurt out what he really thought.

Caine had a peculiar feeling, as if he was already too late for an appointment he didn’t know he had. He stood, fuming, watching the coach gently massage Xavior’s thigh, slowly pushing away the space blanket. Long slow strokes on pale tender skin, thumb and fingers manipulating tendons and muscles. The coach’s inanities about drove him crazy; taking it for the team, being a good sportsman, staying in the fray when it counts.

Goddamn clowns! Life’s all about soccer! I ought to take you to the emergency room.

Xavior’s eyes closed to slits, almost dreamy as his coach murmured in his ear. Whatever he said, the boy was unable to prevent another abrupt giggle.

Scene 5: Preparation

Attired in simple white robe, a purple ecclesiastical cape trimmed with gold, and a fluffy white clergy collar, Ernest Bonaventure gave Xavior a quick, yet critical looking-over. Rebecca said her son was ready for baptism, the dress rehearsal a mere formality. He wasn’t convinced.

“We’d best begin.” He positioned Xavior where he wanted him to stand, just inside the front door. “Ms. Filbert will be playing her keyboard while your entourage is getting ready.”

As sure as Jesus died on the Cross, your father sinned with you in the worst possible way. It’s why he wouldn’t allow your sanctification before the Lord. What I want to know is did you sin willingly?

“She’ll be playing your favorite, Sweetie; ‘Onward Christian Soldiers,’” Rebecca Caine added.

“Xavior, since you’re playing Jesus, you’ll be in front to lead your entourage into the outdoor church.”

“Your followers, Honey. There are twelve, just like The Disciples; only they won’t have special robes on because they’re not being baptized, just you.”

Despite Bonaventure’s displeasure, Rebecca had insisted on buying an ankle-length Egyptian-cotton robe for her son’s baptism. Snow white guaranteed purity; while a braid of golden Maltese Crosses conveyed holiness on the hems, bottom, arms, and sides. The ornate Tau on his back was a $29.99 add-on.

“Walk slowly! I showed you last practice. Lead with the right foot, one step at time! Midway, you say Matthew’s baptism, assuming you haven’t forgotten it.” Bonaventure said smugly.

Bonaventure sighed. “’Go ye therefore, and teach all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.’”

Uncomfortable under his robe, and with the worst case of nerves he’d ever had, Xavior stood up straight, as tall as four feet two inches allowed. Avoiding the pastor’s demanding glare, he took a breath, and repeated word for word.

He made it to the end without a single mistake. He even remembered to end with, “Matthew 28:19. Praise the Lord,” without being prompted.

“A little better than last time,’ Bonaventure conceded, his tone miserly. “Louder, so everyone hears you!”

He made a sour face at the boy. “Please pay attention and do what I say. When the congregation finishes the return PtL, you will enter from stage right.”

With that, he processed right, into the dining room, impatiently beckoning Xavior and his mother to follow him.

Bonaventure had admired the Caine house since the first time he saw it, set back among fall-colored oaks. It was on the outskirts of Ithaca. Frank Lloyd Wright’s Boynton House, in nearby Rochester, surely inspired it. More Prairie style, less ranch-style epidemic in the neighborhood, it lacked the elongated T-plan and grey-stucco base of the 1908 original. It did have fake-leaded glass windows in the dining room; and it was in front of a window overlooking Rebecca’s wildflower garden that Bonaventure stopped.

Xavior dawdled by the dining table, homework still spread out, brown paper, colored pencils, compass, and bright-green 12-inch ruler. His assignment was to use geometry to construct a town plan to scale. His ‘town’ was Bethlehem, based on an artist’s rendition in the Illustrated Encyclopedia of the Bible.

“It’s the sort of thing your father did all the time. He’d make a mess whenever I had people coming over.”

His mother left out his pre-parent-teaher-meeting school report for him to read:

‘Xavior is a curious, very intelligent boy who constantly fails to meet teacher expectations. He has an ‘A’ mind and consistently earns ‘B’ grades. He needs to try harder. Example: practice writing in complete sentences at every opportunity.’

“I’d be happy if you stopped trying and just did what I told you,” she countered. “Without a fight every time.”

Only minutes before Pastor Bonaventure arrived, she’d told him to stop work on his project, go into the restroom, and take off his boxers. They fought; he lost. Though nothing showed, it still bothered him being naked underneath. It didn’t help that his testicles were still sore from being kicked.

Short tempered by nature, Bonaventure gestured impatiently at the massive brick fireplace separating the living spaces.

“Pretend that’s the bonfire. You’ll stand before it, PtL, and then light it while the other kids gather around you and sing Jesus Loves Me, yes I know.”

“What’s PtL?” Xavior whispered to his mother, certain it wasn’t one of the seemingly thousand things he had to memorize for his baptism.

“He ought to know PtL by now,” Bonaventure grumbled. ‘Praise the Lord! Praise the Lord, boy!”

“Praise the Lord,” Xavior repeated. “Fireplace, bonfire. Jesus Loves Me.”

“Sweetie, remember it’ll be dark and the only light will be your torch. You’ll need to shepherd the other kids. Ms. Filbert has picked six little ones to stand next to you so you don’t look so small.”

“No! No! No! Don’t you know your lines, yet?” Bonaventure scowled again, pointing back. “Enter center, process to dais, stage right. As you lead the others to the bonfire, you say Psalm 105; ‘Your word is a lamp for my feet, a light on my path.’ PtL. Then, John 1:5. ‘The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.’ PtL.” He heaved a long sigh.

“Psalm 105. Then, PtL. Then, John 1:5. PtL. After that, I light the bonfire?”

“Maybe John 8:12 would be better. ‘When Jesus spoke again to the people, he said, ‘I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness, but will have the light of life.’’ Which do you think is better, Becca?”

Surprised that he’d actually consult her about ecclesiastics, Rebecca adored him. “Well, he will be walking in darkness, but either is perfect, Ernie.”

“You,” He pointed at Xavior. “’Hold the torch high when you say it. Don’t wave it around!”

“I’ve been thinking, Becca. He should reinforce the message of redemption and rebirth with another Psalm. The Lord is my light and my salvation. PtL. It’s short, so easy for him to remember. Then, All My Shame.”

“Don’t be silly, Darling. Just don’t sing too loud and you’ll be fine.”

“A Baptist boy is quiet and listens! I’ve always admired the religiosity of Revelations,” Bonaventure went on, his tone mollified. “‘The city does not need the sun or the moon to shine on it, for the glory of God gives it light, and the Lamb is its lamp.’ Uplifting, isn’t it?”

“Baptist boys never ask questions when their preacher is talking.” Bonaventure pointedly examined his Patek Phillipe Calatrava wristwatch. “Mr. Manson is supposed to be here by seven sharp.”

“You have a question about lighting the bonfire. He’s in charge of the bonfire! Rebecca?”

Forgetting their prearranged signal, Rebecca pondered. “Simon said he just bends over and sticks it in. He’s putting oil in the bottom.”

“Rebecca!” Bonaventure said, this time more sharply. “Can you get Mr. Manson on the phone and see what’s keeping him?”

“Right away. If you don’t need me for a while, I’ll put the lasagna in the oven,” she said, remembering that part of her exit cue.

“You do that. Xavior and I will work on the actual ceremony. ’He who believes and is baptized will be saved.’ Xavior?”

“No wonder your mother worries about you,” Bonaventure snapped. “She lives in constant dread of you committing a mortal sin. If you die without being forgiven, you go to Hell for all eternity.”

“However, if you’re properly baptized, you won’t,” the pastor added, his tone switching to benevolent.

She picked up. “Now your father’s gone, I have to trust Ernie to know what’s best for us. Are you listening to me?”

“If you want to go to Mark’s horse farm next week, I don’t want to hear you whining.”

“And one more thing; I don’t want you saying even one word to your father about *anything* to do with your baptism, especially what happens tonight. If it involves religion, he’ll do his best to screw it up. Look at me, Sweetie!”

He met her gaze reluctantly. “Yes, Mom.” He took a breath. “Is it okay if I have Mark for a sleepover tomorrow night?”

Bonaventure interrupted. “Sleepovers should be earned. You won’t earn anything by answering back! Becca, dear, you don’t have to stand around until he gets it right. I’ll call you if I need you.”

Bonaventure waited for her to leave before he strode to the fireplace. With one hand placed possessively on the massive stone mantel, he looked over his shoulder.

Xavior winced at his tone. He couldn’t understand why the pastor glowered at him, visibly displeased.

“The sooner we get started, the better. Kneel before me and accept Jesus as your personal Savior. Only with prayer will your sins be forgiven,” Bonaventure droned, gesturing at his bare feet.

Without hesitating, Xavior knelt before him, murmuring Baptist dogma drilled into him every Sunday morning.

“You must pray every day, child. Kneel and beg for forgiveness, just as the sinful woman anointed Jesus in Luke 7:23!”

Bonaventure pressed forcefully on the little disheveled head until Xavior submitted. The closer he came, the stronger the smell of stale feet, thick black hair on the man’s bony ankles, chipped yellowing toenails. Now, crouching down, so close was revolting; the thought of actually kissing the man’s pallid toes made him nauseous.

“‘Then she knelt behind him at his feet, weeping. Her tears fell on his feet, and she wiped them off with her hair. Then she kept kissing his feet and putting perfume on them,” the man intoned from above him.

Humbled, Xavior twice touched his lips to stinky toes. “Jesus, please forgive me for my sins.”

Bonaventure stepped back when Xavior looked up, even more confused. One glance was enough. He dared not ask what he’d done wrong.

“Some boys sin so badly, they must pretend to be good so they go unnoticed. They become someone else, someone evil.”

“Are you your father’s son, or His Son?” he posed, his tone now demanding a response.

When Xavior didn’t answer, he gave a tired sigh. With long unkempt curling hair, he sought the everyday image of Jesus. Not the prophet surrounded by believers, or the teacher of innocent children; he was the redeemer, combating evil while carrying the sins of Man on his back.

Xavior summoned the nerve and stood up, consciously wiping his moist hot cheeks, unable to stop blinking. “What about my dad?”

“Stop sniveling! Don’t pretend to be innocent,” Bonaventure sneered, his voice so cold that Xavior shivered. “Have you not heard me say that true salvation requires a life without sin?”

I bet you smell the same as your father. Young or old, all faggots carry the foul stench of feces.

With righteous indignation, he peered at the boy, sniffing—nothing disgusting, yet that didn’t stop him.

“Leviticus’ detestable sin! Don’t try to pretend you don’t know what I mean. Some men lay with men, and boys, too.”

Bonaventure watched the boy redden after an awkward shake of his head in denial.

“Only the Lord can offer redemption. As ‘Peter said unto them, ‘Repent and be baptized everyone of you in the name of Jesus Christ for the remission of sins’.’ Acts 2:38.” He let it sink in, enjoying the moment. “This is a dress rehearsal, Xavior. Trust me, there’s no better time to repent, unless you want an audience!”

“I touch myself, my thing, sometimes,” Xavior murmured. “Is that what you mean?”

“Self abuse feeds the Beast, the same as your dirty thoughts, boy! However, I’m more worried your father’s influence. Are you his catamite? I can’t be clearer than that!”

“Stop playing the innocent lamb. I know what you do with him. Don’t worry, though; I’m going to drive the detestable desire out of you before I baptize you.”

Xavior’s sudden nervousness afforded Bonaventure a sly glance towards the kitchen. The boy’s mother and Coach Manson waited at the door for his next prearranged signal.

“A full immersion and Holy Water exposes all of you to the Lord,” he crowed.

“As Jesus was exposed before John, so will you be exposed before your pastor.”

“Tonight is only a rehearsal; however, practice makes perfect,” Bonaventure grumbled. “My baptism, like John’s, requires you to undress. That’s all you need to know.”

Uncertain, Xavior fiddled with the tassel on the end of the cord securing his robe. “Mom said I might be naked for a few seconds, only no one will see.”

“Only your mother will see you. She saw you naked every time she changed your dirty diapers.”

“I’m your pastor. You can’t hide anything from me. Either you take the robe off, or I’ll do it. Your alternative…”

Repeatedly, Bonaventure pointed down, leaving no question of Xavior’s ultimate end.

Don’t look at me with your innocent blue eyes. Despite the wonderful woman who gave birth to you, you’re still the Devil’s spawn.

When Xavior didn’t comply, he reached down and yanked the tassel. The robe parted in front, leaving a frightened little boy covering his privates with both hands.

Red-faced again, Xavior shook his head. Bonaventure gestured brusquely, leaving no room for mutiny.

I don’t tolerate stubbornness. The sooner I break your bad habits, the better.

Very slowly, the boy removed his right hand, still concealing, yet giving a glimpse of very pale skin.

After a quick glance towards the kitchen, Bonaventure lowered his voice. “Are you afraid of the Holy Father seeing what your disgusting father has done to you, child?”

Xavior’s lips compressed fleetingly, on the edge of rebellion. Hesitantly, he lifted his left hand, his right hand hovering nearby, very aware that Pastor Bonaventure was staring down, his mouth gaping.

Until then, Xavior was certain he’d heard every possible insult, surely hundreds since he started elementary school. He was so humiliated, he barely moved his head.

No hair yet, but that big means you can cum. What’s your mom think about her precious little Savior leaving stains on his sheets?

“Unless he’s blind, your father will have given you the puberty talk by now.”

It was an effort to open his eyes and murmur, “He said I’d probably start puberty in a couple of years.”

“Don’t slouch! Baptist boys are proud of their faith. Stand straight, head up, shoulders back.”

Xavior gained an inch in height. His prepubescent penis would be large on a normal-sized ten-year-old. On his slender small body, it was huge.

Bonaventure stared, envy multiplying exponentially, each resentful breath taking longer than the last.

I expected a little boy’s pitiful worm. Instead, you have a python big enough to please your mother. Now, that would be a sight.

“My dad says having a big one doesn’t change anything. I’m still a normal kid.”

It was all Xavior could do to stand tall, his robe parted in front, a growing awareness of his penis poking insistently through the gap. Unable to look down, he looked out the leaded glass window at his mother’s wildflower garden. Foamflower, wild ginger, and bloodroot were not overly showy, yet never more beautiful than in the early evening’s long shadows.

He knew without looking that the preacher fixed his gaze on his middle. He shivered, a strange feeling of warmth all over his body despite gooseflesh forming like a rash on his arms, chest, and belly.

“You really think *that’s* normal?” He laughed peculiarly. “Does P.T. Barnum mean anything to you?”

Whenever Xavior heard ‘P.T. Barnum;’ and he heard it at least once a week at school because some rumors spread like wildfire; he cowered. His penis stood out like the proverbial sore thumb, inviting the inevitable circus-sideshow joke.

As tempting as it was to torment the boy, Bonaventure just stared. Even side-on, it protruded beyond the boy’s slim thighs. Unable to accept what was blatantly obvious, he tried being oblivious.

“The living room rug is a immersion pool. Upon taking your first step into the water, you will shed the robe, and hand it to your mother. I’ll pretend to be her.”

Bonaventure emphatically shook his head, four times. “Not until you get it right. Start in the dining room. Light the bonfire, enter the pool, *pretend* to disrobe. Then, hand it to me.”

Xavior went through the motions, repeating the phrases he’d learned in a monotone, pretending to light the bonfire, undress, and enter the water. He ignored the man’s sly peeks, glowering in silence, his nostrils flaring with each frustrated shameful breath.

“You’re a pitiful brat, but with a pickle to be proud of; which proves He works in mysterious ways,” Bonaventure finally muttered after the third entry and exit from the make-believe pool.

‘Pickle’ reverberated in Xavior’s ear. With it came a creepy thought that the Devil himself might’ve planted in his subconscious.

Not willful by nature, yet he waited until they were back on ‘dry land’ before he rotated slowly until they faced each other. Submissively, he shifted his gaze from the pastor. He felt the man’s eyes roam, then his unwavering envious stare at the wide-open robe.

His mother’s favorite vase was on her 1930s’ Art Deco sideboard, both precious heirlooms from her side of the family. The Rookwood vase was worth looking at, signed ‘Hurley 1903,’ a trout in crazed grey glazing. The sideboard was clunky and gloomy dark.

Resentful of still immature boyhood, Bonaventure had another idea, shocking yet intensely gratifying. “Come with me!”

Jealously churning, he turned away, strode to the dining room table, and snatched up Xavior’s ruler. He thrust it at the boy.

If you’ve made it this far, you’re probably wondering what The Lodge of Asmodeus has to do my story? While you ponder, how about showing your appreciation by sending a donation to Nifty? Recommended donation: estimated size of Xavior’s penis in inches x $5.00. In Euros, centimeters x €2.00.

Xavior blinked again, skeptical that Pastor Bonaventure wanted him to actually measure the unsightly thing that terminated his slender abdomen.

You always talk about Virtue. I know you’re testing me to see if I’m righteous enough.

“Praise the Lord, surely you were at the front of the line,” slipped from Bonaventure’s jealous maw.

Self-conscious, embarrassed, and hating his oversized penis more than ever, Xavior shied away, anything but look at the man before him. When Bonaventure proffered the ruler again, he gave an abrupt headshake, his hands by his sides.

If it’s a battle of wills you want, boy, it’s a battle you’ll lose. There’s no better way to break an evil spirit than to demean it. Still, it won’t help if I frighten you.

He switched to congregation mode, his voice carefully modulated. “As the Good Lord told Ezekiel to measure Jerusalem, ‘to determine its width and length,’ so shall you measure yourself.”

He paused, expecting Xavior to be his usual compliant self. No response, no move to close the robe, or take the ruler, not even a tremor!

“To resist the Lord’s Will is a sin in itself.” Finally, he relented. “If you won’t do it; I will.”

Xavior kept his eyes on the vase, red lips sealing his secret, scarcely averting the creepy curiosity Mark Truett had awakened not 24 hours earlier.

Despite his self-righteous sermon of a week earlier, Pastor Bonaventure came to a knee. ‘Kneel before the Lord’ was one of his finest lessons, playing to the ongoing debate about patriotism and political statements.

You’re a scrawny little thing. Nothing scrawny about your prick, though. Even your foreskin is generous.

It annoyed him, not only that Xavior retained his dignity with his robe parted in front; he had enough prepuce for two boys, the excess overhanging his plump little bell like a hose nozzle.

“Other than the Lord protects those who are circumcised in His Name? You taunt Him, boy! ‘For who is this uncircumcised Philistine, that he should defy the armies of the living God.’ Samuel 17:26.”

Xavior wavered at sanctimony, moments from crying. “I can’t help being like this. I should look like my dad, only I was sick when I was a baby.”

“I’ll talk to your mother. A tidy collar like mine is best, nothing hanging over the end.”

Bonaventure raised his hand, a heartbeat from slapping impertinence. The boy’s waif-like face stopped him, complexion unmarred, adamant eyes, perfect Cupid lips.

“Your father is evil, an abomination! You’ll look how I want you to look, boy. And you’ll think how I want, too, like a God-fearing Baptist boy.

“A good Baptist would know the *Good Lord* put it there to test your faith. Circumcision is the covenant of Abraham with the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob.”

Confronted up close by Xavior’s flawless body, his temper grew worse when the boy merely shrugged, almost as if he didn’t care either way.

Xavior’s testicles barely made bumps in the wrinkled pink pouch underneath. The contrast led Bonaventure to place a hand behind the boy to draw him in for a closer inspection. With his other hand, he lifted a finger under the tiny pouch.

“Then, you should be glad you have such pitiful little balls,” he sneered, not caring that the boy flinched again, whether from his invasive touch or his vulgar words was irrelevant.

Inspired by his reaction, Bonaventure stood, still grasping the ruler, his thoughts racing ahead.

A shameless thrill tinged his murmur, premeditated and honed to seduce divulgence. At the least, he’d get a confession of interest in his own gender, if not outright incest.

“Most boys never see the man who made them,” Bonaventure said slyly. “I’m glad you’re one of the lucky ones.”

“I saw him when we went skinny dipping,” he admitted, a little smirk, like a boy sharing secrets with his best friend.

“Ah! Some of my best memories are skinny dipping with my dad.” Bonaventure faked a chuckle. “Plenty of opportunities when you’re canoeing. Just you and your dad alone on the river. No one around to know you’ve got your swimming trunks off and Xavior Junior’s getting a suntan.”

Bonaventure slyly leaned in and confided, “At night in the tent, I did other things with my dad. You did, too, didn’t you?”

“I know he taught you more than that.” Bonaventure pressed. “Strip poker, perhaps?”

His hand trembled, barely suppressing his envy as pushed the robe aside. He positioned the ruler, one end scarcely touching Xavior’s pubis.

It’s obvious your father has used you. Caresses first. Then, how to masturbate. Then, what all faggots do.

Not understanding what his pastor intended, Xavior gave another noncommittal shrug and turned away.

If he bad-touches me, I should say ‘don’t,’ the same as they say to do at school. Only I didn’t with Coach. If I say something, he’ll really get mad at me. So will Mom. I’ll pretend not to notice. Anyway, I bet nothing bad will happen.

Xavior stared out the leaded glass window. For a few moments, Bonaventure wondered what was so interesting in the wildflower garden, even as the boy’s proud little body responded to instinct.

Oh my God! He’s getting an erection from thinking about what they did in the tent.

He thrust the boy back, tugging at the open robe until it fell away. Shamefully naked, Xavior kept his eyes averted as the pastor repositioned the ruler, keeping it alongside the stiffening sex organ. It extended, thickened, and hardened, taking just 15 seconds to go from limp to fully erect. It stuck out, not up, it was a half-inch longer than the man’s index finger.

“Goddamn!” Bonaventure checked the ruler to make sure, irritability settling in.

Envy exceeded disgust, made worse by sheer disbelief that Xavior’s erection was a quarter-inch longer than his own stunted shaft.

Worse, Xavior’s version of boyhood was a graceful sleek wedge. It emerged from an utterly hairless pubis; a chunky-thick base tapered to a little veiled bulb, terminating in a fleshy nozzle. Like a woman’s nipple, it invited lips to tease and suckle. Narrowing as it did, changed what would’ve been brutish to sturdy. Slightly curved and smooth made it elegant, while the boy’s insignificant testes made it seem vulnerable, if not outright harmless.

Manson snickered. “For a ten-year-old, he’s in the bottom ten percent for height and weight; who would’ve known he’s packing a 99.9 percent whopper in his boxers?”

Surreptitiously, Manson dug in his pocket for his palm-sized cellphone. Besides making an occasional phone call, he could take high-resolution photos without being noticed.

When I picked you up today, and felt your boy-bulge I could tell you were endowed. Only the Creator could give such a beautiful big boyhood to a beautiful little boy.

Overwhelmed by the opportunity to preserve the boy of his dreams, he stepped closer.

All but oblivious to the boy’s mother now standing opposite, Manson rotated his wrist. She saw what his cellphone camera saw, an obstinate oversized erection that grew stiffer while she gaped at her ‘baby.’

Red-faced and in shock, she scowled at her son. “Xavior! How could you? I’m ashamed of you!”

“’O Lord, let me not be put to shame, for I call upon you; let the wicked be put to shame.’ Psalm 31:17,” Bonaventure muttered, conveniently omitting the rest. “It proves what I’ve worried about all this time. I fear he’s not only queer, Becca; he’s been sexually active.”

“He’s not even ten years old, Ernie.” Manson’s finger pressed the record button reflexively, hoping he aimed the camera correctly.

Despite its size and state of arousal, the actual focal point was Xavior’s navel. There couldn’t be a more erotic photo than a boy’s immature sex organ, its owner blushing, his mother glaring in the background, his pastor pointing as if inciting the child to misbehave further.

“You know why as well as I do, Sweetie. I saw the photo of you on your father’s laptop. It’s disgusting!”

She shook her head. “The one in the newspaper. I’m sure I told you about all the fuss last year. Surely, you saw it?”

“His father photographed him naked? Right there is the proof I need! Your evil husband impregnated his spawn.”

“Am I? That your son allowed it proves he’s guilty of sins both disgusting and shameful! ’A righteous man hates falsehood, but a wicked man acts disgustingly and shamefully.’ Proverbs 13:5,” Bonaventure avowed, weighing the ruler like Solomon.

With Rebecca looking on, he abruptly slapped the ruler against the palm of his other hand.

“Wickedness must be punished,” he said very calmly. “Allow me to drive this evil desire from your child.”

Bonaventure clenched his left hand, the ruler’s sting far worse than a hornet.

“Leviticus proclaims the sin, and provides the redemption in 26:16, my love.”

She watched in silence as he lowered his trembling right hand, the ruler ready to inflict punishment.

“This is why we should commit each blessed word to memory.” He saved the rest of the lecture for his next sermon. “‘I, in turn, will do this to you: I will appoint over you a sudden terror, consumption and fever that will waste away the eyes and cause the soul to pine away; also, you will sow your seed uselessly...’”

Rebecca wasn’t at all certain she understood what specific ‘terror, consumption, and fever’ Leviticus had in mind; however, the hovering ruler held all the meaning she required. She regarded her son’s erectile excitement with revulsion; too weighty to point to the heavens, it stuck out like a bath spigot.

How could you? No shame at all! And, in front of my dear Ernie. Surely, your miserable father was the same when he was a boy.

“It won’t be easy for any of us; however, it’s for his own good, Rebecca,” Bonaventure said, firmly grasping the boy’s scrawny arm near his shoulder.

“Words aren’t sufficient for the evil sins of Sodom. The punishment for unnatural desire is eternal fire; Jude 1:7. The boy must beg the Lord for mercy before he repents.”

Unable to deny her Lord, and his worldly mouthpiece, she nodded and promptly closed her eyes.

Immediately, the ruler flicked. Xavior flinched, a fleeting moment before pain arrived and his face contorted.

“Punish that which offends, said the Lord.” Bonaventure’s admonishment was barely a whisper.

He slapped the ruler against the boy’s exposed member for a second time. Xavior screamed so loudly his mother didn’t hear the crack.

“Out, damned faggot! Out I say!” Bonaventure growled. “‘Punish that which offends.’”

Xavior bucked, unable to escape, shrieking as scorching heat exploded in his loins, frantically trying to protect exposed boyhood.

Exhilarated, Bonaventure flexed his strength, jabbing the ruler into firm pubic flesh. The boy’s penis twitched. Tiny veins bulged obscenely. Within seconds, the tapered spike became so stiff that it tracked his underbelly. It reached midway to his navel, and then some.

Width was just as disheartening when he compared with the ruler. Placed above, there wasn’t much visible, only where it thickened near the base and the smallish scrotum. Shamed by a mere boy, he wedged the ruler between slim thighs. With sadistic delight, he jerked up, slightly angled, blunt plastic bisecting the boy’s taut scrotum.

“You’re a smart boy. Admit your sins and beg the Good Lord for mercy,” he whispered into long curly hair, ready to use the ruler again if he needed.

“I want you to reflect on Romans 1:27. ’In the same way the men also abandoned natural relations with women and were inflamed with lust for one another.’” He inhaled deeply, savoring power reserved only to men like him. “Do you know what that verse means, child?”

“You arrogant little brat!” He exhaled. “Your father hates women for the very same reason.”

His ruler hovered above Xavior’s middle, taunting, ready to strike without warning. “Did he share her bed at night?”

“Proof of faggotry from the mouth of a child. Sodomites lust after men, just like your father! I’m sure you know what ‘homosexual’ means by now, boy.”

He flicked the ruler, making it bounce, scarcely an inch from its crimson-tipped target.

“But he can’t be like that. He had me. He’s my dad.” Suddenly nervous, Xavior peeked at his mother, standing in the kitchen doorway.

“Homosexuals can have children. Wouldn’t you know, the boys are always queer.”

“Queer isn’t a choice for you! Unfortunately, God doesn’t forgive queers, whether self-made or out of the womb! ‘Men committed shameful acts with other men, and received in themselves the due penalty for their error.’ Romans; look it up the verse and remember it! Back then, the ‘due penalty’ was death. You’re lucky you’re still a child. Your penalty is more of this.”

He smacked the unwavering erection so hard that Xavior lurched, screaming and flailing until the man yanked him back to his feet. Bonaventure held up the little body by one arm, his head drooping, defeated like a battlefield trophy.

Xavior sniveled, sobbing, fearful eyes watering, his sex organ straining despite the awful burning. “I told you already.”

Teasing, tormenting, even tantalizing, Bonaventure lightly touched the ruler to the boy’s ruddy erection, already so red it might’ve been bloody. It was bloated, throbbing, utterly rigid. Impossibly, his foreskin had retracted, exposing a shiny crimson bulb, paltry, yet appropriate given the narrowing shaft.

“We, we, we skinny dipped. Yeah, I saw his thing. Nothing happened. I can’t take any more. Mom? Please? Make him stop.”

“Unless you want a queer for a son, don’t shame me with cowardice, Rebecca.”

“I need to check the oven. Xavior, you’d best tell the truth if you want to go to the Truett’s farm after church.”

“’Flee from sexual immorality,’ boy,” Bonaventure bragged. “All other sins a person commits are outside the body, but whoever sins sexually, sins against their own body.’ That’s 1 Corinthians 6:18. You should never forget it.”

“No!” Xavior saw anger flare in his eyes. “Sometimes! When I go to bed. Or when he’s still home and I leave for school.”

Not even ten years old, he shouldn’t have known what ‘hard’ was. However, he could tell his headshake wasn’t enough.

“Never had a stiff? You expect me to believe that? Admit you’ve sinned with your father and the Lord will forgive you.”

Having seen the bulge in Phillip Caine’s blue jeans, Manson couldn’t help but grin. Xavior’s father was porn-star size.

I wish I had the time and patience to train you to take a cock that big. You can, if you really want to. I’ve seen it done often enough. However, getting you there will take forever. You’re better off with Mark and his father.

“Tell me the truth, boy!” Bonaventure demanded. “What did he do to you on your canoe trip?”

With forbidden cuss words on the tip of his tongue, he finally mustered nine-year-old pluck and gave his most hateful look. “We skinny dipped, that’s all!”

Bonaventure raised an eyebrow at Manson, certain the coach was with him. Only the best of the best were on Jesus’ team.

“I think you went willingly to his bed,” he said, a tropical calm before the tempest.

Xavior frantically shook his head even as the ruler slapped between his thighs, a white-hot pain squirting through his urethra. He clawed the man’s left arm, dribbling urine, somehow squirming from his grasp. Manson quickly sidestepped, grabbing a fistful of hair.

A burly soccer-coach arm locked around the little boy’s chest, easily lifting his feet off the floor.

“Perhaps you’ll show more respect to Coach Manson.” Bonaventure regarded the scratches on his arm. “Simon, prevent the boy from struggling while I administer penance.”

Manson placed his leg, forcing the boy’s legs to part. Never more exposed, naked Xavior tried again to get away.

“This proves you’re a disgusting little faggot.” Bonaventure bent back the ruler tip, aiming at the quivering crimson tip.

“I don’t know about ‘faggot,’ but his dick’s not so little,” Manson snickered, his excitement unending.

He ought to have you cut way down, stretch your cock skin as much as possible, streamlined so everyone knows you’re into ass.

“Unfortunately for him.” Bonaventure smirked. “Praise the Lord, it makes a divine target.”

This is going to hurt you more than it hurts me. You’ll never touch it again after I’m done.

Xavior’s echoing scream brought his mother from the kitchen, carrying a baking tray with mittens.

“Ernie, dear, dinner will be ready in ten minutes. I’ll need Xavior to set the table.”

“Plenty of time to drive out The Beast.” Bonaventure smiled, giving Xavior a playful nudge. “With luck, a dozen more will end his queerness forever. He’ll be a good Christian boy before I say Grace.”

She frowned at her sniveling son, too distraught to raise his head even slightly. “I’m sure it’s not as bad as it sounds.”

He turned his smile on the whimpering boy. “Xavior is just carrying on. He’s learning 1 Corinthians 6:19.” He tousled curls. “‘Do you not know that your body is the temple of the Holy Spirit, who is in you, whom you have received from God? You are not your own.’ Words to live by, Rebecca. I want him to remember every one of them!”

“Xavior, sweetie. I can’t intervene. You’re queer, just like your father.” She mustered inner strength with the eternal wisdom of her personal Savior. “Ernie’s going to help you get rid of your evil thoughts.”

Bonaventure waited until she was back in the kitchen, the door closed behind her.

“By the hand of Jehovah, now we’ll see if a couple of whacks to your pitiful balls will bring forth the truth.”

After that, he counted off the rest, a baker’s dozen, each with a thoughtful Scripture and ‘Praise the Lord.’

Simon Manson didn’t think it was possible, even though it happened right before his eyes. With the fight finally gone from the boy, he suddenly shuddered on the fifth flick of the ruler, his lithe little legs kicking erratically, gasping as if each breath was his last. Simon snapped three photos in rapid progression of Xavior Tenney Caine’s first orgasm.

Scene 5: Desperation

Phillip Caine touched his tongue to the shot glass, savoring Jim Beam Black Bourbon—he bought a case to celebrate when Xavior turned eight. He smiled and mutely toasted his best memories, two Indian-Summer days of canoeing, camping, and skinny dipping with his son.

He rationed himself to two glasses before he made another half-hearted effort to read his Canadian Wilderness or Coal Mining. A typo on page four, another on the next page; they seemed to appear out of nowhere, like pollution. Rationalizing that the magazine’s editor would find any remaining typos, he tossed the most recent copy aside and slumped back on the couch.

Within seconds, his cellphone rang. He picked it up, checked the number, and almost switched it off. Fifteen minutes after dropping Xavior off with his ex-wife, and telling her about the soccer injury, she’d called to complain about unfinished homework.

“He says he’s still sore. You wouldn’t know it from the way he answers back.”

“Seeing him Friday and Saturday is enough celebration!” He regretted saying it as soon as the words left his mouth.

“Should I tell him you can’t make his party because you’re taking photos of ducks?”

He wanted to tell Long-tailed ducks weren’t just any ducks. They were very rare that far inland, an infrequent spotting on Lake Colby, occasional rumors about white and black ducks with wispy long tails on the smaller lakes near Saranac.

“I will if you like?” She hesitated. “I’m sure he won’t mind if you don’t give him his present until the following week.”

“Sounds like a plan. I’d like to pick him up early this Friday. Now that school’s out…”

She ranted for over a minute about responsibility and requirements for his ‘access to the minor child.’ He could tell she was reading from their divorce decree. He got up and retrieved his laptop from the kitchen table while she was going on about ‘emergency situations.’

With the pdf version of his divorce decree in front of him, his mood only got worse.

“I’m withholding access for next Friday. Xavior’s dress rehearsal wasn’t up to par.”

“Fine! He’s on summer vacation! So am I! I’ll take him canoeing on Monday.”

“Jeff Truett checked with me on Saturday. He didn’t say all week. I bought him a kayak for his birthday present,” Caine protested.

“It can wait until after his baptism. And I don’t want you calling him until a week from now. He needs to focus, not waste time on the phone!”

“Bullshit! I’ll call my son whenever I damned well please, and there’s absolutely nothing you can do about it. Phone call restrictions are not in the decree. I’ve got it in front of me. If you don’t like it, have your fat slug of an attorney go to her judge friend and change it.”

“I might just do that! You’re an empty shell as far as Judge McGhee is concerned.” She slammed down the phone.

He despised her, like he despised his know-it-all department head, a liberated lesbian with an Art History doctorate and watercolor pretensions. According to her, his award-winning photography was mostly computerized craft, minimally art. Her last set of annual merit pay awards were worth filing a grievance, if not submitting his resignation.

He poured and gulped another two-ounce shot glass of 86-proof, too inebriated to savor flavors of caramel, cinnamon, and allspice. The cheap Walmart clock on the opposite wall was a perpetually unpleasant reminder of his current situation.

Finally, he stretched out on the couch, prepared to spend the night in self-imposed misery. It was a choice between watching a movie on his laptop propped on his chest, and masturbating.

“Might as well sleep here,” he mumbled, a drowsy smile in the offing as he searched his hard drive for a movie he hadn’t watched before.

What did you and Mark get up to on Friday night? Mark’s mature for ten, so first base for sure; whatever first base is for two horny boys?

Caine awoke with the movie credits, an endless scroll of actors and industry people. He blinked and closed the video-player window. His screen background was nine-year-old Xavior, not-quite waist deep in dark water. It was a dark-green-tinted interpretation of Sally Mann’s duotone Emmett. The original nude infuriated Christian conservatives—Time Magazine’s best photographer in America in 2001 was also a pornographer.

Twenty-five years later, Caine experienced a similar reaction to his ‘Nine Anthology.’ Now, he dared not show anyone ‘The First Time Xavior Modeled Nude.’ It was arguably his best photo ever, for private consumption only. His son’s penis had stiffened for no reason at all—up close you could see the tip poking out of the water.

He checked email, expecting nothing that late on Saturday night. Giving no thought to viruses, and expecting a student query, he clicked on email from anonymous123qweas, ‘Re: FYI Uploaded 11:20 pm.’

Terse made it worse. He clicked on the first of six attachments, ‘boypornwqa12ya.onion-1.jpg’

A low-resolution photo filled Caine’s screen, a horribly red penis, grotesquely swollen. His first thought, it was Xavior, after the soccer game.

The next photo showed what caused the inflammation. Queasy, Caine clutched the couch armrest, processing imminent agony, a ruler blurred from moving too fast, an instant from viciously striking the very prepubescent penis.

With before and after photos side by side on his screen, the conclusion was inescapable, even though he desperately wanted to deny the resemblance. He’d seen his son’s erection up close while they lay in the sun after skinny-dipping. Stiffness lingered for an hour or more after posing for ‘The First Time Xavior Modeled Nude.’ Whether limp or rigid, his son’s penis was far bigger than normal for a still-hairless boy. Proudly erect, it tapered elegantly, slightly curved as if to match its owner’s taut lower belly.

The third photo zoomed out to reveal a man’s hairy arm holding the ruler, a little boy struggling to get away, his expression terrified.

The fourth photo sickened him, the face of terror, tears streaming down delicate cheeks, Xavior’s mouth gaping in a frenzied shriek, drool splattered on his chest, eyes clenched in agony. Evil incarnate was his ex-wife and a man in priestly robes looming over his precious son.

You evil bitch! Xavior is screaming and you’re standing there watching, smirking about what that creep is doing to him.

Monday couldn’t come soon enough for Phillip Caine. At 10:55 am, he was parked in a 30-minute zone on Tioga Street, reviewing the contents of his envelope in his Jeep Wrangler. He got out as soon as he spotted Daniel K. Bernstein, J.D., outside the Supreme Court of Tompkins County.

As soon as they were inside the courthouse, Caine opened his envelope and handed over a bank check. “Thanks for arranging an appointment with Judge McGhee at such short notice. Your bill is now paid in full,” he added coldly.

Bernstein checked the amount; he’d been stiffed by divorced fathers before. “You want to explain what this ‘emergency’ is about, Mr. Caine?”

Caine started up the stairs. Judge Miriam McGhee’s chambers were on the second floor. He turned when Bernstein stopped at the bottom of the stairs.

Frustrated, Caine heaved a sigh and followed Bernstein down a long corridor lined with paintings of not-so-famous judges. Law clerks lived in file-strewn cubicles and shared a conference room in the rear of the building. Bernstein’s jokes about holding cells for violent offenders didn’t help Caine’s mood.

McGhee’s law clerk, Solanda Rogers, arrived at 11:18 with a Starbucks cup in hand. She was officious, ambitious, and black as Mississippi mud.

“What seems to be the problem, Mr… is it Crane or Caine?” Curt and clipped like her legal adviser, exuding southern civility except for saying his name as if distasteful.

“Caine. I’m here to see Judge McGhee,” Caine said as calmly as he could manage. “Apparently, I have to go through you.”

“Judge McGhee is extremely busy. I do my best to take care of issues outside Family Court, Mr. Caine. If I deem it important, I will raise your issue with her.”

He took a breath, forcing his lungs to fill before he exhaled. “Ms. Rogers, by midday, I’m either leaving with what I came for, or I’m going to the Journal where I will show them this.”

He opened the envelope and withdrew the topmost page. Casually, he slid the page across the table. Bernstein gaped, incredulous.

“*It*, Ms. Rogers, is my ten-year-old son’s erect penis…” He paused, his tone of voice already poisoned. “… after his mother and her boyfriend, Pastor Bonaventure, sexually abused him. Judge McGhee enabled it to happen.”

Rogers fumed, yet shrewdly framed a response before anger got the better of her.

Caine extracted the next page. “This is his penis before they abused him. His testicles are bruised from a soccer injury earlier in the day. My fault for taking him to the match and allowing him to play against boys nearly twice his weight. However, the judge ordered it so I have no choice.”

“There’s no need to make this meeting confrontational, Mr. Caine. I’m not antagonistic by nature. I’ve learned it’s far better to negotiate and work out a viable solution.”

“Judge McGhee can talk to me, or to a reporter from the Journal.” He started towards the open door. “Have a nice day, Ms. Rogers.”

Bernstein looked up from comparing the photos, his shock contained because Rogers sat across the table.

“You’re in this cluster fuck, too, Bernstein,” Caine added over his shoulder.

“I expect on Saturday night, when he was back with his mother. Six photos were timestamped between 7:18 and 7:23 pm. Uploaded to the internet at 11:20 pm. Emailed to me at 11.53 pm.”

“You have proof they did this?” Bernstein demanded, back to staring at the photo.

Caine glanced into the envelope and withdrew another page. He dropped it on the table.

“Oh dear!” Bernstein scratched his head. “Prima facie evidence! It would be difficult to rebut, impossible even. I don’t know what to advise. Ms. Rogers?”

“Judge McGhee does family law.” Rogers gestured at the photos. “This is a criminal matter. He needs to go to the police. They’re on State Street.”

“You do realize why Mr. Caine waited until now to meet with Judge McGhee, don’t you?”

Her blank expression confirmed tedious, or perhaps it was the photos before her.

“If he reports this to the police,” Bernstein continued, “his son will be interviewed repeatedly and subjected to medical examinations, all extremely unpleasant. More than likely, his son will go to Child Protective Services until after the trial, which could take years. Any way you look at it, it’s not a desirable outcome.”

Rogers’ expression was classic ‘I should care?’ “Officers of the Court are required to report all instances of child abuse to the authorities. What Mr. Caine does is up to him.”

“Phillip, may I speak on your behalf?” After Caine nodded, he went on. “Mr. Caine wants to spare his son an ordeal every bit as terrible as what he’s already been through. He’d prefer not to involve the police.”

“You’re a lawyer and an officer of the Court, Mr. Bernstein. Child abuse has to be reported. There’s no way to avoid it.”

“Solanda, if he went to the Journal today, the story would blow wide open. The careers of anyone associated with the case would be ruined, especially if their decisions were biased towards the perpetrators.”

Rogers picked up on ‘ruined’ and ‘biased.’ “You want Judge McGhee to do what, specifically?”

“It would be in everyone’s best interest if she enforced the decree she signed off on,” Caine said quietly.

“Paragraph Four of the Addendum addresses physical, emotional, or sexual abuse of the minor child. I’d say this qualifies as all three,” Bernstein added with a sympathetic nod at Caine. “Specifically, full and unobstructed custody of Xavior Tenney Caine must immediately and permanently revert to his father, Phillip Caine.”

Dr. Alan Hartman was the exact opposite of what Caine expected from a court-appointed pediatric specialist. Grandfatherly, with a salt-and-pepper beard and puffy jowls, he chatted knowledgably about university politics until Xavior sneaked a peek.

The smell of disinfectant compromised an examination room supposed to reassure young patients, a wallpaper frieze of teddy bears, framed posters of movie cartoons, and mostly kids’ books arranged in a magazine rack.

Xavior switched from peeking to meet the doctor’s crinkly brown eyes. “It’s okay.”

“Because they’re always arguing?” Hartman prompted after a glance at Caine.

“There are always good reasons why they fight. Casey never calls him ‘Dad.’”

“I noticed that, too; about when I realized someone was trying to kill him. My grandson’s certain the dad is the FBI agent.”

Hartman discretely gestured at Xavior’s middle, covered by his book, his left hand hidden underneath, his right hand on top.

“Just from looking at you, I can tell it hurts a lot. Judge McGhee told me you were badly beaten.”

Xavior’s gaze fixed on his book. After a few moments, he mumbled, “We’re only here because my dad wants a doctor to examine me.” He peeked at his father.

Hartman waited until Xavior looked up at him. “Your dad’s right to be worried. That’s important guy stuff down there.”

“Like I have a choice.” He pulled his book closer, sniffling. “I don’t want anyone else seeing me!”

“There may things I have to talk about with him. What if he doesn’t look?”

“Xavior, I promise not to look.” Caine leaned over and selected last September’s Field and Stream from the magazine rack.

Discretely, Hartman assisted Xavior to unbutton, unzip, and pull down his shorts before he helped him onto the examination table. Right away, he noticed the yellow stain in the boy’s bulging white briefs.

“Not since before,” Xavior murmured, so scared he didn’t dare lift his head.

“About every four hours is usual for a boy your age. Can you slip your undies down for me?”

Hartman touched gently after a fearful Xavior finally revealed himself. Caine stopped turning pages, unaware of what was in front of him. His ears pricked at his son’s muted whimper as the doctor applied lidocaine cream.

“You’re large for your age, but I guess you already know that,” Hartman observed.

“It’s nothing to worry about. Once you start puberty, you’ll be the envy of the locker room. That’ll be a couple of years from now.”

While he couldn’t see Xavior’s middle, he could see the doctor’s face, shock, pity, and outright anger.

“I know it looks and feels bad, Xavior, but the lacerations and bruising will go away,” Hartman said. “I want you to lift your legs up to your tummy so I can check underneath.”

Hearing ‘underneath’, Caine closed his eyes. He hadn’t considered *that* possibility.

Panicking at ‘possibility’ being a certainty, Caine had no choice but to ask. “It’s that bad?”

“Just be glad he has small testicles. His right testicle took the brunt. It’s about three times the size of the left one.”

Caine saw his son’s nervous nod. “Small runs in my family. I need to tell you he was injured earlier that day in a soccer game. He was wearing a cup, only it wasn’t enough.”

“Pity he wasn’t wearing it during the beating. The good news is he’s not going to need an orchiectomy.”

More than a little relieved, Caine still hung onto every word of the examination, cringing at Xavior’s muffled responses, flicking pages and pretending to be invisible.

“I’m going to retract your foreskin to make sure underneath is okay. It might hurt, so tell me if it does,” Hartman continued.

From across the room, his revulsion was evident. Caine remained silent, loathing his ex-wife with newfound passion.

Caine raised his head, peripherally perceiving bare legs, underpants at Xavior’s small pale feet, the doctor gently inspecting.

Caine coughed. “Last fall, we talked about him getting circumcised. It kind of slipped through the cracks.”

“It’s your choice; however, I would get it done if he was my son. Despite what some people say, there really are no benefits to having it, and if he ends up gay; well, let’s just say there are definite health issues.”

He smiled at Xavior. “From the latest research, it isn’t something you get to choose. Most pediatricians will do high-and-tight if you ask. That way you keep all the inner skin. It’s chock full of nerves, so you’d definitely miss it.” Hartman leaned closer. “Did it bleed a lot?”

Xavior nodded. He’d slept in two pairs of underpants. Even then, there were bloodstains on his sheets.

Hartman sighed. “He should’ve gone to the emergency room immediately. I understand why, of course, but there’s no excuse.”

“Doctor Hartman, do I get a shot?” Xavior asked, peeking again at his father.

Caine listened nervously, expecting the worst. At Xavior’s last inoculation he threw a fit, even before the needle came close.

It was so unexpected, Caine was dumbfounded. It seemed his son was growing up right in front of his eyes.

Almost immediately, Xavior whined, wincing when Hartman pressed two fingers into his lower belly. Not once, several times, pressing from side to side, yet careful not to inflict more pain than necessary.

The third press, Caine went from worry to panic mode. “When I called his mother on Sunday morning, she said he had a fever of 103. She gave him kid’s aspirin!”

Abruptly, Hartman pressed again, getting a sharp intake of breath. He went over to a cabinet, opened the door, and selected a prepacked kit.

“Xavior, the swelling has blocked your urethra. That’s what takes the pee from your bladder. I’m going to insert a tube into you penis right away to reduce the pressure,” he explained before turning to Caine. “It’ll be in until Wednesday. After I take it out, I want him to try to pee every two hours.”

Caine tensed, wondering if Xavior had any idea what the doctor was talking about. Surprisingly, the urethral catheter went in without tears, just a kind of disbelief that it was even possible to put a skinny tube through the end of his penis and watch dark urine squirt into a bowl. After that, the doctor taped a small collection bag to his bare thigh.

Then, Hartman photographed Xavior’s middle section, a dozen close ups. Every time Caine peeked at the computer monitor, he choked. His son’s normally torpedo-shaped penis was horribly red, so swollen it looked ready to burst.

As bad as that was, Hartman’s prognosis was worse. Xavior’s mental state was on the edge, and would likely deteriorate. Being patient and understanding was essential.

“The real ‘damage…’” Hartman touched his head. His parting counsel was loud and clear. “Avoid professional sex-abuse shrinks at all cost. They make it worse. Love him, cuddle him, talk with him. You can get him through the worst of it in a week or two if you work at it.”

Across a faux marble table on gangly wrought-iron legs, Xavior absently scraped a bendy plastic spoon against a small brown minaret of soft-whip ice-cream dipped twice in chocolate.

With a shrug, Xavior jabbed his spoon into a crevice near the bottom of the pink plastic bowl. After three tries, he levered off a small chunk of frozen chocolate. He sniffed, left his spoon in the bowl, and flicked curls from his forehead. Blinking fitfully, he sucked on his spoon.

Even without looking, Caine could tell he was upset. He heard it every time the boy opened his mouth, although he’d said no more than a hundred words since Monday evening. Five days of almost silence, interrupted by ‘please,’ ‘okay’, and ‘goodnight.’ Everything else was a headshake. On the plus side, Xavior hadn’t cried since Wednesday morning when the catheter came out.

With little more than a few words about what happened on Saturday night, a destructive fissure became a yawning chasm. It was getting worse. Xavior’s left hand was a near-constant fist jammed in his crotch. His right hand did everything, picking at his food, playing on his laptop, riding in the Jeep. Caine pretended to ignore it while he worried nonstop.

You should see Doctor Hartman again. He said every two hours. It’s been three since you last tried.

Hartman said I’ll know when you’re ready to talk. My job is to listen and not be critical.

Xavior didn’t look up. He jabbed the spoon against chocolate. Without his left hand to steady the bowl, it skittered sideways.

“You can finish being nine years old without having ice-cream. It’s a preteen rule.”

‘Advanced’ could’ve been a slap in the face; Xavior’s 55 pounds and 50 inches befitted an average eight-year-old. Instead, he attacked the castle with more enthusiasm than Caine had seen in five days.

Pretending everything was normal, he sucked chocolate milkshake up a straw, seeing a glimmer of hope when Xavior ruptured the chocolate armor and dug his spoon into ice-cream.

His little pink tongue licking the spoon, Xavior smiled slightly. “See Dad, not ‘impregnable.’”

Xavior regarded him coldly. The next minute passed in absolute silence. Caine counseled himself to remain calm and not worry, be grateful for a half-hearted smile.

“Everyone’s so big, Dad,” Xavior whispered, his shaggy head down, fringe vision taking in the adjoining fake-marble tables and spindly chairs.

That’s the sort of thing your mother would say, except she’d say ‘fat’ a dozen times, and harp on the causes.

Required sensitivity training at a major U.S. university established his ‘positive analytical framework’ and how to apply a ‘three-step educational experience to correct offensive opinions and misconceptions.’ It didn’t matter that nearly everyone in the restaurant was ‘big;’ black and white, male and female, young and old.

“People don’t always make smart choices, especially when it comes to food,” he ventured, lip service to political correctness.

“Mom says ice-cream is just sugar and saturated fat; a bazillion calories and nothing good for you,” Xavior held forth.

Caine dared not say his son could do with a few extra pounds. Being svelte was a must for his ex-wife, part-time decorator and social critic. She’d passed her hang-ups on to her son a long time ago.

He went with non-confrontational. “Your mom prefers low-fat yogurt. Me, I’m an ice-cream kind of guy.”

“She said you hated her.” Xavior made air quotes with his spoon. “’Your father doesn’t like women.’”

“I like all of my female students. Well, there’s a few I don’t like, but only because they have rings in their lips.”

“Oh, you mean as in…” Caine made ‘bedroom’ eyes, teasing the kid as he spelled out ‘sex’.

He waited, embarrassed by silence. Uneasiness took over, though he hadn’t been nervous in Fall. After skinny-dipping all afternoon, father and son had talked openly, the low-key version of ’The birds, the bees, and growing boys.’

He resumed, hoping he’d sound normal certainly more ‘normal’ than he’d sounded when they talked about masturbation, ‘pullin’ it’ in Xavior’s parlance.

Blinking unknowable eyes barely lifted, left hand still out of sight, no more than a shameful whisper. “He said you lust after men.”

Caine shook his head. “Coming from that sadist...” He stopped himself by reaching across the table for Xavior’s barely touched bowl. “You want to share some of the spoils of victory with me?”

He smiled at the snappy response, more confident than a few minutes earlier—at least they were talking.

“I’m not gay, Tenney. I don’t *like* men. I’ve never done anything with another man. I never will.”

“I slept in the guest room for reasons that had nothing to do with being gay or straight. Why do you think we were always arguing?”

Xavior made him wait, spooning dairy-whip and chunks of chocolate castle. Unable to say it aloud, he hunched his shoulders.

“As you get older your interests change; you want different things; sometimes a lot different, so different that you aren’t the same person. Your mom found what she wanted in the church she goes to. It was time for us to follow our separate interests.”

“The biggest change, I’d much rather be in the Adirondacks, taking photos of ducks, than teaching students. Speaking of ducks, you need to finish up so we can get quacking.”

Finally, he got a smile from the kid, feeble and short-lived, yet enough that he felt like jogging back to his shabby apartment.

Caine loaded up the car while Xavior was in the apartment, talking to Mark Truett on the phone. Even with the rear seat folded down, Caine had to repack twice to fit in camping gear, food for a week, and his photography equipment. He was sweating before he finished, even though he’d parked under the oak tree behind the building.

He went upstairs two at a time to get Xavior, hoping he hadn’t made a mistake—the boy was soccer crazy, not outdoorsy like him.

With Xavior’s backpack stuffed with clothes in one hand, and his clothes and sundry items in a duffel bag, he hung back, watching his son. Not happy, the boy ambled a few yards past his father’s olive-green Jeep Wrangler before he spun around.

Caine had strapped his canoe and a kayak to the roof rack. The kayak was new, kid-sized, and lime green.

“Your mom said you were going to camp for the summer. Tomorrow morning is kayak camp.”

Still unaware, he unlocked and opened the passenger door. “That’s the plan.”

“If you want. You need to go to the bathroom? We’ve got a five-hour drive to the motel. You’ll have to hold it.”

Caine rested his hand on Xavior’s shoulder, reassuringly kneading scrawny muscle. “I want us to have as much fun on this trip as we did in Fall.”

“Yeah, there’s a problem.” He took a breath. “I don’t know what your mom and Bonaventure said; and frankly, I don’t much care. What I do know is that the two of us skinny dipping is no one else’s business.”

Caine held up the green backpack, avoiding the elephant in the parking lot. “You pack swim shorts in here?”

Puzzled, his father helped him into the passenger seat. Only a week earlier, he’d scrambled into the rear seat after the soccer match, giggling and carrying on with Mark Truett, his injured balls all but forgotten.

The Act of Initiation

Scene 1: Fascination

With rumor as guide, Caine and his son paddled across placid lakes and tiny serene ponds, drifted down meandering rivers and tested their skill on streams cascading over rounded rocks. Little more than a week had passed since that horrible night, yet they were already closer. For two long days in the Adirondack wilderness, they enjoyed each other’s company from sunrise to sunset, slowly passing wetlands, grassy plains, and forested ridges, mountains always looming in the distance.

In blazing late-afternoon sun, Caine paddled with a steady stroke, sweating copiously. It would’ve been more enjoyable running parallel to the bank, and peering into hazy cool shadow; however, he needed to find a place to camp for the night. Despite seeing birds in abundance, including a handful of rare species, he’d all but given up finding the elusive Long-tailed duck. Instead, he focused on photographing Xavior surrounded by nature, sparked by capturing a remarkable series of photographs of an elusive mother black bear and her curious cubs.

Three bears foraged on a promontory under gnarly pine trees only yards from Xavior. He was safe in deep water, whether his father’s camera had him in the foreground or background. Exposed to the waist in his kayak, he might have been nude as he studied the equally curious cubs. Caine already had the title for a magazine article, ‘A Boy’s Bear Necessities’—it was Xavior’s idea. Add a few paragraphs of text and they’d have enough material for six spectacular pages.

Soon, the lake narrowed, ending a half mile ahead, where a tumbling river meant another portage. To the left, a tiny spur disappeared beyond a rocky ridge. Caine stopped paddling to watch a herd of deer, his canoe wandering in the slowly moving current. With a lethargic stroke, his canoe turned enough that he could keep a casual yet watchful eye on his kayak-kid, lagging way behind.

I need to photograph you before you grow up, capture your innocence and curiosity forever. Nude, too, because that’s part of your beauty. We could call it ‘A Boy’s Bare Necessities.’

The scent of Balsam Fir drifted with the peaceful sound of the woodlands. Not for the first time, he relished nature’s paradise; no mosquitoes and no sign of civilization since they’d departed Pfeiffer’s Provisions and Rentals, a rustic fishing store and six-room motel, three hours earlier.

A glimpse of a pebbly beach enclosed by towering Eastern Hemlock suggested a possible camping spot, a chance to bathe and sunbake in solitude.

You were so uninhibited last fall. Maybe I can convince you to skinny dip for ‘A Boy’s Bare Necessities.’

Caine lifted his paddle and waved until he saw Xavior respond. Then, he gestured towards the spur.

He was standing in ankle-deep water, ready to drag his canoe to the beach when Xavior caught up, breathless.

Grinning, he leaned sideways, flicked his paddle, and swiveled his kid-kayak around, heading towards the ridge.

With a chuckle, Caine called after him. “We’re still camping here, birthday boy.”

He could tell from the enclosing ridges that the spur would soon peter out, likely ending in a cliff with a trickling waterfall.

“Come back when you’re done exploring,” he shouted to Xavior’s bare back. “And put on your shirt before you get sunburned.”

Figuring his son would be gone ten minutes or so, Caine delayed unloading, even though he had a birthday party to prepare. Instead, he ambled across pebbles. Boulders and tree roots protruded from an eroded bank. He stepped over rotting tree trunks splashed with vivid green moss, skirting dead branches. Beyond the Hemlock grove, he discovered a veritable forest of common stinkhorn. Phallus impudicus, human-sized fungus with white shafts and greasy grey helmets speared a thick blanket of decomposing tree debris.

If I could get you to pose, you’d be a little faun, pretending to eat them. Sucking them would be more apropos, definitely not for public consumption.

The mental image of Xavior kneeling among the obscene stalks was so surreal, so evocative that Caine took photo after photo. Many fungi were larger than his erect penis, some with immature ‘eggs’ like overgrown testicles buried amongst leaves and twigs.

He was still chuckling about people’s likely reactions to a newly minted ten-year-old boy posed among the phallic-shaped fungi, when he emerged from the woods into an Arcadian wilderness. Nature proliferated all around, a meadow of wildflowers and myriad butterflies, wetlands with countless ducks, bald eagles soaring high above, and mysterious grey-green mountains forming a protective wall.

Safe from prying eyes yet free to explore, an ideal setting for ‘A Boy’s Bare Necessities;’ if only I could get you to pose nude.

On the way back to the beach, Caine thought about how to convince his son to undress. It should’ve been easy, little more than a wink and a nod; however, the previous Saturday changed all that. He was still thinking about it as he cleared a space for the tent, dragging branches aside for firewood. Suddenly, it struck him how long Xavior had been gone, not mere minutes, an hour at least. Instead of unloading the canoe, he dragged it back into the water.

Caine paddled at full speed, around several bends before reaching the end of the spur. He was in full panic mode when he spotted a green kayak wedged against a half-submerged tree, bright yellow kid-lifejacket flung into the cockpit along with a carbon-black paddle.

Bellowing at the top of his lungs, an excited Xavior scrambled over boulders to skirt the deeper sections of a creek all but hidden under the trees. Seeing his boy beckoning frantically, Caine’s fatherly instinct declared ‘not an emergency.’

Too far to hear what his son was going on about, Caine still breathed a second sigh of relief.

Closer, Xavior shouted. “Dad, you’ll never guess what I found. Never in a million years!”

Caine waved back, mentally reviewing prospects; another black bear family was highly unlikely; a girl scout troop wouldn’t generate half as much excitement, although nude campers might…

Xavior splashed the last few yards to his father’s canoe, grinning, disheveled, soaked, spinning around and pointing where he’d come from, all the while jabbering about a castle. He seemed completely unaware of mud splatters all over him and a rip on the rear of his shorts, nothing underneath.

“Dad, there’s a really spooky castle on a lake, really huge, too, only it’s really rundown, kinda like nobody lives there, and there’s a garden, and there’s like a hundred chimneys, and….”

Xavior heaved a frustrated sigh. “I said spooky, Dad. Spooky has like a few busted windows, ivy on the walls, and the roof has holes so it leaks. Creepy is scary, like vampires live there.”

He rolled his eyes, gestured at the nearly concealed creek, one hand pushing tangled curls from his forehead.

While Xavior squatted, Caine picked up his waterproof pouch, extracted his maps, and studied the top sheet; lake, spur, four bends, dead end. There was no sign of the creek. However, a series of three ponds and wetlands jammed between two forested ridges leading up to Golden Eagle Mountain. There was a meandering road to its base, little more than a fire trail. It passed close to where they were.

Caine waited while Xavior scrutinized the page—his map reading skills greatly improved after two days of practice. After a minute of confusion, a little forefinger jabbed the page, identifying an undefined blob on the eastern side of the largest pond.

“It’s right here, Dad.” He squinted at infinitesimal letters. “’L’ and ‘A’, whatever.”

Expecting a wild goose chase based on fantasies, yet humoring the boy because it was his birthday, Caine trudged up the creek, trailing his offspring. With his camera at the ready, he snapped photos of exuberant Xavior, one after the other.

Look at you without a care in the world. If only I could get you to strip. I’d give anything for you to be like you were last Fall. And a few more days for you to get an all-over tan…

He caught his breath when Xavior stopped frolicking to point out the remains of a lichen-spotted wall, nearly hidden among brambles. He stooped, framing the photo, his errant angel or little satyr, poised in bucolic bliss.

Never in a hundred years. The light is amazing, the shadow improbable, which makes seeing you here all the more unlikely.

The next photo of Xavior had him picking and eating juicy wild blackberries, purple-stained lips and tongue extended, a parody of passion replacing perplexing.

They followed a wavering line of rubble, boulders split and more-or-less squared, finally stopping at a big raspberry bush, lush berries hidden among deep-green serrated leaves.

“Watch out for the thorns. They’re as bad as blackberry,” Caine warned; he thought unnecessarily.

Ignoring bunches of ripe red berries, Xavior reached deep into the bush, pushing aside leaves. He inhaled, hesitating as blood rushed from his heart. Tentative, unaware of the hard hot protrusion from his crotch, his hand inched among stalks, daring himself to go on. He stopped when a thorn scraped the back of his hand. He plucked berries and withdrew his arm, blood already oozing from a shallow puncture, mixing with red ripe juice.

“Nasty,” he murmured even as he trembled, though not from pain, like a fist squeezed his heart.

His father was busy picking raspberries. Sunlight shining on his bald head, very determined, yet gentle, always caring, always loving, a powerful wonderful man, especially to a scrawny virtually ten-year-old boy. Xavior had to make himself inhale.

I love you. I love you so much. I want you to love me, no one else, and definitely not Mom.

He sucked on the puncture, tongue lapping as the thrill faded slowly. Then, he gorged on berries until his fingers were crimson.

From between rocks covered with green wild mint, and guarded by rusty coils of barbed wire, Caine nudged out a ‘No Trespassing’ sign. Xavior wandered over, licking more scratches on his hand and forearm. Unable to look at his father without getting a fluttering feeling inside, he squatted and turned it over. Stamped into the crumpled tinplate was:

Suddenly, he realized his penis was erect. He stood, anxious, shivery, sweaty, never so shy, thoughts racing, embarrassed by what he was thinking, desperate to say what he could never say.

The urge was no mere whim, a compulsion born in eternity; already a tradition when the Ancient Greeks and their Gods praised it. Suddenly overcome, Caine grabbed his son’s arm. Only a heartbeat from destiny, Western morality prevailed. He resisted crushing the boy against him. Instead, he squished the berries still in his hand, and with a quivering forefinger, he smeared crimson juice across Xavior’s lithe little abdomen. Each mark made him tremble, a frenzied rush to make the next mark as if time couldn’t wait.

The words Caine couldn’t say found refuge in a child’s game. “Pretend we’re Indians, Little Bear.”

The crude imitation appearing on Xavior’s front overwhelmed inhibition.. Still innocent, yet his penis throbbed relentlessly. He should’ve been embarrassed except an extraordinary thought persisted.

He gazed down at his father’s finger, touching him, slowly making a sinuous curve on his chest and belly, reassuring, sharing. Forever joined together, it was inevitable.

“Do the letters, too.” He read them out, mellow treble, just a little bit nervous. “‘A’, ‘S’, ‘M’, ‘O’, ‘D’, ‘A’, and ‘Y’.”

It was spellbinding, a father marking his son, some kind of tribal initiation, or possession. Both of them trembled, sensing a momentous change underway, something they’d never forget. Making each illegible letter, tiny in order to squeeze between the two circles. Two lovers could never be so close. Meaning mattered, not execution.

Xavior’s nipples tingled into tiny hard points. He was even harder down there, rigid. Fortunately, it went unnoticed under his loose shorts. He still turned away.

It happened so quickly. I couldn’t have stopped you even if I wanted to. It was like we both had to do it.

As another hot flush raced through him, he lifted his gaze, inhaling the vibrant scent of spearmint.

His father noticed it, too. “Weird is mint growing everywhere. Wetlands yes, not here.”

Caine shivered. Despite the lingering afternoon heat, gooseflesh pimpled Xavior, brazen on taut creamy skin. It made his clumsy circles, squiggles, and letters seem bolder, conveying a profounder purpose than play.

Worrying that he’d gone too far, he tossed the sign back among the mint and jumbled rocks where it came from.

His frenzied marking didn’t seem to bother Xavior. Pretending magic symbols decorated his belly and chest, because it was safer than the other thing he kept thinking about, he went back to picking and eating raspberries. After delving deep into the bush, he saw another trickle of blood on his wrist. Again, he suckled, staring down at the sign.

Suddenly, his penis throbbed painfully, relentless, straining stiffness. Priapus Junior, had he known his Greek mythology, reached into the raspberry bush, searching for berries, or so it appeared. He scratched his fingers three times getting off a thorn.

He stuck his hand under the leg of his shorts, squeamish and shivering, fighting commonsense. He touched the thorn to his very aroused penis, held it there, pressing into the shaft. It was thick at the base, two of his fingers wide. He jabbed with his eyes clamped shut, muffling his yelp with his other wrist. Not that his father would’ve noticed—he was taking photos.

There was blood on his fingertip when he jerked back his hand. Again, he licked before he tossed the thorn back where it came from.

Painful pressure relieved, Xavior bared his teeth. His steely, inscrutable eyes fixed on his father. Poignant, alluring, a glimpse of his soul exposed, innocence for the taking. A second later, the moment was gone.

After a couple of photos with his son acting the part of a forest sprite, his shorts temptingly slipped past bony hips, scarcely snagging on his butt.

Caine stared through the viewfinder, red-stained slender chest and taut belly, everything decent exposed, lean muscles leading to the start of his pubis and a prominent bulge. Xavior plopped onto a stone slab, right knee supporting left ankle, last year’s sneakers with the laces undone again. He pretended to meditate even as his father contemplated more soccer-thigh than was prudent.

Who would’ve thought a tiny baby would have such a nice body ten years later?

Anything but admit his son was a beautiful boy. “You look like a garden gnome who plays soccer.”

Xavior thought it hilarious and couldn’t stop giggling. Caine took dozens of photos, his nearly naked son gnome-posing in unlikely positions.

“So, where’s your spooky castle?” Caine asked when he couldn’t take any more giggling.

Scene 2: Inspection

Laid out in French parterres, all that remained of a formal garden were ragged box bushes, flagstones hidden under a carpet of moss, and ivy-covered blobs that signified fountains. It ended at a pair of wrought iron gates set in a mostly intact ashlar wall.

“It been decades since this was opened,” Caine muttered, his gaze halting just beyond the gate.

The last thing he expected to see after the derelict garden was statues forming an avenue to a grand porte-cochère.

“Dad?” Xavior pointed at iron curlicues over the gates, the same as the vivid sign daubed on his front.

Caine nodded remotely, his gaze fixed on seven lichen-splattered marble fauns paired with cavorting grey-green bronze boys. He fiddled with the rusted latch on the gates, thoughts drifting into uncharted waters, scarcely aware of Xavior carrying on about the mansion.

He opened a recalcitrant gate just enough to squeak through, gritty gravel crunching underfoot, oblivious to the chattering boy on his heels.

The fauns were herma, though not of the fashion of 3^rd Century BC Greece. Eight-feet-high phallic pillars bore grotesque heads, each with a fruity garland, signifying generosity. Caine stopped to admire the first statue, surprisingly evocative in its contrast. The faun’s facial expression was anything but detached as the bronze boy pirouetted before impartial marble. He was right-sized and perfectly proportioned, his lithe dancing body petite, perfectly prepubescent.

I bet the sculptor included genitals on the faun, too; only the boy’s pose hides it except from the side. If I go closer, you’ll think I’m a pervert.

Completely revealed with his right leg flung back, the bronze boy seemed malformed, a twig too tiny to twiddle, a protruding pouch that belonged on a much older boy.

Except for being the absolute opposite down there, it’s like looking at you. I’ll never forget when you played in the river last fall, exposed for the all the world to admire.

Caine was still thinking about the similarity to his son as they passed the second statue. Suddenly, nudity seemed sardonic. The faun looked at his bronze companion, seeming ambivalent despite an arabesque swirl. Caine would’ve dismissed it but for the dancing boy’s now blatantly aroused little joystick, and the faun’s uplifted eye of latent desire.

He kept walking, worried about Xavior’s reaction to outright seduction in besmirched hard marble and verdigris bronze.

“What?” He regretted it the instant he saw the hurt look on Xavior’s face. “I’m sorry, Cuteness.”

He caught his breath, telling himself ‘cuteness’ slipped out only because of the late afternoon light creating chromatic tones, vibrant features competing with shadowy softness.

I know you don’t like your mom saying you’re cute; but you are. You’re very good-looking; in fact, gorgeous.

“See, I was right about the chimneys, Dad.” Xavior waved aside. “I bet every room has a fireplace.”

Resenting the distraction, Caine gave his son a modicum of attention, and a cursory peek.

“Your spooky castle is a chateau of sorts,” he bumbled—he’d missed it entirely.

It was an imposing country house for the middle of nowhere; Châteauesque, with a few small Loire-inspired towers doubtlessly housing spiral stairs. It was unsymmetrical yet formalistic with a severe, steeply pitched two-story roof, sprawling across Adirondack nature, extending its domain with terraces and gardens.

A three-story turret with tall conical roof formed an elegant hinge between two wings, one terminating in a smaller turret, the other wing with a balustraded terrace, and emaciated trees in huge terracotta pots.

Caine said enough to confirm the slate-grey roof really did bristle with chimneys, over a dozen of them in brick and stone. Xavior’s boisterous curls were substantially more interesting; again the fading sunlight—it created red highlights in russet.

The third statue was far from boring. The bronze boy flirted, embracing the pillar, the faun entranced. With copulation in the offing, Caine quickly placed his hand on Xavior’s bare shoulder to move him along.

If you even slow down, I’ll worry… Just don’t stop and stare.I don’t want to go through that gay-guilt thing you’ve got.

“We better get a move on or it’ll be dark before we get back to our campsite.”

“On your birthday; I don’t think so.” Caine forced his eyes away from the statue. “I wonder if your castle opens onto the lake.”

Caine scarcely resisted the impulse to study the remaining statues as the dance became increasingly erotic. A strange, scandalous curiosity confronted him; a peek at the last statue had him longing for a prolonged study of the bronze boy’s antics and his deformed genitalia.

“What about my initials?” Xavior asked, diverted from counting the deer grazing on vivid green grass.

Caine’s face glowed, embarrassed by shameless seduction, or the shocking similarity to his son.

Caine couldn’t believe he’d missed something so obvious for ten years, yet he still peeked over his shoulder. A gigantic marble phallus was now in plain view. It skewered the little boy hallway up the pillar, his torso contorted, skinny arms and legs flung out. His lustful expression was so disconcerting, Caine quickly turned away, leading Xavior to moral safety.

Remnants of a gravel driveway encircled a knee-high marble basin, octagonal, chock-full of dried leaves, a central moldy-grey marble fountain, and a peacock statue. Art Nouveau craftsmen recreated nature in bronze wire and vivid green and blue ceramic florets. It was slavishly lavish, like jewelry of the era. Caine and Xavior went over to look.

“He’s the head peacock.” Xavior tested wire ends, not nearly as sharp as they looked. “He’s pretty, huh Dad?”

The plumed peacock strutted on axis with the portico, itself adorned with peacocks, lifelike and classy. And bewildering—they should’ve been stolen long ago.

Caine nodded vaguely. The ‘castle’ was completely out of place. Its limestone block walls and dominant dormer-decorated roof resembled the chateaux of the Loire Valley, more passion than Gallic poise. The layout was typical of Renaissance palazzos and villas, a prominent Le bel étage, or noble floor (piano nobile) elevated above ground, a generous second floor, and topped with an elaborate dominant roof. It was otherwise a stylistic mish-mash, Medieval heavy-timber-framed pediments and bay windows, Gothic gargoyles and Romanesque stained-glass windows, Palladian doors, classical Corinthian columns…

Hesitating, Xavior pointed into the dark portico. “The door wasn’t open before.”

There wasn’t much Caine could say after having saddled his son with two initials—he had insisted on ‘Tenney’ over his wife’s ‘Gabriel.’

Xavior muttered under his breath as he trotted across gravel, under the portico, and up the stairs. He pivoted, counting peacocks between columns.

He glanced at the open door. His father shook his head before he had a chance to ask.

“Helloooo. Anyone there?” he called anyway. He turned around. “See, Dad, no one home!”

“Duh, like religious ecstasy.” Xavior stood straight, arms at his sides, like a kid giving a class speech. “’The oracle of him who hears the words of God, Who sees the vision of the Almighty, Falling down, yet having his eyes uncovered.’”

Your tummy is flat as a board. Just your gorgeous groove leading down, your cute little belly button smack in the middle. Why on earth did I make that weird sign on you?

“Mom told Pastor Bonaventure I was being teased so I had to repeat it a hundred times for him. He has a verse for everything.”

Xavior sauntered around the porch, inspecting each peacock before he stopped at the door. “Do you know any?” he asked over his shoulder.

Look at you, standing up there as if you’re the Dauphin. What does that make me, the lord of the manor, or your footman?

“I think I hear rats, Dad.” He backed away. “Mr. Boooo-cowww-sky, you in dere?”

“Bukowski was mostly a lowlife poet. He also said, ‘An intellectual says a simple thing in a hard way. An artist says a hard thing in a simple way.’”

Xavior thought about it. “Pastor Bonaventure says hard things in hard ways. What’s that make him?”

With his hands on his hips like a pouty young prince, Xavior frowned until his father finally yielded in the battle of wills and ascended the stairs.

Caine trailed after his snooping son, catching up when Xavior knelt down before the threshold, paying homage with his little rump lifted up. A deep diagonal crack disfigured pink marble as smooth as a baby’s bottom, funneling into a gaping dark hole. He peered over Xavior’s dark disheveled head, into the fissure.

“There’s no bottom to it, Dad. It goes way, way down, like all the way to China.”

He scooped up his son and flipped him over, one arm under his back, one arm under his knees. Giggling, Xavior wrapped his arm around his father’s neck.

“Sorry I asked.” He took a breath. “I know Bonaventure hurt you, inside more than outside, and so did your mother. I was an ass not to realize, and stop them. You’re my son. I love you.”

All of a sudden, Xavior leaned up and smooched him. It was astonishing, automatic, unanticipated.

His son’s lips were soft, wet, and hot. In an instant, he was trembling. It went on so long his heart pulsed, blood rushing into manhood.

“What the hell was that about?” Caine mumbled, shocked at the lingering sensation.

Xavior murmured ‘I love you;’ then, something about carrying him on his birthday, being his bride.

Dumbfounded, Caine clasped him tighter. A moment before he stepped over the threshold, he glanced up. Chiseled into the stone slab over the door was ’Almighty Asmodeus, abandon me to Temptation,’ and a date, ‘December 21, 1918.’

He shivered, and for a few heartbeats, he considered leaving. Instead, he lowered Xavior until his feet hit the floor. For a few long seconds, they gazed at each other. Xavior’s eyes dropped down, his father’s, too. Maleness projected. If anything, Xavior’s penis stuck out more.

“Floors need a polish,” Caine remarked, so embarrassed he didn’t dare mention it.

Debris all but obscured a granite checkerboard floor, crumbling leaves, feathers, hard pellets of feces.

Oblivious to what was underfoot, and trying to hide what protruded in front, Xavior stepped away. He aligned himself with the axis, gazing through several vast rooms.

Narrow walnut-paneled doors lined two sides of the entry foyer. Geometric mother-of-pearl separated each panel, uniquely carved in low relief, birds, bears, deer, and foxes. Pinned to one door was a single page, hand-written:

He traced the raised surface of old, hand-pressed paper, imprinted with a faded floral decoration.

Xavior came over, deliberately staying behind his father, yet pulling on his arm in order to see.

“It’s fun not knowing what it means. Kind of scary, though, finding them everywhere.”

Contritely, Caine folded the page, put it in his pocket, and opened the door. There were three drawers, a rack for a rifle or shotgun, and a solitary coat hook, a small brass hand clutching a cow horn. In the top drawer, a clay-crusted boot…

… claws of various sizes, three snake skulls, a very-old-looking circlet of thorns...

Abruptly, Xavior stepped in front of him, skipping the thorns and claws, reaching for the largest skull.

Caine left his son fiddling with skulls and claws. The next room imitated the great hall of a medieval fortress, its grimy stone walls splashed with large creamy quadrilaterals likely covered by tapestries. To the left, narrow leaded glass windows framed a vast fireplace. The hearth was as big as his entire living room, with spider-infested logs stacked to either side.

The hall was undecorated except for Latin inscriptions above the doors, a second-story colonnade opposite the fireplace, and a frieze of bearded elk heads, antlers bleached like driftwood.

“A hundred years ago, when this place opened, it was a hunting lodge. They were all over the Adirondacks.”

Someone should turn it into an eco-friendly resort, a sanctuary for preserving nature with this mortuary as a reminder.

Leaving Xavior to contemplate smoke-darkened ceiling coffers, cobwebbed chandeliers, and moth-eaten trophies, Caine sauntered over to look up at another doorway inscription.

“You took Latin, Dad? No way! No one takes Latin except at Catholic school.”

“Dweeb, who me? ’Dum Spiro, Te Amo’ means ‘While I breath, I love you,’ which I do, by the way.”

Xavior wandered off, leaving a trail of sneaker prints in the dust, muttering ‘dumb spiral ammo’.

The pattern and size of pale rectangles on the walls revealed the hallway had been a grandiose art gallery. Caine skirted trash piles at the bottom of the grand stairs, wondering if upstairs was worth the climb.

Scene 3: Fascination

With the sun already high in the sky, lake trout glided through shallow crystal water, seeking shadow and deeper pools. Wondering whether he might be successful with an artificial lure, Caine cast closer to the shore. Even in shade, the trout weren’t interested in the juicy fat worms Xavior had extracted from mulchy soil.

After an hour of not getting a single bite, his shirtless son sat in the canoe’s stern, ocassionally looking at his rod. He met his father’s sleepy sideways glance with a curious smile, both of them in no hurry to get back to civilization with mountains and forest all around.

Caine resisted persistence, offered a nod, and gestured towards the bank where the water looked deeper. Still smiling, ten-year-old Xavior yawned, leaning back, stretched like a cat, his taut bare belly baking in the sun, oblivious to his father’s desired route, the faint purplish marks on his front, the golden eagle soaring directly overhead.

His thoughts drifted in the current, shifting without rhyme or reason except for Xavior’s perplexing smile. Yet, like Xavior’s kayak towed behind the canoe, there was no getting away, not from destiny.

Still wearing nothing under your sexy little shorts, I see. Maybe you want me to see Tenney Junior. If I asked you to take them off, would you?

There was still time, two hours to Pfeiffer’s Provisions and Rentals, four hours if they explored the creek offshoots.

As if reading his thoughts, Xavior lifted his right foot, plopping it on the gunwale, his slim leg crooked outward, drawing his loose white shorts with it.

“So was the hotel in this movie Mark and me watched with Mr. Truett, Dad. It was spooky.” Xavior put on his most serious face, his tone near perfect. “Redrum. Redrum.”

He remembered too late-- under a blanket with Mark, both of them stiff, not scared.

Spooky was Mr. Truett in his recliner just a few feet away; only it didn’t bother Mark, not one bit.

For a few moments, he thought the sun caused the heat in his crotch. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, he brought up his knee to hide the bulge in his shorts.

He fiddled with a trout lure, a spinner with a bright yellow blade, orange feathers, and a triple hook.

His erection was unwavering until he pressed his thumb pad into a barbed hook, gritting his teeth as he increased the pressure. Instead, another hook pierced the tip of his thumb. He winced, swiftly moving his hand out of sight as a globule of blood formed. Lessons learned, a hook was ideal; triple hooks were hard to control; enough pain made stiffness go away.

At that, he looked up, absently sucking his thumb. “It always looks worse than it hurts.”

“Wait until I have to get it out.” Ignoring his grumbling son, Caine continued, “It’d take a God-awful amount of money to fix it up. A million bucks, at least.”

“Dad, you should never say His Name in vain. Anyway, people should expect a mess if it’s haunted.”

“Redrum Resort, now there’s an idea,” Caine mused aloud, constraining his gaze to the shore even as he savored the possibility of his son’s nudity.

A trout shimmered just below the surface, teasing, just out of reach, like Xavior.

And no mom, and no church to screw up your head; now, that would be worth driving 30 miles to the nearest supermarket.

“I was thinking about it all night,” Caine admitted. “I have no idea how to pay for it, but if we fixed it up, made it into an eco-hotel; do you think it would work?”

Even better would be an eco-nudist resort. Then, you’d have to take off your clothes.

“Not including the turret, the second floor has seven big bedrooms, and seven small ones. Not much of a hotel, Dad.”

Xavior grinned. “What if it was expensive to stay? We’d cater to Democrat millionaires who idolize nature,” he added, sounding informed, and too much like his mother.

“I’m not sure about only catering to Democrats, but small and exclusive might work.”

“At the least, it’s worth looking into,” Caine added, winding in his line,

Scene 4: Investigation

After checking the straps holding the canoe and kayak on the Wrangler’s roof, Caine followed Xavior into Pfeiffer’s Provisions and Rentals. A squeaky fly-screen door banged behind him. Already scratching mosquito bites, he glanced around, only a pimply teenager playing virtual pinball on his iPhone.

“You cain’t find it, we ain’t got it,” the youth called, adolescent disdain for any interruption.

He waited at the register, ignored, looking at snapshots under the foggy plastic counter, fishermen young and old displaying their catches. Xavior searched the refrigerator until he found what he wanted. He deposited root beer, diet lemon, and two apples in front of his father and headed off to explore.

The teenager jerked back to life when his player suddenly expired with a groan, watching Xavior wander the aisles as if every tourist kid was a potential shoplifter. With a cold drink soothing his parched throat, a grateful Caine held out $20.

“Tell me about the hunting lodge at the north end of the lake and the rest is yours.”

“It’s your money, Mister.” The teenager shrugged. “Eagle Aerie was in the news fer a while when the legislators took half of it for the Park. Like they need more! They already got half the state, six million acres. Ka-ching!”

“Well, first thing what I heard from Mr. Pfeiffer when I started here…” He smirked teeth in need of regular brushing. “… was to keep my mouth shut.”

“Fifteen bucks don’t buy nuthin’ worth knowin.’ There’s at least twenty thousand acres of prime huntin’ and fishin,’ and it all belongs to some Hebe foundation; happy?”

“Somethin’ like that. With all the regulation, we don’t get many customers in here ‘til fall. Lots of people pay good money to see leaves change color. It’s crazy. It’s the rumors what’s worth openin’ the wallet.”

“Silas? He said he turned ten the day the lodge opened, so a long while, I reckon. Locals kids were going to Boyville ages before he arrived.”

“Never heard of a girl going up there to hunt. Mr. Pfeiffer said there was seven women on the staff, but that’s all.”

For a moment, Caine turned away to see what his son was up to. Xavior stared up at a model airplane handing from a cobwebbed wood beam, a Sopwith Camel F.1 with the insignia of the Royal Flying Corps.

“… back when Silas was a boy, the camp wasn’t named anything. Heck, the Adirondacks weren’t here till later, 1830-somethin.’ The lodge itself weren’t finished ‘til after the war. That’s when old-man Pfeiffer called it ‘Eagle Aerie.’”

The teen glanced over his shoulder, at a gaunt shadow beyond muslin curtains. A timeless Merlin face peered into the store, watching Xavior with crinkly eyes, white curls in abundance. He ducked back as soon as he realized he’d been noticed.

Now, Caine was curious. Not only had the old man winked at his son, the numbers still didn’t add up. Ten years old and a century later, Silas Pfeiffer would’ve died eons ago.

“I think it officially opened on December 21^st, 1918,” he said to provoke the teenager.

“One of yer fancy paddles is good as cash in this store,” the teenager said coldly.

Caine leaned in, his voice low. “Everything you know, and it’s my choice which paddle.”

“Deal.” The teenager sucked on his bottom lip, leaned in, and confided, “Last time me and Silas talked about Boyville, he said everyone came up from New York. Everyone, even after the construction was done, the guests, the staff, the minions, they all came from New York; a lot of ‘em fuckin’ foreigners.”

Caine cogitated on ‘minions’—it wasn’t a word he heard every day in Ithaca. “I hear rich people like their privacy.”

“I reckon it was real private up there. There used to be no trespassing signs; barbed wire, too.” The teenager smirked, nodding where Xavior’s voice had come from. “You need a fence to keep boys like him safe.”

“Barbed wire won’t keep out bears. We saw a black bear mom and three cubs in the area, yesterday.”

Spotting the tips of fly rods bouncing above the shelving, Caine called, “What are you doing back there?”

Not sure he’d heard right, and not ready to ask directly, Caine turned to the acned assistant. “It seems my kid’s into living dangerously.”

“Well, this is the place for danger. Even nowadays, nowhere near Golden Eagle Mountain is open fer tourists. It ‘specially ain’t safe around the lodge, not fer a boy.”

Xavior moved fast and quiet, like a barefoot ninja, or maybe a djinn wearing slippers. Suddenly, he stepped in front of his father, holding out a brook trout lure and an opened box.

With a peculiar premonition, Caine skimmed the window behind his son. The shadowy man was back; old, not ancient, good-looking Teutonic DNA.

“Lots of bear in the area, but it ain’t bear you need to worry ‘bout,” the teenager went on. “There’s worse things up there.”

He seemed completely unaware that the old man peered in like a pervert. No pretense, he was obviously ogling Xavior’s rear.

The man at the window licked his lips, not an ice-cream lick, or a sore-lips lick, a tantalizing lick as if tasting a very inappropriate place.

The teenager jerked his thumb at the rear screen door. “He’s on the back porch.” He caught Caine’s eye and whispered confidentially, “You saw him. He’s drunker than a skunk.”

Common sense to the contrary, Caine put the lure back in the box and handed it to his son.

“I want you to leave the spare canoe paddle on the front porch, and then wait in the Wrangler.”

Xavior promptly pivoted and headed for the exit, flicking curls from his forehead.

“Take it out of the twenty,” Caine said coldly. He pushed his way through the rear screen door.

With a grubby cotton shawl draped over his sweaty middle, Silas Pfeiffer slumped in an Adirondack chair. The face at the window had seemed older, much older, yet even then a distant nephew to the ‘110’ he got from adding up. Up close, Caine guessed late 60s, like the chair. It was hard-carved splotchy hickory, the back propped and cushioned in threadbare green canvas.

Pfeiffer gave Caine a withering glance and gulped crystal-clear liquid, thin gnarled fingers like claws around a crazed-plastic tumbler.

“Phillip Caine. I’m interested in the lodge at the north end of the lake. I was wondering if you knew anything about it.”

Before Caine could offer a handshake, the man waved at the rail, as much as saying ‘sit, if you dare.’

“I hope you’re not allergic, Mr. Caine,” he slurred. “If you’re not stung by a hornet already, you soon will be.”

Then, in silence, he surveyed Caine from head to toe, lingering in the middle, blinking bleary red eyes. Finally, he cackled and slapped his thigh, glancing about. Caine waited, remarkably patient.

“Disposed and bestowed will outshine the rest. More’s the pity for Rosenkrantz; he prefers petite parts. Some of ‘em are real little. Some are demons just like your son,” he muttered.

“My daddy and I arrived on the solstice. We all do. He was too sick to do more than close the deal!”

Pfeiffer smiled, a private joke that had him nodding to himself and rearranging the shawl.

“When I was his age, I’d have wanted you, too, Yul-Brynner bald head and all. You take lots of photos of him?”

“I’m a photographer, so yes.” Caine smiled, and skirted the details of what had made him a social pariah in Ithaca, New York. “As many, and as often as he’ll allow.”

“My father was a photographer. During the war, he was stationed at Saizerais Aerodrome, mostly printing aerial photos until VI Corps came under gas attack. Afterwards, his lungs were ruined. It took weeks for him to return, and then she up and died the same day. The important stuff was nothing to brag about, yet I loved him dearly…”

“Go figure, Mr. Caine. We took the train from Grand Central on December 21^st, five weeks after Armistice Day. Blizzard conditions across the Northeast, so it was slow all the way. My father kept coughing from breathing soot. The carriage ride about froze my frigging toes off.”

My father wouldn’t have been able to keep his hands off your son. I was boringly blond, not like your lad. Pretty as can be; I hope you have what he needs.

“Ecstasy; a good nickname for a minion. Be certain you want to do this, Mr. Caine. He’s smaller than most. Play your cards right and he’ll love you before the week’s out; if he doesn’t already.”

Confused, Caine sipped chilled diet lemon. “You were at the lodge as a kid?”

“I was there for the opening. My father carried me over the threshold like his bride.”

He shivered, and consigned it to ‘brain freeze.’ “You don’t look 110.”

“Your son doesn’t look ten. Young looking is a prerequisite for the Founders. Even then, it didn’t turn out the way we expected. Unlike you, my father had some idea of what we were getting into. It’s best if a boy’s kept in the dark. Ignorance is bliss until the following morning.” Pfeiffer stared past Caine. “The worst part is knowing they’re always watching. You’ll be the same way, nervous as hell for the first seven days.”

“You would if you listened, Mr. Caine,” Pfeiffer said, brusque enough to be rude. “It’s a fact; young boys need women to mother them. Curse the crones, I didn’t draw Nanny Dankworth for my stinger; although it never bothered my father. Right off, she coddled me more than my Aunt Felicia did after my mother died. What a difference a shekel of silver makes. The pins are in until midnight. Then, it stings like the dickens.”

“Mr Caine, it’s true I’m out of order, but you must pay attention. Unfortunately, Dr. Kellogg trimmed me at birth, so Senora Maculata gave me her thimble. Needless to say, I wasn’t the biggest hornet; still, I got the job done.”

“It was spotted from the housekeeper’s Hemlock, so it wasn’t the prettiest either. There’s no need to worry about who bids the most; they’re all for the better, although Nanny’s the best by far. Now, Miss Tregonwell, the head cook, you need to know that she pricks meager parts with hawthorn, not lemon myrtle. She won my portal. My father always said her stuffed lamb was to die for.”

“Not to worry, so long as it makes him tender. Better eager than beleaguer to enjoy your pricking. I still needed Nanny Dankworth the following day. She did a fine job on my lips; however, her horns took a while to get used to. Better a day late than not at all. You’ve been to the Aerie, I take it.”

Caine was of the mind that Silas Pfeiffer, like Tootles, had lost his marbles in Neverland.

“Well, there’s always work to be done. You’ve got good staff, and seven days, plenty of time to write complete sentences.”

Pfeiffer guffawed and slapped his knee. “That you will, Mr. Caine. He’ll be anxious for twilight, and up at cock-crow as if nothing happened. Practice makes perfect, especially a little ‘un. The days being so short helped me. Then, the influenza took my papa and Rosenkranz took over as Master. The Jews talk a good game, but no staying power, at least not the kind I needed.”

Stunned to silence, Caine watched him drain the tumbler, reach beside his chair and pluck up a bottle, pop the cork with his thumb, and refill to the brim.

“When it comes to Adspicia, watch out for snakes. It’s the same for the black crone. Culpepper always wins the shekels when it comes to the purse. She’s the mistress of marinating.”

Pfeiffer paused to sip before his glass spilled, keeping an eye on Caine, perplexed by Adspicia. It was something to do with ‘looking’; he was certain.

He resumed. “Just remember, too tight can ruin a chicken; but there’s no peacock without poison ivy and pine sap. Whether he’ll be capon or rooster is obvious before she puts it on, but it’s always a shock.”

“Her poultice, of course. You could hardly do it with spines or a salve. With the Rule of Exaggeration, bigger is good, yet smaller is better. Real small and he’ll sing like a choirboy.”

“She’s a spiteful witch, Mr. Caine. A wrong word about her laundry and she’ll ruin your most precious possession in a heartbeat. I joked that she starched my knickers, so I looked like a billy-goat afterwards. Lucky for me, my father adored bloated,” he snickered.

“All the women are crones, even pretty Mademoiselle Fourchette! She’s the pastry chef. She’ll fix the flap, if he has one; and you definitely want her le ombilic. What’s hot in the middle is hot all over, as they say. Least, but not last, beware McCracken bearing white lightning.”

He turned the bottle so Caine could see the label, ‘Adirondack White Whisky,’ snowy mountains, forests, and lakes. It looked positively picturesque.

“I heard there were moonshine stills all over the place during Prohibition.”

“Eagle Aerie still makes enough Water of Life to bathe in.” He looked around. “McCracken adds mint to hers, superb for smoothing and soothing; but never, ever, leave your son alone with her, Mr. Caine. She’ll stuff him with toadstool.”

It’s far more insidious than you can imagine. He’ll strut afterwards, same as the other peacocks; but better a horny hornet than the other kind.

He leaned over the porch to spit phlegm, coughing until he got back his breath. He lowered his voice.

“Come the eighth day, he’ll deal with the Demon himself, Mr. Caine. Not to worry; assuming you’re up to the task, and you don’t mind them watching. Just take lots of photos like my father did. You’ll be glad the next week.”

Too bewildered to decipher more twaddle, Caine decided to brave the old man's craziness. He dug in his pocket, extracted the page he’d taken from the cupboard door, unfolded it, and held it out. Pfeiffer’s eyes went straight to the watermark.

“It says to contact the Foundation if interested. How would I go about doing that?”

“You serious after what I just told you?” Pfeiffer snapped. He slapped the paper. “It’s right in front of your face, man!”

How could I forget your nervous treble. ‘A’, ‘S’, ‘M’, ‘O’, ‘D’, ‘A’, and ‘Y’?

He dragged his eyes away, trembling at the memory of marking his offspring for possession. With 'ASMODAY' daubed on his bare front, and gazing into each other’s eyes, they’d never been so close.

Pfeiffer’s fingertip circled, stopping on each of the seven letters of the watermark. Meaning mattered, not execution.

“You already know all you need to know, Mr. Caine. You’ll find the rest of what you’re after at Saranac Lake. When I was Xavior’s age, he was Ash Maide—the Jews ran the joint and the goyim bent over. Nowadays, he goes by Sam Soudé. With the global economy, Founders and hornets come from all over.” Pfeiffer cocked an eye and winked suggestively. “It’ll be worth taking the boy with you.”

Three sheets to the wind, Pfeiffer cackled. “Your son’s got teensy weensy balls, am I right?”

“Remember what I said about Culpepper. You’ll have nothing but good to say if she leaves him a bump. But if not, it’s no loss. Oh, and I left out Signore Sparacello. You might be lucky, too.”

Scene 5: Negotiation

Downtown Saranac Lake was a family-owned relic of last-century tourism and quaint Hippy culture, unreservedly charming. On reflection though, it hardly seemed worth waking a grumpy Xavior for knick-knack stores, art and craft galleries, and health-food restaurants. Ten-year-old boys didn’t think much of flower pots in hanging macramé baskets; however, buskers on the corner playing mandolins and flutes, two magicians, three lipsticked mimes, and an acrobat doing backflips in slow motion were worth waking up for.

“The Adirondacks at its best,” Caine joked, frustration barely checked after driving up and down Main Street to find a parking spot at 4:45 pm.

Xavior held up his father’s cellphone. Without being asked, he’d loaded his favorite photo from his father’s Nikon camera.

Caine was surprised. It was his favorite for the trip, too, the equal of the background on his laptop, and it was fit for public consumption.

You’re my gorgeous child of nature. Even with shorts on, people will still say you’re abused. You’re not, you’re loved, far more than you realize. If only you would pose in the nude for me.

With his father’s cellphone safely unplugged from the camera and back in the console, Xavior looked around to see what he’d missed.

Caine braked and dodged a mom with five kids in tow, a gaggle of pudgy geese intent on crossing the street despite the traffic.

For the third time, bleary-eyed Xavior pointed out the passenger window. “Um, Dad.”

According to the sign hanging over the sidewalk outside Hassan’s Handmade Rugs, Soudé Property Management Inc. was on the second floor. It had geraniums on the windowsills, too.

Short-tempered, although there was no reason why, Caine nearly said ‘cool.’ He blamed his bad mood on parking; the only open parking space he’d seen during two sweeps was way down the street near the old fire station.

He was certain of one thing only; there was far more at stake than he’d realized when he sat down in Judge McGhee’s chambers to sign a hastily drafted revised decree. Now, so close to the goal line…

Fortunately, Xavior saw what he didn’t. “In front of ‘Fresh Meat,’ Dad.”

He swerved into a vacant space in front of a rusty delivery van, a string of sausages painted on the side. He switched off the engine.

Expecting to be told to stay in the Wrangler, his son already had his Android out, scrolling through three days of messages from Mark Truett. Size-four grubby feet decorated the dashboard, little prehensile toes grasping the industrialized grab bar. Caine’s mesmerized eyes traveled utterly hairless legs, knobby scarred knees, and taut football thighs. He stopped on white shorts, so tiny and loose they weren’t decent…

On cue, Xavior absently scratched the mosquito bite on his hip. In the process of rearranging his shorts, he presented a glimpse.

Caine gulped, shameless; incredulous bare boyhood in daylight, not crudely poking up, just floppy and inoffensive, and beautiful.

Definitely no ballpark hotdog for my boy. Too pale for Bratwurst, too pink for Kielbasa, hardly a chunky British banger.

He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Just thinking about what I’d like for dinner.”

Pull back the skin and your wiener will be just like your daddy’s, only smaller.

Salivating, feeling his face growing hotter until Xavior’s almost naked body was all he could think about.

Never noticed you had such tiny nipples, Your areola are like dimes defined by pinpricks. And your gorgeous tummy, I could lick it all day. As skinny as you are, I can barely see your miniature belly button.

In the next instant, Xavior noticed his gaze, put two and two together and came up red-faced. He quickly rearranged his shorts.

Long seconds passed with father and son silently studying each other. Guilt finally caught up and he quickly averted his gaze, swiveling to search the back seat.

Five chubby kids in bright yellow polo-shirts, like ducks in a row, passed the Wrangler, the oldest peeking in the passenger window, the youngest making a sourpuss face because the mother turned into the macramé shop.

Caine swiveled back with a lime-green T-shirt. “Put this on; you’re coming too.”

My too-pretty-for-a-boy kayak-kid is going commando in public. What will Hippyville think?

He watched his son put on his shirt, still pursuing unapologetic thoughts. Unaware, brazen Xavior stretched his slender arms behind the seat. Showing off ribs and abdominal muscles in the Wrangler change room. No duck fat on his tummy!

I should be embarrassed that I’m thinking like this, only I’m not. Worse, I don’t think it’s wrong. It’s right for both of us. I can’t conceal it much longer.

Reaching across, Caine dragged down a handful of soft-cotton T-shirt, stroking muscled flesh firm as a board, skin like hot satin, getting a giggle when he stuck his thumb in boy bellybutton.

Xavior found his sneakers on the floor, stuffed his feet under knotted laces, and bounded after his father, hoping he’d remembered to lock the car door. Up the stairs, two at time, he finally caught up when his father was outside an antique oak door. A long time ago, someone had painted the mid-panel white, with ‘Soudé Property Management Inc. Hours by Appointment,’ stenciled in black.

He knocked anyway before turning around, looking down at his moppet, curly dark-headed, grinning, steely blue-eyed, little demon...

“You came too late, Dad,” the imp teased, reinvigorated, making his first adult joke.

Caine found himself staring at Xavior, suddenly realizing just how small his son was, 50 inches tall and 55 pounds standing before 74 inches and 190 pounds. Tousled curls came somewhere between his navel and nipples.

Magnetic eyes made his hunger voracious. He grasped Xavior’s chest, fingers digging into hot little armpits, powerful thumbs squashing boy nipples into a lithe bony chest, ready to boost him…

Soudé was an inch or two taller than Xavior, and as heavy as his father. Mischievous eyes darted from father to son, and lingered. Endowed with a playful smirk, he stuck out his hand.

Caine gaped at flabby round jowls, short jet-black hair in ringlets, a braid down his back. Adirondack business-casual, blue pressed short-sleeved shirt, and red bow-tie contradicted an olive complexion suited to St. Thomas.

“Xavior Caine, Sir.” However, Xavior wasn’t about to shake hands with a dwarf.

“A handsome boy is the difference between Heaven and Hades; I’m right, aren’t I Dad?” Soudé winked at Caine.

With a jolly grin, Soudé stepped up to Xavior, tilting his head from side to side, making faces until the boy smiled back.

“Nothing better than a boy who smiles like a demon,” Soudé chuckled. “We’d be best friends forever if I was six months younger.”

“Don’t worry about being small,” Soudé confided. “‘Little rogues are all-too-appetizing!’”

He stepped aside and ushered them into his waiting room. Upon, hearing him close and lock the door, Xavior nudged his father to look at a model airplane hanging from the ceiling.

“There was one just like it at the bait shop, Dad.” Then, he whispered. “Cree-py.”

“I hope you’re hungry. Monday is Miss Tregonwell’s Cornish tea. A cup of Earl Grey, scones, strawberry jam, and clotted cream.” Soudé winked at Xavior as if he’d overheard ‘creepy.’ “Just between us, her specialty is stuffed lamb, for little rogues like you.”

He waddled off, muttering something about making themselves comfortable in his office before disappearing into the back room.

Caine smothered a smile, tousled his son’s head, and with a firm hand on his shoulder, guided him into Soudé’s office.

Xavior folded his arms, and looked around. Although he wasn’t a fan of old movies, the wall posters were cool. Right off, he recognized Mark’s favorite. Dracula hung next to the mirrors behind Mark’s queen-sized bed—yes, mirrors. Frankenstein was there, too. Mark’s posters were copies of posters from 1931. The posters in Soudé’s office looked ancient, faded colors in grubby chipped frames. The furniture also belonged in a museum; a fancy floral sofa with skinny curved legs and a matching armchair with a medallion backrest. No coffee table, just a small round table in the corner.

Answering with a shrug, Caine strolled over to look at black-framed sepia photos on the opposite wall. He remembered *that table* all too well. His ex-wife had seen a similar Louis XVI tableau in the Metropolitan Museum, admiring its floral-patterned Sèvres porcelain top. She had to have one like it, so much that she overpaid for a made-in-China replica for her Frank Lloyd Wright-inspired foyer.

Xavior bounced on the sofa, completely unaware that his father was peering at a photo of the Adirondacks, in particular, several boys playing on the terrace. They were tanned head to toe.

“Be careful! I think it’s valuable,” Caine warned without even looking back.

Xavior patted upholstery, unmindful of grubby hands on Aubusson tapestry. He snuggled closer when his father sat beside him. Never more aware of the small warm body pressed against his, Caine hunched forward, breathing deeply. He peeked sideways, uncomfortably sensing his son’s nervousness.

“Did you notice how he looked at me?” Xavior murmured, tilting his head just enough to catch his father’s eye.

Caine nodded, swallowed, going cross-eyed watching his son’s little pink tongue swipe his lips, eyelids fluttering, nostrils flaring with each excited breath.

“Da-ad?” Xavior laid both hands in his lap. “Dad, I think we need to go.”

“You going to be sick?” Caine brushed away curls and touched his son’s smooth forehead.

“Not like that, Dad. Like shaky inside.” Xavior knew deep down he shouldn’t say it. “Mr. Soudé looks at me the same way you do.” He hesitated, certain his father would get angry. “… like he wants to eat me.”

“Only because you look so delectable, my dear.” Soudé trundled a little toy cart into the room, wooden sides and spoked wheels, and a handle out in front.

My thoughts exactly. I’d lick you all over, first. And then I’ll suck on your best parts.That would be Junior. Maybe I’ll kiss your fanny. Definitely, that!

“A boy’s tummy is always yummy.” Soudé smacked his lips. “No wonder I’m so fat. I’m so fat I can make a pussy anywhere on my body, or a little bottom, if a boy is so inclined.”

Before Caine could intervene, he demonstrated the latter, folding his plump arm, wriggling a fat little finger into the bulging crevice, pumping it back and forth. Xavior gaped and started to giggle.

“Boys will be boys, Mr. Caine.” He slapped a jellified middle. “I’m so short, I’ll always be a boy at heart. Perhaps you’ve noticed that I surround myself with boys’ toys.”

Caine nodded warily, at the same time trying to place the cart because he’d seen it before, often. “The model plane in the front room is a beauty.”

“It’s a flying model of the Royal Aircraft Factory’s S.E.5a. The Scout Experimental 5 was the spitfire of World War I, a much better plane than the Sopwith Camel. It was made by a photographer while he was stationed at Saizerais Aerodrome, a gift for his son back in New York.”

“An original Liberty Coaster, circa 1918; one of Antonio Pasin’s first wagons.” Soudé rolled the cart in front of Xavior. “Can you be mother and pour tea, dear boy? I take extra cream and four sugars.”

“So would a lot of men and boys.” Soudé winked at Xavior. “My favorite toy needs a boy to play with it.”

He occupied the armchair, one hand clasping a knurled paw, his other hand fluttering as he instructed Xavior on combining scones fresh from the oven, a slab of chilled butter, jam, and a dollop of thick yellow cream.

“Always serve your father first, Sweetie. He’ll always be the most important man in your life. You don’t know it yet, but he also loves you more than anyone else ever will.” Soudé focused on a very embarrassed Caine. “Now, about the Lodge?”

“Mr. Caine, I’ll be frank. On the surface, your sustainable eco resort can meet the Foundation’s goals of ensuring privacy and selective admission if you stick to only seven guests at a time. Of course, you’d have to limit your guests to men.”

“It is what it is; however, I doubt the Board would entertain your proposal for said property.”

Soudé gestured at maps and surveys spread across the floor. A thick grey-brown tube of rolled-up building plans was still in the little cart. ‘Said property’ was large, not vast by Adirondack standards. It included 23,279 acres of nature’s glory; five lakes, as many streams and countless creeks, meadows, wetlands, the better half of Golden Eagle Mountain, virgin forests, all constrained by covenants dating from acquisition.

“There are hordes of hotels in the Adirondacks,” Soudé expounded. “Going green is especially popular. In fact, there are several in this area, all competing for the same market. That said, I rather like the idea of preserving habitat for future generations. The problem is the Foundation believes hunting is fundamental to its mission.”

From the protection of Caine’s fatherly embrace, an eager Xavior hastily interjected, “In that case, we’ll keep Eagle Aerie the way it used to be, Mr. Soudé.”

“The Board won’t have it any other way, my darling boy. Most men enjoy the pursuit, spotting the quarry, tracking it, setting up the target, more than taking the actual shot...” He inclined his head. “… metaphorically speaking.”

Soudé’s seemingly sincere smile flickered as he flicked through his weighty file. “Times have changed, Mr. Caine. What’s more, they will continue to change. We must move on or be left behind.”

“The Founders would most certainly agree. The world changes every hundred years so innovation is essential. Mr. Caine, what you said about pushing the limit, something about an exceptional experience; what do you have in mind, exactly?”

Caine already had his cellphone primed and loaded. “I *shot* this yesterday morning.”

“Oh my! You’re a photographer, too, a good one. This is beautiful, beatific... It makes His precious Garden seem a desert.”

Soudé slumped into his armchair, peering at the cellphone, pressing it against his sagging breast. Five times he peeked, before he took a deep breath and stared until he finally had to say something.

“What would I give to have been there? This treasure… He’s beautiful.” He raised both bushy brows at Xavior. “You’re still wearing the same pants!”

“If it was up to me, he’d never wear anything but knickers. Tiny, with plenty of air to keep things cool.” Soudé smiled, clearly relishing the idea.

“When the Lodge first opened, boys wore knickers in summer, knickerbockers for winter, and ankle-knickers for formal occasions—the boys called them peacock pants. Nice and loose, so they were always comfortable,” Soudé went on. “Am I right in thinking you’re wearing nothing underneath?”

“Such a delicious demon.” Soudé beamed. “Or to misquote a famous acquaintance, ‘Little rogues are all-too-appetizing!’”

Before much longer, my prince of peacocks will wear knickers in one form of another,undies not optional.

Caine snapped back and took what he thought was a huge risk. “Any hotter, it would be too hot to wear clothes.”

I’m glad you’re showing it off? Right there is the reason to circumcise you. We’d be able to see your knob, not just a boring bump, but the shape of it. A nicely tapered shaft with an exposed small helmet, the skin pulled tight just like mine…

“Finally, we get to the crux, Mr. Caine. I think I finally understand what you mean by an exceptional experience. Human interaction in its most natural state is essential to your approach, am I right?”

Suddenly, Caine was certain. “The photo says everything I could say, Mr. Soudé.”

There, I’ve said it. I’m sure I’m right! He hasn’t said anything directly. He’s being careful, just like me.

“In that case, what you’re offering is unique; in fact, remarkably unique. Can promise the Board will approve your proposal if guests experience natural beauty like this.” Soudé held up Caine’s cellphone.

“They’ll be especially interested when they see the crotch of your issue.”

You don’t realize we’re really talking about you taking off your clothes, do you?

“Then, we have the start of a deal. Terms and Conditions of Subsequent Acquisition, where did I leave you? Ah, here you are.” Soudé held up a parchment page. “In perpetuity, wherefore and whereupon, the dominus, that’s you, proposes a ‘modo usui’, that’s an ‘alternate use’ for the estate, said party shall forthwith accept and acquiesce to…. Oh my, it does on! Hm…” Shaking his head. “This changes the situation somewhat, but what an opportunity to rethink our approach!”

After two hours of back and forth without any mention of money, Caine scarcely restrained himself from getting up and leaving.

“Didn’t I say already? It’s not for sale, not at any price. The Founders are, were adamant about that. You must lease it for hunting purposes only. I suppose Contra proferentem might apply. Any ambiguity is construed against the drafting party.”

Caine frowned down at his son, who seemed intent on snuggling ever closer. “Meaning what, exactly?”

“Since there’s no mention of actually killing the fauna, just hunting it; we can assume stalking for observation is part of hunting.” Soudé glanced up, eyes bright as beacons. “Ergo, you qualify. You can lease it, if you want.”

He threw out his hands. “Worry about the future by all means, but not the next century!”

“It’s a nice round number. Better than 21 or 666.” Soudé’s jowls wobbled when he chuckled. “Perhaps you’d prefer 69?”

Xavior sat up, squeezing his father’s fingers to get attention. “What’s so important about 69?”

“Hm…” Soudé frowned, a scuffed HP 12C business calculator at the ready. “The present value of… at interest rate of five percent, annual payments for 100 years…”

Soudé looked up. “After rounding up, $20. Or I can swipe your credit card right now for $400, and that would cover all the payments. Save all those stamps and going to the post office.”

“One shekel of silver is half an ounce. That’s $20. No one wants you to go bankrupt, Mr. Caine.”

“You bear all the risk and you pay all the costs. The sooner you have a budget the better; repairs, improvements, maintenance, staff, insurance, heating and cooling, transport, food and entertaining, advertising, bad debts. Did I miss anything?”

“It’s owned by a foundation, Mr. Caine, Section 4966(d)(2) of the Internal Revenue Code. There are no property taxes. And you won’t make any profit, so no income tax.” Soudé inclined his head. “I do have one question, though. How do you plan to pay to renovate the lodge?”

Soudé raised a bushy eyebrow. “And how much might that be, in ballpark terms?”

Seeing no reason to the contrary, Caine said. “A quarter of a million dollars.”

“You’ll have money left over, Mr. Caine! Once the roof is fixed, you’ll need to do a thorough spring-cleaning and you can open for business.”

“I don’t know. It needs repairs to the chimneys, and new glass in the windows, and that’s only the obvious stuff,” he disputed. “I’m sure the electrical system is…”

“… is not nearly as bad as it looks. New switches and lightbulbs, clean the rugs, buff the floors, and arrange the furniture. It won’t cost a fortune if you bring in a non-union crew from New York.”

“I was thinking I’d need to borrow about a million dollars, and maybe a lot more.”

“You planning to build an Olympic-sized swimming pool?” Soudé laughed. “You’re probably going to need more than a quarter of a million dollars, though. What with cost overruns and contingencies. Unfortunately, the Covenants preclude use as collateral.” Suddenly, he beamed at Xavior, burrowing beside his father. “Under certain conditions, the Board might advance funds.”

“Since we have an offer on the table, perhaps I should I write it up first. Then, we can worry about how to pay for your repairs.”

Without thinking, Caine nodded, wrapping his arm tighter around his son for reasons he didn’t quite understand, other than he suddenly wanted them to be as close as possible.

“Fortunately, I’ve prepared for that possibility, or you’d be here until next week.”

Soudé pulled a thick sheaf of papers from his toy cart. With aplomb, pince-nez perched on his nose, and a quill pen dipped in violet ink, he made notations and annotations. He looked up abruptly.

“There, it’s ready for signature! I must warn you, it’s very old-fashioned, and often difficult to understand, yet still legally binding where I come from.”

Soudé traced cursive writing. “The domiciled parties are ‘et pathicus dominum;’ it’s an ancient way of describing your relationship.”

“The Patriarchal Privileges are in Addendum Three; primarily the Rights of Progenitor and Proprietor. In addition, the contract requires formal joining of the parties. Coniugium is the technical term. Paragraph 26 covers the legal requirements, specifically Definitions VII.f. ‘Junctus Amore, Spiritus Corporis.’”

“It is rather complicated; I’ll summarize as best I can. Et pathicus dominum, the two of you, in exchange for one shekel of silver at the start of each year, acquire freehold tenancy of Eagle Aerie. Both of you are required to carry out all the contract terms and conditions, fulfill the addenda, and consent to discharge de jure, assumptions of contracts preceding, bankruptcy petition, defacto damages, objection to dischargeability….”

“Isn’t there a standard lease form we could just fill in?” Caine interrupted.

“These are standard forms, Mr. Caine.” Soudé’s exasperation disappeared with a smile. “As Xavior’s et dominus domino, you’ll sign for him, too. It’s standard for adsignatos.”

“My high-school Latin is a little rusty. Remind me, what is ‘et dominus domino?’”

Soudé considered Caine’s impatient tone, his flabby hands clasping a wad of parchment. He winked at the beautiful little boy, still attentive, still cuddling with his father. He licked plump lips. So close to completion, he could taste sweetness, even more reason to be very careful.

“I’m required to tell you. I must only speak ‘the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth,’ or I ‘shall be hurled down from the Tarpeian Rock.’ The alternative is to kiss the Bible and risk the wrath of God.“ Soudé laughed enigmatically. “‘Et dominus domino’ has to do with your Patriarchal Privileges, both Progenitor and Proprietor. Literally, it means ‘master and owner.’ Old-fashioned, remember?”

“I knew you’d ask! Joining father and son is an ancient tradition. Uniting the parties forms a partnership rather like marriage.”

“Just as it sounds, Mr. Caine. There are any number of similar old-fashioned words in here.” Soudé waved the sheaf to prove it. “Pathicus, agaga, cillo, cinaedus, incolentes, sederbus. Unfortunately, I don’t have a legal dictionary from Ancient Rome.”

Caine wished he’d paid more attention in Latin class. “And adsignatos in particular?”

“Adsignatos; as it sounds; Xavior must add his signature. Quite simple, really.” Soudé blinked, dipped his quill in purple ink, and held it out. “It binds him to anything you undertake, whether or not it’s in his best interest. The why and wherefore will become clear once your resort is in operation.”

“Why binding him an issue?” Caine stared at the sheaf, demanding a satisfactory answer before taking up the quill.

With a sigh, Caine signed with a flourish. While his father handed over his credit card, Xavior laboriously squiggled--his elementary school had substituted keyboard typing for cursive writing.

“Now, to the repairs,” Soudé said, dusting silvery powder across the parchment after adding his own fanciful flared signature. “They’ll need to start right away. I’ll call around. Hopefully, someone can start on the 22nd.”

“That’s tomorrow,” Caine pointed out, giving Xavior a playful pat on the thigh to encourage more snuggling.

“The sooner your eco-resort is in operation, the better. That’ll mean paying a premium. Always a premium for a rush job. I expect you’ll need at least another half-million very quickly. You’ll need other assets to borrow against. As luck would have it, you’re an excellent photographer.”

Caine had worried all night about how to pay for the lodge. “Used camera equipment won’t cut it as collateral.”

“Actually, your camera is your second most valuable asset. Do you sell many photos?” Soudé inquired.

“Several dozen when I have a show. It was easier when the National Endowment for the Arts had money to throw at avant-garde photographers. My grants always included funds for display of works. Nowadays, I have to sell through galleries. They take at least a third from the price, plus their expenses.”

Boredom barely checked, Soudé nodded sympathetically. “Surely your photo of Xavior would sell for $1,000 a copy?”

“It would if the New York Times did a feature on my work. Perhaps more if it sold in one of the Chelsea galleries. A retired college professor in Ithaca, I’d be lucky to get $100. A few hundred dollars every month won’t help.”

“Perhaps I can help, Mr. Caine. I personally know of seven men, very wealthy men, who are part of a global network. They treasure certain art and artifacts. Under the right circumstances, they’d pay a small fortune to have a private collection, an anthology, perhaps.”

Caine wasn’t suspicious by nature. That changed after the reaction to his ‘Nine Anthology.’ Public outrage focused on the nude photographs of Xavior, even though they were set aside in a restricted area. However, even Xavior attired was a problem. One psychologist actually claimed on WYNE that Caine’s photos of his son in his soccer outfit implied ‘a hyper-sexualized child with pedophilic overtones.’ Only academic freedom saved him from that the brouhaha.

Soudé had an insipid smile. “If you mean fully and clearly exposed or demonstrated; leaving nothing implied; then, yes.”

Caine reflected; there was a kind of inevitability to it; a feeling that they’d finally taken a step in the right direction. His gaze strayed to Xavior before he turned to Soudé again. He nodded.

You’ll be naked. Nothing implied. Nothing pretended! All real. I hope I’m doing the right thing.

Soudé went on. “They’ll have to be very special photos for what I have in mind. Whether inside the Lodge or playing in nature, they must be entirely in keeping with the theme of your eco-resort.”

Another nod, equally loaded. Caine couldn’t take his eyes from Xavior’s bare thighs, white cotton shorts bunched up, scarcely covering boyhood.

“Think about it, Mr. Caine, a cutting-edge anthology of your marvelous son without repercussions, and enough money for a complete restoration.”

“Well, I know what I’d like on my coffee table.” Soudé plucked at bushy eyebrows. “Seventy photos, unbound, and in a fancy box.”

“Ten photos for each of the next seven days. If they were truly explicit, I’d be willing to pay $70,000.”

“You’ll net nearly half a million. I’ll take my copy as my sales commission,” Soudé went on.

“I don’t know what to say. Thank you.” After a long sigh of relief, Caine shook his head, still disbelieving his good fortune. “Thank you, Mr. Soudé.”

“I should be thanking you, and Xavior, of course.” Soudé folded chubby hands and leaned back. “You’ve got seven days and nights, Mr. Caine. From now on, you’ll have to concentrate on your photography.”

You have no idea what’s in store once I get your pants off. What am I thinking? All I going to do is take a few nude photos of my son. That’s it!

“You’ll need my help, too,” Soudé said breezily. “I know contractors who can do the work without paying through the nose.”

Caine muttered something, still gazing at Xavior. It was all he could do to look away for a few seconds. It didn’t help that his heart was galloping.

“Five cooks, scullery maids, seamstress, housekeeper, butler, sommelier, head groom, chauffer, gardener, upstairs and downstairs maids, a nanny… “ Soudé counted them on his fingers. “That’s 21 if I’m not mistaken.”

“You want five-star dining for your clientele? Try doing it without a chef de cuisine, French, of course. Plus a sous chef, and chefs for entrées, desserts, and soups.”

Caine wasn’t about to argue. “I’ll list openings on CraigsList once we figure out what we need.”

“Not just anyone will do. Your eco-resort needs the right people, discreet, very experienced, motivated to ensure customer satisfaction. Fortunately, I have contacts in the hotel business. With your permission, I’ll put the word out. With luck, you’ll have staff arriving by tomorrow morning.”

“Please do. We need all the help we can get, otherwise my son will be washing dishes.”

Xavior’s disgruntled face made it clear what he thought about being a scullery boy.

“You can be sure I’ll do my utmost to find staff who have boys near his age. With luck I might find enough for an Eagle Aerie soccer team.”

Even though Xavior was certain Soudé was joking, he nodded eagerly, imploring his father with steel-blue eyes.

Caine caved. “Just so long as it stays within reason. Soccer is a sport, not a way of life.”

Soudé went on. “How do you plan to get out the word to rich nature lovers?”

Xavior beamed. “Dad and I talked about that. We’ll have a really awesome website, and Facebook and Twitter.”

“The 21^st century version of putting flyers on car windows.” Having summarily dismissed Silicon Valley, Soudé continued. “The best advertising is always word of mouth referrals from your customers. The problem is you don’t have any, referrals or customers.”

Crestfallen, Xavior slumped in his father’s lee, infatuation no longer holding sway.

“However, I have a solution,” Soudé said. “Once my New York friends have stayed at the resort, they can spread the word in the appropriate circles. Offer them a package deal, seven nights and the anthology for $100,000; it’s a drip from the pail for them.”

“Why, your son, of course.” Soudé cackled. “Said in jest, Mr. Caine. Never fear, the Rights of Progenitor and Proprietor are yours alone. However, I have a vested interest in your success. I get to stay for free, when I want; and I get what I want.”

“Explicit is a matter of degree,” Caine muttered as panic arrived in a rush.

Does he mean what I think he means? He can look all he wants, but anything more, I’ll never allow it.

“Why don’t you and Xavior look over the plans while I draft the Addendum?” Soudé suggested. “Time wasted is time lost.”

Xavior clutched the tube with both hands, pressed to his chest. It reached from his knees to his chin, as thick as his thigh. It was leather-wrapped, not cowhide, deerskin, or goat leather.

Having put the finishing touches of indigo ink, and crimson and gold paint on a sheet of parchment, Soudé held it out for inspection. He beamed, playfully ruffling boy-curls as Xavior examined it with his father.

“Well, thank you, my delectable adsignatos,” Soudé teased. “There’s a lot to be said for being old-fashioned.”

Xavior gazed up at his adoring dad, carefully holding the tube, both hot little hands caressing the velvety skin. Perhaps it was pigskin…

“It’s confusing as hell,” Caine jibed, smiling at his son before he went back to trying to decipher Soudé’s elaborate Addendum.

Xavior glowed, not from happiness, something else. Both slender arms wrapped around the warm hard tube, pulling it tightly against him. His little buttocks clenched, pelvis squirming, his thighs pressing, maximizing contact. Each breath, each heartbeat, each tremor in his loins made him hotter, so hot and hard that he couldn’t stop himself.

While Soudé busied himself, putting away ink and paint, Xavior rubbed surreptitiously, the tube seeming to move up and down of its own volition. Suddenly, Soudé leaned to whisper in Xavior’s ear. Surely, he should’ve been embarrassed, yet giggles ensued, the newly minted ten-year-old regarding the thick tube with mute disbelief.

“’I shall relish, I shall possess...’ Confusing is an understatement,” Caine grumbled, feeling left out.

What did Soudé say that was so funny? And why are you carrying that tube like it’s suddenly got a bad case of leprosy?

“I promise you it’s Loxodonta africana! This big!” Soudé held his arms wide. “I’d never fib to my future head sederbus.”

A little indignant, Xavior shook his head. He took after his father, an amateur naturalist, and always ready to dispute.

Caine was certain his son said ‘cock.’ Most ten-year-old boys would say it without hesitation to their friends, never to an adult, and definitely not with a parent in hearing age.

Despite boyish snickers about an obviously made-up story, Caine continued to examine the document. His frustration grew with every word.

“Frankly, Mr. Soudé, I don’t understand what it means.” He frowned, exasperated, holding the parchment at arm’s length, and read it aloud from beginning to end.

“It’s quid pro quo, but other than that ’m not sure I completely understand it myself,” Soudé concurred with a bamboozled look of his own. “That’s the problem with using a legal system from Ancient Babylon.”

Without warning, Caine stabbed his finger on the document. “In servitio domini,’ what’s that mean, exactly?”

“It means what it says, Mr. Caine,’ Soudé said with a kind of quiet determination. “Codus Hammurabi recognizes complete private ownership of both scion and sederbus, and extends the right to votaries.”

Again, Soudé spotted Xavior’s front pressed hard against the dark leather tube. A plump hand quickly covered his gaping mouth, not his eyes full of mirth,

The boy tilted his head as if he’d heard it before. “New York is a ‘den of iniquity’ because immoral things happen there. The same stuff happens all over, only in secret.”

“He gets it, Caine.” A moment of reflection brought a smile to Soudé’s face, “You'll both get it before sunrise tomorrow. For whatever it’s worth; Lex Talionis will work in your favor as much as mine.”

Xavior snuggled into his father’s side, hard and twitchy and clutching the tube, gazing up at his idol. “Dad, please. Just sign it.”

Soudé proffered a disingenuous smile. “It would be untimely if everything happened at once,’ Mr. Caine.”

Suddenly, a demanding desire asserted itself. Unable to deny it, Caine scowled, more at himself than at Soudé. Deep down, the possibility of ‘possession’ enthralled him.

“You sign on the left, Mr. Caine. I sign on the right. And our sederbus in training puts his full name on the axis ad erectus between us.” Soudé handed over the quill, freshly dipped in purple ink.

Soudé gave a jolly chuckle. “Because we’re going to share you, of course.”

Caine clasped his son’s shoulder, warm and firm under his massaging fingers. He signed. Soudé signed with a flourish. Xavior printed, his best ever.

“I’ll take care of the seals, three plus my own,” Soudé said. “Except for the small matter of the Patriarchal ritual described in Addendum Three, as of now, Eagle Aerie, and all that it entails, is yours, Master Caine.”

“It’s crucial to et pathicus dominum. I like to think of it as a baptism, initiation, induction, and all that. Actually, we start with a pretend crucifixion to symbolize how much a father and son love each other,” Soudé said, a sly glance at Xavior.

With one arm around the tube, Xavior squeezed his father’s hand. “Dad, just go along. It’ll be fun!”

Caine felt immense relief, as if the burden of Atlas had lifted from his shoulders.

Soudé directed them into the front room. “If you’re staying in town tonight, the Little Red Hen Inn usually has rooms. It’s on the outskirts of town, Route 3, going south.”

Caine didn’t answer. He was too distracted. All but gasping, Xavior rubbed against the tube, little pelvis swiveling rhythmically, timed to the model airplane twisting slowly in the breeze from the overhead fans.

“I must tell you, though, there’s a reason why the locals call it the Big Red Cock,” Soudé confided.

Caine glimpsed his son’s smirk. “If you don’t mind, he doesn’t need an explanation.”

“Between Red Cock and Eagle Aerie, I know where I’d put up for the night. Much more fun surrounded by the glorious Adirondacks, and nobody to disturb you.” Soudé cocked a shrewd eye at Caine, and added, “Perfect for a future prince, especially when he’s horny.”

“Who me?” Xavior peeped, his thrusting stopping abruptly when ‘horny’ sank in. “Dad, please, can we stay there tonight? I promise to help clean up and stuff.”

“Last night, you promised to set up the tent. Instead, you went exploring,” Caine reminded him, still a mite huffy.

With a jolly laugh, Soudé slapped a hefty hand on Xavior’s lean shoulder, leaving the impression of claiming his property. He kept his hand there as he opened the door and glanced into the hall, finally stepping aside for Caine to pass.

Caine laughed. “Be my guest, Mr. Soudé. If he misbehaves, spank him. Bare bottom, if you want.”

Better yet, lay him over his elephant tube so he can hump it as much as he wants.

“You’ll never be too old,” Soudé said evenly. “You were ten, exactly, when Master Caine carried you over his threshold; when you were born again.”

“I should’ve been baptized yesterday; only I wasn’t,” Xavior interjected, his face solemn.

“Well, you wouldn’t be here if you were baptized in a church.” Soudé declared. “I hope you kissed your dad when he carried you?”

Xavior nodded, not at all bashful, yet very uneasy when Soudé whispered in his ear, something about a ‘crack.’ It took a moment to sink in. He giggled and nodded. Again, Soudé whispered. This time, he shook his head, reddening noticeably.

Soudé fixed his gaze on Caine. “Ten is a magical age, Mr. Caine. For a few very special boys, time stops.”

Caine grinned at his son. “He’s growing up so fast, I wouldn’t mind if time slowed down a little.”

“Oh, it will; you have my word on that. Extraordinary things happen at Eagle Aerie.”

“Stranger than you can imagine, Mr. Caine. Be especially careful of our future prince. Boys lose their innocence once they turn ten....”

“For seven days and nights, our Prince has much to be wary of, both inside and outside the Lodge,” Soudé went on. “Make certain he takes heed, for his sake, and yours.”

“I seriously doubt it. He’ll never sleep before midnight.” Soudé looked up, piggy nose sniffing. “There’ll be evil in the Mercatus come twilight. That’s exactly 24 minutes after the sun sets. I trust the Prince won’t be late.”

“Hemlock is in the air, Master Caine, enough to overpower any man’s resolve!”

“Like Yahweh, Mastema counts by seven. There are seven days and seven nights, seven founders and seven fathers, seven sederbi, seven retainers, and seven women. Be extra careful with them. No crone is as nice as I am.”

Scene 6: Instigation

With a dog-eared, badly creased terrain map in hand, Xavior did his utmost to navigate miles of twisting, treacherous gravel roads without signs or mile markers.

Soudé had been adamant-- they could find their way back to the Lodge with their eyes closed, just keep the mountain in front, follow the lake, stay on the main road, and turn right at the fourth fork. However, after three dead ends, one of which was a precipice, Caine wasn’t confident.

Don’t you give me the look. You’re always going to be my baby, even when your dick’s as big as mine.

Xavior rotated the map and showed him, one finger on the concentrated contour lines of Golden Eagle Mountain, another finger poised on the lake they’d paddled down.

“Let’s hope you’re right. I’d hate to be driving these roads in the dark.”

Xavior grinned and pointed ahead. Caine immediately slowed down—he’d missed it the first time, the second time, too. He would’ve missed it again; just a rusty ‘No trespassing’ sign nailed to a stump. A thick carpet of leaves covered the remains of a track, not even tire tracks. It disappeared into gloomy shadows, overhanging trees stealing the sunlight.

“Mr. Truett bought a bulldozer for the farm. Mark said it’s only been used like three times. Maybe you can buy it, Dad.”

“No way can I afford a damned bulldozer!” It was uncalled for. “We could use it to clear horse trails, I suppose.”

He gave his dad a gleeful ‘thumb’s up.’ Caine blew back a kiss to show they were a team. A moment later, Xavior subconsciously touched his lips with the tip of his thumb, licking, rubbing, licking again. Then, his wriggly little tongue peeked out, pink and wet, spreading shiny saliva on luscious red lips. His mother never did anything like that.

Speechless, Caine stared out the windscreen, his son’s sensuality giving him goose flesh.

I could teach you to French kiss; you’ve certainly got the tongue part of it down; but you’d probably tell someone. Then, I’d lose you forever.

After putting the Wrangler in low gear, Caine headed deeper into the forest. Like fish drawn to the flashy trout lure he’d been conned into buying earlier, the more he tried to evade the inevitable, the stronger was his desire. The urge was so demanding that he ogled smooth bare thighs every chance he got. He was hooked, desperate for a fix, even with shorts covering the important stuff.

You’re going to be wearing knickers from now on. What the hell am I thinking? Perving on you like a goddamn pedophile!

He had a queasy feeling in the pit of his belly, and worrying tightness below. Whatever it was, it made him look at his offspring again and again. It didn’t matter that the track became deeply rutted, some sections completely washed out, leaving only roots and boulders behind. It was impassable for any vehicle without four-wheel drive, a long crawl up and down steep ridges even for Caine’s Jeep, built for off-road conditions.

You’re hazardous! I could rip those knickers right off you, and suck your dick.

“Hey Dad, do you think I can have Mark come visit? I mean a while from now, once we get the Lodge cleaned up and all.”

Caine braked to a stop, garnering another glimpse of his son’s shorts, especially the bump of his crotch, soft cotton molding boyhood like a second skin. He took a deep breath before allowing the Jeep to creep forward.

Xavior clung to the grab bar and the armrest as the Wrangler tilted down, and splashed into water, skirting the broken planks of an old wooden bridge, yet another thing that needed rebuilding.

Caine slowed for boulders embedded in sand and gravel, judiciously using the accelerator to climb slowly out of the creek. When he glanced sideways, Xavior pointed at the map. Soudé had penciled a little ‘L’ where he thought the Lodge was.

Sunlight reappeared as they emerged from the forest into an undulating meadow of wildflowers. It followed a postcard-pretty lake, stately Golden Eagle Mountain looming behind.

It would’ve been awesome had the Lodge been where the map indicated, directly ahead; but it wasn’t.

Xavior gestured left impatiently, as if he knew where to go. Caine’s gaze drifted right. Sitting sideways, unblemished innocence, sunlight glistening through wayward curls, fiery sparks of gold and burgundy, a snubby little nose that belonged on a girl...

Strange how you’ve changed in just a few months. You’re nothing like your mother, even though I always thought you were the spitting image of her.

Caine’s gaze drifted lower, noting miniature wrinkles in his son’s T-shirt, silently envying washboard belly.

What would you do if I touched your tummy? I bet you feel just like you did as a toddler, only now your tum-tum is tight as a drum. And your little innie; I remember the doctor tying your cord, making a button into a work of art.

You’ve got a lump of a bump, haven’t you? That’s what comes from being so slender, and wearing knickers. Wait until puberty; you’ll be bulging like me.

He shoved that thought back where it came from, still of the mind they should go back to Lake Saranac and try to get a room at the Little Red Hen Inn.

He turned, and looked where Xavior was looking. A different view of Eagle Aerie, a ragged fieldstone wall, a glimpse of a garden and a terrace extending into another lake, and the Lodge, its steep roof crowned with chimneys and spires.

Caine turned back, infatuated. Blissful, absorbing, steel-blue eyes alive, seeing a hint of purple for the very first time. Xavior’s eyes reminded him of long-gone Blue Flag Iris, showy and delicate; everyone said it was the most beautiful flower in the Adirondacks.

As wistful as his father, Xavior nodded, Cupid-crimson lips begging for a kiss. Caine leaned over the console, way past the stopping point. His lips brushed Xavior’s, entirely innocent. They even bumped noses in play before he backed away.

“You can give me a real kiss, if you want,” he murmured. “I’ll understand if you’re worried about it being gay.”

Smiling, Xavior puckered and pressed, just a little surprised at feeling the tip of his father’s tongue wriggling back and forth, tantalizing his lips. His heart jumped and pumped blood to his penis. Stiff as steel, he couldn’t stop trembling, his thoughts racing even though his father was already back in his seat.

He gave a head toss and wiped his lips, finding a trace of spit on his finger. Suddenly, he was nervous as a boy could be with a raging penis and his father sitting only inches away.

Scene 7: Sensation

Xavior was still hot and hard when his father pulled up under the porte-cochère and switched off the motor. Embarrassed by silence, yet anxious for any kind of relief, he stayed in the passenger seat, supposedly to put on his sneakers.

His father got out and stretched. Mortified by sheer shameful intensity, Xavior grasped, his right hand squeezing, twisting his erect penis until he gasped.

In a sudden rush, each breath came quicker than the last, his agitation made worse by trying to stuff his feet into sneakers. Without warning, a bursting sensation strained his thighs and lifted his butt off the seat. A moment from shuddering, he heard the hatchback door click. He panicked, stopping just in time.

With a flourish, Caine opened the passenger door, and bowed. “Your castle awaits, my prince.”

Very un-princely Xavior clambered out of the Wrangler, heart pounding, face flushed, breathless, erect penis throbbing.

Caine stroked a heated soft cheek, brushing curls on the way to Xavior’s sweaty forehead.

Xavior backed off, inhaling, exhaling, aching down there. “I’m fine, Dad.”

On unsteady legs, he collected his backpack from the back of the Wrangler and followed his father up the portico stairs.

Nodding eagerly, Xavior took the lead by tossing his backpack into the foyer. He jumped into his father’s outstretched arms, careful to keep his thighs together. Even then, his shorts bunched up, his erection like a flagpole.

Caine bounced 55 pounds of giggling boy, hoping for another kiss, yet knowing it was highly unlikely. “I better not drop you in the crack, huh?”

“Mr. Soudé said it’s Satan’s butthole. If you put your ear against, it sounds like he’s farting.”

Before Caine could answer, Xavior hooked his arm around his father’s neck, pulling them together. Just ten years old and he knew when to wet his lips and close his eyes, trusting instinct, not mindless acceptance of a merciless god. This time, it was his tongue doing the wriggling, even though he knew he shouldn’t.

When he opened his eyes, he was breathless, trembling, not in the foyer, in the hall, The Great Hall with two dozen massive elk heads staring down.

“Almighty Asmodeus,” he whispered, not shamefully, too excited to think straight.

Elated even as guilt arrived in a rush, he carefully eased his son to the floor, both hands holding him steady, keeping him close so he couldn’t look down.

I should be ashamed I got a hard-on from you, but I’m not. We should’ve done that a long time ago. I can still taste you. So sweet and soft. I’ve spent years longing for passion like this, and all this time you were right there in front of me.

“Bit a rush, what,” Caine tried to joke. “You probably shouldn’t tell anyone you made out with your old man.”

Xavior made a face, mocking the mentally disturbed or sick to his stomach, it was impossible to tell.

“Right, then, Prince Tenney; we better sort ourselves out. Get the castle organized for Soudé’s contractors to start work.”

Caine’s aristocratic accent brought a slight, yet reassuring smile. He switched to something less aristocratic.

Still trembling, an uncertain Xavior inched closer, his chest mere inches from bumping his father’s huge bulge.

I want to cuddle. Up close, so I can feel your cock. I want it rubbing against me.

“Shhh. I know, son. I’m sorry.” Caine kept them apart, both hands on his son’s small shoulders. “I promise it won’t happen again. It can’t.”

He squeezed gently, lovingly, as only a father can. With no other choice, he pressed him away, denying pleasure. Anything else would be wrong.

Reluctant at parting, Xavior stepped back, mortified he’d come so close. Yet, in the next instant, the dark desire reemerged, stronger. Obstinately erect, and tingling all over, he wanted to leap into his father’s strong arms.

Guilt lurked like a rodent as he trailed after his father, into a colonnaded anteroom. He was certain they’d missed it on the first visit, yet there were footprints in the dust.

However, the painted ceiling captivated Caine, a Rembrandt-inspired Rape of Ganymede. The cracked and fading abuse sent a thrill racing through him, the seductive catamite inciting the gigantic eagle just as his own sensuous son provoked him.

Oblivious, Caine was certain the Eagle of Olympus had a talon deeply inserted in the pretty boy’s bottom. The other talons were big and curved, and it looked like it should be very painful, yet the aroused boy was smirking, obviously willing. The more Caine thought about it, the more ‘rape’ appeared pleasurable, not only to the boy, to the supreme deity of Ancient Greece.

Beyond was another hall—fewer footprints, messier than the Great Hall, and not nearly as tall. However, it was grander with elaborate plaster cornices, sculpted architraves above doors, and gilded mirrors for doors. Sgraffito filled in the gaps, some scratching faded, other panels still vibrant with mythological caricatures of ‘platonic love.’

Xavior was gawking at a carving of two long-haired fauns embracing when his father came up behind him. He turned, too embarrassed to speak.

“This place is like a museum of gay art,” Caine remarked. Then, he noticed what his son had been staring at. He couldn’t help snickering. “Like I said last fall, it happens to all of us guys.”

Xavior meandered as best he could with his penis throbbing, cringing with his stomach in knots, following footprints across a mosaic-tile floor too dirty to see patterns. It didn’t help that every wall featured naked boys, all with erections displayed. He didn’t need a ruler to know that his was bigger.

Again, he resisted touching, until he could no longer stand it. Far beyond throbbing, it ached relentlessly, demanding the comfort of his small hot hand. Finally, he fingered the jutting front of his shorts, thumb caressing unyielding hardness, fingertips stroking his scrotum, fueling the thrill in his loins.

He turned to see if he was safe. Another painted ceiling had caught his father’s artistic eye. Miraculously, this one retained its trompe-l'œil grandeur, antique gods and bare-bottomed fauns frolicking in rustic Elysium.

Trembling, his hunger insistent, Xavior clasped his engorged sex organ, and shuddered mightily. It was all he could do to stop himself. He dragged his hand back, a mere moment from masturbating frantically.

Xavior was about to point out more footprints, some only slightly larger than his own when something scampered from the corner of the room, a blur to his eye. Too big for a mouse, too small for a rat, and no fluffy squirrel tail, it stopped before a grand fireplace.

What if it’s a rat like the one in Mr. Truett’s barn? How gross would that be?

Still, he followed, squeamish, yet straining under his shorts, his heart going twice its normal rate. He halted where he’d seen it last, facing in where his father couldn’t see.

However, Caine watched his back, interest spiked. Now, it was more than fatherly concern.

I shouldn't have kissed you like that. I couldn’t help myself. You’re gorgeous. And that comment about a gay art museum! Way out of line, but you belong here the same as I do.

“They’d gather around in groups and play board games, read books, or talk. No TV or video games back then!”

I sound like an ass. You’ve got enough to deal with without me carrying on like a lovesick teenager. I’m not like this, not really.

Not getting a response, not ever a sulky shrug, Caine went in the other direction.

Xavior stared down at massive andirons holding a dusty log as thick as a tree trunk. Each firedog was of wrought iron with a bowed gilt-bronze front half-buried in woodchips and scraps of bark. He recognized inspiration instantly.

Xavior clawed at his crotch. His erect penis was inflexible, and curved like the andiron. Its knob was swollen obscenely, nothing like his, a miniature helmet without the skin covering.

Humiliated and hating that part of his body more than ever, he jerked his hand away. However, he couldn’t stop staring, or licking his lips. The longer he looked, the harder his penis became. It ached, throbbing, shamelessly demanding attention.

He took a deep breath, resisting, fighting the impulse. With his father at the far end of the room, searching among books strewn across the floor, he began to calm down.

I can’t believe you said my dick is a ‘delicious sausage.’ That’s the kind of thing Mr. Truett says.

He breathed deeply, studying male form in gilt metal, every bulge, every ripple perfectly reproduced. He licked his lips, opening his mouth, not filling his lungs, holding perfectly still and imagining…

Absently, Xavior’s small hand reached into the loose leg of his shorts, investigating wrinkly skin. It was bumpy, yet soft, thick to touch, yet so delicate his fingers could scarcely feel it. On either side, he encountered immature testicles, what Mark Truett’s dad called ‘kid stones.’ His boy-balls were pebbles, tiny compared to Mark’s.

Expecting eyes on his back, he peered in the firebox, scorched and blackened. Its flue was big enough for a mall Santa to use on Christmas Eve. More interesting was a granite mantel carved with scenes of naked boys doing gymnastics, each contorted position potent with meaning that still eluded him.

He checked when he could no longer stand it, a quick glance over his shoulder to see his father on his knees, shuffling through debris. Safe for the moment, he groped again, persistently pleasuring himself. When firmness flexed back, he took control of his groin muscles, instinct guiding oversized boyhood through the leg of his shorts. Not that he wanted to see it; it felt better without clothes in the way.

Better than it was. It was ugly as shit last Sunday, all covered with bruises.

“A lot of these books are worth big bucks. They’re all first editions,” Caine called. “Here’s Call of the Wild, 1903; you’ll like enjoy Jack London. Wind in the Willows, from 1908. Oh, my God, Xavior. Here’s Peter Pan, and Barrie signed it in 1904.”

Xavior was breathless, despising his penis, yet unable to stop touching it. Tiny veins bulged under translucent skin, stretchy foreskin retracting enough to reveal a pink dome hiding inside.

He’d never hated his penis more than when Mark’s flashlight revealed not only was one of them considerably larger, it also came with a foreskin. If that wasn’t bad enough, his erection didn’t go down after he played with it, not like Mark’s did. His penis stayed big and hard, ready for more. With relief always just out of reach, Mark teased him relentlessly, waking him during the night to check with his flashlight.

Compulsion flared as his face grew hot with shame from the memory. His penis bounced, jerking erratically, pointing perpendicularly even as he glared at the very-exposed helmet. The slit gaped when he squeezed, mouth-like, hungry, or pleading for Him to forgive his despicable sins, begging for salvation…

Holding his ‘disgusting thing’ with his left hand, he stuffed his right hand into his shorts’ pocket, fumbling to get the brook-trout lure out of its box without stabbing himself.

“Xavior, here’s Conrad’s Lord Jim. It’s from 1900, and it looks brand new.”

“That’s uber cool, Dad.” Impatient treble, carefully hiding his real self.

Punishment time! My balls are just jellybeans, so tiny I really don’t need them.

He pressed the hook side-on into his scrotum, capturing his little left testicle after he secured it in place with a finger and thumb. He inhaled, concentrating, intending to do it with his eyes closed so he wouldn’t see blood. Entirely by feel, he lifted the hook gradually, instead of a quick jerk. At the last moment, the little egg scooted away.

Cool as a cucumber, Xavior deliberately picked another spot, more accessible, near the tip of his glans. It was the most sensitive part of the groove underneath. There would be no escaping, yet he was careful not to pierce the skin, not right away. He tensed, straining every muscle, resisting the urge to cry. His erection was beyond pulsing, throbbing so much it was doing jumping jacks.

“It’s autographed, too,” his father called. “And there’s an inscription from someone called Israel Rosenkrantz, ‘To my darling Elysian boys.’ Imagine writing that!”

With the hook point pressed down, it gouged into the swollen flesh of Xavior’s small helmet-head. He couldn’t stop, now, although part of him surely wanted to. The pressure was enough that even with his scarily steady hands, the slightest wrong move would draw blood. Any second it would stab into him, entering so far past the barb that it wouldn’t come out by itself. Then, blood would spurt out. He gritted his teeth, no longer fighting the pain, allowing it to flow through him.

I hate it. Doing this redeems me. I’m not gay! Stop wasting time! Just do it.

His virgin sphincter pulsed each time his penis bobbed, each time his pelvis bucked. The final agony was only moments away.

“What’s Elysian, Dad?” Xavior called, his voice cracking, young lungs barely filling with each frantic gulp.

His father hesitated, long enough that Xavior glanced back. His father crouched among wooden boxes and books, picking up postcards, blowing off dust before peering closely. Then, he started to stand. It was the last thing Xavior wanted.

Startled, Caine hurriedly placed a few stray postcards into a small burled-walnut chest, its lid askew. Polished ovoid garnets studded two silver straps, although it was no jewelry case, cutlery box, or strongbox. It looked like a miniature casket with a red felt lining. Under dust and tarnish, precious silver inlay of initials, STP, intertwined with the sigil of Asmoday.

Caine hesitated again, his hand shaking, ogling the remaining postcard, a sepia-tone print as old as the house. The same boy was in the other photos, no older than Xavior, stark-naked and shameless, straddling a Victorian couch, grinning, one arm stretched back to mimic Remington’s Bronco Buster. He had a similar photo of nine-year-old Xavior, legs flying and penis erect as he straddled a mossy overturned pine tree deep in a shaded gorge. Arcadian beauty was inspiring, yet he dared not show it to anyone, especially his wife.

Close up, he concluded an early 20^th bellows camera, half-plate size, had taken the photo. Magnifying-glass detail and everything in focus—from embroidered floral upholstery to penis, tipped with a plump shiny cherry—only a Zeiss Tessar lens captured that sort of perfection.

A photograph of Xavior with my Nikon D5 would put it to shame. Photoshop would make it a masterpiece.

“An Elysian boy would be that photo of you on my laptop,” he called over his shoulder.

Knowing better, yet having said it aloud, he immediately contemplated ways and means to get his son naked and posing again.

I could make you earn your allowance. If only I can get you to remember the fun you had skinny dipping last fall. At least, now, I don’t have to worry about your mother and her boyfriend filling your head with religious drivel.

Xavior shuddered at a different memory, one week old. Without warning, he climaxed, his slim body heaving, his erection jerking spontaneously. It was enough that the hook jabbed through tender skin. The miracle was not screaming, that somehow he remained standing. There was blood this time, on the end of his penis, on his fingers, on the hook, even some smeared on the lure.

He stared for a moment, a silent prayer, before his erection began to recede. It was almost back to normal when a crystal droplet seeped from the little mouth, like saliva.

Tired, shaky, and a little perturbed by something that definitely wasn’t pee, he sank to his knees, clumsily tucking his traumatized bloody boyhood under his shorts.

Xavior panted, thumb and first finger squeezing the wounded tip, three other fingers fondling jelly-bean balls. His penis hurt so much that he couldn’t stand up.

Across the salon, his father stacked books, picked up postcards by their edges and dusted them off with his handkerchief.

The gilded bronze andiron was directly in front of Xavior’s sweet face. The thick solid shaft was as potent as a man’s muscled forearm; the rounded knob was a threatening clenched fist.

He glanced back, worried that his father still watched him. He was still busy with books, yet the feeling remained. Someone watched him, kneeling before the massive erection. It dwarfed his boyish toy, sending a heart-surging thrill through him as he turned and paid homage to manhood.

Never mind an erection that big was as dangerous as a warrior’s club, his blood-streaked fingers slid over sleek gilded metal, stroking all the way to the rim. Mesmerized, he leaned in and pressed his lips against the bell. It was hard yet smooth, as hot as his own much smaller helmet.

As he kissed the gold crown, it seemed almost human, as if it wanted him to lick, open his mouth wide and try to push it between his teeth. He was wetting his lips when something popped out under the long gilded shaft.

The ‘something’ dropped onto bark and woodchips, before scurrying to his right. He glimpsed a fat hairy back, a long bald tail, and then it disappeared into a crevice in the firebox. Revolted, he settled on his haunches, ready to run if it reappeared, his heart racing, belly squeamish, one hand clasped over the fat knob to hold himself steady. However, it felt good, too, so large it completely filled his hand. Only when he glanced where the rodent had been did he see it. Amongst the wood chips was a small leather-bound book with ‘Journal’ embossed in antique gilt lettering.

Scene 8: Inspiration

After another furtive check that his father was still at the far end of the salon, shuffling books and putting postcards in what looked like a jewelry box, Xavior opened the journal. The inscription leaped from the page,

‘To my dear bear cub, my precious Silas on his tenth birthday, from his very passionate Papa Bear. I will always love you. June 21 1918’

Driven by curiosity about a diary written by a boy the same age as him, Xavior turned the page:

************ IT’S TIME FOR A MESSAGE FROM YOUR AUTHOR ************

Why do Nifty authors always include a call for donations in their stories? They know that without financial support, the Nifty Archive will disappear. No more stories like Dum Spiro, Te Amo! You certainly won’t see it on Amazon. No doubt there are people who’d like to see that happen. The same closed minds do not believe in freedom of speech. They want to control not only what you do, but what you think. Doesn’t that sound like a fun place to live?

The bottom line; if you want to keep reading books in this genre, it is entirely up to you. Authors do not get paid by Nifty! All your donations go to support the operations of the Archive.

If you have not previously donated, why not do it now? If you have previously donated, I thank you.

My father and I departed Grand Central Station at seven o’clock. We had a first class compartment. There was a blizzard when our train left the Hudson-Manhattan tunnel. Dad has not said much about where we are going. It is a chateau somewhere in the mountains with a lake. He wants to leave New York for good. He is still very sad about mother. I miss her a lot, too. She died in the awful Malbone Street wreck. His ship arrived the same day from France.

I just gave him a special cuddle because he was coughing from the soot. He liked it so much he stopped coughing. There is so much snow that I cannot see a thing out the window. My father gave me a chess set for my birthday. He gave me this journal, too. I have to promise to write proper sentences. I just read it to him and he said it was very good so far. He took a photograph of me holding it.

We played chess for a time. I had checkmate once. He was so happy. He put the blanket over us. I helped him forget about my mother. He said she did not die in vain because now we can be together. Then, he told me that our love will not have to be a secret once we get to the Lodge. He hugged me a lot. I liked it so much that I kissed Father’s crown to please him. It was a great relief.

It was still snowing when we arrived at Albany. We ate cheese sandwiches at the station. We boarded the Delaware and Hudson Canal Company train to Saranac. It had two engines to pull three carriages and a flatbed. Mr. Ash Maide Esq. was waiting for us. He said the road was too poor for his Ford motor car. He hired a man with horses and a carriage. He is fat and short. I think he is Jewish.

Mr. Maide wanted me sit beside him. He put a blanket over us. Then, he put his hand on my thigh as my father does. He said it was so I would not be hurt if the carriage hit a bump. Then, he did what my father does under the blanket. I pretended to sleep while they talked about me. In front of my father, Mr. Maide lifted the blanket. He said, “Little rogues are all-too-appetizing!” Then, he licked his lips as if he meant to eat my widdler. I was mortified, but my father thought it was funny.

We arrived at Eagle Aerie before sunset. It is very large with pine forests and a lake. Following Absolution of Innocents, Father and I met our servants, seven women, seven men, and seven boys. We dined with the Founders: chicken soup, stuffed pork, and delicious French pastries. My father and I had to leave early because Mr. Maide said twilight was almost upon us. Father took me to the Chamber of Delectatio to prepare. It has mirrors all around. We played French games until twilight.

After sunset, the Founders tendered for me. Horace Vanderstein made the highest bid for Senora Maculata, the housekeeper. I could not stop scratching, even though I tingled all over. We retired to the Chamber again. My father returned to his usual self and undressed me. Once he got over the shock of Exultation, he did the nice thing with his tongue. I was embarrassed because Mr. Maide watched us and my father took lots of photographs. After I kissed Father’s crown, we had a bath like the Romans and went back to bed, whereupon we practiced Delectatio into the wee hours.

Now, back to the story

Xavior skimmed a few pages before he sensed his father standing behind him. He quickly stuffed the journal under his T-shirt before he looked over his shoulder.

Caine reached to take his son’s hand. Xavior looked nothing like the boy in the photos, and yet…. He couldn’t avert his eyes, too-pretty-for-a-boy features, curly head, a shy if roguish smile, and so slender he seemed fragile.

You’re my sexy little imp. Real sexy. Off-the-scale sexy. What am I thinking?

The boy in the photo was very good looking, a substantial Teutonic blue-eyed blond, confident in the way of popular schoolboys, nothing like his shy, gorgeous dark-headed son. However, they had ‘sexy’ in common; the similarity was breathtaking, and unsettling.

He boosted his son to his feet and pulled him close for a remorseful fatherly hug, very aware that Xavior had only one arm around him--his other hand clutched the journal as if his life depended on it.

“Enough with the prince thing, okay.” Xavior grinned. “If you must know…” He made his father wait. “… the log dogs are kinda different.”

“It’s bad enough what he did to you; stop sounding like him!” Caine regained control, took a breath. “Maybe I shouldn’t have joked about it, but a stiff penis is not disgusting.”

“Why? Erections are part of being a guy. I know for a fact, you get them all the time.”

Xavior stared at his feet and mumbled, “It gets big by itself. I can’t help it.”

“I… I h-had one with h-him.” He blinked, sniffed, still not looking up. “He said it proved I’m a disgusting little faggot.”

“Having a stiff penis is normal, especially for a boy. It doesn’t mean he’s gay or straight. Either way, it’d be darn difficult to have sex without one.”

“You’re old enough to have sex. Not that you should with a girl; I’m too young to be a grandpa. However, you could with a guy, if you wanted.”

“I’m just saying. If you can get an erection, your body is ready for pleasure.”

“It can be; or it can be funny, or arousing. It can be lots of things, even interesting to look at,” Caine added pointedly.

“Not funny, Dad.” Xavior pointed at the crevice and shuffled back, hoping there wasn’t blood on his shorts. “A rat went in there.”

“I think I followed the same rat. Small but fat as a pig, right?” Caine chuckled when Xavior nodded. “His days are numbered in single digits. We’ll buy some traps the next time we’re in Saranac.”

Xavior finally risked a downward glance. No blood, just loose white shorts. He liked wearing ‘knickers’ even if they revealed way too much soccer thigh.

“If there are, they’ll come out while you’re asleep and nibble on your tiny toes.”

Xavior kept inching back, convinced his father could see the journal under his T-shirt, because he kept glancing his way every few seconds. After two pages, he *had* to read more; no reason for that kind of hunger.

Maybe I’ll show you the journal after I know what Silas did with his father.

Caine was jammed in teasing mode, making up for lost time, years of self-imposed separation from his son because he detested his wife’s pretensions, her constant complaints, her false religiosity...

No reason for ‘Mickey,’ or Caine’s strangely hoarse voice, or the curious pleasure from seeing his son hiding something from him. Talking dirty was exciting, too, like watching a shameless nine-year-old boy wading in the river.

I’ll never forget having you naked in front of my Nikon. I want you naked, right now, posing like a waif in a deserted French chateau, surrounded by chaos.

Xavior poked out his tongue. The rest of him was ready to do whatever ever it took to get his father to tickle him.

You used to tickle me all the time until she made you stop. I never said you were mauling me; she did. I liked being your teddy-bear boy.

“Keep doing that and le chat de château will get your tongue. No French kissing, then. “

With the journal pressed insistently against his hot bare belly, making butterflies, Xavior finally made a cat face at his father, meowing and twitching his nose. On a whim, he stuck out his tongue again, swirling across his lips.

However, Xavior didn’t mean it. He didn’t understand why or how, but reading the first two pages changed everything. He gulped spit and pulled back his tongue, feeling shivery and hot at the same time. His curiosity, already intense, became demanding, just like his very stiff penis.

I’ve got to read more about Silas and his dad. He’s talking about having sex with him. Kinda like what Mark says he and his dad do.

Caine blatantly ogled his son’s middle. He knew he shouldn’t; however, he just couldn’t stop. Instinct, deep down and primal, had total control. Besides, there was no hiding Xavior’s boy-bulge under loose skimpy shorts.

Maybe his father was crazy. Maybe, he was just teasing; however, Xavior was so nervous, so uncertain that he quivered. It took everything he had not to turn and run even as Silas’ complete sentences ran wild in his head.

‘… He hugged me a lot. I liked it so much that I kissed Father’s crown to please him….’

Sepia photographs unleashed Caine’s desire. He studied his son with an eagle eye, Zeus Almighty with his precious Ganymede, glabrous limbs in the bloom of boyhood, another unnecessary fleeting glance to confirm.

A visceral urge roared through Xavior. Insistent and growing stronger; take a deep breath, push down his shorts, and step free.

Silas would do it without even thinking. Why can’t I be like him? He even let Mr. Maide play with his dick. Praise the Lord. ‘Punish that which offends.’

“M-m-maybe I should g-get our s-s-stuff from the Wr-Wr-Wrangler while you s-s-start cleaning, huh Dad?”

Stammering got Caine’s attention. After the ‘incident,’ Xavior stammered for three days.

His voice resumed normal. “Sounds like a plan. Bring my camera bag first, and the plans, too, if you can. I need to figure out where things are before it gets too dark to see.”

The Act of TRANSMOGRIFICATION

Scene 1: Indication

Phillip Caine watched his ten-year-old son leave, loath to let Xavior go even for a minute. Not now, not after he’d come so close. He noticed things he’d never noticed before. His beautiful little boy was exceptionally agile, so energetic his legs had coiled springs, not boyish muscles. There was also a kind of innate elegance in his every step. Like a dancer, each small foot scarcely touched the dusty floor. Every movement was spontaneous, yet confident; always graceful. He was a joy to behold, inspiring contemplation, and awakening animal instinct.

More than anything else, Caine gawked at minuscule white shorts, his son’s tiny bottom barely concealed. The rear seam disappeared between the boy’s buttocks, accentuating each slightly pinched globe. With nothing else in the way, he fancied the possibilities.

Next time I hug you, I’m putting my hands on your butt, underneath your shorts. I hope you wash properly because my fingers are going into your crack. I bet you’ve never put your finger inside your hole; but I will. I’ll kiss you there, too, if you let me.

His son was always curious, always looking around. It was no different now as he headed outside, studying everything in his path, whether the salon’s floor mosaics or sgraffito.

Xavior stopped before a low-relief sculpture encompassing both sides of the doorway, particularly obscene with an embracing couple on each side. A man and a boy, both naked, both aroused, facing off. On cue, desire surged through the barely ten-year-old. For the first time in his life, everything made sense.

Flouting his own protrusion jutting out below, he abruptly pirouetted with his hands on his hips. Standing like that, there was no mistaking flirtatious, even from the far end of the salon.

“I love you, too…” Caine couldn’t restrain himself, either. “… my horny prince.”

Xavior resisted his first impulse. Instead, he mockingly raised both eyebrows before he continued on his way to the portico threshold. His father, speechless, looked around the empty salon, frustrated, incomplete, anxious. He was desperate to return to viewing the photos. A heartbeat later, he was silently ravishing a ten-year-old boy, his own son, his hunger demanding....

I wish my cock wasn’t so damned big. I’d do you in a heartbeat, stick it right up your rectum.

As soon as Xavior was safely outside, Caine squatted among scattered books, picked up the wooden chest and a few photos he’d missed among the debris on the floor. Now, only nude photos interested him.

Under a bird’s nest of twigs and feathers was a close-up photo of a young boy’s erect penis. His face flushed instantly.

It’s half the size of Xavior’s dick. His is beautiful, but small is sexy, too! Skinny as a finger. The tip looks delicious, like it’s trying to shoot. I bet Xavior hasn’t shot more than blanks. His glans may even be smaller; hard to tell with a foreskin.

Seeking better light, he carried the chest to the nearest window. Small panes of glass, thick and greenish, distorted the view of the terrace, giant terracotta pots, and marble stairs descending into the lake.

This is the perfect place and time to photograph you. The leaded glass softens the shadows. I want you naked in this mess, the sun setting, a look on your face to suggest childhood is fading, that your old life is gone, a hint of desire because you’re also aware you’re a sexual being.

His heart was beating rapidly as he cleared dried leaves from the oak window seat, wiping his dusty hands on his shirt before he dared to open the casket again. He sat, positioned side-on so he could see the wide-open front doors at the end of the axis, the porte- cochère. He could just make out Xavior’s head and shoulders. He’d parked himself beside the fountain, his back to the portico. However, there was no way of telling how long he’d stay there.

Out came the precious close-up. Quivering, Caine held it up to take advantage of the light. He’d never seen a glans so exposed. It was small yet bulbous. He inhaled, stretching his chest before he breathed out, staring at brazen boyhood. Already, his penis was expanding, challenging self-control.

I should photograph your weenie just like this, so smooth, with nothing to show how big it is except in comparison to your bellybutton.

Dreamily, he kneaded his crotch with the heel of his other hand, imagining other poses, arranging his son’s nude body as he wanted. Xavior would be proud, even arrogant with his hands on his hips, teasingly looking over his shoulder, caught in the act of fondling his big hard penis…

Having unzipped to relieve the growing pressure, Caine fondled his own big hard penis. Elongated and fully engorged, he was never more aware of endowment. By age 13, it was the envy of his middle school locker room. It didn’t stop growing until he started his senior year, nine very-thick inches!

t nine inches, Caine is one in 10,000+/-, a remarkable probability even in the Lodge of Asmodeus. Let’s downsize him to a more realistic 8-1/4”, still one in a couple of thousand.

When you’re done measuring, it’s time for a donation. If you’re into my story, please support the Nifty Archive. BTW, if you could purchase this book in digital form on Amazon, they’d charge $9.99.

Recommended donation: your ‘size’ in inches x $5. Generosity, like Honesty, is a Virtue. For Euros, your size in centimeters x 2. Remember, it is tax deductible in the USA.

Caine glanced up abruptly, his fist wrapped around the upper third of his now-throbbing manhood. Moral outrage long gone, he squeezed out transparent pearls, fantasizing on focusing his digital Nikon on his ten-year-old son.

Doing anything more than tickle him would scare the poor kid half to death. Or maybe not. I guess it depends on what he and Mark Truett did on my couch.

He turned over the final photo, a soapy bare boy reclining in a marble bath. He looked side-on at the camera, an inviting grin that said far more than words ever could. It had numbers on the back, along with ‘Silas,‘ Dec 21,’ and the year, ‘1918.’ Quickly, he inserted the photo, and the 15 others he’d collected, into the first of seven felt-lined compartments. Leaving a hundred photos untouched, he skipped ahead to the next compartment, examining one photo after the other. Somephotos stole his breath. He rubbed his forehead and stared.

Nothing was obscene, so far; just a delightful chronicle of a cold winter day, a boy sprawling on a sheepskin in front of the fireplace, standing at a frosty window, huddled with a pony under the porte-cochère with ice in his hair...

After viewing photo after photo of the same boy, there was something strange going on; Caine was certain of it. He wondered what he’d missed in the first compartment. Now, the boy was nude, his penis erect in every shot, even when he was playing naked snow angel. While he was always alone, Caine had the impression people were watching him.

Even more strange, the boy had changed since the previous day. His penis appeared harder and straighter, the tip even smaller; and it was noticeably darker. Caine stared, unable to stop his mind racing. And there were still dozens upon dozens of photos left in the second compartment.

Xavior squinted to read formal Edwardian script from a steel nib and in black India ink. Unsteady and sometimes smeary, yet he admired overly flowery squiggles for each cursive capital letter, exacting slope for the other letters, each word linked by continuous line. However, after a couple of sentences, he had to go back and reread.

It’s like he wants me to know, but he can’t write it down, so I have to figure it out for myself.

By Christmas Eve, he was still in the dark, juvenile curiosity running wild because after four days and nine pages, he just knew there had to be more to Silas Pfeiffer’s journal. The problem was Silas Pfeiffer never explained or wrote down his feelings; he simply recorded the events of each day in complete, uninspired sentences.

He plays ‘mother for father’ a lot. What does that mean? Maybe he put on her dress? That’s too weird.

Xavior closed his eyes, imagining Eagle Aerie in winter. Silas said there was snow; a shimmering blanket of crystalline snow on the meadow, the lake frozen, sparkling in the sun. Gaunt dark trees in the valley, on the ridge, a forest of Eastern Hemlocks towering straight as arrows. He could smell them, pungent, rank like parsnips. They were old—on December 24^th Silas wrote that he counted 506 rings on one trunk, before a contractor sawed it for lumber to build fences.

“’He diddled me and spread his seed in my furrow,’” Xavior read for the fifth time.

It was still confusing. He glanced around, an eerie feeling that someone was watching him.

Ears pricked, he looked over his shoulder, into the colonnaded portico. A voice, older, a boyish giggle, the hollow clunk of a door closing, or maybe his imagination was running amok.

Movement caught his eye, a flitting shadow of a man passing a second-floor window. He was certain the window belonged to one of the seven big bedrooms.

An elderly man’s voice; from behind, from among the statues leading to the garden, only no one was there.

With sunset rapidly approaching, Xavior went to find the building plans in the Wrangler, and his father’s camera bag.

Caine was so engrossed in the contents of the small wooden chest balanced on his knees that he didn’t look up, not once. Quite clearly, a lot had changed in the photos he’d skipped over. Now, the boy cavorted naked, shamelessly exposed before the camera. Photos of him sprawled across the bed, face down and slim pale legs apart, bending at the waist with his hands on his buttocks to reveal his anus, covered in oil on a massage table, reclining on a sculpted marble ledge….

In the one photo, the boy was showing his penis to someone—he had his hands on his hips and his crotch pushed forward, his head tilted upward, not smiling, not morose, proud and happy. Overhead, kitchen pots and pans dangled from hooks.

You look like Xavior taking a breather after he scored that goal against His Apostles.

Caine smeared preseminal juice over his glans, delighting in the slimy sensation, his left hand shaking as he replaced the photo and withdrew the next one. A second, perhaps two, passed before it sank in.

Having never seen anything like it, how was he to know there was a difference between sucker and suckee? Still, he started to masturbate, fingers and thumb expertly massaging his helmet and first inch of shaft, gaping at the sepia photograph long enough to remember it for the rest of his life. Remarkably, he could taste the boy’s erection, sweet, succulent, stiff, smooth, the little knob slippery with spit all over it. Craving turned it into Xavior’s glans, a shiny red cherry, only smaller and less bulbous.

Just give me a chance and I’ll suck your cute little balls, too. Maybe, I am going crazy. I’ll fuck you, if you want me to; and photograph it for us to look at afterwards. I want a closeup of your ass, looking into your rectum, with daddy jizz dribbling out.

Xavior stood in the doorway, breathless, clasping the leather tube of drawings he’d brought from the Wrangler, watching his father sitting by the window. He almost called out to save the long walk, the time better spent searching upstairs; however, his father did ask him to bring back both camera bag and plans.

After a single glimpse of the overweight rat cautiously sneaking alongside the wall, he decided stealth was not only entirely appropriate; surprising his dad would be funny as hell.

He kicked off his sneakers, one at a time. Barefoot boy with camera bag and plans, creeping closer, Ninja-style, skirting dry leaves, making less noise than the rat. Yards away, he was certain his father would look up. Instead, he appeared to be rubbing, bumping the chest perched on his knees.

Caine’s head snapped up even as he jerked the chest into his lap. “Where the hell did you come from?”

Xavior stared, shaking his head in disbelief. He dared not come closer. Easing the camera bag from his shoulder, he passed it to his father.

Xavior shrugged, not adamant, ambivalent. Instead of handing the grey-brown tube to his father, he balanced it, upright, on the floor.

In an instant, Caine was red, unable to move without revealing what he’d been doing. “Huh?”

“You said it was okay to play with it on the canoe trip; but when I told Mom, she said you were wrong.”

Xavior squared his shoulders, still a proud Baptist boy, still trained by dogma, still believing despite everything. Everything except his father, and his rapidly growing arousal, a bulge forming in the front of his shorts to prove it. His eyes flickered to the fireplace, gilt phallus beckoning, down to the crinkly elephant tube. Only seconds, yet it left his erect penis raging. It was like he had a lever in front.

“My body is God’s gift and I should never defile it.” He gulped air and went on like Bonaventure Junior. “Defiling makes you weak and have impure thoughts; and it’s a really bad habit, like doing drugs; and it’s unclean.”

“If God didn’t want you to jerk off, he wouldn’t make it feel so good; and he wouldn’t put it where you could reach it.”

I’d love to get him posing with you, maybe having some boy sex. What a great idea. Bare Boys in Nature. Boys and Their Toys. Best Friends Fuck.

Xavior didn’t react, not even an eye-blink. “Mom said it’s a sin; a really bad one, like committing adultery.”

Caine instantly regretted saying it; yet of all the things he might’ve said to his son, he’d finally said the right thing.

Xavior deliberated, avoiding eye contact in a way no father ever wanted to see. Ashamed; there was no other word for it.

Silas’ father said they wouldn’t have to keep their love a secret at the Lodge. That’s why his mother didn’t die in vain, because they could finally be together.

Caine’s ex-wife would’ve detonated at the f-word, slapped their son senseless, or worse. Instead, Caine regarded Xavior with a kind of quiet acceptance, no escaping the awful truth of words like that. His son had never been more vulnerable. His miserable face spoke volumes, disappointed in his parents, needing forgiveness, and it wasn’t even his fault.

Xavior could feel his father’s eyes on him. “Mostly after church, while I was at Bible Study.”

“She always cleaned the Sacristy while I was at Bible Study. Sometimes, I had to wait outside the door until they came out.”

Xavior nodded nervously. “One time they came out, his fly was still open. Mom said his zipper got jammed when he went to the bathroom. She got really angry at me for being there.”

Xavior lowered his eyes, his voice barely a whisper. “I kinda skipped Bible Study the next week. I could hear them doing it. I didn’t say a word on the way home. I guess she figured I knew because she was really nice to me after that.”

“I wanted to tell you, only I was afraid you’d leave.” Xavior wiped tears with the back of his hand. “Do we have to keep talking about it?”

He leaned in. “I love you, Tenney; I love you far more than I ever loved her.”

Uncertain, Xavior stared at his feet, the floor like a jigsaw, bits and pieces of pattern, the rest hidden by rubbish.

“We’re better off without her,” Caine said quietly. “Now, we can be together.”

“I know, Dad. I know she didn’t love you, not like she’s supposed to.” He smiled nervously and whispered, “Not like I will.”

Scene 2: Visitation

Caine hated when his son withdrew into silence; although it was hardly surprising. Xavior internalized far more than most kids.

With his gazed fixed on unrolled building plans, Xavior answered with a shrug. His father expected more self-imposed silence.

“Everything is kind of skewed,” Caine agreed. “Maybe it’s the paper. It’s shrunk or something.”

“Look down the corridor, Dad. It’s not straight. Everything’s queer here, Everything! Including us.”

Caine chuckled at that, they both did. Afterwards, he kept his mouth shut; there was no point. Now he had custody, nothing else mattered.

“Since you’re our castle explorer, you want to show me what’s upstairs?” he said after a while.

I’d rather look at photos; better yet, take photos of you. Maybe a visit to the second floor will stop your brooding. Maybe you’ll take off your shorts…

He had in mind taking advantage of the remaining light, not only to see the eight oddly named ‘chambers’ on the second floor for himself, to photograph his son dénudé, his beautiful bare son contrasting grime and trash.

Instead, Xavior leaned over and planted his finger on the central tower, attic floor.

From shape and prominence, the tower was the alpha and omega of Eagle Aerie; the Harena in the cellar, Absolution of Innocents on the main floor, and the Mercatus, in the attic. For the unnamed second floor, a childish hand had supplemented Akkadian pictograms with a penciled scribble, which Xavior read aloud.

Suddenly, the last thing he was interested in was crouching over tattered drawings and trying to figure out Latin names and pictograms. He looked up, hopeful as he touched his father’s arm. Caine gazed into ethereal steely-blue eyes, all knowing, gentle eyes. What he wanted to say, he couldn’t. It wasn’t the right time, or place.

Since we crossed the threshold, our lives have changed course for the better, only we don’t know why or how yet.

Then, the unexpected occurred; little fingers stroked his forearm, a small soft hand finally gripping a much larger thumb, not about to let go.

Like a toddler, taking hold of his father’s thumb, it was very reassuring, although he had no idea why. For the same reason, it was exciting, too, a deep-down thrill that wouldn’t let him stop trembling.

Xavior smiled despite timidity setting in. To a ten-year-old, it was emotionally confusing, wondering what his father was thinking, surely not the same thing.

With a knowing smile, Caine stroked his son’s smooth cheek. “If I could… Let me guess. Tickle your armpits? Blow raspberries on your tummy?...”

Up close, he studied his son’s features, liquid eyes with lashes a woman would die for, delectable lips, delicate unblemished complexion, a cute turned-up nose. ‘Too pretty for his own good’ came to mind, yet he wasn’t girly like some boys. Recalcitrant curls transformed him; it was strange how he’d never noticed it before.

He flicked at Xavior’s loose white shorts, a glimpse of the prize, all shaft, almost no balls.

Silas said he kissed his father’s crown. I think he means he sucked his dad’s knob.

Charging headlong into a soccer fray against bigger boys was infinitely more difficult; however, he had to face it eventually. It took all of his willpower to go on.

“Dad, what you said before about me being old enough to have sex. Um, you were talking about with guys… That means I’d be gay, right?”

Caine reached out, lovingly cradling Xavior’s slender neck, fingers entwining in curls, drawing them closer. Closer, slowly, giving his son time to change his mind.

“I want to have real sex, not just kissing stuff.” Simply saying it made Xavior hot.

“What if I really, really want to?” Insight spurred him on. He wanted desperately to add, ‘With you.’

“I love you so much it hurts. All I want is for you to be happy,” Caine admitted with a sigh.

He just admitted he’s gay, or is it only my imagination. Maybe, he doesn’t understand.

Not understanding, Xavior protested, “Silas was mother for his father; why can’t I?”

“A boy making love with a man is nothing like a man and a woman. It’s very special. It’s also very illegal.”

Don’t say it. He’ll only get angry. I have to say it! It’ll be twilight soon.

Suddenly, his deepest, darkest secret was out in open. He waited, expecting a rebuke, if not worse; yet neither of them shrank from the prospect. Judeo-Christian morality and legal repercussions were neither here nor there when it came to patriarch and scion.

Humbled, Caine caressed his son’s cheek. “It would be okay if they truly love each other.”

Incapable of being shocked, Caine looked into Xavior’s eyes; honesty surprise, happiness, relief; and so much love it was all he could do not to ravish the boy on the spot.

“For real sex, my penis goes inside you, in your butt. Not right away, of course, but eventually.”

“I’m serious. You’re so small, it’ll probably hurt like hell. I might even injure you.”

“You’re saying I have to wait a few years. What if I don’t want to wait?”

“Even if we’re careful, real sex still takes a while to get used to. Also, you have to be very sure it’s what you want?”

Shy, scared, shivery boy, touching his tongue to his lips, his penis reaching maximum stiffness in a heart-pounding gut-churning rush. No way of knowing he felt just like his father.

So close they tingled, so close man and boy breathed each other’s scent, warm breath on cheeks, lips touching ever so lightly. Strong fingers caressing softness, ears, cheek, chin, brow, moist lips. Little fingers clutching a much bigger thumb, clinging, wanting. Father and son toppling over the precipice…

The sacred vow still incomplete, their tongues touched before their lips met. Not a real French kiss, a precursor. It was arousing enough that Xavior pushed his father’s hand all the way down to his shorts. Caine grasped erect boyhood, throbbing like his own. As exciting as it was for a man and boy to kiss as lovers; for a father and son, it was overwhelming.

Certain he’d heard his name called for the second time, Xavior scampered up, two steps at a time. The stairs scissored majestically, back and forth up to the attic, and for some mysterious reason, also went down to the cellar. The Stair to Delights was a New York architect’s Gilded-Age fantasy, broad steps of porphyry, like a palace in Ancient Rome. It was brilliantly polished and crystalline, enhancing the imperial delusion. The balusters were cavorting white marble cherubs, supporting a handrail wide enough to ride a skateboard. At each landing, a whimsical winged eagle mounted a well-fleshed, and willfully erect Ganymede.

Not getting an answer, Caine grabbed his camera bag and bustled after his energetic offspring. At the first landing, he shouted, “Wait for me.”

At the second floor, Caine paused to catch his breath. Two tall bronze doors confronted him across the hall. Not Ghiberti’s solemn Gates of Paradise to the Florence Baptistery; Two Paths to Pleasure was neoclassical profligacy.

For several long moments, he shivered, contemplating what lay before him. At first glance, the two sets of seven sculpted panels depicted pederastic possibilities. He scratched his head.

No sooner than Caine realized the boy’s position was key to who was ‘active,’ and who was ‘passive’, his tousled-head son darted around the corner. Xavior grabbed his hand, and dragged him down the hall.

However, Xavior wasn’t tuned in to murals, tapestries, or sculpted doors. He turned the corner, tugging his father through a bland doorway with a sign proclaiming ‘no guests may pass.’ A glittering, colored-glass mosaic surrounded them, fanciful strutting peacocks. No hens, just males with fanned iridescent tails, early Art Nouveau.

Peacock-inspired, Xavior strutted, his bare feet skipping over a dusty marble checkerboard, flirting with stylized plumage. Finally, he pirouetted, pointing to a brassy inscription inlaid in the floor.

“Ta dah! Master, may I present the Chamber de Domino et Dominus,” he proclaimed, bowing obsequiously.

He smirked, already through the next doorway. “This will be our pad when we have guests staying at the resort, Dad.”

Xavior tilted his head. “Silas’ diary, silly. There should be photos of it in your box. He said his dad took lots, whenever he was in the buff, or doing stuff.”

Caine blushed crimson and followed his giggling offspring into their private domain. It wasn’t close to square. Being tetragonal in every plane gave more than a false sense of perspective. The distortion was mind-jarring, other-worldly.

Despite a knee-high dais in the center of the room, it was spacious enough for a ten-year-old boy to waltz around. Empty made the room seem even bigger, with surreal sea-shell sconces and an ornamental plaster ceiling, Parisian palais -style.

“No sign of weather damage.” Caine scratched his head, dazed, surprised by Xavior’s silly antics. “What’s got into you?”

His son flopped onto the dais, arms outstretched, legs wide apart, beaming up at him.

“We can fit a king-sized mattress on here, Dad.” He looked up at the coffered ceiling. “We should have a mirror above, so it’s like Mark’s bedroom. Wouldn’t it be funny if we had Toy Story sheets?”

For the first time in his life, he was proud of the twitching bulge in his now-grubby shorts, yet he flipped onto his belly, little buttocks lifted instinctively, appreciating his father was looking at him from across the room. Suddenly, he was very aware of his body, his sexuality burgeoning, his determination stiffening, desire strengthening, all consuming.

Perhaps it was his father’s smell, manly and musky. It was potent and maddening; and he desperately wanted to strip so his father could see all of him, naked, the way he was supposed to be.

Caine was silent, his gaze voracious, inhaling as if each breath was his last. Even concealed by knickers, Xavior’s beautiful bottom robbed his resolve.

His posterior was perfect, so small it defied logic, like the mystical musical notes echoing distantly. It stirred a visceral need, so strong, so urgent, that he knew ten-year-old virginity was his for the taking. He went so far as to put down his camera bag and take a step closer.

“Taking my cock on Toy Story sheets with a harpsichord playing, now there’s an idea,” he murmured, ogling his offspring, who hopefully didn’t hear.

Like a demon released from captivity, the Beast within Xavior needing feeding. It started in his empty belly, or deeper. Demanding nourishment, nurturing, filling the eerie void inside him. The urge to tease arose, instinct driving seduction the longer his father stared. Only T-shirt and shorts held him back, yet like his mother with Pastor Bonaventure, he began twisting, writhing in the throes of pretend passion, oscillating his slim pelvis as if he’d already been plundered, his very own Danse Macabre.

Perhaps Caine didn’t hear, or he was more worried what his son would think if he had any idea....

Whatever it takes to get you in my bed. If you want Toy Story sheets to give up your butt, so be it.

He gaped at his son, energetically humping the dais. “What happened to my innocent little Xavior?”

You get to fuck me right here, only not tonight. Don’t ask how I know; I just know.

Two pairs of French doors provided escape, a wide-open invitation to self-control. Caine sought fresh air, telling himself the musty odor knotted his stomach, not the sweet summer scent from Xavior. Somehow, he resisted turpitude until he was sure he was safe. Then, he dawdled, temptation giggling behind him, play-humping on the dais becoming increasingly frenzied.

Never more aware of his son’s allure, Caine stepped up to the threshold, looking at the leaf-strewn balcony, peeling painted balusters beyond, perfect for a photo in pensive pose. In the quickly fading light, he could just make out the statues, the porte-cochère, and the road sneaking through the encroaching Eastern Hemlock forest. The smell was overpowering, exactly as Soudé said it would be.

Xavior bounced up from the make-believe bed and dragged his father away from the French doors.

Recessed into the floor of the adjoining room was a spotlessly white oval marble tub. A wide ledge surrounded it, rising and falling with a lustrous smooth surface.

“For massages.” Caine recalled sepia photos, and wished he hadn’t left his camera bag in the bedroom. “And whatever else the Master desires.”

Caine stalled. One photo was explicit—one section of the ledge fitted a small supine body in all the right places.

First, I’ll teach you to be my little boy lover. Then, I’ll fuck you until you see stars, ‘to infinity, and beyond.’

“You promised you’d always answer my questions.” Xavior didn’t need to remind him when, where, or why that promise was made.

You’ll get a buzz when I expose you to kiddie porn, but it’s way too soon.

With a jerk of his head, Xavior bolted. His father stopped long enough for his head to stop spinning, and to grab his camera before he followed, painfully hard and right on his heels.

Scene 3: Provision

Heart pounding, Caine pursued Xavior. Down gracious hallways, passing chambers with names like an ancient brothel; Sodomia, Interpositio, Adspicia , Confictura, Algolagnia, and Exstasia. Finally, Xavior darted into the Chamber of Delectatio. The first time he’d seen it, there was garbage all over the place, moth–eaten rags, befouled newspapers, the stench of cat piss. A few hours transformed it, impeccable and beautiful, with a majestic tapestry behind a vast canopied bed. Xavior had never seen anything like it, even in museums.

Not a four-poster, a ‘four-cock,’ because each polished wood column was brazenly phallic. He pressed against one, wrapping his arms around it.

It was shiny and warm, and it felt so right to hump it. A boy’s sinuous curves could have inspired both headboard and footboard, carved with cavorting little demons.

Still immature, his libido scarcely awakened, yet sexual arousal was not only unavoidable, it overwhelmed Xavior. Heart hammering, panting, trembling in a tempest of lust; he flounced from one gilt-framed mirror to the next. Off came his T-shirt. Bare skin glimmering in candlelight, he posed as a weightlifter, Taekwondo master, and ballet dancer while his father took photo after photo.

By the end, Xavior was hot all over, especially where part of him throbbed relentlessly. There was sweat on his chest as if he’d been playing soccer in the broiling sun. The cupola ceiling was a shock when he finally looked up. Taken aback, he launched himself onto the bed. Leering at his father, he beckoned.

It was too much, too soon for Caine. He barely noticed an intricate, very intimate oil painting of two little boys attaining ecstasy with a cow horn. He might’ve been seeking moral refuge as he skirted the canopied bed, yet his gaze followed Xavior’s every move. Fascinated, he dragged his tripod from his camera bag. Certain there would never be a better time, he quickly attached his camera and Godox flashlight and composed the shot.

Then, he waited. Giggling, gleeful, gorgeous boy stripping off without hesitation. Both hands moved to his waist, untying the cord, slowly pushing down loose white knickers, still nothing underneath, not even a glimpse of oversized boyhood with his hands in the way. Caine peered through the viewfinder, impulsively changing the file to 14-bit RAW; adjusting the flashlight. When the moment was right, he used the glossy floral silk on the walls to redirect, soften, and color the sudden burst of light.

He took many more photos before knickers reached knobby knees, a second-to-last photo when Xavior’s shorts entangled his ankles. Twenty fabulous photos in total, only one of them would make it into the collectors’ edition of Xavior Anthology. The last photo was private consumption only.

Xavior posed, boy satyr, first finger and thumb holding his stiff penis at the base, skin pulled all the way back, audaciously showing off to the camera.

“I thought you’d be too embarrassed to do it,” Caine said, worrying that he’d gone too far by suggesting it.

“You’re so uptight about being naked. Doing that in front of the camera is surprising, to say the least.”

“It’s the last thing you expected, huh?” Xavior smirked. “If you must know, I’ve done it in front of Mark a few times.”

Xavior bounced to his feet and put his hands on his hips, showing off, penis still skinned, shiny at the exposed end.

Lost for words, Caine did the only thing he was comfortable with. He looked through the viewfinder, gaping at oversized boyhood.

He licked his lips, nodding. Xavior grinned back, flaunting arousal, flexing boyhood, instinctively challenging his father. No Gomco beanie for this boy; his little glans seemed plopped on the end, plump, crimson, glossy, lickable, suckable. Then, he pulled the excess skin down even farther…

As if he’d read his father’s mind, Xavior glanced around. Men who were old enough to be his grandfather watched in the shadows. He took his father’s advice and basked in attention, wantonly displaying his privates. Voyeurs all around him, some creeping closer, licking their lips, some grasping withered genitals, all admiring, all eyes focused on him. It was fun. Suddenly, he was sweltering hot.

He looked directly at the camera. “You know you want to fuck me,” he whispered.

He was certain no one could hear him, but even if someone did, it wouldn’t matter, not after one of the men muttered ‘he’s gorgeous.’ Another man whispered something about sucking ‘boy-dick.’ It was obscene; it was thrilling; it was life changing.

He was giggling as Caine put down his camera, taking in the totally nude boy, now sprawling and shameless.

“Enough photos, Dad,” Xavior snickered, sitting up, inspecting himself, foreskin still retracted. “It looks like yours when it’s stretched back.”

Xavior nodded without looking up. “I always make it slick when it’s hard.”

“You’re hard, that’s for sure. Circumcise you and you’ve got your old man’s junk.”

A revelation guaranteed to startle any father, yet Caine suspected Jeff Truett loved boys, too. Not that it bothered him; now, there was no reason to conceal his concerns.

“They both are. Mark’s is vertical when he gets hard, and the head gets really swollen. It’s like a plum, Dad.”

Grinning, Caine detached his camera from the tripod, hopeful of getting at least one close-up. “That thing ever go down?”

“Uh uh.” Xavior made his erection twitch. After getting an approving nod, he returned his foreskin. “It’s playtime. He wants you to play with him. We’ve got until twilight.”

You’ve changed overnight. You know exactly what you want, and how to get it.

He stooped to put his camera on top of the bag and approached the bed, ignoring the muttering, lust-filled croaky declarations in muted whispers.

Caine glanced around the chamber one more time. He couldn’t see anyone, just shadows in the mirrors. He could smell them, though. Sour and musty concealed with cologne. Common sense said to get under the fancy brocaded bedspread, but lust wasn’t reasonable. Lust was unrelenting, insistent, overpowering. He undressed, shedding golf shirt and Bermuda shorts, leaving blue boxer briefs with a big arching bulge.

Wide-eyed, Xavior didn’t move. His hirsute father clambered over him, grinning as he carefully lowered himself down. As they kissed, the boy felt something press into his belly and he trembled with a bazillion butterflies. It was massive, searing, making him groan. Slender arms wrapped around Caine’s middle, hugging, yet already anxious for even more contact.

“You have to be naked, too, Dad.” After the first kiss, there wasn’t enough air left in his lungs for more than a whisper.

He lifted up, bracing knees and elbows, both hands capturing Xavior’s sweet face, although all he could see was a mess of dark curls. He could feel the boy’s fingers squirming under the waistband, tugging, teasing giggles as his boxers began their downward journey. The murmurs grew louder, insistent, encouraging. He wriggled his hips to help get his boxers past his butt.

Xavior stopped tugging, his father exposed enough to satisfy ten-year-old lust. Before his father could lower himself, he slid his right hand between their fronts encountering a veritable jungle of pubic hair. For the first time in his life, he felt impotent.

Caine trembled as his son’s small hand tried to enclose his very erect penis. It was huge, and oozing wetness on the end. Slimy excretion coated the boy’s palm and wrist before he knew what was happening.

He resisted the urge by rubbing against Xavior’s bare warm body, smooth skin taut and firm with juvenile muscle. His son wriggled beneath him, panting, instinctively kissing whatever came within reach, little fingers entranced by fur.

An antiquated cough interrupted their writhing, over by the window where curtains drifted. Caine smothered Xavior’s unabashed giggle with a sloppy tongue kiss headed for tonsils. He slowly regained control, placing his drooling penis between his boy’s slender thighs. Intercrural intercourse with his wife was like doing penance for sins. It was mind-boggling with a boy, even better than he’d hoped for.

Worried he was squashing the boy, Caine raised up a few inches. Xavior lifted up with him, rearranging, jabbing his much-smaller penis into his father’s groin. Then, he clasped them together, both little hands containing man and boy, large and small penises merging into a seething mass of rigid flesh.

Caine’s excretion made both of them slippery. Xavior trusted his instincts, thrusting, rubbing, teasing, until his father took over. Then, whining softly, he playfully nipped nipples, sticking his face in a hairy armpit, licking, kissing, inhaling until he quivered with need. His legs lifted up, clamping, clinging, aligning, finally locking his legs behind his father’s buttocks, glad his father’s erection was jammed against him, oozing over his chest.

“Admit you love it and I won’t tickle you,” Caine whispered back, adding a playful love slap on his son’s little butt.

With a treble giggle and a clumsy pinch, Xavior whispered, “Duh. Sooo big; he’s pushing into my belly.”

Within moments, they moved like a man and boy making love, big and small gliding in unison, slowly, gently, playfully jabbing, faster, harder. Feeling each other’s bare flesh, hot, soft, moist, and very alive. Kissing again, frantic and teasing, sometimes equal, mostly unequal, yet always in harmony.

“Uh uh. Silas says they watched him and his dad when they were in the Chamber of Delectatio.”

Imminent orgasm abruptly postponed, Caine glanced over his shoulder. Now, there were more shadows, ghosts in the mirrors. There hadn’t been half as many there before. He was about to say so when he spotted Soudé peeking around through the open door.

Mortified, Caine dismounted. It was all he could do to meet his son’s unwavering gaze. For a moment, he thought he saw shock and shame, disgust at what they’d done.

In the nearest mirror, the shadows came closer, gaunt faces peering in. distant murmurs of ‘what a pity,’ ‘it was just getting good.’

When Caine glanced down, his erection bobbed, hungry and hard, relentless copious drool dribbling on his son’s smooth pale groin, the smaller penis throbbing, smeared wet with the stuff, purity tainted by several of his dark pubic hairs.

Only then, he realized Xavior was excited, wildly happy, and curious, too. No shame at all. It was remarkable, even miraculous.

Xavior made a ‘don’t blame me’ face, little fingers spreading parental preseminal fluid over his belly and chest as his very-embarrassed father knee-walked backwards so Soudé couldn’t see his jutting erection.

At the bottom of the bed, Caine paused. Before he could say another word, chunky hands grasped his arms, hoisted him off the bed, and onto his feet. On either side, a dark-skinned behemoth of a man wearing only a skimpy leather loincloth. Barrel chested, tree-trunk thighs, scarred brawny arms, oily luster all over, surely seven feet tall.

They turned him to face Soudé, grinning gleefully and ogling Caine’s exposed middle. For a moment, he chewed his fat bottom lip.

You’re so big, you’ll make him scream, and likely draw blood, yet he’ll still want you inside him.

“Meet your guards, Master Caine. Moors are brutal, but very obedient,” he explained.

With a snap of his fingers, the Moors released Caine, adopting at-the-ready stances on either side of him.

“Well, of course you do; and he says he loves you. The only question is, how much. We’ll find out soon enough. It’s almost twilight.” Soudé turned back to Moors, and Caine. “Escort Master Caine to the Patriarchal Cross and assist him to get situated.”

“Can I put on my clothes first?” Caine said, thankful his aroused state wasn’t ridiculed.

“With patience and care, it’ll do you far more good than you realize,” Soudé guffawed. “Just remember when you claim him as yours you must say, ‘Before Asmoday, I claim the Progenitor Right of Patriarch.’ Exactly, Master Caine; not a word out of place!”

“Whatever happens, do not say ‘Proprietor.’ That’s for tomorrow night. You may talk with your guards before the ceremony begins. After that, say nothing else. Not a word or the Moors will cut off your tongue!”

He held out his hand to assist Xavior off the bed. “And you, my prince, need a bath in the Water of Life.”

Scene 4: Crucifixion

Stark naked, Caine went with his towering guards, not eagerly, not unwillingly, unknowingly; tromping through the same hallways he’d pursued Xavior. When they reached the central tower and the Stair to Delights, Caine took a breath, thankful they’d encountered no one. The Moor on his right abruptly gestured up; not a word, yet clearly compulsory.

They ascended one floor and entered the room directly ahead, ‘Mercatus’ incised into the stone lintel above the doorway. Unlike the circular rooms below, this room was windowless, lit by seven candles, placed in niches carved into the wall. Below each niche was a chair.

“The Founders always watch, Master Caine.” The Moor gestured at a carved wood chair with blue velvet padding. “That’s the Chair of Elijah used by the mohel who circumcised Founder Rosenkrantz.”

Caine pointed at one of the high-tech Aeron chairs. “Whose willy got snipped in that one?”

“Master Caine, they are boring Silicon Valley tycoons,” he confided. “They were circumcised in the hospital. Sadly, the Gomco clamp was as fashionable then as these chairs were when they joined the Lodge of Asmoday. Now, the red-lacquered Chinese-dragon chair is very special. Founder Chu was six when his father circumcised him, and hand-delivered the foreskin to Mao.”

Caine strolled to the remaining chair, plain metal frame, cheap vinyl upholstery, and of questionable origin.

“An oil mogul from Kiev,” the Moor said. “He was circumcised at age three as part of Stalin’s hygiene plan.”

He traversed the room, impulsively drawn towards a curious cross of hand-hewn Eastern Hemlock. The Patriarchal version had two almost-horizontal cross-bars, and a thick smooth wood rod, ebony, not Hemlock.

“Not only Founders; anyone who serves Asmoday must be unveiled. Bald-headed servants have nothing to hide.”

Both Moors smiled. One fiddled with a gold hoop through his ear lobe as Caine took in the thick rod. It extended out, not quite perpendicular, placed where the lower cross-bar intersected the vertical stake. Glistening grease covered the rod; now, that was strange.

Increasingly, he worried about Xavior. They’d been apart for less than ten minutes, yet it seemed like forever.

“Is anything straight in this place?” He pointed at the cross, askew and uneven.

“Mastema, like nature, abhors straight lines and right angles for good reason. Order is not perfection; it is control, boring like symmetry. Chaos is life, lust, and everything interesting.”

The Moors came up beside him, standing either side. Caine panicked as their powerful hands grasped his arms, spun him around and guided him back. The Moors tilted him forward, lifting his legs up and out. His butt hit the greasy projecting rod. It rammed hard into his crack. It was unyielding, but so was he, clamping his legs, squeezing his buttocks, clenching the muscle to keep out the blunt tip.

Caine shook his head, scrunching lips and teeth as he resisted ingress. The Moors were insistent, yet remarkably patient.

“Accept Mastema as your lord, and Asmoday as your master, and we will reward you.” Soudé sighed. “Not with gold and gems, or shares in Tesla; with pleasure beyond imagination.”

“You have no idea what awaits, Master Caine. You live in a world that despises your kind. You and your beautiful son have no future with Jehovah in charge. They talk of loving thy neighbor, while they spew their vile hatred. A time will come when they geld men who dare to love little boys.”

Caine grunted as the Moors gradually increased the pressure, pulling, pushing on his thighs and abdomen, steadily forcing him against the cross. His anus, already stretched wide, began to yield despite his frantic efforts to keep the rod out.

He worked out at a university gym twice a week, and jogged every other evening, yet compared to the massively muscled Moors he was feeble. He could feel his strength diminish with each wasted struggle.

“Accept Asmoday and the assault will become a source of great joy,” Soudé declared.

In the flickering candlelight, people stared at him. To take his mind off agony, Caine counted seven men, several who he recognized from TV news. All but two were old, in their sixties or seventies. There were also a few young boys, bearing trays of food and drink. They were bare to the middle, with billowing peacock-patterned pants, tied at the waist and ankles. They were pretty, like little girl slaves.

“Just so you know; what’s good for the son is good for the father. The rod going into your ass is the same size as your cock,” Soudé chuckled.

Amused, he stepped back, finally looking around at spectators. He nodded to each of the Founders.

“Good evening, all. Master Caine is eager to put his manhood inside a little boy; however, he’s scared to try it on himself. Any volunteers to help him get situated?”

“If he really loves his son, he won’t hurt him,” one of the boys snickered, licking his lips seductively.

His hair was brown, wavy, and longer than Xavior’s dark curls. His features, and mannerisms, too, seemed more appropriate to the other gender. He was especially girlish in peacock pants. Despite the raging pain in his rear, Caine thought he was sexy. Not in Xavior’s league, yet very desirable.

Soudé rolled his eyes. “Boys are all the same. Give them five inches, they beg for six inches. If six inches fits comfortably, they want to squeeze in seven. For my sederbi, even eight inches won’t keep them happy.”

“Master Caine, this delightful boy has volunteered to assist you. His father is your head gardener, Graeme Neilson, from the TV show, This Old Garden.”

The boy curtsied, batting eyelashes, his gaze fixed on Caine’s erect penis as if nothing else mattered.

“Oh yes. It’s just…” The boy giggled. “… he’s bald on top and so hairy below.”

“I enjoy the contrast, too. His son is bald below and hairy on top.” Amused, Soudé waved a finger. “Once he’s situated, keep him hard as steel, loaded and ready to shoot; but don’t pull the trigger.”

“You signed the Contract and Addenda without duress, Master Caine,” Soudé resumed. “Your son depends on you to fulfill your side of our agreement. You must relish, possess, and corrupt him before you deliver him to me.”

He paused, leaning to look behind Caine’s back. He snickered and shook his head.

“’Possess,’” he emphasized, “…. takes on new meaning, doesn’t it? It’s obvious you want to possess Xavior. He can take your cock with only a whimper, or he can scream in agony.”

Caine shook his head, not because he didn’t want to make love to Xavior; he wanted that more than anything. However, it simply wasn’t possible.

Suddenly, the lip-licking long-haired boy was right in front of him, little fingers toying with his puffy crimson glans, doe-brown eyes wide open. The pressure behind him intensified. The sensation in front was relaxing.

“Your son wants your cock inside him because he loves you, Master Caine,” Soudé said. “Is it mutual?”

“Subject to the conditions of contract, you must be his master, owner, and lover before you deliver him to me. That’s Paragraph 26, plus the appropriate definitions, to wit, ‘The son must unconditionally give the father ultimate pleasure until they are inseparable.’”

“In your case, being your son’s lover also binds you to Paragraph 26. Basically, it means accepting Mastema as your true lord, and serving Asmoday. It’s for the rest of your life; that’s covered in Item B-3. The only question remaining is your compliance. Willing or not, it’s entirely up to you?”

Caine’s imminent surrender needed only a tiny fingernail scratching beneath his glans. He yielded completely, shuddering as the rod penetrated his sphincter. With two hefty Moors shoving him back and nothing to restrain the greasy shaft, it skewered his rectum. He gasped, an awful awareness of it expanding into his bowels.

Again, Soudé looked behind Caine. Satisfied, he nodded to the Moors. They strapped him to the nearly vertical cross, thighs and ankles to the lower beam, his wrists and upper arms to the skewed upper beam. Another strap encircled his neck and stake, pulled tight to hold up his head.

Directly in front of the Patriarch Cross was a stone sarcophagus. Behind it, was the Throne of Asmoday.

Soudé prostrated before the Altar, breathless from witnessing Caine’s impalement. However, he kissed the floor for another reason—he’d learned long ago to always retain a wary ear.

He’d handpicked seven Founders from an army of candidates. They were all unscrupulous, all multi-billionaires, three Ashkenazi magnates, two Silicon Valley tycoons, one Asian plutocrat, one Mongol oil mogul, all clutching priestly robes as coldness reached across the Mercatus.

“I saw him in the forecourt. He’s a thousand shekels prettier than Silas.”

Among the Founders’ whispers, it wasn’t propitious. Still, it brought a sallow smile to Soudé’s saggy jowls as he listened to their banter.

“I was seven going on eight the first time my papa did me. It wasn’t half-bad. The third time about blew my mind. He kept me in bed all day.”

Following a burble of flatulence, Soudé’s belly quivered, anticipating more gastronomic excess. He dreamed of sautéed partridge breast, tender mouthwatering morsels in syrupy orange sauce. It always reminded him of licking little boys’ smooth scrota, slurping and sucking on slippery skin.

Salivating, Soudé clambered to his knees, his throne so close, yet still too far away to mount without crawling over to it. His pre-dinner snack weighed heavily, Malardis—roasted mallard with fritters and brawn, and wine thickened with egg yolks.

He glanced over his shoulder at Caine, crucified. The little boy playfully tugged on the man’s balls with one hand and expertly rubbed his erection with his other hand, long slow strokes from hairy pubis to circumcised tip.

It pleased Soudé that Caine was visibly distressed, unable to resist moaning when the boy pinched the slime-covered tip.

“Torture, isn’t it? I’ll enjoy doing the same to your son soon enough, Master Caine,” he muttered to himself.

Enervated, he knee-walked, muttered a garbled invocation to Mastema, and prostrated again. He pushed against the floor, repeating the process thrice until he could grasp the glowing-eyed dragonheads on the end of the armrests. With considerable effort, he levered his portly body up and around. Now, unsteadily obese on wobbly legs with achy knees, he lowered himself into the seat of power, squirming to stop his silken shorts from sticking in his crack.

Again, he peered past the sarcophagus. Grimacing, Caine strained to keep from sinking lower on the cross, thigh and arm muscles bulging. He strained outward, too, his penis fully extended and handsomely thick, thanks to his tormenter. Still, not accepting the rod, yet definitely engaging with it.

The Founders genuflected like Sumerian kings of long ago. Such was the power of Mastema; even the world’s richest men were meagre pawns.

“Transmogrification is nigh. My final reminder; remember the rules of tendering. Listen carefully to the crones’ proposals. I permit no retraction. You must make a bid every round, until you win. You may stop another tender only by outbidding it. We begin at his head and end at his hiney. If you save your highest bids for his middle, remember this; you may end up with nothing for your trouble.”

The snickers ended, and the light grew dimmer as two little boys circled the room, blowing out candles, leaving just enough illumination from four ruby dragon eyes to reveal the Altar; an ancient sarcophagus with a translucent chalcedony lid, incised Babylonian cuneiform and Sumerian lions encircling the red granite base.

Soudé waited, watching, wondering how much longer. He was impatient to begin, yet there was no sign of Caine submitting to Mastema. Still, the evening had barely begun. He settled ponderous weight comfortably into his gilded throne, ears pricked.

Finally, shuffling feet and the swoosh of earthy, thorny, knitted-wool gowns as the crones advanced down the hall.

As soon as the words left his mouth, ruby eyes died and impenetrable darkness settled. Secure in obscurity, a circle of seven Founders rejoined, thankfully on cue.

As if something had burst inside him, Caine groaned in the gloom. He clenched his eyes and gritted his teeth, denying greater depth.

“With twilight, I illuminate. I burn with the glory of Mastema’s mighty taper,” Soudé returned.

The crones shuffled into the Mercatus, three aside, Xavior Tenney Caine, suspended between them, undulating as if he floated. Tiny and pale, he stared up, eyes unblinking, inebriated, a sacrificial lamb born upon twelve arms linked beneath him.

The seventh crone followed behind muttered metaphysical incantations, holding high a thick phallic candle. Its flickering yellow glow revealed clumps of black tallow trickling down.

You had so much fun kayaking, not so much fishing. That thing with the lures bothers me.

A little hand stroked his thigh, a reminder to keep his mouth shut, or temptation. Either way, the hand was far too close for comfort.

“Who comes before the Altar of Mastema, where sits Asmoday, His Adversary’s destroyer of marital unions,” the Founders chanted.

“We are His Seven Maidens. We proffer perfection for this boy, who would be a sederbus, servant of Asmoday,” the candleholder proclaimed.

Caine felt the boy’s hot breath, the heat of his face, the delicate brush of his lips hiding a faint whisper.

“Before Asmoday, I claim the Progenitor Right of Patriarch,” Caine muttered, certain he was incoherent, or he’d gotten the wording wrong.

“Progenitor, are you certain that’s what you want? Surely, you mean Proprietor?”

Muffled whispers destroyed Caine’s concentration. The little hand squished his glans, forcing out slimy juice. The hand lifted, a tongue swiped, big shiny eyes, flicked left, then right, signaling to keep his mouth shut.

A Founder, gaunt and withered with age, broke the timeless chain and stepped outside the circle. The women passed through the gap before he returned and sealed the opening.

“The Progenitor Right of the Patriarch derives from your seed,” Soudé continued. “From the father to the son, united in love. By placing your seed in your son, you deny future offspring from both him and you. If the circle is completed, your line ends. There are no Caine descendants.”

“My sacrament is simple, Master Caine. In the darkness, place your seed deep within him. Your seed must fertilize his untouched sanctum. Nothing can escape. Nothing else may penetrate the threshold. The dark Lord and Asmoday have eyes and nose upon thee. Is that understood?”

“I’m told his bottom’s very tight, even for a virgin. Still, I’m sure you’ll manage admirably.”

Exhausted and aching from doing the ‘splits’ at age 40, yet Caine struggled against his bonds.

“You should’ve claimed the Right of Proprietor first. Align them, and let’s get it over with,” Soudé grumped.

With amazing grace, the women perambulated around the Altar, stopping before Caine, naked, crucified, and very erect. Again, Soudé gestured and two women per side stepped back simultaneously. Xavior’s slim arms and legs parted, placing him in the in the same ‘splits’ position as his father, but laying down.

His son’s legs were so far apart, Caine was certain something would rupture in the middle. Xavior was athletic and flexible, yet stretched back like that had to be painful, and yet even he had to acknowledge the possibilities.

Droopy-eyed, and smelling strongly of mint moonshine, it was all Xavior could do to lift his head. His father was sitting strangely, in the splits position. He was strapped to a cross, not a simple stake, or Tau, or even a Latin cross. The cross was short and tilted, with two almost-horizontal arms, one holding his father’s outstretched arms, the other restraining his legs. His father’s erect penis, thick, long, and horizontal, pointed directly at his equally exposed genitals.

His next thought arrived in an unsettling flurry, the very moment he realized his father’s erection also aimed at his still-virgin anus.

The urge to copulate was impulsive, demanding, life-changing for a boy; it was so strong that Xavior licked his lips. His little anus tightened reflexively, and then loosened, responding instinctively. Tight, loose, cycling with every throb of his erect penis.

Droplets of preseminal fluid trickled down the side of Caine’s vastly larger penis, making a glistening trail before a boy with long girlish hair eagerly smeared it over the glans.

The boy grinned at Xavior. “You have a nice big stinger. You can do my ass whenever you want, dude.”

Befuddled and envious, Xavior watched the boy fondle the big crimson cherry on the end of his father’s penis, licking his fingers. Part of him doubted the possibility, another part was equally certain.

Another gesture from Soudé and the women stepped forward, aligning man and boy, the long-haired boy guiding. Caine’s drooling penis brushed his son’s buttocks, cleaving the gap, throbbing in a way that would make any boy tremble. The women lifted up Xavior’s middle, just an inch or two, while the other boy positioned the bloated glans, wriggling it into numbed flesh, steadily stroking the rippling hot shaft.

“If you want his cum in your sanctum, you need to relax your hole all the way,” the boy whispered in preparation.

“His cock is so beautiful,” Xavior murmured, nearly incoherent, yet vaguely aware something important was happening between his buttocks.

I can’t think straight. I can’t feel anything. Why am I floating? Why is Daddy always wincing?

He’d been scared when the women bathed him in 80-proof moonshine, mint-infused for extra freshness. However, giggles soon replaced fear when they paid special attention to his privates, not only plucking, pinching, and poking, other things.

Xavior was tipsy when they flushed him out at both ends. One woman, who might’ve been his grandmother, read hermetic texts, something about ‘above and below’ and ‘inside and outside.’ The other women teased him between chants from the Gnostic Gospel. Finally, they dried him with hand towels and anointed his pucker. It was slimy, not even close to being tight.

The boy expertly pumped Caine’s erection, occasionally jerking the plump glans against the little anus.

“His prick isn’t allowed inside your boy-hole until you both take the oath,” the boy whispered. “You know what cum is? It’s what goes inside you.”

“Between us, I’m the last boy Mr. Soudé should’ve picked,” the boy confided. “I play Progenitor with my dad when no one is watching us.”

Envious as only a sederbus can be, yet he had a high respect for tradition, rubbing faster, harder, bumping the little anus with every up and down stroke.

Perhaps Caine overhead. His penis throbbed erratically, only moments from ejaculation.

“He does if you want him to have the Right of Progenitor. He has to put every last drop in your sanctum.” The boy grinned, feeling the man’s organ grow stiffer, swelling, veins bulging. “Relax your hole. Here it comes, ready or not.”

He gripped the adult organ tightly, jamming the glans against Xavior’s anus as Caine groaned, as much fighting his bonds to complete their union. Just as he was about to explode, he held back, straining to stem the flow a moment longer. His penis jolted, urethra pulsing in rapid succession as globs of fluid spurted out.

“For sure, I can feel it. He’s got a lot stored up, so don’t tighten up.”

The boy kept Caine’s penis lodged against Xavior’s anus until the jolts ended. He squeezed along the shaft, an inch at a time, getting out the last of it. Only then, he separated man and boy, both father and son still very erect. He peered between them. No dribbles; not even a single droplet had escaped.

He faced the Throne of Asmoday. “My Lord and Master, the Patriarch has satisfied the first requirement of the Right of Progenitor.”

Soudé was visibly perturbed, flicking his bulbous nose, smelling the air, hoping for the slightest whiff of semen. One droplet would be enough to breach the contract. Finally, he waved irreverently.

Discombobulated, Xavior hovered over the waxy chalcedony slab as if his future was still undecided. A greenish glow emerged from the Altar, flowing from underneath him, seeming to draw him down. Gradually, he descended onto cold hard stone, now emerald-hued.

BY Moonshine am I Reborn
By this flame do I emerge
I am by form the Peacock Angel, beauty revealed unto those who may see
As the Black Sun rises, I become on this emerald stone
I am the Boy of Lust, the Seed of Fallen Angels will nourish me
In darkness exists my Light.”

Xavior’s fading erection was disturbing, though entirely expected when he separated from his father. Nonetheless, Soudé was pleased, in fact, delighted. Certainly, The Supplication could’ve been a little louder, but there was almost no dazed drunken slur. The intonation was right, the tempo ideal for invocation, word for word repeated exactly. Being incised into the ceiling above the boy’s head surely helped.

He harrumphed, more to clear his throat, than assert control of muttering Founders, taken aback by the boy’s mellowed invocation.

Having stated the role of his sederbus—his fundament as supplement, Soudé settled back. On the surface, using a pretty boy to seduce married men sounded like a last-resort alternative, a lustful contingency for husbands not desirous of beautiful women. However, Soudé knew the true appeal of boys. Like gourmet food, little boys were all-too-appetizing.

Scene 5: Exultation

Three Sederbi servants served dinner in the Mercatus. Finger foods, yet befitting a royal wedding feast, which in a way it was, given the main attraction. No boar’s head on a silver platter, of course—three Ashkenazi Jews saw to that; instead the kitchen staff prepared an array of appetizers, beginning with a poultry medley of braised woodcocks, capon, and quail, all served with herby sauces in pastry wraps.

As tasty as the medley was, Soudé dwelled on his contract of adhesion. Three times, Caine had escaped the carefully contrived legal snares of Addendum Seven—no one would think that simply speaking out of turn could materially breach the contract.

The Founders surrounded Xavior, motivated by insatiable self-indulgence, accentuated by constantly gazing at the sensuous ten-year-old boy now stretched naked upon green chalcedony. They muttered among themselves.

“Wait until Nanny turns his widdler into a stinger worthy of our prince. I’ve never seen a boy with one that big.”

Still fuming, Soudé raised his hand for silence. “State the purpose of Exultation.”

Soudé looked around his circle of fawning servants, little sederbi with trays, insincere Founders and voracious crones, poor Caine, still straining, strapped to the Patriarchal Cross; all of them staring at Xavior’s little body. Surely, of all things preordained, the Exultation of a Virgin Prince was the most essential.

He signaled to the crones to perform their invocation, no mere formality, the source of their power.

At the end, Soudé clapped his hands, once. For an overweight dwarf, it wouldn’t have been heard across the room. For Asmoday, Demon of Lust, it was a peal of thunder.

The Founders backed away and took up their seats around the perimeter wall, bulging shekel purses on their laps like merchants in a Byzantium bazaar. The crones crowded around the Altar, sniffing and snipping, peering at Xavior’s sweet face. Soon, gnarly fingers touched his delicate lips, like equine traders inspecting.

“The lips lack for passion. The upper lip is like a fish, the bottom lip is pouty.”

Only Xavior and his tortured father saw her as the helpful Hispanic housekeeper of Eagle Aerie. The rest saw her as sea hag, hideously cruel and spiteful, not the woodland witch she aspired to. Deer antlers sprouting through impossibly tangled hair and no teeth were convincing, nonetheless.

Nanny Dankworth primped her tight white matronly curls, the result soured vinegar, not hours with a beauty-parlor curling wand. She hovered over Xavior, grandmotherly with eyebrows raised and lashes a fluttering, her face pasty with skin pores like tiny sinkholes.

“Oh my, you're a beautiful child. You’re blessed to have such a nice big widdler, and tiny nutties, too. There’s nothing more pleasing on a boy.”

She pulled her grey woolen cardigan closer as she turned away, crinkles appearing, first on her scrawny neck; then on her face in growing abundance, becoming deep furrows that subdivided her complexion into a quilt, ripped by rage, age, and evil .

“Such delicious boy bits, definitely worth devouring. I’ll slice them off when Soudé isn't watching. I want his widdler.” She waggled a sharp little sickle to back it up. “Tregonwell, if you’ll sauté it, you get his balls.”

Tregonwell's tongue was forked, her teeth black, not from tannin, bat blood. Xavior’s sozzled eyes saw a chubby cook in impeccable white chef’s hat.

“Wait until his father tenderizes his rectum. Nothing tastier than little bowels stuffed full of creamy sauce, and freshly fucked.”

A vegan bitch, she munched on dead people’s fingers, greying stalks with succulent yellow tips. Steeped in cat’s piss, the fungi’s woody texture softened and tasted like asparagus spears.

“The tongue is deficient, dry and lazy,” another crone muttered. To prove her point, she pried open the boy’s jaw, pinched his tongue, and pulled it out of hiding. “No man would suck on this miserable thing.”

“A Baptist pastor would, if it was bigger, wriggly, and slimy. My poultice can do that, and more.”

Soudé cast his gaze upon the crones, trusting none of them. Xavior smiled at all of them, delightful old ladies, surely kids’ grandmas and aunts.

“Not even a papist would suck on an eel!” Tregonwell interjected. “I’ll prick the boy’s upper lip with tincture of hawthorn to delineate and tinge. Closely spaced Ferocactus pricks, plus Poison Ivy sap to inflame the other. The tongue, too, but with Prickly Pear spines dipped in ginger root essence. Hot enough, he’ll suck anything that comes his way.”

Captivated, Nanny Dankworth still hovered over Xavior, serenely sappy as a plastic Catholic saint. She stroked dark curls. Her voice was mesmerizing.

“Soon you’ll be you father’s boy-wife; however, first you must have lips desirous of his kisses. A plump and pretty Cupid’s bow, and very tender, especially on the bottom. And your tongue must be long, and wet, and wriggly to play lovers’ games…”

Maculata cut her off. “Nanny Dankworth, always the romantic. What the brat needs is pure Maculatum, lots of it.”

Xavior was certain the housekeeper spoke Spanish, although it wasn’t a dialect one heard at Ithaca elementary schools.

Flustered, Dankworth reverted, “If you’d poison the little cunt’s pleasure, use Lemon Myrtle.” She caught herself, transforming back to Nanny. “Our perfect little prince deserves finesse. A delectable mouth will make his daddy swoon!”

“Stick to making stingers out of little-boy widdlers, Granny,” someone jibed from Founders’ circle. “I bid five shekels for Maculata.”

Globs of snot oozed from her snout. She wiped it on Xavior’s pallid groin, clucking as she deftly smeared it over his sex organs.

Tregonwell rebounded at seeing Xavior’s limp penis slicked with slimy spittle, his elongated foreskin now fully retracted.

“What a sweet cherry you have, but Nanny’s right; you’re missing the most important thing of all.” She bowed to Soudé. “O Asmoday, the sooner the better to start his stinger.”

Soudé scrunched his face, considered the appeal, and gestured, a flick of his fingers. “Make him sting like the dickens, crone.”

“You need a nice stiff widdler so your daddy knows you’re enjoying yourself,” Nanny whispered in Xavior’s ear, her mesmerizing voice contradicting expert rubbing, reviving erection for a very different reason.

In an instant, Tregonwell switched from agreeable cook to bristly witch. Shiny blackthorn barbs decorated her moth-eaten shroud. She plucked her longest ‘stinger pin,’ pinched the boy’s glans to open the meatus, and poked it in. The sturdy penis, naturally curved, bulged and straightened as the thorn penetrated, the tiny mouth gaping impossibly wide. The slightest wrong movement would puncture blood vessels.

“There! Stiff and straight as a rail spike! As Maculata well knows, skill makes the difference with stingers,” Tregonwell cackled.

“You’d best stick to boy derrieres and stuffed lamb, my dear.” Maculata leered, scarcely believing the blackthorn spike was but a dot, a four-inch dagger impaled in the boy’s penis.

Not to be outdone, Tregonwell shot back, “You’ll have him look like a prick-licking piccaninny, fat shapeless lips and no sensitivity.”

“I bid six shekels for Tregonwell,” a Founder exclaimed, so impressed he sat up in his Chair of Elijah.

“Seven shekels for Nanny Dankworth, if she’ll prick his widdler with rose thorns, his tongue, too.”

“His Cupid’s bow needs enlarging. A boy’s mouth is no different to his anus, after all. Tincture of hawthorn will permanently sensitize and induce ausculum (lip-like swelling),” Fourchette, the youngest crone, muttered.

Soudé interrupted his gorging on partridge pastry. “I call for bids to end this round.”

“What begins with tender kisses ends with craving cock, Maculata,” Dankworth interjected. “You’d know that if you spent as much time with the brats as I do.”

“Any boy who avoids the grasp of Jehovah is rapacious, both front and rear,” Soudé chuckled. “I agree; intensity is crucial for my sederbus.”

Heads always turned on a squandered bid. Fourchette’s belly buttons, like her French pastries, were fancifully intricate, a special treat that connoisseurs relished. She practiced her witchcraft with forked bones and quills, not cactus spines, the umbilical fold enhanced, the ‘knot’ tenderized, all very ticklish.

“He’s chock-a-block on bourbon. That’s the problem with inheriting a fortune,” another Founder grumbled.

“Drunk or sober, Founder Steinmann’s bid stands,” Soudé declared. “Lips and tongue are Miss Tregonwell’s.”

Tendering hadn’t gone as planned, yet he so delighted in Caine’s agony he couldn’t help thumping his fist on the armrest. He gestured to the long-haired boy stationed by Caine’s side and pointed to the Altar, mouthing ‘check him.’

The boy scurried over and wedged himself between two foul-smelling witches. He pushed Xavior’s legs apart, all but crawling onto the chalcedony top to see. It was still dry beneath Xavior’s buttocks, seed still safely implanted. With no sign of semen, he turned and shook his head, much to Soudé’s dismay.

Tregonwell, as conniving as any crone, assigned Maculata to hold the taper, standing in pride-of-place behind Xavior’s head. In flickering candlelight, she dabbed Xavior’s face with imported gin, heavy on the juniper berry, an adulterant and antiseptic, as well as imparting a sharp, clear sensitivity.

“You’re a very pretty boy,” she whispered, her nose twitching as if smelling a crock of fresh mushroom soup, or putrid toadstools. “I bet your father says that all the time.”

“It’s your first moonshine, Sweetie.” She leaned to his ear, one finger forcefully prodding his lower belly. “You’re about to change forever. I’m going to make you a very special little boy. Still, it’s best if you sleep through this part of it.”

“Sleep like the dead and wake up a prince.” She smirked, gently massaging Xavior’s lower abdomen, a finger and thumb encircling the boy’s swollen member.

She pressed in, feeling the hard core inside, stirring up a potion of pain and pleasure. However, it took a very firm hand to change a little boy’s body. She squeezed his penis, rotating her bony wrist, churning the concealed blackthorn spike. Around and around, up and down, spreading its poison into veins and arteries, into erectile tissue.

“I know it’s sore, sweetie. I’m just straightening out your widdler. A little pain tonight, but you’ll be glad in the morning.”

Tregonwell’s face turned dark, gnarled hands yanking at her shawl, extracting two blackthorn spikes, each half as long as her ‘stinger pin.’

“A swift jab in your ballies will put them to sleep forever.” She cocked a lazy eye at Soudé, certain he’d heard her. “Master, I beg you permission.”

It annoyed him that the boy’s father still resisted, denying Asmoday with every writhing contortion. Far worse was the boy. Lust raged from the instant he first laid eyes on Xavior, waiting outside his office. His desire was impulsive, all powerful, yet a well-kept secret. For as far back as he could remember, he’d hankered after little boys. And Xavior was such a gorgeous little boy, truly divine if he wasn’t a demon.

She pressed on Xavior’s chin, drooling smelly spit into Xavior’s open mouth, watching it slide past his teeth, into his throat. Not enough; she coughed up phlegm, her blackened tongue touching Xavior’s tender earlobe, flicking like a serpent as she whispered.

“We can make you so desirable your father can’t keep his hands off you. Is that what you want?”

Xavior nodded fitfully, relentlessly squirming, wriggling so wildly he might’ve been coupling with a python. The unlikely cause was his penis, blood red and scalding.

The throaty whisper belied Nanny Dankworth’s appearance, long stockings and pleated tartan skirt, a frilly white blouse under her cardigan.

Caine wondered what she was saying to his recumbent son. Xavior was obviously having fun with nice ladies hovering around him, saying ‘yes’ and eagerly nodding his head. They seemed to be doing something to Xavior, but he couldn’t be sure. It was impossible to turn his head even a fraction of an inch, and Tregonwell was always in the way.

“By Asmoday, you’ll be a sexy little boy. Stick in a poppet, stick in a pricklet, spine in a poppet, spine in a pricklet…” Tregonwell droned, still clutching, still squeezing. “You’ll wake up with a stinger. Then, your daddy will fuck your beautiful bum every time he sees you.”

Opposite Tregonwell, Nanny Dankworth smiled down at Xavior. “You’re so adorable, I could eat you; especially your little widdler,” she teased, blowing a kiss. “Now, I’m going to put clove oil on your lips and tongue. It doesn’t taste nice, but it’s best done numb,” she explained in her grandmotherly way. “It’s not often we see such appealing lips on a boy.”

Tregonwell deliberately squeezed harder, blackthorn like a bone buried inside throbbing flesh. She glanced over her shoulder, smiling at Caine, nodding reassurance. No wonder Soudé was in such a foul mood—few men had lasted as long on the Patriarchal Cross. Or maybe the boy on the Altar bothered him?

“Of course, it stings. It’s your stinger. You’ll sting like a hornet come sunset tomorrow.”

She lightly caressed the boy’s aching erection. She could tell when a boy thrived on agony; their eyes closed to slits, their tiny nipples stiffened, their little penises throbbed, their small bodies twitched erratically. Xavior did it all, and more, much more. Even his toes curled over.

So close to the edge of ecstasy, a nervous quiver ran through Xavior, flinching with urgent demanding hunger. Had his father even touched his erection, he would’ve climaxed instantly.

“I hope your father kisses you a lot,” she crooned, her face only inches from his, delighting in deception. “Men kiss boys to show they love them, and their little lover boys kiss them back.”

Barely aware, Xavior’s face burned as if he’d been slapped. If she’d watched them kissing, what else had she seen? Then, his father groaned, muted agony, or lust remembered.

I’m your little boy lover, Daddy. I loved rubbing our cocks together. It felt so nice.

Dankworth cackled, quite of out character for an elderly matron. She unbuttoned her cardigan, her blouse, too, and leaned down to whisper in Xavior’s ear.

“Men kiss boys with their tongues. You like it when your daddy kisses you, don’t you?”

Xavior tried to nod, ‘yes.’ He wasn’t certain that his head moved, so he kept trying. He was never more aware of his penis; and he felt funny inside, in his bottom, runny funny, not empty exactly, as if something important was missing

Tregonwell glanced as Soudé, saw what she assumed was an approving nod. As runner-up in the bidding, Dankworth studiously dipped cactus spines in vials, a distillate of crimson Hawthorn berries and other plant extracts.

She grasped the little pink tongue between her calloused thumb and first finger. She applied the swab liberally, equal parts of clove and coconut oils. Tongue first, before the bitter taste made the boy recoil.

“He has a scrumptious little tongue, doesn’t he Nanny? Ginger before he realizes, Nanny.”

Dankworth dipped a needle-like spine into ginger root extract, and like an operating-room nurse, carefully placed it between Tregonwell’s fingertips.

Tregonwell whispered the first virtue. “O Mastema, most Holy and most Powerful, vouchsafe to consecrate and bless my prick so his tongue exalts the ruby heat of passion.”

Having transmuted hawthorn and ginger into a sacred potion of Ancient Druids, she pushed in the spine. It was as long as her little finger, all the way in, definitely not a ‘prick.’ A second spine followed before the sozzled boy realized.

Tregonwell twisted the spine, driving it deeper. “The virtue of scarlet tenderness is from Geranium essence.”

In quick order, she had Dankworth switch potions and called upon Asmoday for two other virtues, stronger and longer. She saved the last two spines for his submandibular glands, the virtue of rosy succulence from more mucous saliva.

“The passion of Helen of Troy breathes in him,” Tregonwell declared, her ruddy nose dribbling as she checked the boy’s eyelids.

“Sexy boy! It’s a pity he’s too sozzled to realize he’ll wake up a sederbus.”

She could smell her juices, salivating from her warty gash. The other crones smelled it, too. Inhaling deep drafts, shuddering as the fetid womanly odor grew stronger.

Culpepper was first to haul up her robe, unveiling her own misshapen vulva, rolls of rancid fat, and an enormous black bosom. She danced around the Altar, shaking before Caine, his arms and thighs bulging, shedding sweat and phenomes.

“The farther the better, the father the best, the further to fuck his little boy-ass.”

She danced as she chanted, fingers flicking stiffened nipples never suckled by an infant, flabby breasts flopping from side to side, pus squirting out when she squeezed. She caught it in the cup of her hand, slathering it like baby oil over Xavior’s middle.

“There would be profit if you enhanced the virtue of taste, too,” Dankworth crowed, licking withered fingers and tasting her vile juices.

“He’ll be addicted to cum once he sucks his first cock,” Tregonwell screeched. She leaned over, sniffing. “You’ve been eating deer musk glands. I can smell it.”

“I have not! It’s a yeast infection! All sorts of possibilities with a balsam of Peppermint oil; plus he won’t ever get fatter if his food doesn’t taste good.”

Although it wasn’t her idea, Tregonwell called upon Asmoday and massaged the sticky paste into Xavior’s tongue. It was tart, the minty odor and taste so pungent that the sleeping boy still scrunched up his face.

“Even if he’s gulped cum all night, he won’t need mouthwash when he wakes in the morning,” Dankworth snickered.

Tregonwell pinched the first tiny spine from Mammillaria elongata, already dipped in red urushiol. So elongated, it was ideal for pricking nipples to make them bigger, yet ladyfinger cactus was also good for puncturing virgin lips.

“O Mastema, most Holy and most Powerful, vouchsafe to consecrate and bless my prick so his lips exalt the pink softness of passion.”

She inserted the spine into Xavior’s bottom lip, again far, far deeper than a ‘prick.’ After six more precisely placed spines, she examined her handiwork.

“Any thicker, his lips will look like a fucking kaffir’s,” Dankworth sneered.

“Prick his skin with peppercorn oil, and we’ll send a little black demon back to his daddy,” Tregonwell hooted.

A sly glance at Soudé confirmed his gaze fixed on Xavior. That surprised her! And he was moody, too, as if contemplating. It struck her that he was enamored. For as long as she could remember, he avoided boys; however, this Prince of Sederbi might break the camel’s back.

She flounced among the Founders, bubbling with her newfound knowledge, her wrinkly breasts bouncing, her drooling vagina stinking of feces and seaweed.

“Be sure to watch when he kisses his father. The only thing better will be when his tongue goes into his father’s bottom,” she snorted derisively. “He’ll be ecstatic.”

“All little boys love to lick ass, especially my sederbi,” Soudé called, so caught up in his desire he was unable to stop himself.

Chortling, Tregonwell flicked up her robe, exposing foul pimply buttocks as she skipped to the Altar. She jabbed in seven spines, her next and last virtue, ruby sensitivity. Then, she maliciously rubbed her grimy finger across the boy’s numbed lips, back and forth, mashing tiny spine heads, spreading her potions deep into the erogenous zone. Shortly, the burning began, her spells engaging in the order made, crimson urushiol seeping, inflaming tender flesh and lingual muscle.

When she looked up again, she couldn’t help but smirk. Soudé still stared, salivating openly, lust raging, temptation so strong he grasped the dragon heads.

“Blackthorn in the ballies works wonders, Master,” she pressed. “A quick jab is all it takes. It’ll keep him smooth and subservient, and it’ll fatten him up.”

Soudé considered it—a boy with spiked testes was always obedient, in bed or elsewhere. Unfortunately, Addendum Seven specifically excluded it unless part of a winning bid.

Hopeful of a breach of contract, he gestured to the long-haired boy to check Xavior again. He kept a warty nose and a wary eye on Caine, still struggling, the straps holding him not nearly as tight. The father’s reluctance to serve Mastema might’ve amused him if it wasn’t for the boy’s head shake, indicating the seed remained inside his son.

“I much prefer macadamia nuts to an empty purse. They melt in the mouth, so sweet and tasty.”

“I’ll tender 100 shekels for Culpepper’s poultice, if she’ll shrink them to barleycorn seeds.” (barley seed avg. length is 1/3” or 8 mm)

Boorish, Maculata leaned over Xavior, examining Tregonwell’s handiwork. “You’ve improved his mouth, a little girly to be sure, but very pretty! Now, he needs titties, big fat ones.”

Maculata spun, her hand raised, fingers like claws, with black cracked nails. She spat.

Red-eyed, Dankworth took Tregonwell’s place. She growled, baring fangs, snout sniffing. In charge of the House of Asmoday’ staff, Maculata still cringed before her, glaring, panting.

Nanny’s primped white curls turned to confusion, fuming so much that smoke came from her ears.

“Tiny nipples!” Another bestial growl. “Tiny, very sensitive nipples. Tiny delicate nipples that always stay hard, very hard. ” She growled once more, more feral than woman.

“Mammillaria elongate and Conium maculatum,” Maculata interrupted. “Every man knows flabby unfeeling nipples are better to suck on.”

Her hemlock was Conium maculatum, poison hemlock, the kind that killed Socrates.

“A spike to enlarge; a knot to shrink; nipple must stand over areola,” Felicia McCracken declared with a burp.

Maculata whirled. “What perfect timing for a skunk to raise its tail. Tell me, what do you know of little boy’ titties?”

McCracken’s bloodshot eyes bored into Xavior, her breath inflammable at close range. She picked at her nose, fingernails yellow with earwax.

“Nowadays, a boy with boobs is normal, your pig-nosed slut. You’ll see any number at Dairy Queen and Mickie D’s.”

“A cactus is succulent, its spikes emerge, hard and pointed from areoles.” McCracken poked her finger at Xavior’s taut chest. “Notice how his nipple plops atop his areola. What’s missing should be obvious, even to a housekeeper who’s blind beyond the end of her nose.”

Soudé might’ve been waiting for that very moment. After a quick glance at Caine, a sly smile emerged. Cactus was painful; painful enough, the man’s inebriated son might empty his bowels. It wouldn’t take much to end the Right of Progenitor, just a little white dribble.

“No bid is higher,” Soudé proclaimed abruptly, blocking three other bidders waiting in the wings.

McCracken immediately stepped up to the Altar, flicking quickly through an assortment of cactus spines until she found what she wanted. A long devil-cholla had tenacious cactus spines, two-inch spikes with tiny barbs, like fishhooks.

After a swig from her flask, she pinched Xavior’s right breast, pectoral muscle with scarcely any flesh, yet as she squeezed, the boy’s nipple became firmer, and more prominent. She placed the spike dead center.

“O Mastema, most Holy and most Powerful, vouchsafe to consecrate and bless your spine so his nipple sticks out like his stinger.”

Without hesitating a moment longer, McCracken pressed the spine, inverting Xavior’s nipple between her fingertips before the spike speared through the skin. She used her thumb to push in the spike, wobbling it in slow circles. Satisfied it could go no deeper, she yanked a thread from her shawl, looping it around the boy’s small areole.

“O Mastema, most Holy and most Powerful, vouchsafe to consecrate and bless this knot so his breast exalts the sweet juice his ballies will never provide.”

She leaned over Xavior’s small chest, her mouth open, her long lolling tongue drooling caustic green mucus. Yellow teeth clamped on the end of the spine. Eyes like fiery red garnets, hissing, she pulled back. Tiny barbs hooked into delicate breast tissue, latching onto the nipple and drawing it out, stretching to form a miniature volcano; and still, she pulled out the spine. Deftly, she yanked on the thread, knotting it tightly around Xavior’s areole before she released the spine.

Xavior’s left side was closer; the knot tied even faster. Less decrepit crone than rooster at dawn, McCracken crowed,

Few crones would dare to call upon Asmodeus, Demon of Lust, and Lillith, Demon of the Night, dangerous and sexually wanton.

Radiant, Soudé sat back, fat arms folded, pondering his options, more convinced than ever.

He beamed as both volcanoes slowly shrank back to boyish pectoral mounds, leaving two fleshy pink balls perched on Xavior’s flat breast, his impaled tiny nipples now penis-shaped.

Maculata snarled, raking her fingernails across Xavior’s bare middle. “Fucking ugly!”

McCracken looked down her pimpled nose, peering through cracked pince-nez. “No, no, actually, it’s perfect, dear. See, there’s a tiny little droplet, right there, see.”

She touched Xavior’s extended nipple, lifting off a minute crystal bead, a spider’s thread attached.

After five quick bids, a Founder paid 14 shekels for Fourchette to modify the Xavior’s ‘innie’ belly button using poisonous sea urchin spines to inject oil of cayenne into the ‘knot,’ and massaging thoroughly.

“Fool! Only a Francophile bitch would have a crimson center,” Maculata griped, although Fourchette’s highly sensitive le ombilic was a fait accompli with no other tenders.

She’d learned her craft during a childhood spent in the covens of Corsica, before pagan became fashionable.

“O Mastema, most Holy and most Powerful, vouchsafe to consecrate and bless this sea urchin spine. Define his center as the beginning of pleasure…” Fourchette began her invocation.

Black hair poked from her beaked nose, so clogged with boogers that she wheezed with each huffing breath.

With both cactus spines and thread removed, McCracken pinched Xavior’s nipples to burnished protrusions, oozing sticky essence. Satisfied, she turned her attention to more interesting parts, peering at penis and scrotum, mostly squishing the boy’s tiny testes. She interrupted her scrutiny to look up at the leering Demon of Lust.

“O Asmoday, I beseech thee. Allow me to inject Capsicum annuum in these.” She squeezed Xavior’s testicles between claw-like fingers. “Just a few droplets and your Ecstasy will be spicy, strong, and stimulating,” she taunted before taking a swig from her flask.

“Evil witch,” Soudé guffawed, slapping a meaty thigh. “The little darling will be a worthy companion in any man’s bed without your meddling.”

Again, he nodded to the long-haired sederbus, all it took for the boy to scurry from petting Caine’s cock to checking Xavior’s buttocks for seepage.

Fourchette’s deft skill also included a furcula (wishbone), the forked bone between the breast and neck of a bird, formed by the fusion of the two clavicles. With the ends compressed, she inserted it transversely into the navel depression, tightly stretching the skin surrounding the impregnated ‘knot.’ Whereas one might expect a little navel to become larger with an infusion of oil of cayenne, which it did; the furcula further enhanced the flap of periumbilical skin. Even before she was finished, Xavior’s belly button looked very sexy.

“Which brings us to the prick de resistance, Master Caine,” Soudé proclaimed, as jolly as his fake French accent allowed. “My crones’ invocations can give your catamite a cock to die for, or a sour-smelling cunt. What’s it to be?”

Opposite, Caine hung from the Patriarchal Cross, his head drooping, arm and leg muscles utterly exhausted. Peering as hard he could, Soudé saw an inch of the thick ebony rod impaling the man’s buttocks. He expected to see none at all.

Frustrated, he called. “Master Caine, if you submit to Asmoday this instant, I promise he’ll pleasure you even more after they modify him.”

Soudé cackled. “This is your only chance to save him. I must warn you, when all is said and done, his cock might be so tiny you can’t see it. Then again, it might be bigger than yours.”

Caine met his eye resolutely. As if to demonstrate his limitless power, Soudé stretched his arms wide apart.

“Imagine your lover-boy with a prick as big as an African elephant. If you submit now, you get to choose the important parts. Your alternative is to die on the cross, while you dream of sucking his sausage.”

“You’d rather he wakes up a girl with a putrid camel toe? He will still serve Asmoday, but as a succubus.”

Wearily, Caine pursed his lips, battling enticement of the worst possible kind. The long-haired boy was a constant distraction, pink wet tongue constantly lapping on his half-erect penis, much to Soudé’s amusement.

“Master Caine, it’s only fair you know what I want. I want to fuck Xavior’s petite posterior; the same as you do. We can share him. I promise you, watching another man do his bum is almost as much fun.”

It took all of Caine’s strength to move his head, forcing the strap to yield slightly. Just one time, a fraction of an inch from side to side, denying. Then, on a whim, he opened his right hand, fingers and thumb extended. He clenched, forming a resolute fist before crudely extending his thumb.

“Yes, you still have six days and nights before you deliver him to Asmoday. But why wait?”

Soudé paused, focusing on the little boy stretched out on chalcedony. All around, the eerie green glow pulsated, aligned with the slow beat of his heart. Even the envious crones noticed, sharing glances laced with snake venom.

“Before dawn, my crones will turn him into a gaping-ass call-boy with no prick to speak of. Of course, there’s also the possibility he’ll have a doggy cock, or a big black cock.”

“Cat got your tongue, Master Caine?” Soudé chided. He waved dismissively. “According to the terms of Addendum Seven, Paragraph 8, I waive the silence requirement. You may speak without threat of breach.”

He snapped his fingers, directing a Moor to loosen the strap around Caine’s neck. Caine’s throat was so parched no words came out. He gulped, his tongue like a ball of cat fur stuck inside his mouth.

Finally, his voice hoarse, he mumbled, “These dear sweet ladies wouldn’t hurt my son, Mr. Soudé.”

Able to move his head, Caine gaped at the women. They appeared perfectly normal. His gaze strayed lower, to Maculata’s feet, exposed below a fleecy blue nightgown. Her ankles were hairy; her coal-black feet were tiny, without toes; the cloven hooves of a goat.

“You say love your son; if you do, you’ll accept Mastema as your Lord and Asmoday as your Master. Say it now and you get to choose the most important parts of transmogrification.

“Transmogrify; to transform into a grotesque or bizarre shape, wittily accentuating what nature provided. Xavior can be your perfect little lover, or an oversexed catamite with a big hungry hole; or dear Senora Maculata can give him a smelly cunt to lust after. Your choice!”

Soudé nodded again to the long-haired boy, likely his last chance to force a breach in the contract. The boy slowly arose from Caine’s side, hesitant to leave the man’s big beautiful penis for even a moment.

“If you truly love him, you’ll serve Asmoday,” he whispered, leaning closer.

The boy took his time checking Xavior’s pert behind, still no seepage, yet he could tell it would be soon. The twitching anus was puffy and taut, not relaxed, straining to contain.

Unable to delay any longer, the long-haired boy proclaimed’ “Master, excretion is near.”

All it would take was a slight tickle to make the boy’s anal muscles relax enough for his father’s semen to leak out. He gave Caine what he hoped was a meaningful glance.

Caine panted, glancing around at the eyes fixed on him. Uncertain he’d spoken, he repeated the oath, loud and clear. Soudé issued another ambivalent gesture, this time to the Moorish guards to unfasten the straps securing Caine to the Patriarchal Cross.

They lifted him from impalement, bloody and tight, and carefully eased him down. He tottered to the Altar, the women making sounds that vaguely reminded him of swinish grunts. They parted to make way for him. Only Maculata kowtowed, hoisting her gown with a smirk, her huge crimson goat vagina dripping foamy yellow mucus.

“Master Caine, my cunt is the perfect abode for your son’s stinger, yours too.”

However, Caine saw only his Hispanic housekeeper’s fond smile, and heard only endearment, something about his little boy being a perfect gentleman. And yet, something had changed. A vile stench tested the sweet smell of Maculata’s Tangerine perfume. It seemed to come from her crotch. He blinked, and quickly closed his eyes after glimpsing hairy goat legs again.

“Master Caine, I’m required to inform you of the second requirement of the Right of Progenitor,” Soudé intoned. “’From seedless son to the father, united in love.’ You have three options. Perform as required, breach your contract, or delegate the right to your contractual beneficiary.” He giggled. “That would be me.”

Caine gazed at his naked son, steely blue eyes open, yet dazed. “Perform how?”

“By ingesting your seed from your son, you complete the Circle of Progenitation. Your line ends without implantation.”

He lurched back as if stung by a hornet. He glanced around. All eyes were fixed on him and his son, unmoving and utterly unaware.

After putting it there, taking it back was inconceivable, yet seeing Xavior stretched out on glowing green chalcedony, Caine’s urge ignited. It grew exponentially, blossoming with joy, and love, and newfound confidence. Suddenly, having an audience didn’t matter.

Since ‘ingesting’ was obvious, the rest should be easy to figure out, but it wasn’t, not with Xavior laying on his back on the Altar. Caine stepped closer, of a mind to ask how best to do it, grumbling at his own ineptitude.

It was inflamed, so hard it had to be painful. Caine barely touched his son’s erect penis before he quickly jerked back his hand. It was so unyielding it might’ve had a bone under the moist hot skin. If that wasn’t enough, there was slimy muck all over Xavior’s front and sides. Stunned, he backed away, wiping sweat from his forehead.

“Hurry! Before he starts leaking,” the long-haired boy whispered, tugging on Caine’s arm.

Standing at the end of the Altar, Caine impulsively grasped Xavior’s ankles and lifted both slender legs, shoving his feet back to his shoulders. Then, he pulled his son closer, sliding him across slippery chalcedony. He stopped when Xavior’s buttocks reached the edge of the Altar. He leaned down, immaculate small crack right in front of his face, fresh minty scent, no unpleasant smell at all. Just inside the residual pucker was a tiny whitish smear. He gulped air and licked, licked deep into the fissure, his nose nudging a small wrinkled scrotum. He was shaking, panting, his penis throbbing even before his tongue found the opening.

It’s like French kissing you, only a hundred times more exciting than on your lips.

Caine lapped like a starving puppy, slobbering saliva over Xavior’s anus, steadily forcing his tongue into the no-longer-puckered depression. He was certain he could feel the hole slowly stretching, his tongue going in a little farther, still not penetrating beyond the rim. Five or six times, he wriggled his tongue, increasingly urgent, increasingly frustrated, until suddenly, something inside Xavior squeezed his tongue. He almost laughed, but he was out of breath, his nose buried, nuzzling silky-smooth scrotal skin.

Caine sucked and slurped, exchanging saliva for seed. He swallowed a mouthful of slimy fluid without thinking; and when he finally did realize it was his semen in his stomach, it struck him that they could never be closer. Strangely, the taste didn’t bother him. He sucked harder, his lips jammed against his son’s anus. The thrill overwhelmed all restraint, surely the most intimate thing a man and boy could share—it sounded like a wet, very passionate French kiss that went on and on. And the best part, his son’s anus was getting bigger, hotter, wetter.

My Right of Progenitor, I’ll never give it up. Three meals a day and I’ll still want more.

He was gulping his third mouthful when a light tap on his bare shoulder returned actuality, surreal as it was. The women had gathered around, pressing up, muttering muffled pleas to the Great Lord of Darkness. Then, the chant began.

“A gorgeous little boy with a big prick should get the most precious gift of all?” Soudé guffawed. “Better to spread the wickedness of men, I suppose.”

He pointed a fat finger at Caine . “I promised I’ll incorporate your preference. What’s it to be? Longer, fatter, shorter, thinner, harder, softer, straighter, curvier, rougher, smoother.”

“Everyone knows why men like little boys,” Culpepper crowed, pushing crones out of the way. “I’ll shrink his stinger with a poultice of pine sap and poison ivy.”

“Spike his stinger with lemon myrtle. It’ll be shorter and softer, with a wee pee dribble when he gets excited,” another crone interjected.

Soudé leaned closer, eyes like his voice low. “You want him like you; high and tight, or cut like a kike?”

“Higher and tighter.” Soudé pondered the prospect. “Regretfully, Master Caine, unnatural acts are forbidden in Addendum Seven. In particular, Paragraphs 13, 21, and 34 expressly prohibit the Christ killers’ Covenant of Circumcision…”

If I’m going to suck cock, I want it to be special, not drastically different, distinctive.

Soudé chuckled. “Hairless is mandatory; Paragraph 11, Addendum Seven. Chose again.”

“I want it radical, as tight as possible without circumcision,” Caine bargained, upping the ante.

“Providentially, Mastema’s contract provides a far more radical outcome than Yahweh’s covenant; however, your preference must be a single word.” His smile was superficial, yet zealous. “Your preference is ‘tight,’ or ‘radical’?”

Caine detected a setup. If he’d learned anything; nothing was worse than agreeing with a dwarf.

“Slick isn’t shiny. Slick isn’t sleek. Slick isn’t slippery. Slick is slimy.”

Soudé arose, fuming, bared teeth, exposing yellow fangs for the first time. “Shut the fuck up, Sparacello!”

“Master Caine has decided,” the seventh crone screeched. Hermetic by choice, she lurked behind the Altar scratching coarse hairy armpits. “Slick is my specialty.”

Soudé tossed a curried bonefish head, picked from his plate of seafood delicacies. “Scummy bitch!”

Thick green froth covered Sparacello. It oozed from her nose, dropping in globs onto her emaciated neck when her head tilted back. From there, it trickled like treacle over bovine black teats. Her sole attire was a see-through satiny nightie, pink with embroidered roses. The rest of her was pasty white, as waxen as a corpse drained of blood.

“’Slick’ is your preference, Master Caine,” Soudé grouched. “According to Paragraph 728, you must promise no recriminations afterwards.”

“You can bid if you want. I’ll advance you the money. There are a few minor stipulations, provisos, prerequisites, and riders.”

“My cock in your son’s little bottom, of course,” Soudé chortled, slapping a cumbersome thigh.

Red-faced from a little long-haired boy tugging on his testicles, Caine muttered, “We’ll pass.”

“Are you afraid he’ll enjoy dwarf-dick more than your whopper? He won’t, but variety is the spice of expiry.” He winked. “Hence the expression, ‘better dead than alive.’”

Soudé beckoned to the boy to stop tugging and approach. He waited until the lad came closer.

“Seeing your son being fucked in the ass by other men is something to look forward to. Definitely, nothing to worry about. He’ll love it, and so will you!”

With that, he spun the long-haired boy around, pulling him face down into his lap, With a meaty paw planted on each buttock, he opened the boy’s crack to reveal a ruddy target, well-used, with a dark moist opening.

“All boys love a good stretching, Master Caine.” He rammed in his first finger, twisting energetically until the boy writhed excitedly.

“And so will your son. The sooner his hole gapes, the better. Keep him nice and loose; it’ll help his bowel movements.”

“I bid five shekels for Sparacello; no matter what she does to the sederbus,” someone shouted.

“A potion of snot and black mold inside tiny balls will make the male gland excrete mucus. There’ll be so much his pretty prick is perpetually slick.”

Somehow, Caine managed a loud clear voice. “Nanny Dankworth, how would you define a ‘slick’ dick?”

Dankworth wheeled, luminescent red eyes glowing like coals in the night. “Slick isn’t slimy. Slimy comes from his daddy.”

Soudé withdrew his finger, inspecting before he pontificated. “Let me be clear, bitch; whatever you do, my Prince of Sederbi must have a stinger to be proud of.”

“He’ll have that and more. He’s already desirable enough that he’ll sex incessantly,” she groveled, bowing flamboyantly. “That said, his stinger should be shiny and smooth, stiff and sensitive; a sederbus with seven-fold sensuality,” she hissed.

She leaned low, dribbling spit on Xavior’s puffy bellybutton. She rubbed it into the depression, around and around, boring into abdominal muscle before she gave her nod of approval to Fourchette.

She crooked her head, peering through cracked spectacles spotted with fly dirt. “I’ll stretch it with spirals of thorns, of course. It’s the only way to permanently pull back the veil.”

Soudé was in such a cheerful mood, he crudely gestured to the long-haired boy to stand and turn around.

“O Asmoday, my incantation will puncture his prick from piss-slit to pubis, 13 pairs of spirals, 21 blackberry thorns clockwise, 34 thorns to counter.”

Soudé grasped a stubby penis, his index finger fondling a small pear-shaped scrotum. Juvenile genitalia seemed perfectly normal until red veins variegated the penis. Shortly, a bulge appeared near the boy’s pubis. It grew larger as Soudé teased the boy, exacting wriggles and giggles, and puppy-like whimpers.

“Would you like to put your prick in a boy who truly loves dogs, Master Caine?” Soudé inquired, his expression oddly reassuring.

It was distracting, shockingly erotic, yet Caine disputed his desire for the boy. Slowly, the bulge became a hard ‘knot.’ Trivial testicles made it even more bizarre.

“I’ve not had the pleasure. If and when I do, it’ll be because I love him.”

Soudé shook his head, wobbling the long-haired boy’s erection, the bulge surely as big as a greyhound’s knot.

“Never fear, you’ll fuck you little lover boy soon enough. Nanny dear, how deep will you prick my prince?”

“What if I want red, not purple?” Caine asked, too thrilled by the bizarre sight before him to stop.

Dankworth slowly turned from poring over Xavior’s middle, her tongue darting out. “Red?”

“He means crimson, Nanny, like the delicious raspberries that grow by the wall,” Soudé guffawed.

“Your bush had sharp thorns, didn’t it Sweetie?” Nanny Dankworth crooned, brushing dark curly locks from Xavior’s forehead. “I picked the sharpest, just for you.”

A warty finger caressed perfect lips, tingling until Xavior’s eyelids fluttered.

“Such a beautiful little boy. You’ll never know how close you came to losing your virginity on your birthday,” she whispered. “It would’ve happened if you’d told your daddy how much you love him.”

With Pope-like solemnity, Soudé masturbated his long-haired sederbus, bright-eyed and nodding encouragement, proudly displaying his ‘canine’ sex organ.

“You wouldn’t be here now, Master Caine, if you’d fucked your son’s cute culus before you crossed the threshold,” Soudé went on. “Lucky for me, you made the Sigil of Asmoday on him; however, now we have a contract that’s all in the past.”

“Twenty for Culpepper’s shrinking poultice. Pretty boy’s prick is too big!”

“I’ll double any bid for Nanny to win,” Soudé finally grumped after the bidding passed 268 shekels.

Dankworth leaned over Xavior, clucking to herself, retracting, inspecting, assessing veins and raphe, pubic junction, frenulum, and glans.

“O Asmoday, I beseech thee; allow the ‘stinger’ to remain within. It will ensure his member is unyielding.”

Soudé hummed, fat fingers wriggling with delight. “Your son’s stinger will always be as stiff as a rail spike; is that what you desire Master Caine?”

Caine took a deep breath, surely another deception. “Always isn’t normal,” he ventured.

“Perpetuity is allowed in the contract. That’s all that matters! Nevertheless, if *you* insist! What’s normal will be abnormal,” Soudé mumbled, a flatulent gurgle and a flick of his flabby fingers. “What’s abnormal will be normal. Paragraph 1038 of the contract.”

“For maximum sensitivity, he’ll need to be awake,” Dankworth rasped at Caine. “If anyone can wake Sleeping Beauty, it’ll be you. A nice wet kiss on his stinger would be best.”

While Caine kissed, licked, and sucked, Dankworth withdrew a packet of raspberry thorns from between her breasts. She separated them by thickness and length, counting carefully and placing them in piles on Xavior’s bare belly.

By now, Xavior was able to nod, although turning his head still required more control than he was capable of providing.

“Hold down his head and shoulders,” she instructed. “Do not let go of him, no matter what. The rest of him must be free to move.”

Nanny Dankworth selected a thorn, bright red and needle sharp, and dipped it in a Roman glass vial, suspended from a string around her neck. She held it up for all to see.

“The essence of male love is mandrake, watered with man's milk in which a newt has been drowned.”

The crones murmured among themselves. She held Xavior’s penis, tight foreskin retracted enough to expose a tiny pink slit between two gnarly fingertips.

Upon hearing the invocation, the crones cowered under tattered shawls; not Tregonwell. She stepped back from the Altar, mouth monstrous, forked tongue flicking between tainted fangs.

“O Asmoday, I beseech thee. Gift this virgin with perpetual boyhood. Either blackthorn spikes or cut off his nutties!” she screeched.

“Per our contract, boyhood won’t be a problem.” Soudé glanced at Caine, and said very quietly, “His hairless prick will always stand like Priapus to honor the Demon of Lust.”

“If you must assert your contractual right,” Soudé chortled. “His cock can sleep an hour before dawn for his father. There! Satisfied, now?”

Caine was about to shout ‘no’, when without a heartbeat of hesitation, she pushed in the thorn without making a blood spot. Instead, a healthy pink glow suffused, gradually darkening to vivid crimson.

She pressed on the thorn, impaling the bulbous little glans, scarcely avoiding the urethra, already stretched wide by the blackthorn spike.

Caine expected a horrendous scream. Instead, his son shuddered and gasped, clenching his eyes as he struggled through a sharp agonizing joy. After a few moments, Xavior slumped onto the chalcedony slab, his heart slowly calming.

“You liked that, didn’t you?” Dankworth purred, stroking Xavior’s sleek lower belly. “It only gets better, my pet.”

Still clutching the throbbing erection, she pricked the glans with another thorn, turning towards Caine with a simpering smile as she pushed the thorn deeper. This time, Xavior winced. Caine stared. Shockingly, his skinny little son strained upwards to force the thorn deeper.

“Blessed is the brewing cauldron from which all things emerge. He of the Crimson Cock is a thorn-blooded boy,” Dankworth muttered.

“Because it’s not hurting?” Caine muttered, blinking in disbelief that Xavior’s erection twitched erratically, bouncing, meatus gaping hungrily.

“Because you’re his daddy, I’ll tell you this, Master Caine. Your precious catamite takes pleasure in pain, and pain from pleasure. Be warned, he’ll want your prick in his posterior as often as possible.”

She cocked an amused eye, offering no comment as she inserted a third carefully placed thorn. Soon, seven sharp thorns encircled Xavior’s meatus. Astonished, Caine silently disputed the evidence before him, his son’s little fists clenched, his belly heaving, his penis pulsing wildly, his testicles constricted, forming a taut wrinkled knot. What should’ve been agony to a ten-year-old boy, was ecstasy, unbelievable delight that left him in a twitching, trembling trance.

Tregonwell stepped to the Altar, elbowing crones who got in her way. She examined Dankworth’s handiwork, peering at bloodless thorns puncturing a throbbing erection.

She inhaled deeply, noting the scent. “Mmmm. There’s nothing like aconite to sharpen a stinger.”

There was a mutter of approval. Aconitum was monkshood, wolf's bane, devil's helmet, the queen of poisons. It came from the slavering mouth of Cerberus, the three-headed dog guarding the gates of Hades.

With a cackle, Nanny Dankworth smugly retracted the loosening foreskin, completely exposing the boy’s inflamed glans, much to the Founders’ delight. The delicate flesh had already contracted, noticeably shrinking the helmeted tip.

She inserted more thorns, one row at a time encircling the organ, constantly adjusting the angle of insertion, creating supernatural art. With a row complete, she extracted the preceding row, her crone associates snatching up used thorns.

“Stop at once!” Soudé shrieked. “All the tools of this transmogrification will be collected forthwith. They are treasured relics from the Exultation of a virgin Prince.” He jabbed his finger at a Founder. “You will have one of your Jewish jeweler friends construct a reliquary. Spectacular in form, ornate with gold and enamel, with pearls, sapphires and emeralds. Did you know, his favorite color is green?”

Dumbfounded, Caine stared at the diagonal crisscross pattern on Xavior’s glans. The end of his son’s erect penis was no longer a plump little cherry. With each new thorn, it became increasingly pointy, not sharp or barbed like Cupid’s arrow. Instead, it tapered smoothly, smaller, harder, shiny, and crimson.

Soudé waddled to the Altar of Mastema. He bowed low, genuflected, and bowed again. However, his gaze was resolute, locked on Xavior’s middle.

“With the rest done the same, he’ll have the perfect prick for a boy-demon!” he exclaimed.

“The new standard for a sederbus’ stinger,” a Founder declared, white hair sprouting from his gnarly nose.

“But what of the brat’s filthy flap?” another Founder with foul garlic breath inquired.

Even uncircumcised, Xavior’s frenulum was more skin fold than flap, hardly filthy and not pronounced like some boys. Still, Soudé made a cursory inspection before rotating the boy’s erection towards Mademoiselle Fourchette for her expert opinion.

Pinching Xavior’s frenulum between thumbnail and fingernail, she stretched out the tiny ribbon of skin.

“O Mastema, most Holy and most Powerful, vouchsafe to consecrate and bless my little bird of providence. Common and vulgar, be gone infernal flap.”

Instead of her usual sparrow furcula, she used sparrow wing-feathers, poking one after the other into the ribbon. Then, ejecting saliva between yellowed teeth, she smeared it over Xavior’s frenulum until, quite miraculously, it vanished.

“Much more suckable,” Soudé affirmed with a devilish leer. “It’s not as if he’ll need more sensitivity there after Nanny is done.”

From each thorn spaced precisely around the glans’ rim, Dankworth now added spirals, one descending quickly and clockwise, the other descending slowly and counterclockwise. The spirals intersected, always perfectly placed. With excess skin stripped back on the shaft, and held in place by the preceding row of thorns, it was no wonder Xavior contorted with each new insertion.

Sometimes, he winced when a thorn penetrated deeply, usually he groaned. Spasms wracked his nude body, thighs straining, belly and chest heaving, unable to escape his father’s powerful grasp on his shoulders. He bucked and writhed, grunting, gasping through successive peaks. However, he couldn’t say anything, not with cactus spikes still impaling his tongue, swollen and stiff as a board.

“Kissing your daddy makes your stinger go hard, doesn’t it sweetheart?” Dankworth said, mostly to take his mind off the final row of thorns, inserted all the way to the blackthorn spike.

“After this, you’ll reach the pinnacle without even thinking about it. And you’ll always smell fresh and clean, with no silly skin to get in the way,” Dankworth crowed as she pressed in her final thorn.

Soudé licked his lips. “Just be glad your little bum-boy has a big prick, Mr. Caine! He’ll be very popular with other boys.”

There was an unappealing jellyroll of excess skin encircling the base of Xavior’s very-erect penis.

“Well, whoop-de-doo. You said ‘slick;’ you never mentioned aesthetics. Why worry; he’s such a precious little playmate his stinger won’t be a problem.”

She pressed her crotch against Xavior’s bare foot, tiny pale toes tangled with glossy black hair, big toe strumming her engorged clitoris. Next to her, Tregonwell toyed with Xavior’s hand, inserting the boy’s elegant fingers into her vagina, coating them with feminine fungus. Maculata drooled globs of spit on his slender abdomen and rubbed it in. Disgusted, Caine turned away. He could still smell rotting fish from the other side of the Altar.

“Ladies of the Underworld have your fun with my sederbus. Knowing his father, he won’t be virgin for much longer. And once that happens, he’ll be too busy to play with you,” Soudé tittered.

He was pleased at the outcome; although it would take a while to get used to. The boy’s penis even looked like a stinger, potent and dangerous, offering overpowering delight to married men, pleasure so great that every orgasm would be agonizing.

He clapped his hands, thrice, ostensibly for attention; in fact, indicating he would tolerate no opposition.

“What will it take to shrivel the excess skin?” Caine demanded, avoiding Xavior’s eyes.

“If you want withered and wrinkled, that’s easy. If you want tight and smooth, there won’t be much left to play with unless he’s a capon,” Culpepper taunted, her tone snarky.

“Not too tight!” Caine hesitated. “I like how his dick is sleek and smooth.”

He touched Xavior’s bare thigh, tempted, fingers extended towards his son’s penis. It looked very painful, swollen crimson.

Without looking down, the boy returned a faint smile. “Slick is good, Dad,” he murmured.

“I’ll pay 300 for Nanny’s ‘slick’ applied to his balls!” a Founder called.

Gleeful, Soudé thumped his armrest. “Sold to Rosenkranz! Now, it’s time for dessert.”

Such a special occasion as Exultation deserved a special dessert selection. Three sederbi carried trays; crème de cacao mousse in Cinderella slippers, pastry swans with Chantilly cream, white chocolate and amaretto macarons, chocolate truffles, honey croquants, and coconut meringue.

As Founders and crones gorged, Culpepper prepared her poultice, much to Caine’s consternation. Instead of cheesecloth to hold her herbs, she employed a pouch, a fawn scrotum, furry yet chamois soft, like velvet.

“A boy-peacock needs to marinate properly, Master Caine. If you’re wise, you won’t take it off until dawn,” she muttered.

However, Caine was more worried about the last row of thorns still embedded around the base of Xavior’s horribly distended penis.

Culpepper fingered Xavior’s small scrotum, sewing fawn chamois with a rusty needle and coarse hair pinched from her pubis. With each stitch, she murmured a new incantation. Finally, she issued her invocation.

“O Mastema, most Holy and most Powerful, vouchsafe to consecrate and bless my poultice pouch, capon tight with all that it entails.”

She added ample amounts of poison ivy and pinesap before stirring up a thick sticky paste. As Caine looked over her shoulder, she pressed little-boy testes into inguinal canals before finally slipping the sacculus over loose folds of silky scrotal skin.

With a smarmy smile, Culpepper looked up and chirped. “The smaller the purse, the better in bed.”

Of a similar mind, though honed by experience, Soudé interrupted. “Tighten the noose, before his father changes his mind!”

“You might not, but he’ll be happier if his purse is tight as the strings on Mephistopheles’ fiddle. The alternative is Tregonwell slicing them off!” Soudé growled. “She’s whetted her sickle for countless Catholic choirboys. Taut or none. Your choice?”

Cackling at Caine’s consternation, Culpepper yanked on loose threads. Xavior grimaced, grasping at his groin as he bucked and writhed, begging for mercy as his grim-faced father looked on.

“It’s done!” Culpepper proclaimed. “Everything will be smaller. Balls will shrink and skin will shrivel, including what’s pinned by Nanny’s sharp thorns.”

“I said ‘slick,’ not smaller. Nothing should shrink or shrivel,” Caine disputed.

“I’ll make a bet with you, Master Caine.” Soudé was unrelenting. “You’ll change your tune when he sings like a choirboy.”

“He’ll sing soprano after tonight. Piccolo pure, so singularly beautiful and executed with such superior skill, that his singing will surpass anything you have ever heard.”

He shuddered, his slender fingers whitened, clawing at his crotch, clutching an empty furry pouch. Whimpering turned to frantic squeals as the heat increased. Finally, he thrashed, and after one long agonizing screech, he went limp, acquiescent and pitiful. He gazed up at his father, emptily, as if life itself was fading away.

Caine fumed, his son exhausted, if not emasculated. “You’re a monster, Soudé!”

“Who me?” Giggling, Soudé inclined his head. “Besides his best orgasm ever, for a small penalty, I’ve given your son the most valuable gift of all.”

Caine was having none of it. “You brokered a Faustian bargain. You offered my son and me the fruit of temptation, so you can torture our souls in the scorching pits of Hell.”

“The Devil is in the details, Master Caine. Ecumenically speaking, Mastema is a consummate musician, a true virtuoso violinist, and a great composer. My Prince of Sederbi will sing for Him, The Demon of Seduction, fiendish lyrics for dramatic coloratura set to Tartini's Devil's Trill Sonata.”

Filled with a kind of calm acceptance, Xavior glanced down, squirming as a glowing sensation began between his slender thighs. No longer burning, no longer frightened, he was certain that part of him was changing. He could feel tingling under his hard hot penis. Suddenly, he was happier than he’d ever been.

Indeed, his voice was changing too, exploring newly found supranatural trill and staccati, an octave higher, producing notes above high C. It was melodic and pure, and much stronger.

“I, myself, will also accompany your son’s flight of fancy on the harpsichord,” Soudé continued. “He’ll sing for you, too, if you’ve the mind to listen to a fallen angel. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m eating Croquembouche for dessert.”

Croquembouche was lemon cream filling in tiny cream puffs, formed into thin crunchy cones and glazed with caramel. Fourchette made them small enough to insert into little boy-bottoms. Much to the delight of the long-haired boy, Soudé jammed one in the boy’s ready rectum. Then he gorged, stuffing himself as the boy clamored for more.

All the while, he kept one eye on Caine, still naked, hovering over his exhausted son, soothing his brow, planting fatherly kisses on tousled hair, caressing and whispering words of endearment constantly. Their love was palpable, yet it didn’t stop Soudé from dreaming of orally pleasuring Xavior’s little bottom, whetting his appetite for something even tastier than Croquembouche.

“And now, the coup de ass we've all been waiting for!” Soudé declared, wiping caramel and lemon-cream filling from his maw. “I’m open to proposals for sederbus’ bottom; anything but the usual boy-cunt. I’m tired of gaping holes and strong rectal muscles.”

“The Greeks always said the best boy-bum is quick to open and quick to close.” It was hardly out of the ordinary, and passed unnoticed until Tregonwell added, “I’ve heard hot-tempered black boys can tighten their bums at will.”

“Black boys seldom bend over. If they tighten, it’ll be to keep out invaders.”

“Impudent moron! Everyone knows diameter control is the sine qua non of enjoying a cock in the rear,” Dankworth sneered.

“It matters not whether a sederbus encourages penetration, or impedes the motion; Asmoday wants his precious boy to be special.”

Maculata’s expression was as tedious as her tone. Of all of them, she possessed skill in posterior enhancement.

Dankworth’s summary dismissal drew attention from what she was doing, extracting bloodless thorns and spines from Xavior’s most sensitive parts.

“Fucking know-it-all witch!” a Founder muttered. “What of his ability to exert pressure, or extending the depth of penetration?”

“Nanny’s right! Mandrake left in overnight will fortify the rectal muscle and exert greater pressure.” McCracken’s breath reeked, though without slur. “And my toadstools will stimulate the male gland, taking pleasure to unfathomable depths.”

“Pretty and pale as he is, lubrication is crucial.” Culpepper was seldom so insistent.

Maculata spun around three times, letting off steam before she responded. “Take a man’s cock in your cunt before you talk lubrication.”

“A man arrives rampant and departs diminished, always satisfied despite his performance. It’s not the same with a boy; his satisfaction should be incentivized!” a Founder proclaimed.

“Infuse lemon myrtle in the rectal organ and a boy will secrete acidic mucus, strong enough to penalize an unworthy penis,” Dankworth continued, looking around, a hex on the tip of her pimply tongue.

“Now, there’s an idea,” Soudé laughed between nibbles of coconut meringue. “Instead of a ‘pop’ when a man pulls out, what if he fizzes at the moment of climax?”

“Encourage speed or duration, or make the rut a great effort, that’s the question,” Tregonwell countered, twirling her matted grey hair into greasy curls.

Caine caught Soudé’s eye. “O Asmoday, may I offer my one word?” he demanded. Observing a slight nod, he went with convention. “Pussy.”

“He wants a cat in his son’s croupe,” Fourchette muttered to no one in particular.

“Better a boy-cunt than a cat with claws and teeth,” Maculata snapped, lifting her robe to expose a warty crotch.

“He can bite if not satisfied,” McCracken jested, swigging from a battered silver flask, a dribble escaping through harelips.

“A sederbus with a vagina dentata posterior?” Soudé posed, curious, if not convinced. “What better way to exact punishment for infidelity than to leave scars on a man’s knob.”

“O Asmoday, I was thinking not of claws and teeth, but a cat cock. Cunning and cruel, hiding in a little boy’s sanctum, waiting for unwary prey,” Fourchette said timidly.

“O Asmoday, pussy pricks have spines; tiny white spikes to stimulate and bind the mate. Inside a sederbus, they could cling to the intruding member.”

“And how, exactly, would Mademoiselle achieve this feline phenomenon inside a ten-year-old boy’s bowels?”

“Cat spunk is far more potent, ideal for transfiguration,” Maculata snarled, baring teeth at Fourchette. “Fresh from tomcat’ balls, a rectal infusion with my hollow hedgehog quills.”

“O Asmoday, I’ve searched Eagle Aerie from cellar to attic. I cannot find Thom anywhere. I did find Molly.”

The long-haired boy held up a sleek black Egyptian cat with eyes of emerald, the ideal companion for a dark-haired Prince of Sederbi, or seven vile crones.

“A dribble of cat piss and three droplets of blood will do in a pinch,” a crone muttered.

McCracken guffawed. “Next, you’ll tell us our bum-boy will purr if you put his prick in Molly’s pussy.”

“Thom’s spunk is copious. His curdled cream will create the perfect bum for our prince,” Maculata countered.

She parted Xavior’s little buttocks. Already positioned, he crouched on knees and elbows with his hindquarters exposed to all, presented for penetration by cock or quill.

"I agree; transmogrification cannot be rushed,” Soudé grumped. “Too many cooks in the kitchen spoil a soup, especially when they hurry to serve a famished master.”

“A good fucking and a virile infusion will fix the virgin,” a Founder chimed in,

“Were it so simple, I’d do it myself. We need concordance for maximum performance!" Soudé proclaimed with a curt, yet meaningful gesture to Maculata.

As if jabbed with hawthorn, Tregonwell’s shaggy head jerked up. “Where have I heard ‘Concordance’ before?”

Maculata’s finger easily pierced the boy’s tiny hole. She stopped at the first joint, sniffing Xavior’s rear, much to his father’s consternation. After only a moment of teasing, the wanton boy wriggled back. If Soudé wanted proof of Xavior’s inclination, it was both clear and unambiguous.

“Tregonwell’s been reading the holier-than-thou book of the Papists,” she snickered.

“Papists do what the Pope does best; fuck eunuch choirboys in the ass,” a Founder wheezed, spluttering spit and bits of macaron.

After the laugher, Soudé went on. "I need time to reflect, lest our good intentions go awry... and to find Thom. We’ll resume at twilight tomorrow.”

He stood, waiting until Founders and crones adopted submissive postures, all kneeling, heads bowed low and facing the Altar of Mastema. He gave Caine a dismissive look.

“Master Caine, you have from the last stroke of midnight until the first light of dawn to enjoy the fruit of your loins. Carte blanche; but don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”

However, Soudé wasn’t done. “By the Contract, Article 13, I get to select your son’s teachers; scholars of sexuality, instructors of intercourse, lecturers of lust, professors of perversion. For the Act of Delectatio, I choose...” He looked around as if still deciding. “… Israel Rosenkrantz, Founder… I think I’ll save Nanny Dankworth’s horns for tomorrow… Tregonwell, Graeme Neilson, and his sexy son, Danny.”

“Who better than the delightful Danny to train our precious Prince of Sederbi in Delectatio?” a Founder snickered.

Grinning, the long-haired boy triumphantly raised his right arm. “Yeah! I get to give him his first lesson in how to please men.”

“Might I ask for an explanation of ‘Delectatio’?” Caine asked, increasingly anxious.

“A sederbus entertains a man in more ways than a woman, and with more skill,” Soudé explained. “Tregonwell will demonstrate. Introduce our little hellion to the posterior pleasure.”

Now formally attired in sequined black satin gown, Tregonwell shoved a path through the crones. For Soudé’s amusement, she stroked Xavior’s exposed bottom, slobbered slime into the boy’s crack, and rubbed her calloused finger into the opening.

“I’m sure his father can remedy that before dawn,” Soudé snickered. “Unfortunately, I have things to do so I won’t be able to attend his training.”

Still rubbing, she glared at Caine as if blaming him. “Anything you leave untouched will revert to Asmoday," she whispered.

Perhaps, Soudé overheard. “Just remember, Master Caine, you must wait until tomorrow night to claim the Right of Proprietor. It’s in the Contract. The two of you must be formally enjoined while Xavior is virgin. Coniugium is in Paragraph 26, specifically Definitions VII.f. The legal requirement is ‘Junctus Amore, Spiritus Corporis.’”

Having heard it before, Caine was about to request clarification when the green chalcedony slab brightened below Xavior, still crouching, still naked.

“Your Moors will escort you back to the Chamber of Delectatio. Don’t worry, your precious catamite will be with you before the last stroke of midnight.”

The Act of Delectatio

Scene 1: Admission

Tregonwell kept a firm grasp of Xavior’s small hand, all but dragging him behind her as she strode the halls of Eagle Aerie. Plumbers, painters, plasterers, stone craftsmen, carpenters, electricians, and decorators scurried back and forth, busily restoring the grandeur of the second floor. Except for muffled sniggers, and catcalls from two Hispanic men hanging Flemish tapestries, the work crew mostly ignored the little naked boy and his ‘grandmother’ roaming the corridors in the middle of the night.

“I’m taking you to see him, Sweetie.” Smarmy, Tregonwell tugged him close to the wall.

Across from the Chamber of Delectatio, three men touched up trompe l'oeil on the coffered ceiling over the stairs. The orgy of life-sized men and boys in a stunningly realistic tropical paradise astounded Xavior. He stared at physically impossible positions, disbelieving. He was so distracted, Tregonwell tilted his head so he had no choice but to look at her.

“Mr. Soudé wants me to demonstrate your new capabilities before you see him.”

Xavior dug in his heels, his gaze shifting higher, drawn not by whim, by gut-churning desire. One boy in particular, looked like him. With a man either side supporting his weight, he perched over a massive purple prong. It belonged to a bull of a man, a huge horned headdress enhancing bovine likeness, coarse dark hair in long ringlets. The boy laughed, one arm raised in triumph, the other clutching his partner’s thick wrist. Slender legs splayed, buttocks glossy with grease, clearly prepared to continue his bull-ride.

Tregonwell took advantage of distraction, boldly placing her hands on the boy’s slender abdomen, her thumbnails scraping over his nipples. Xavior trembled, unable to resist, delicate flesh turning hard, growing bigger, making pointy specks on his chest, inflaming, arousing desire. An unfathomable unquenchable urge arose, growing stronger until each breath took effort and concentration.

“Devil-cholla makes a difference. You can feel it, can’t you?” Tregonwell muttered.

“You’ve got very sensitive titties, now. You’ll love it when he nips the tips.”

She gave him a different kind of thrill when she pinched, concentrating on symmetrical protrusions, two tiny penis’ glans turning into tantalizing knobs. He wriggled, wincing as droplets excreted from his nipples. In a quandary, he clenched both eyes and teeth. She tortured the extended bulbs, squeezing out more fluid. She leaned and licked it off, smacking her lips with gusto.

Driven by greed, her tongue went searching for more, swiping improbable excretion from the source. Within moments, Xavior shrank back, the stench of rotting fish turning his stomach queasy, completely unaware that the discharge of vaginal juices made a sloppy mess between her flabby white thighs.

She wiped a smear from her tongue, bringing it to his lips. Instinctively, he opened his mouth, licking her fingertip. Whatever it was, it made his tongue tingle.

Just a door away from his father, he was out of sight, hidden behind a massive grandfather clock, its slow tick-tock dictating, prompting him to breath.

“A taste of your boy milk and he’ll be as stiff as you are,” Tregonwell croaked, one hand groping Xavior’s groin to make sure. “My, you are a big boy, aren’t you?”

“Of course you do. The next lesson is how to use your new and improved tongue.”

Xavior gulped saliva. He grimaced after she blew him a dubious grandmotherly kiss, her vivid-red lips puckered and spitty.

He swallowed again, more than ever before. “I already know how to French kiss!”

“Silly boy; there are lots of things a sederbus does with his tongue besides kiss.”

“That’s what Senora Maculata said when I was in the bathtub, only she didn’t say what.”

Tregonwell blew again, her lips forming a distinctive ‘o.’ Up close, she smelled of mothballs, face-cream and talcum powder caking withered skin.

“It might come as a surprise that seven old maids know what men and little boys enjoy; but we do. Still, you don’t want that old sourpuss playing with your beautiful body.”

He glanced down, lean and bare, his penis no longer jutting out, pointing straight up, harder than ever, abnormally glossy. With a frown, he inclined his head, eyes unwavering, seeing that enhanced part of him for the very first time.

“We *girls* call it a widdler. *Boys* call it a cock.” Tregonwell tweaked the stubborn erection. “On a sederbus, it’s a stinger, especially when it’s as hard as yours!”

Red like a raspberry, smooth, sleek, straining, radiating heat and throbbing with every heartbeat; it was beautiful, and bizarre on a slender almond-skinned boy.

“Would you like to put it inside a girl? Even with your useless little balls it’ll feel very nice.”

Embarrassed, Xavior averted his gaze, anything but *that*. The very possibility made his skin crawl.

Tregonwell grasped his penis and yanked it so close to her crotch, he couldn’t avoid recoiling.

“You’re queer for men; I can tell. You are, aren’t you?” she whispered in his ear.

“If you must know…” The rest stuck in Xavior’s craw, the memory too strong.

“Of course, you do; and he loves you. Don’t worry, incest is quite normal for a sederbus; normal, and then some.”

Uneasy, Xavior drew away until her grasp of his wrist restrained him. Soudé chose her for good reason; she was more cunning than the other crones when it came to securing admission.

“My dear sweet boy, don’t be afraid of admitting what you desire. Asmoday already knows you love one man in particular. You wouldn’t be here otherwise. However, you must tell Mastema you want other men to fuck you.”

“Admit you lust after men. You’ll sex with them willingly and without coercion. You’ll have so much fun.”

He quaked, not from fear, from her fingernails raking his throbbing erection. Never before had touching his penis felt like it was about to burst. Then, she squeezed on the tip, no longer plump. Instead, it was shockingly hard, shiny, and pointy, not bulbous. Seven times more sensitive, he trembled erratically.

Unable to stop himself, Xavior’s eyes darted to the coffered ceiling, brashly feeding ‘the Beast.’ He gorged on intimate detail, the boy’s tightly stretched anus, the prominent veins on the man’s penis. The slimy juice oozing from their union made it haunting, unforgettable, and life-changing. Something was definitely changing inside him, getting stronger the longer he looked at the painted scene. The heat grew within him. It made his penis impossibly hard, his heartbeat so fast it felt like fluttering in his chest.

A single withered fingertip stroked beneath his slick hard shaft. No frenulum remained—the skin was too tight to allow it, yet his penis was infinitely more responsive, every nerve susceptible to stimulation. It quivered, straining, resisting sensory torment until he had no choice. She mouthed ‘queer’ to remind him.

Now, he was indignant. “I like men, okay. I’m queer! I admit it. Is that good enough?”

His testicles tightened, or felt like they did. He shivered, tensing, uttering a single mouse-squeak while looking up. Above, a boy impaled by a massive sex organ smiled encouragement. Now, that was freaky!

“Your father will be so proud of you. Now, repeat what I say! O Mastema, I willingly serve Asmoday,” she whispered. “Quickly!”

He shook his head uncertainly. Her fingernails felt like claws, yet when he looked at his groin, her manicured nails were lacquered, glossy crimson like her drooling lips, like his upright penis.

“O Mastema, I willingly serve Asmoday.” For some inexplicable reason, his confidence soared.

“Of course, you love your daddy. You’re a very special little boy,” she said, unexpectedly tranquil yet still very firm. “Can you keep a secret?” She brought her lips to his ear, her voice low. “Special little boys also lust after other men.”

His sudden firmness surprised her. She could tell from his tone, admission would remain incomplete until Asmoday, himself, convinced the boy otherwise.

“I know all about your daddy.” Tregonwell turned up her nose. “He does dirty disgusting things with other boys, not just you.”

Defiant, he glared back. Before he could say ‘no way’, the grandfather clock in the hall chimed the first stroke of midnight.

Scene 2. Instruction

Before the second chime of the grandfather clock, Tregonwell shoved Xavior through the wide open door of the Chamber of Delectatio.

“Just so you know what’s at stake; tonight is your only chance to prove you really love him,” Tregonwell whispered.

Her face was scarce inches away from his, no longer a grumpy old maid, an elderly aunt smiling sweetly before pulling his head into her breast, hands clasping his ears as if to keep out the chimes. Her gown all but smothered him with naphthalene. He spluttered, gasped, and tried to jerk away, aware of movement around him.

“Don’t be afraid to follow your instincts,” she counseled, no more than a whisper. “Only boys in Jehovah’s fold are faithful.”

“Are you sure? The best boys are faithless; which is why they make much better lovers.”

Xavior was certain only of Tregonwell’s skeletal fingers sliding slowly up and down his quivering erection. Aching for his father, he inched away, avoiding the old woman’s clumsy caresses. In pitch darkness, a fingertip pushed into his navel, fingers caressing in circles before inching down his smooth bare belly. However, these fingers were different, stronger, bolder, infinitely more responsive to a little boy’s needs.

Dizzy and nauseous, Xavior was convinced he heard his father’s calming voice, though not a single word made any sense. He quivered at his next thought.

By the time the hand grasped Xavior’s very-animated lever, he’d lost count of the chimes, and all inhibition. Unable to see more than dim shadows, he was certain two other men lurked nearby, a boy, too, all of them watching intently.

Suddenly, an old man chuckled, crusty and wheezing, directly in front of Xavior. “My, you’re a hot little lad, aren’t you?”

Xavior panicked as the stale smell of tobacco enveloped him. Still, hoping he was wrong, he whispered, “Dad?”

The slow stroking continued, enticing, tormenting Xavior’s rigid penis. Insightful fingers explored underneath, insistently fondling the small furry pouch, then scrabbling as if something was missing.

“Both baby balls are stuck in their sockets,” the old man muttered, manipulating tender testes with a sigh of relief.

“There’s no need to hurt the poor little guy,” another man said from Xavior’s right.

“Better tight as a bongo drum than bouncing around for a boy’s first Delectatio, I say.”

Xavior whimpered as the old man squeezed, one tiny testicle clamped between each thumb and first finger. However, he knew exactly when to stop.

“Dad?” Xavior gasped as the pressure relented, not a moment too soon. He felt very lightheaded.

Caine hugged his son from behind, both of them trembling. His hands roamed freely, flowing over Xavior’s smooth bare body. He brought his hands up under his boy’s arms, boosting him up, clasping his chest and thighs. He carried Xavior to the canopied bed, clambered onto it, and laid down, his son laying on top of him, face up and very exposed.

Two men and a boy joined them, eight hands mauling Xavior’s private parts, stroking his belly, caressing thighs, fingering tiny tender nipples.

“It takes a while to get used to them being here,” Caine whispered to his son.

With his father’s manhood pushing persistently into his back, Xavior couldn’t be happier.

The other boy leaned over Xavior, long hair draping his face. His head lowered, so close that Xavior felt his breath on his cheek, moist and warm. Their lips brushed, a foreign very-skilled tongue probing gently yet insistently.

“Just relax and enjoy,” the boy said softly, his delicate lips pressing, fingers confidently stroking Xavior’s cheek, his ear. “You’ll be sex mad like me after tonight, and it only gets better.”

Suddenly burning hot, Xavior squirmed, embarrassed, excited, undecided; all said and done, it was only in the last few hours he’d given *that* any thought. No wonder he was uneasy; everything was happening so quickly.

“Time to get this show on the road! Kiss him back, lad,” the old man rasped.

As much as he wanted to, Xavior still wavered. The only other person he’d wet-kissed was his father, and now the long-haired boy was licking, his wet squirmy tongue delighting, teasing almost-virgin lips.

I don’t even know your name… you’re making me feel funny inside like Mark did.

His father’s left arm tightened around his chest, holding him steady. The other boy’s wet hungry lips merged with his, disconcerting, agitated, wriggly tongue seeking entry, instinct demanding, guilt somehow prevailing. It took all his willpower to resist the urge. Too many sermons on evil; only debauched boys kissed other boys. Yet part of him was insistent.

Bonaventure said I’m queer; so did Mom. My dad’s right; accept it, move on, and enjoy it!

The pressure grew throughout his barely ten-year-old body. A moment later, he realized the tongue was now inside his mouth and his father was whispering.

“That’s my boy. It’s all good. Never be afraid of trying new things. You can do whatever you want.”

Adult hands wandered, stroking smooth slender thighs, playing with unprotected tender parts, fondling penis and testicles until Xavior panted. No solid slab of luminous green chalcedony for the sacrifice of his innocence; his father was his Altar.

“Like this, don’t you?” the old man inquired, a very proficient first finger exploring below.

Xavior inhaled when the finger parted his buttocks. With his arms and legs spread-eagled and pinned to the bed, all he could do was clench resolutely as the finger grazed his anus. It tickled his pucker, and made a half-hearted attempt to slip inside.

“All of us sederbi are sex crazy, really and truly,” the other boy muttered between bouts of passionate kissing.

Aware of a slippery sensation in the cleft of his bottom, Xavior tensed, somehow still holding tight as the finger rubbed. It was invasive, yet part of him wanted to let it in, the sex-crazy part, the dirty disgusting faggot part.

“When you kiss, my darling, your tongue always goes in his mouth,” Tregonwell coached from the side of the bed.

The slow ingress into his bottom was so disconcerting, Xavior grumped, “I know how to kiss!”

“Everyone knows a boy can’t kiss properly until he’s kissed his partner’s prick,” she teased. “Perhaps you kissed your best friend’s. Mark Truett’s got a nice one, perfect for kissing.”

“You’ll kiss it soon enough. Meanwhile, you can practice on Danny’s. His is a lot like Mark’s, not nearly as beautiful as yours, though,” she snickered.

Unabashed, the other boy’s tongue pushed Xavior’s tongue out of the way. It felt like it went to the back of his mouth. Their lips jammed together, slobbering, saliva flowing freely. A rush of adrenalin and Xavior Caine’s lingering doubt vanished.

He lifted his son’s head, keeping his mouth pressed hard against the other boy’s. He held them together, never more aware of his son’s androgynous sexuality. Danny was distinctly effeminate, not Xavior. He was a delectable little demon, charming, adorable, and fun-loving, roguish when he wanted to be.

“I love you. No matter what happens, you’re always going to be my kiss monster,” he whispered in his son’s ear.

Xavior separated from Danny, caressing spitty lips with his fingertips, getting giggles and wriggles, and loving every moment.

Perhaps it was his father’s lust-filled tone, or the time was right; after a moment of vague indecision, everything murky and unclear became crystal-clear for Xavior Tenney Caine. His only problem; he was unsure of what his father would think.

Xavior hesitated, not about kissing another boy, at taking that monumental step. However, safe in his father’s arms, his lust slowly emerged, the Beast finally unleashed.

Caine watched with Danny’s father, both men fascinated as their sons explored oral pedagogy. Their little tongues wriggled, juicy lips engaged, saliva dribbled. He beamed paternal pride as the lesson proceeded. Xavior was an eager pupil and a very fast leaner. He became more affectionate, more boisterous, more inventive, too.

“Tregonwell’s right. It’s past time our Prince of Sederbi sucked his first boy-cock. It’s your decision, Phillip. He’ll never have a better teacher than my Danny.”

Too embarrassed to voice consent, Caine merely gestured. Graeme Neilson tapped his son’s behind, guiding him into position.

Danny straddled Xavior’s head, grinning, looking down. “You’ll most likely feel kinda strange at first. I sure did.”

“Danny loves to suck. You will too; you’re that kind of boy.” Tregonwell gave her customary cackle. “Always wet your lips first. Never dry.”

“You don’t know very much, do you? One of the most special things a boy can do is suck cock. When you put it in your mouth, it has to be slippery.”

Xavior obediently licked his lips. It wasn’t enough. He drooled spit until it dribbled down his chin, and then he waited with his mouth wide open.

“It’s not that big! Your friend, Mark; his daddy’s cock is so thick, it barely fits in his mouth. He has to open really wide.”

Danny giggled strangely. “Your dad’s is huge compared to Mr. Truett’s. You’ll probably choke on it even when it doesn’t go down your throat.”

I wish it was smaller, but it’s not. When the time comes, I’ll have to be careful, that’s all.

Tregonwell sputtered frustration. “Enough chit chat! Danny, stick your stinger in his gob and let’s see what he can do.”

No matter how much Xavior wanted the other boy’s erection in his mouth, he shook his rebellious mane, his hands grasping Danny’s slim hips to keep them separated.

Grinning, Danny levered his penis down, rubbing the tip on Xavior’s crimson lips, hot slippery spit easing the way.

“Your bum is tiny like mine; but he’ll fit with practice, won’t he Dad?”

“Believe it or not, it won’t be long before his cock slides into your ass. When it comes out, you’ll feel so empty, you’ll want it back again right away.”

Xavior’s head spun. Lust ignited, July Fourth’s fireworks all at once. Giddy with joy. Yearning for more than mere licking, he sucked on the hard red ball. Sheer disbelief.

Nothing could be as reassuring, even if spitty bubbles filled his mouth. As soon as he gulped, they were back. And his wriggly hot tongue; it was long and strong, and very sensitive. Distantly, he heard Tregonwell expound on Delectatio, something about using his tongue elsewhere.

“… It’s not just for kissing and licking widdlers… Everywhere and anywhere…”

Abruptly, his fluttering heart switched to frantic flip-flops. Fantasizing about his dad did it. Suddenly, his lips were surging along the slippery shaft, his tender tongue shoved out of the way, already craving bigger, stronger, and far more demanding.

“… Tonight, you’ll go from curious little boy to passionate lover; tomorrow, you’ll be a hellion, so horny you won’t be able to stop,” Tregonwell went on.

She’d seated herself in a frumpy Victorian armchair next to the bed, her view unimpeded—her approach to training a sederbus was mostly hands off, prompting when necessary. Still, she closely watched Xavior’s reactions, his responses instinctive, requiring almost no guidance.

“You don’t know the meaning of ‘horny,’ yet,” Neilson remarked. “It’s how a boy feels after a horn stretches his rectum.”

“After Nanny Dankworth’s horns, you’ll beg for a big one,” Danny added, gleefully smacking Xavior’s cheeks with his spit-slicked erection.

“If you want your father to fuck you, get busy, boy! Lick those cute little balls, suck them right into your mouth.”

Caine gaped as Xavior opened to take Danny’s scrotum into his mouth. His cheeks caved, vacuuming earnestly.

Israel Rosenkrantz, pursued depravity with a passion. He was ruthless, even cruel—his forte was testicle torture, especially prepubescent boys.

Poor Xavior was breathless, mostly excitement and a kind of unbridled joy that he couldn’t get enough of.

“You want to lick, boy? Go for the gold! Put your tongue between his buttocks. If you want him to like it, push it in as far as it can go.”

“He said that to me, too. Just do it, dude. It’s way better than you think,” Danny muttered, his long hair dancing in Caine’s face.

“Rimming is a sublime sensation, savored by little boys in preparation for the profound pleasure of sodomy,” Rosenkranz pontificated.

“Here, I’ll show you,” Neilson offered, relishing Xavior’s uncertain look.

He lifted Xavior’s slim legs, positioning the boy side-on so that Caine could see his son’s bottom. He bent to the task, both hands parting the little bottom. He licked Xavior’s crevice, slathering saliva from scrotum to tailbone.

Neilson grinned at his son and flicked his tongue over the still-virgin anus, taking pleasure in Xavior’s muted sighs. The sensation was satisfying for any boy regardless of age; for a ten-year-old sederbus-in-training, it was enchanting.

Someone cloaked in the veil of darkness muttered, “Stop wasting time and fuck the little faggot.”

“Always stick your tongue in a boy’s butt prior to penetration, Master Caine. There is no better prelude, or faster way of getting them in the mood,” Rosenkrantz declared.

With a sly glance around the chamber, he nodded at someone in the darkness, settling back on his haunches. He had a seat in the bleachers, close-up and intimate; however, his elderly penis drooped uselessly, wrinkled and crimped near the pastel-pink tip, grey hair like a jungle at the base.

Caine watched Xavior’s antics as Neilson’s tongue speared his rear. Between giggling and whimpering, the newest sederbus discovered a very different sensation. Hot, wet, wriggly, alive, surging through his anus, becoming part of him. It was invasive and demanding, yet so slippery that Xavior couldn’t stop shaking. Caine was certain it was so far inside his son’s rectum that it reached to his belly.

Seeing another man’s tongue inside his son was thrilling, weird and wonderful; the last thing he expected.

At the same time, Tregonwell schooled the boy from the sidelines. “Rub your bum against his face, Sweetie. Show him what you want. What your offering in return. That’s the key to arousing a man.”

Rosenkrantz wasn’t about to be left out. “See how your son melts around a man’s tongue, Master Caine. Imagine how much fun it will be officially deflowering him, filling him with your semen. Unforgettable, don’t you think?”

Caine nodded. A shocking, shameless part of him imagined Neilson’s penis teasing his boy’s anus, preparing him for penetration. He tightened his grasp on Xavior’s pelvis. That he was so excited he could actually encourage the deflowering didn’t seem possible.

Tregonwell glanced around. “Tongues in the bum are fun; however, after tonight, you’ll beg for a widdler,” she taunted.

Despite burning hot lips and swollen tongue, Xavior managed to mutter, “I want my dad to do me.”

He nudged Neilson aside, lifting Xavior’s right leg, peering at the exposed fissure, wet with slippery saliva, the hole wider than ever, yet still too tiny for more than the tip of a man’s penis.

“He’s stiff enough,” Tregonwell muttered, leaning forward. “Damn! There’s not enough slime to slide it inside him.”

Caine’s heart pounded, his erection flexing, bobbing. Danny wouldn’t leave it alone. At the same time, intrusive hands flowed all over his son, stroking, rubbing. Elderly fingers went inside, first one, then two, expertly arousing the boy until he writhed on top of his father. Finally, the unholy trinity, and after that the emptiness of no fingers at all. One of the hands grasped Caine’s massively erect penis, levering it down, positioning it between Xavior’s little buttocks.

“Still not enough! Someone spit on it!” Tregonwell urged, panting with anticipation.

Only Neilson and Danny had reservations as Caine and Xavior thrashed about, bodies slipping and sliding, all but merging the essential parts.

“Of any of us, only a turncoat would use spit on a virgin,” Maculata rebuked, her voice ominous.

Unaware, Caine embraced his son’s hot wet frantic body, unleashed, absorbed, overwhelmed in passion, firm little buttocks wedged apart, what felt like squirmy fingers pinching on his big bulging knob. Captivated, he lifted up, his thick erection unyielding, throbbing, straining, hungry for his own flesh and blood, so hungry nothing could stop him. Above him, Xavior, wanting, wanton hellion, liberated of all inhibition, suckled on Danny’s twitching, stabbing penis.

Xavior saw what his father saw. Neilson’s erection, poised and primed, slick with preseminal juice split Danny’s crevice, poking at his anus. Mere inches away, the impossible transpired in the space of a heartbeat. Xavior winced even as Danny groaned and gave way.

“Dum Spiro, Te Amo,” Caine crooned in his son’s ear, so softly that no one else would hear.

A moment later, a blunt burning wedge, powerful and persistent, bulged into him, stretching his hole to impossible size. Simultaneous gasps followed; then, the stunning, humbling, awe-inspiring realization.

“Coniugium, Paragraph 26; wherefore the right of proprietor must not be exercised ante coniugium, meaning in advance of joining. If the adsignatos is no longer virgin, all rights transfer forthwith.”

“‘Junctus Amore, Spiritus Corporis,’ Mr. Caine. ‘Joined in love, the spirit of the body;’ it’s a marriage, of sorts, uniting a man and a boy in love for as long as they live.”

He jerked at the familiar voice, lurking nearby. “Get to the point, Soudé!”

Elbowing Tregonwell aside, Soudé waddled up. Rosenkrantz hurriedly scrambled back, allowing his master to clamber onto the bed.

Soudé ogled the still-trembling boy, eyes still lit up with lust, shaking at the sheer intensity of his first time. He could tell from the boy’s smile; his father’s penis barely plugged his anus. However, any penetration was sufficient to invoke Paragraph 26.

Coming Acts

This is as good a place to stop as any. No-longer-virgin, and in breach of contract, Xavior Tenney Caine, Prince of Sederbi, has Nanny Dankworth’s horns to looks forward to. You can be sure he’ll feed the Beast. Meanwhile, you can donate to the Nifty Archive in his name, or by marking ‘XTC’ on your forehead in indelible ink. Click below to use your credit card.

The author is aware that Nifty readers come in all flavors. Young or old, rich or poor; everyone is able to make a donation. Too tight or too scared to use your credit card; skip that Starbucks latte and stick a few bucks in an envelope.

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Dedication

Table of Contents