Date: Sat, 29 Oct 2016 10:16:07 -0500
From: Cheeky Chiquito <cheekychiquito (at) gmail (dot) com>
Subject: Juvenile Justice: Caught and Convicted, Part 1 of 2

Juvenile Justice (BBBBT/m, bondage, humiliation, some torture)
Part 1 of 2
by The Cheeky Chiquito

# READERS, BE YE HANDILY WARNED: #

Heh, heh. "Handily".

Anyway, this is a work of gay erotic fiction featuring one or more cocky
adolescent boys who subjugate and take advantage of an unwitting and/or
unwilling male. Typically this involves exposing him and placing him in
humiliating sexual situations. Who doesn't like to read about that? Is it you?

Well, your finger does, or you wouldn't have clicked or tapped all of the links
needed to get here in the first place. Maybe your finger knows something that
you should know. That probably explains why you've been inserting it into the
places that you have. In any case, if you do not like the subject matter, if
you are below the age of consent, or if it is against the law for you to read
about such things, stop reading now.

Yeah, I thought so. Keep going, then, but now you have only yourself and your
finger to blame. That's right. It's not my problem if certain consequences
occur now -- consequences including, but not limited to: moral outrage; immoral
outrage; abrupt nudity; tennis elbow; sprained wrists, fingers, or fists; blue
balls; premature ejaculation; prolonged ejaculation; unexpected ejaculation;
who doesn't like ejaculation; soggy electronics; wet dreams; wet daydreams;
neglected partners; excommunication; pleased or irate deities; or TIFU stories.
In choosing to read, you choose to accept full responsibility for everything
that comes afterward. Even yourself, should that occur.

Yes, that was a long a paragraph, but at least we've covered our bases (and
asses). In legalese, which isn't nearly as fun as some other things I could
think of. Unless you're a law student. Are you a law student? Well, hello,
handsome. How about letting me bang your gavel sometime?

I meant the hammer. When you become a judge. You sick bastard.

-- The Cheeky Chiquito

No, you're not the Captain. The "hammer" is not your -- you know what? Never
mind.

***

# Part 1: Caught and Convicted  #

Liberal amounts of sunshine streamed down on twenty-two year-old Brett Erickson
while he jogged wearily to the end of another block. Perhaps -- in midwinter,
well above the Arctic Circle -- the abundant warmth and light would have been
welcome, but noon was not yet fallen over the city and the early September day
was already unseasonably, unreasonably hot. Brett was ready for shade after
only his fourth block, but there was none to be found. There was not even a
breeze: the stifling humidity choked the faintest whisper of relief out of the
air, leaving the atmosphere no more than a sullen, lifeless thing which only
reluctantly parted before the young man who doggedly slogged through it. The
sweat of his exertions poured in rivulets down his forehead and face and
drenched his T-shirt since it had nowhere else to go. Stubbornly, defiantly,
Brett forged ahead anyway. The holiday weekend was here: three days in which to
relax and enjoy himself, if he could only get his exercise out of the way
first.

Notwithstanding his struggles that morning, Brett was actually in excellent
shape. In college, competitive swimming kept his five-foot, nine-inch figure
fit and toned; now, with graduation four months behind him, he'd traded the
submarine environment for the terrestrial: concrete pavement and metal weights
in equal measure. He preferred the buoyancy of the pool to hard and unyielding
steel and stone, but no longer swam competitively -- unless the act of finding
an open lane at the local pool in the midst of summer counted as such. His
exercise routine, purportedly maintained for its health and energy-giving
effects had underlying it the pride of the athlete in his physique; pride
bordering on vanity, perhaps, but no less deserved, since it was earned through
hours of sweat and work and repetition. Brett enjoyed being able to admire his
smooth and well-proportioned figure in the mirror and wanted to keep it that
way.

For all of this, he could not be called narcissistic. He knew that, unless he
kept his sandy blonde hair cropped close to his skull, it would explode into a
tangled mass of untamed curls. He was aware that his nose was a touch too
prominent on his face and that his large, plain brown eyes did not hold the
allure and mystery of sea-seeming blue or bejeweled green. Puberty had never
quite managed to erase the boyish roundness from his cheeks and, given his
twenty-two years, his stature was a bit shorter than most others his age --
all of which left Brett to consider himself fit rather than handsome. Even so,
he thought his lithe and toned figure might be able to attract at least a few
interested stares and this was another reason for his continued exertions.

In fact there had been several such looks while he was in school, though Brett
was often too preoccupied to notice. In spite of his own conservative estimate
of his appearance, Brett had youthful features which, if not blindingly
exquisite in their utter and replete perfection, were still certainly
complementary of his obvious athleticism. He had a small cadre of unrequited
admirers: guys and girls alike who would pause to watch as he passed, or who
sought to steal glances of him in class; and the wild cheering which ensued
when he made his appearances at swim tournaments, clad only in a short black
Speedo, was not always motivated by the speed and skill of his stroke. Alas for
all involved, most of these attentions were lost on Brett, who had his studies,
his swim practices, and an acute shyness with roots in a semi-religious
upbringing to prevent him from capitalizing on the opportunities that such
regard might have offered.

He was not a total novice, though he was perhaps less experienced than some of
his roommates were: he had fooled around a few times, but circumstances never
progressed into anything more serious than the casual ease between
acquaintances who are willing to help each other out in certain respects. It
was his hope that now, with school behind him and a place of his own at last,
he could settle down, find someone, and at last take part in the things that
couples did -- up to and including sex. Instead, when the novelty of having his
own space wore off, Brett made a discovery that ended up leaving him
momentarily and romantically at a loss.

This was not how it began; rather, it was a natural evolution of having actual
privacy for the first time in his life. Growing up as the middle child of
three, all of whom were active athletes, Brett rarely had a moment to himself
in the midst of the comings and goings to which such households are accustomed.
Even after going away to college, the necessities of sharing a dorm room with
other guys limited his opportunities for time to himself. He managed, as most
guys will, but only after living in his own space for a few weeks did it occur
to him, one lazy Sunday morning, that there was no reason for him to get
dressed on his days off unless he had somewhere to go. He could lay around in
his pajamas all day if he wanted. He could even wander around in his underwear!

Startled at first by its simplicity and its ramifications, Brett nonetheless
took to the idea in short order: stripping down to his boxer-briefs the
following weekend and remaining that way until Monday morning. Within a week,
he'd found the practice agreeable enough to enlarge its scope, so that
whenever he was going to be home for a while he would be covered only around
the waist and hips. But the impulse did not end there: the freedom to be
clothed or not, though a little frightening at first, was altogether too
enticing. Certainly he'd shown off his body before -- at swim meets and in the
showers afterward, where only the briefest of swimsuits protected his modesty
-- but these occurrences had been impersonal, a requirement of the sport. This
was the first time he could divest himself of his attire whenever he chose. For
a while, that was enough; but then he began to wonder whether something
shouldn't be done about his underwear, too.

Could he do it? Could he actually strut around in the nude? Why not? It was the
sort of thing he could never have contemplated while growing up in a semi-
religious home with two siblings, nor again while living in the dorm. He was
hooked the very first time he walked into his kitchen and his living room stark
naked, again when marveling at the rough material of the couch cushions
pressing directly against his bare thighs, when brushing one unclad hip against
the corner of a counter and when relishing the cool air of the refrigerator
while it washed over his exposed midsection. That it felt a little naughty made
the experience that much more attractive, and even had he not been sold on the
idea, the deal was sealed the first time he masturbated wherever he liked.

_I could get used to this,_ he thought to himself; and so he did, until an
impulse stirred within him, the suggestion of an idea, borne perhaps of the
repeated experience of feeling hundreds of eyes press in on him during his swim
meets: what if he left the blinds open when wandering around his own space, so
that anyone could see him? What if he showed them everything his athletic body
could do? What if he demonstrated certain activities for them?

No. No! What was he thinking?

It was too much to accept. The concept of himself as an exhibitionist was more
than the young man was prepared to entertain. Fearful of it, he retreated back
into a mode of dress that was exceedingly conservative, covering as much as he
could. Of course some part of him chafed at the necessity, fought against the
decision, but he steadfastly resisted it. A line had to be drawn somewhere.

Days such as this one were cause to reconsider the placement of that line,
though. Beneath the merciless sun the combination of sweatpants and long-
sleeved T-shirt made for a miserable run, but Brett set his teeth and
bludgeoned his will into propelling his body forward. Harsh light glared from
the concrete sidewalk; the oily smell of baking asphalt wafted from the road to
his left; his breaths came in ragged gulps, like those of a man drowning in the
liquid air, and each inhaled gasp scalded the back of his throat. Though his
muscles were accustomed to hard work, they nevertheless ached in protest at the
ill use and his heart concurred, drubbing its own insistent complaints against
the inside of his skull until his head throbbed and he winced at the pain. He
was going to have to stop, which he'd never before had to do; stop somewhere to
catch his breath if not to turn back altogether.

Perhaps three blocks ahead of him loomed an enormous arch of concrete: the
great, curving span of a major freeway as it passed over what was otherwise a
fairly quiet residential neighborhood. The structure soared at least twenty
feet above the street below, bearing aloft four lanes of traffic on its upper
surface, which was supported from beneath by great, wedge-shaped steel pylons.
These rested atop a series of thick cement pillars, organized in rows. Many
residents of the surrounding neighborhood had complained at the erection of
this colossal monument to the automobile, but their arguments grew somewhat
less forceful when the increased traffic capacity significantly reduced the
hassle of the morning and evening commutes. Brett was less concerned with these
matters than with the great, shadowy space beneath the span: if he could make
it beneath, he could pause to collect his wits and give his body time to
recuperate out of direct sunlight. Spurred on by the promise of imminent
relief, Brett renewed his pace -- and, just when his lungs, heart, and legs all
threatened violent revolt, he arrived beneath the overpass.

Panting heavily, doubled over while the cost of his exertions swept over him,
it was all Brett could do for a time simply to remain standing. His legs felt
rubbery and weak, his arms light and ineffective, his mind slow to form
thoughts against the din of his pounding heart. He waited, not paying
particular attention to anything, while his body slowly recovered. The humid
air felt only marginally cooler beneath the bridge, but that there was any
difference at all was welcomed by his sweltering skin. When at last he felt he
could straighten, he did so slowly, taking note of the fact that his T-shirt
was soaked through and through: it clung stickily to his torso and left very
little to the imagination. In spite of his weary state, he smiled wryly to
himself, since his efforts to conceal his body had very nearly come to naught.
The outlines of his forearms and pecs were clearly visible, as were the raised
areas where his nipples tented the sodden fabric. The only shape concealed by
the shirt anymore was that of his belly button; he thought of stripping it off
-- but hard on the heels of that idea was the suggestion that he might strip
off his sweatpants, too. He quickly banished both notions, turning instead to
consider the way before him.

The road continued on his left, passing after fifty feet or so back into the
harsh glare of mid-morning. He had come perhaps three-quarters of a mile from
his apartment, and there was still a mile to go before the park that marked the
halfway point of his usual circuit. What trees there were along the way were
newly-planted, scrubby things: small, scrawny, incapable of providing anything
like shade from the overwhelming heat. No breeze stirred the heavy air. Twelve
blocks had taken all he had. Did he really want to press his luck? Wasn't the
wisest course to accept that nature would have her way today, and retreat to
the cool interior of his apartment?

In the midst of debating these questions, Brett became aware of a sound like
laughter away to his right. He turned curiously toward it. It sounded close,
but there were no exits from the freeway above that could spill a driver or
anyone else onto the road that was now behind him; the nearest such point was
about three blocks distant. Between that point and the place he stood was an
area that was normally empty space: rough, rocky ground with a few ragged,
stunted weeds poking through the gaps in the ever-present litter tossed aside
by uncaring pedestrians and motorists. Several fenced yards lay just outside
the shadow of the overpass on either side and followed the length of the
freeway for several blocks, enclosing the area beneath the bridge. Through the
middle of it all ran a deep culvert that, on rainy days, filled with dirty,
swirling water collected from the various neighborhoods nearby.

Now, however, the space beneath the span was filled. Someone had erected a
flimsy chain-link fence along the sidewalk and, behind it, parked several large
pieces of heavy construction equipment. A weathered yellow bulldozer slumbered
next to a steamroller, a dump truck, an enormous blue trash bin, a backhoe, and
various orange warning signs. It looked like the city was finally planning to
resurface the roads in the area, perhaps after the holiday weekend -- and while
the roads needed it, it was strange that the person in charge of the project
should elect to leave the equipment unattended for three days, especially since
the wire fence designed to keep people out was hardly an obstacle. A double
gate stood, dutifully chained and padlocked, a few paces away from Brett; but
just beyond it someone had bent the lower portion of the chain link away from
the dirty ground. It would be possible to shimmy through the gap thus created
and get into the space beyond. But who would want to do so? And why?

As though in response to this unspoken question, another laughing shout echoed
from the concrete all around him. Expecting it this time, Brett was able to
ascertain that the voice belonged to someone youthful and ebullient: it was a
boy's voice, soon followed by a chorus of other voices, all of them equally as
young and no less cheerful. Brett thought he understood: even as he had taken
refuge from the heat beneath the overpass, so had a group of youths. No doubt
these were the ones responsible for lifting the fence, creating for themselves
a makeshift entrance into the makeshift area beyond. The chance to inspect
heavy machinery up close and without adult supervision was likely to prove
alluring to youngsters of a certain age who had nothing better to do over a
three-day weekend.

Brett smiled and turned away, intending to leave the boys to their diversion,
but when the boisterous chatter continued to reach his ears, punctuated every
so often by shouts and loud laughter, he could not help but wonder what about
an improvised construction yard was so diverting. Biting his lower lip
uncertainly, the twenty-two year-old turned back toward the chain link fence
and its disfigurement only a short distance away. He could probably squeeze
beneath the gap there, but then what? The kids were not likely to be pleased to
have an adult blundering into their midst, however young that adult might be.
On the other hand, though, who said they had to know? The trash bin and other
equipment would provide cover; so long as he was discreet, he could find out
what the boys were doing without them ever being the wiser. One quick look to
satisfy his curiosity, then he could return to his run. Reasonable enough.

Doing his best to appear nonchalant, Brett sidled up to the gap in the fence
and knelt down next to the bent wire. Glancing left and right to be certain no
cars were approaching, he pulled up the fencing and rolled quickly beneath the
opening. The metal caught his shoulder when he passed below it; on climbing to
his feet and examining the mark, he found the thin material of his T-shirt torn
at the shoulder, exposing a sliver of skin. The fabric had blunted enough of
the force to keep the blood from being drawn, but not enough to stop the pain.
He rubbed at the stinging abrasion for a moment, then dusted himself off and
endeavored to figure out where he could position himself so as to remain
unseen. It was difficult to determine because the echoing laughter, repeating
from the concrete pillars all around, sounded as though it was coming from
every side. At last, Brett settled on the great, rectangular form of the blue
trash bin. Striding up to it as quickly and as stealthily as he could, he
slowly inched around the side until he reached the corner that opened onto the
empty area beyond. Cautiously he peered around the side.

There were five boys dashing to and fro a short distance away: ducking behind
pillars, tumbling in and out of the dusty culvert, and leaping from a pile of
broken concrete that had been discarded there at some point, perhaps by the
same workers who had abandoned their machinery for the holiday weekend. It was
easy enough now to see what kept the youngsters occupied: each of them had at
least one water gun, and two seemed also to possess a small arsenal of water-
filled balloons in plastic bags tied to the waistbands of their shorts. It
really was an ingenious way to beat the heat and prevent boredom, Brett
thought, looking on with admiration and a little envy as the youths ducked and
weaved and ran, each trying to score hits on the others without taking any in
turn. Four of the five appeared to be perhaps twelve or thirteen; the fifth and
shortest boy might have been ten or eleven. They were all dressed in short-
sleeved shirts and shorts and seemed to be thoroughly enjoying themselves.

Brett observed their play for a moment and then, his curiosity satisfied, began
to inch back around the corner of the waste bin. At that precise moment,
however, one of the boys -- the only one of them with blonde hair -- chanced to
look in Brett's direction while ducking an errant stream of water directed his
way. Their eyes met and Brett froze.

So did the towheaded boy. In the fraction of a second it took for the youth's
eyes to widen in surprise, Brett ducked out of sight, kneeling low to the
ground and cursing himself silently. So much for being discreet! Now he looked
like a spy or something worse. He held his breath, waiting for the inevitable
explosion, and was not long kept in suspense.

"There's someone over there!" the blonde boy called aloud.

Another voice queried, "What? Where?"

"Behind the dumpster!"

"I don't see anyone," a third voice said. "Ha!" Its owner laughed.

"Hey, stop shooting at me, fucker! I'm serious! There's someone there!"

"What's going on?" a new voice inquired.

"Wyatt says he saw someone behind the dumpster."

"Yeah, right. He's just making shit up so he can get us close enough to tag."

"Fuck you! I know what I saw!"

"What did you see?"

"Some guy," the boy named Wyatt replied. "He ducked out of sight as soon as I
saw him."

One of the boys snorted. "Maybe it was the bogeyman!"

The youngest voice laughed. "More like the _trash_ man if he hides in
dumpsters!"

"Yeah! Hey, maybe you saw Oscar the Grouch!"

"Shut up!" Wyatt said sharply, sounding annoyed. "Dennis, I'm telling you:
there's someone over there listening to us right now."

An unsettled pause fell over the group. Then the owner of the fourth voice, the
one belonging to the boy named Dennis, said loudly, "All right, whoever you
are! You better come out."

_Shit!_

Brett was in the process of working his way along the length of the trash bin,
hoping to get back to the outside of the fence while this debate took place,
but it was slow work to avoid making any sound. Now he froze once more, his
stomach lurching as he heard himself called out. Breath stilled, lest the noise
somehow betray his presence, he wracked his brain for a graceful way out of
this predicament.

He could think of none, and any hope of such an end was dashed in short order
when the boy named Dennis said decisively, "Fine. Micah, you and Darien go
around the right. Wyatt and me will go around the left side."

"What about me?" inquired the youngest voice.

"Wait there."

"But I want to come, too!"

"Just wait, okay?"

Brett's heart hammered fearfully in his chest. He considered making a dash for
the fence, which was perhaps a dozen yards away, but would he make it there
before the boys rounded the trash bin? If they got a good look at him, then
they could relate his appearance to their parents, who would probably call the
police. Or, if they had phones -- and they likely did -- the boys could take
pictures and call the police themselves.

_Fuck!_ Brett fretted silently. What would the police believe? That he had
simply been curious, or something worse? In this day and age it would prove
exceedingly difficult to convince anyone that his actions had been motivated by
an inquiring mind and not something more sinister.

_Why did I ever go under the damn fence?_

In the midst of cursing himself again, it occurred to Brett that he was not the
only one who had trespassed beyond that barrier. The boys weren't supposed to
be here, either; which meant they would be slow to involve the police or anyone
else in authority, lest they get in trouble too. Maybe he could reason with
them, point out the benefits of each party allowing the other to go their own
way on this one: no harm, no foul. Right?

It wasn't much to hope for, but it was something. Taking a deep breath, the
twenty-two year-old rose to his feet and called out, "Okay, you've got me! I'll
come around."

"Slowly!" Dennis called back. "And keep your hands where we can see them."

The latter directive only served to make the situation seem that much more
ludicrous and surreal -- he was being ordered around like a criminal by a boy
nine years younger than him! -- but Brett did as instructed, stepping
cautiously around the side of the trash bin with both of his hands raised,
palms facing out.

Four scowling faces awaited him. The nearest one belonged to the blonde boy who
had first caught sight of him, the one who'd been called Wyatt. His light hair
was cropped quite close to his scalp; his wide, boyish features were compressed
into a tight frown, drawing flaxen eyebrows close together above a pair of
bright brown eyes. A gold stud adorned each ear. He sported a fitted white T-
shirt that clung tightly to his thin, youthful frame; it was emblazoned with
the words "HELP WANTED, INQUIRE WITHIN" printed in stylized black-and-red
letters across the front. The shirt did not quite reach the waistband of his
khaki-colored cargo shorts, and so allowed the occasional glimpse of the
elastic waistband beneath. The legs of his shorts hung over his bony knees; his
shins were adorned with a fine dusting of golden hair. A pair of tan skater's
shoes and ankle-length socks completed his outfit.

To Wyatt's right stood a boy with hair cut almost as close to his scalp, only
it was jet black. This boy was a trifle taller than his friend. Brett surmised
that this was the leader, the one called Dennis, because his stance was
authoritative, challenging, the bearing of a young man who was already used to
command. Though his face still showed much of a boy's roundness, there were
hints of the angularity that would follow in manhood, especially around his
jaw. His eyes were jade green and studied Brett with a quizzical, guarded look.
A close-fitting black T-shirt with an abstract white pattern covered his upper
body, showing off a little of his trim and lanky torso; his thighs were covered
by a pair of dark blue athletic shorts that hung low on his hips in the fashion
typical of teen-aged boys, displaying thereby a good inch or so of designer-
branded elastic. His legs were bare except for a trace of dark hair below the
knees; no socks showed above the weathered and well-worn black tennis shoes on
his feet.

Farther away, toward the opposite end of the trash bin, stood the tallest of
the youths: a thin and gangling boy with toffee-colored skin. His hair hung in
locks of tight curls about his eyes, which considered Brett behind a pair of
square-rimmed, black plastic glasses that were too wide for his face. He wore
a pressed button-up shirt with short sleeves, which hung open at his waist to
reveal a dark brown T-shirt beneath. Like the first boy, he wore a pair of
cargo shirts. His long legs were attired with a pair of ankle-high socks that
were just visible above the rims of a pair of expensive-looking black sneakers.
Of all of them, this boy was the best-dressed; and of all of them, his
expression was the least hostile, more curious than challenging.

The look on the face of the boy next to this one, however, was almost exactly
on the opposite end of the spectrum: an aggressive, angry glare that darkened
his Asian features. His medium-length brown hair had been styled with product
into the tousled, fresh-from-bed look favored by fashionable young men. He was
dressed almost as well as the boy next to him, and better than the other three:
a starched, striped polo shirt covered his chest and a costly gold watch clung
to one wrist. He wore a pair of denim shorts in dark blue, with short crew
socks drawn tightly above a pair of immaculate, brand-name white tennis shoes
that might have just been purchased, they were so clean.

On the other side of the culvert was the youngest of the five boys, watching
the proceedings curiously. His hair was jet black, just like Dennis' hair,
though longer: it fell in loose strands around his face and ears. His eyes were
a clear, sparkling blue, but in shape they were similar to Dennis' green eyes
and this, along with the similarity of his dress to the oldest boy -- dark T-
shirt and athletic shorts -- gave Brett the impression that the youngest boy
was probably related to the oldest in some way.

While Brett had been studying the youths, they were silently scrutinizing him,
until Dennis finally broke the silence.

"What were you doing back there?"

His voice, like his stance, bespoke someone who was used to giving orders and
having them obeyed. Without question, this was the leader of the group and the
one who must be convinced above all the rest.

Gazing steadily at this boy, so he would know the words spoken were the truth,
Brett answered, "I was just passing by."

Dennis cast an appraising eye at Brett's sweat-laden T-shirt and sweatpants.
"On a run?"

Brett nodded.

"In that?" Wyatt inquired, looking askance at the young man's clothing. "Isn't
it a little hot for that?"

Brett acknowledged him with a rueful expression. "Yeah, I figured that out
pretty quickly."

"That doesn't explain why you were spying on us."

This came from the Asian boy as he strode angrily up behind Brett, followed
closely by his taller counterpart.

"I wasn't spying," Brett explained, turning toward him. "I was passing by, and
I heard you all shouting, and I wanted to see what you were doing."

"Why is that any of your business?" snapped the Asian boy.

"Well -- it isn't. But no one's supposed to be back here, right?"

The African-American boy spoke. His voice was low and pensive. "_You_ came
back here."

"But you did it first," Brett pointed out.

Dennis looked up at him thoughtfully. It struck Brett that he was only three or
four inches taller than the teen. "So -- what?" the dark-haired boy wanted to
know. "You're gonna turn us in?"

Brett shook his head. "No. I think we should both probably forget that we saw
each other here. That's all."

His voice dripping scorn, the Asian boy said, "Yeah, right. Of course. It was
all an innocent misunderstanding and you're not a freak." He turned toward his
counterparts. "We should report him. We caught him spying on us! He obviously
didn't want to be seen, so I bet he was doing something weird back there."

Brett's heart skipped a beat and a thrill of dread surged down his spine. The
prospect of a police record and the attendant humiliation swam once more before
his mind's eye. Would the boys risk getting into trouble themselves in order to
turn him in? Why not? He would have a harder time convincing the authorities of
his intentions than they would. He needed to get a handle on this situation.

Inhaling a deep breath to steady his nerves, the twenty-two year-old said,
"Look, I wasn't spying, okay? I really wasn't."

"Then why were you hiding?" the African-American boy inquired.

"Because I didn't think you'd like it if I just barged in on you!"

Wyatt snorted. "You must be, what? Twenty? And you look like you're in pretty
good shape. Don't tell me you're afraid of a bunch of boys."

Brett opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out. Though being stealthy
about his actions had seemed reasonable at the time, the blonde boy was right:
what did he have to fear from a group of adolescents?

"Maybe he should have been," Dennis said slowly.

This was enough to draw Brett's attention back to the oldest boy, who had
reached down to fish a small, slim rectangle of plastic from the pocket of his
shorts. He held the item aloft, allowing Brett to discern that it was a
smartphone.

"Hey, wait a minute -- !" the twenty-two year-old began, his anxiety mounting.

But the words had not all left his mouth before the sound of an old-fashioned
camera shutter clicking closed emanated from the phone. It was followed in
short order by four additional clicks from all around him; glancing about with
growing dismay, Brett perceived the other boys emulating the example of their
leader with smartphones of their own -- even the youngest of them. All of the
devices were trained on him, and from the sounds of things, all of them had
just acquired his likeness.

"The GPS coordinates embedded in the picture will prove where it was taken,"
Dennis told him, letting the phone fall back into the pocket of his shorts.
"And we all have one. I think the police will believe our story."

Brett stared at the teenager, too stunned to speak for a moment. When at last
his voice returned, he croaked, "But I haven't done anything!"

"Except trespass and spy. And whatever your reasons were, you _were_ spying,"
the dark-haired leader of the boys returned severely. "That's exactly what
sneaking over here to watch without us knowing is."

At this, the Asian boy's scowl, which had seemed perpetually affixed to his
face, transformed briefly into a look of smug satisfaction.

"But -- I -- but -- !" Brett sputtered, again, glancing earnestly at each of
the youths. There was, however, no sympathy to be found in any of the faces
before him.

"Look, maybe you really were just curious and maybe not, but no adult is going
to believe that you were," Dennis told him. "You know that. All we have to do
is tell them we found you watching us, show them the pictures as evidence,
and..."

The teenager shrugged, leaving no doubt of what the outcome would be. A slow
chill crept over Brett's spine as he realized the boy was right. Everyone would
assume the worst, of course, and nothing he could say would ever convince them
otherwise. He might gain a police record, which would cost him his job and
probably his apartment, would humiliate and dismay his parents, would forever
cause him to be ostracized. His life would be over -- and all because he had
been curious.

Damn it! He should never have climbed beneath that fence! He vowed to regret
the decision until the end of his days.

Catching sight of the stricken look on the twenty-two year-old's face, Wyatt
said, "Take it easy. He said no _adult_ would believe you. We're not adults."

The words were like a ray of sunshine though Brett did not entirely grasp their
import. Nonetheless he fastened on them like a drowning man will upon a chance
piece of floating debris in the midst of an angry sea, even if it might not
hold his weight.

Wyatt's statement seemed to mean something to the other boys, too: they turned
to regard Dennis with expectancy plainly evident in their expressions. The
thirteen year-old did not respond right away, however; he seemed to be
considering something.

At last he said, "He might be able to convince us."

Wyatt nodded readily, but -- looking puzzled and angry -- the Asian boy said,
"Convince us of what?"

"His innocence, Micah," the African-American boy remarked reasonably.

The Asian boy, whose name was at last revealed to Brett, scowled even more.
"But we already know he isn't."

It was at this point that the youngest boy walked up, apparently tired of being
left out of the conversation, and announced, "Well, _I_ don't know he isn't --
whatever you were talking about when I was over there and couldn't hear you."
He finished this pronouncement by gazing expectantly at the older boys, clearly
waiting for an explanation.

Wyatt grinned at him, then turned back to Micah. "See? Not everyone's sure one
way or the other."

Micah scoffed. "Okay, so we waste our time letting him try to convince us.
What's he got to do?"

That was a question that Brett would very much have liked to ask, but he
thought it prudent to remain silent while the boys deliberated. He did not want
to lose the last sliver of hope he had of getting out of this situation
unscathed.

Wyatt shared a glance with Dennis before replying. "Probably nothing too
terrible," declared the blonde boy, smirking slightly. "Just answer some
questions, is all. But you'll have to use your key, Darien."

The African-American boy nodded wordlessly, turned, and strode swiftly in the
direction of the blue trash bin. Brett shifted uneasily as he passed. Key? Key
to what? He sought among the faces of the boys that remained for some answer,
but Micah only glared, while the youngest boy looked bemused. Wyatt continued
to grin and Dennis revealed nothing at all; his green eyes were guarded and
watchful.

A moment later, Darien reappeared, trailing a short length of rusty chain from
each hand. Brett stared, wondering where the tall twelve year-old had procured
them. Could they be the ones from the gate? But those had been padlocked in
place. Only, no -- these had padlocks attached to them, too. Darien's key! The
tallest boy had a key to the locks! These youths had not needed to lift the
fence at all in order to gain access to this space and probably hadn't, which
meant Brett's reason for investigating in the first place had been based on a
false assumption. Once more the utter foolishness of that choice was made plain
to him.

When Darien had rejoined the group, Dennis took the pair of chains from him and
turned to Brett. "Hold out your arms."

What the boy intended to do was obvious. In spite of his tenuous standing with
the group, Brett thought he should resist. "How does tying me up help me?" he
asked warily, taking a step back.

Dennis frowned. "You got caught spying on us, and you won't give us a good
reason why," stated the teenager, his voice edged with impatience. "So if you
won't explain yourself, why should I?"

"But I was telling you the truth!" Brett exclaimed.

"Prove it," the dark-haired teenager retorted. "Or walk away." He shrugged.
"You never know, we might not show your picture to anyone."

"Yeah, maybe we'll even forget we have it," Wyatt put in.

"Not me," stated the youngest boy at once, though he still looked uncertain as
to what, exactly, he was volunteering not to do. "I won't."

Wyatt snorted.

Swallowing hard against the threat of a future lived ever afterward in doubt
and dread, Brett reluctantly stretched out his arms, flinching involuntarily
when Dennis took hold of his wrists and pressed them together so he could wind
the cold and rusty metal links around them. The loops of steel were thin, and
the teenager did not wrap them so tightly that circulation was cut off;
nonetheless, both lengths of chain together were secure enough to prevent
Brett from separating his arms, secure enough so that escape from them would
prove difficult. This point was driven home when Wyatt slid the padlock through
the last four links and clicked it closed. The lock dangled below his
immobilized wrists, its weight adding to that of the realization that pressed
upon Brett's mind, which staggered beneath it. For better or for worse, he was
now at the mercy of these boys. He swallowed again.

_What did I do to deserve this?_ a part of his mind demanded. Exercising
curiosity was not a crime. Yet the youths around him seemed to believe
otherwise, though Darien remained the least hostile of the group: the tallest
of their number looked merely curious, as he had done since the first. As he
had done at the first, the Asian youth continued to scowl, while the shortest
and youngest boy, standing now at one side, frowned in puzzlement. The oldest
one, the one on whom Brett's future now hung, regarded him silently, still
giving away little. Only Wyatt smiled: a cheeky, cocky smile that did little to
ease the mounting tension Brett felt.

After a moment, the smallest boy piped up again. "Why'd you tie him up,
Dennis?"

"Because he's going on trial," his older brother explained.

"Oh, like a prisoner!" exclaimed the youngest boy, comprehension dawning on his
round face.

Yes, Brett realized, he was a prisoner now. He'd allowed himself to be shackled
in the hopes of salvaging his good name by means of whatever courtroom drama
the boys apparently intended to play out. But the court was one where the
accused was guilty until proven innocent. Darien had said that: he was going to
have to convince them. But how?

Acknowledging his little brother with a nod, Dennis said, "Right. So, who wants
to take the prisoner's side?"

None of the other boys volunteered. Brett shifted uncertainly from one foot to
other, wondering if he would be allowed to defend himself. He was about to ask
when Micah, who evidently thought along similar lines, finally replied, "Let
him take his own side. He's a big boy."

Shaking his head, Wyatt objected, "That's not how a trial works. He's got to
have representation."

"Wyatt's been watching police shows on TV again," stated Darien with a smile.

Wyatt's grin broadened even as Micah snorted and rolled his eyes. "So? They're
good shows!"

"Oh, my God, this is going to be effin' lame," the Asian boy groaned. "Dennis,
do we have to do this? Let's just turn him in."

Brett eyed the teenager anxiously on hearing this, but the look on the oldest
boy's face was as resolute and implacable as ever. "I said we'd give him a
chance, so we will."

Micah threw up his hands. "Fine, so then who's going to be this stupid guy's
lawyer or whatever, since he apparently has to have one for this stupid thing
to be over?"

"I'll do it, I guess," the youngest boy declared, looking from one older boy
to the next.

"I don't know, Tyson," said Darien. "You just said you didn't know what was
going on."

"I don't," the ten year-old concurred cheerfully, "but I want to see what
happens, and nothing will happen while you're all arguing."

"Okay, yeah," Wyatt said to him, smiling wryly. "You're right about that." His
expression grew sober. "But you're going to have be on this guy's side and we
don't even know his name."

"Duh. I'm not an idiot."

The ten year-old ambled over to where Brett stood and gazed up thoughtfully at
the bound twenty-two year-old. "So what is your name?" he inquired at length.

"B - Brett," the twenty-two year-old replied nervously.

"Well you don't look guilty. You look a little scared."

Which was true enough. The beads of perspiration forming on the young man's
forehead were not all to do with the heat. He could not help being anxious,
given the circumstances, and though he was doing his best to avoid showing it,
it seemed the effort was not entirely successful.

Micah snapped, "Of course he's scared! We caught him watching us. Have you been
paying attention at all?"

"No, I was over there, where Dennis told me to wait," Tyson returned coolly.
"Have _you_ been paying attention?" He turned his attention back to Brett. "But
Micah's right: I do know you were spying. Why?"

Brett opened his mouth to reply to the ten year-old frowning quizzically up at
him, but Dennis help up a hand. "Save the questions and answers until the trial
starts."

"Okay."

Tyson shrugged and turned away from Brett who, in spite of his anxiety, could
not help feeling amused at the ludicrous turn of events that had appointed a
ten year-old as his defender in a mock trial staged by adolescents with overly
suspicious natures. Nevertheless, the seriousness of his situation was not
lost on him: his hands were bound, the boys had pictures of him; and though he
knew he was innocent, if he wanted to get out of this with his reputation
intact, he was going to have to prove that innocence to boys who had now become
judge, jury -- and executioners?

_What have I gotten myself into?_ Brett wondered. He would soon find out.

***

The trial, such as it was, took place before the pile of concrete slabs that
had been left in the middle of the open area behind the construction equipment.
Dennis, of course, was to be the judge and so seated himself atop the pile,
legs crossed in front of him and his counterparts arrayed about him. Darien and
Micah were the jury on his right, while Wyatt looked down on him from the left:
the prosecution. Tyson balanced impatiently on the lip of the culvert that ran
through the middle of the area, where Brett had been made to stand; in part
because it brought him near Tyson's level -- but also, Brett suspected, because
it was the lowest point of the space available and so would serve as a reminder
of his current standing in the eyes of those who sat in judgment of him.

After the boys had conferred with each other, and once everyone was situated,
Dennis looked down at Brett. "Okay, Brett, this is the way your trial is gonna
work. It's not like an adult trial or something you might have seen on TV."

He paused to cast a glance in Wyatt's direction before continuing. "Any of us
can ask questions, and you have to answer them. If the jury believes you're
telling the truth, then you get a point. If not, you lose one. Got it?"

"I think so," answered Brett carefully. It sounded almost like a game, the way
the idea of points were brought into it. But a game had to have a way to win
and a way to lose. The way to lose was obvious: fail to convince the boys of
his innocence. But how did he win when they had already convicted him of
spying?

"One more thing," added Dennis. "If the jury can't decide one way or the other,
Tyson and Wyatt can try to convince them. Tyson will try to convince them to
believe you. Wyatt will convince them not to believe you. Any questions?"

Tyson raised his hand. "What kinds of questions can we ask?"

Dennis shrugged. "Anything. Part of the price for getting into our business is
that we get to get into his."

Brett fidgeted. He did not like the idea of being forced to answer honestly any
question put to him, nor did he see how it would help him to prove his good
intentions. But before he could object, Tyson turned to face him and asked,
"Okay, so then why were you spying on us?"

Brett opened his mouth, but it was a moment before he found his voice because
the question, coming from the boy who was supposed to defend him in this game,
had caught him off-guard.

"Um -- I-I wasn't spying. Really." He tried to make his voice as sincere as
possible, but when he looked up at the older boys, both Micah and Darien were
shaking their heads.

"The jury doesn't believe you," Dennis stated balefully. He glanced down at his
younger brother. "All right, Tyson, which one does he lose?"

Blinking stupidly, Brett said, "Huh?"

The ten year-old gazed appraisingly at the twenty-two year-old for a moment.
"The left one," he finally decided.

"Okay. Take it."

"W-what's going on?" Brett inquired uncertainly as Tyson leaped down into the
culvert and knelt down next to his feet. "I thought I just lost a point." He
felt pressure descend on his left shoe and glanced down to find Tyson was
working at the laces.

While Wyatt smirked, Dennis replied, "No, you only get points for telling the
truth."

Brett's mind was still struggling to comprehend this new wrinkle. He barely
registered the pair of small but determined hands that worked his left shoe
free of his foot. A moment later, Tyson had clambered back out of the culvert
with Brett's running shoe in one hand.

"What should I do with this?" inquired the ten year-old, holding up the
footwear.

"How far can you throw it?" Wyatt wanted to now.

"But -- but you said if I didn't convince the jury, I'd lose a point!" Brett
protested, still endeavoring to understand.

"No, I said you'd lose _one_," Dennis corrected him. "And you did. You lost
_one_ shoe."

Wyatt watched the arc of Brett's athletic shoe until it disappeared somewhere
behind the pile of concrete slabs. "Good throw, Ty." Turning back to Brett, he
said, "I guess you have -- what? Six chances left now?" He ran his eyes up and
down Brett's athletic form with one eyebrow arched.

"Five," countered Darien.

Wyatt's smirk grew. "You think so?"

The black boy shrugged and grinned back at him. "Maybe we'll find out."

Micah groaned on hearing this, his scowl deepening while his two counterparts
smiled broadly.

Meanwhile, in the midst of this exchange, Brett had blanched and his knees
threatened to give way. The magnitude of his predicament came crashing down on
him with a ponderous and terrible weight. He stared with newfound horror at the
implacable teenager seated above him. Would these boys really go that far?

"So if I -- if I run out of chances?" the athletic young man croaked from a
mouth gone suddenly dry.

"Better tell the truth," Darien advised him.

"Or don't," Wyatt disagreed cheerfully.

Micah groaned again. "No, _do_ tell the truth. Please. God!"

Cold fear washed over Brett. The boys really _would_ go that far! One part of
his mind quailed at the implications. But another part, the one he'd tried to
suppress, stirred in interest.

Dennis waved the Asian boy into silence. "Next question."

"But he hasn't answered mine yet!" Tyson objected.

Dennis shook his head. "And he lost his shoe because of it. Next question."

Catching sight of the disgruntled look on the youngest boy's face, Wyatt said,
"Maybe we can get the answer a different way." He turned his attention to Brett
and asked, "What were you trying to find out by spying on us?"

Brett stared helplessly from one youthful face to the next. In permitting
himself to be bound, he assumed that these boys would play their game and then
let him go. Only the game had just grown quite serious! One too many false
steps and he would be deprived of more than just his good name!

What could he say to them? What would they believe? What would prevent them
from carrying out their implied and monstrous threat? Certainly not himself:
his hands were restrained and his legs, which usually felt so strong, now felt
like jelly.

"Not answering is treated the same as lying," warned Dennis after a moment.

Quickly, swallowing hard, Brett replied, "If -- if I _was_ spying -- then I
didn't mean to. Like I said, I was just curious to know what you were doing
back here."

Micah and Darien were shaking their heads again. _Oh, shit!_ Brett thought --
but Tyson piped up.

"I think we should believe the part about him being curious," the ten year-old
declared. "People do lots of things because they're curious."

"Maybe, but even if he was curious, why is it any of his business what we were
doing?" countered Wyatt swiftly.

Tyson's expression turned shrewd. "That's not the question you asked him."

Darien seemed to think this was a point worth considering; he had stopped
shaking his head and now looked thoughtful. Next to him, Micah continued to
glower, saying, "I already asked him that one. Why is it any of his business
what we do?"

"One question at a time," Dennis reminded him. "What about his answer to the
first one?"

"I don't know," stated Darien slowly. "We made a lot of noise. Someone passing
by might have been curious."

Wyatt eyed him. "Maybe," the blonde boy conceded after a moment, "but _he_
says he didn't mean to spy. I don't know how anyone does it accidentally."

Looking down at Brett, his taller counterpart nodded and said, "That's true. If
it was really an accident, he wouldn't have tried to hide."

"A statement that's only half true is also half a lie," Micah declared.

Dennis nodded in agreement. "Unless it's the whole truth, it counts as a lie."
With a further nod at Tyson, he said, "Take the other one."

Tyson made a face. "Oh, man! I was hoping I'd win that one."

He sighed, turned and jumped back down into the culvert. Brett watched
helplessly as his right shoe was unlaced and removed from his foot, leaving him
to stand in his ankle-high athletic socks atop the warm, gritty, dirty pavement
at the bottom of the culvert. A moment later, the second shoe joined its
companion somewhere behind the concrete pile.

_Fuck!_ Brett swore at himself. If this kept up, there would shortly be nothing
left for them to take -- and then what?

_You know what,_ said a smiling voice in his mind.

_That can't happen!_ Brett thought back furiously. _I can't let it!_

"You're not off to a very good start," Dennis observed, mirroring Brett's own
agitated thoughts. "You want to answer Micah's question now? And maybe be more
careful what you say."

Licking his lips nervously, Brett tried to think of a way to word his response
so that the boys would believe him. But the task was almost hopeless: out of
sheer malice or cruelty, the youths could simply deny the veracity of his words
regardless of what he said, and then...

_Then they'll uncover a different kind of truth,_ purred his secret self.

_Shut up! Shut up!_

"It -- I guess -- it's not really my business what you do. But I -- it was hot
and I didn't think anyone would be outside playing in the heat."

"Well, you thought wrong," shot back Micah.

Sounding a little less severe, Dennis observed, "Still, that finally sounds
like the truth, right guys?"

Micah shrugged but Darien nodded readily.

"Score one for the truth, then," said Dennis.

A wave of relief washed over Brett. Before he could bask long in it, however,
another question was thrown at him, this time from Darien.

"So do you usually spy on kids?" the tallest boy wanted to know.

Brett shook his head forcefully. "No! I wasn't sp -- !" He checked himself
quickly, seeing the alert looks on each face before him, and said, "I mean,
this is -- this was the first time."

For a moment, it seemed as though the boys might decide against him. Brett
waited with bated breath, breathing again only when Darien and Micah finally
nodded. Out of the corner of his eye, Brett thought he saw a flicker of
disappointment cross Wyatt's face.

"One more point," remarked Dennis. "See how easy it is?"

_Yeah, but what does it get me?_ Brett wondered. Unless the "points" could
somehow be spent to win his freedom, they were meaningless. Would the boys
really give up their advantage until they had pressed it to its fullest extent?
Not likely.

As though to emphasize the strength of their position, Darien already had
another question ready for him. "What do you do when you're not spying on kids,
then?"

Brett licked his lips, which had gone dry. At least this was a question that
he could answer without worrying about whether he would be found credible.
"Work, mostly. Advertising. Um, running."

"Yeah, about that," Wyatt interjected with a mild frown. "Who goes running in
sweatpants on a day like today? Don't you have shorts?"

"No," Brett answered without thinking -- but he knew at once he'd made a
mistake.

"Even I don't believe that," Tyson declared, already hopping once more into the
culvert to take another item from the young man. "You look like you work out,
so you must have other workout clothes."

Without waiting to be prompted, the ten year-old knelt and began tugging
insistently at one sock, which obligingly slid along the length of Brett's
right foot until it came free. Rough concrete scraped bare skin as the young
man's foot came back down. The manufactured stone, cracked and weathered by the
elements, had been warmed by the surrounding air; but the gritty feel, and the
fact that it had been bared unwillingly, made the feel of it uncomfortable --
and oddly alluring to that part of himself he did not want to acknowledge. But
it was awake now.

"You want to try again?" Darien asked with a smile.

"I do have other workout clothes," Brett returned desperately, aware that Tyson
had not yet moved in case he was needed again. "It's just that I --"

His speech faltered again. What could he say? How could he explain why he chose
to cover himself instead of yielding to an alternative which was far too
appealing? He couldn't very well admit to a bunch of strange youths the truth
he refused to admit to himself.

"Uh, they -- they haven't been washed yet," the young man finished lamely, even
though he knew what the result would be.

With a heavy sigh, Tyson bent down and stripped the sock from Brett's other
foot. Then, climbing back to his feet with both of Brett's socks in his hands,
the ten year-old grumbled, "I don't know if I can be your lawyer if you're
going to make losing this easy."

"Three strikes left," said Wyatt, as though the reminder was needed. The
blonde boy shared a smile with Darien before adding, "Or maybe only two."

It was three, thankfully -- but the unusual feeling of the dirty grit beneath
his bare feet, and the fact that he was now barefoot in a semi-public
environment, made it that much more difficult for Brett to continue disavowing
the concept of himself he'd been endeavoring to suppress. He would not be able
to keep it down for much longer; not if things kept going like this. Already it
taunted him with flashes of bare skin in the open air, and never mind who could
see it...

Sweating profusely, stricken with mounting anxiety as his control over himself
slipped a little more, the young man looked imploringly up at Dennis. "Look,
can't I just -- isn't there another way that I can prove I'm innocent?" he
asked plaintively. "Please?"

The teenager shook his head. "This is the only way. But I'll tell you what."
Again he fished his phone from his pocket. "If you want to be done, we'll just
take a few more pictures of you and tell the police that's how we found you."

The old-fashioned shutter sound clicked from his phone one more time. Brett
hardly heard it. A chilly sense of dread was creeping inward from every
extremity -- his fingers, his toes -- to settle in a leaden pool somewhere
around his stomach. Had he thought his previous situation untenable? Had he
worried that he _might_ end up with a police record? It was worse now; much
worse! Pictures of himself only partially clothed, proof that he was in the
same area as the boys...

"They might believe you went running in just your bare feet before stopping to
spy on a group of boys, if that's what you want to tell them," the dark-haired
teen continued. "But probably not." He lowered the plastic rectangle in his
hand. "If you keep going, though, we might still help you out, even if you
lose. So what's it gonna be?"

Brett gazed up with fear and dismay at each young face in turn. None seemed
sympathetic. Most seemed almost eager, as though they were willing to let
circumstances go as far as they would go. Was it possible? Could adolescent
boys really be so cruel?

Of course they could! It was strange, too, because except for Micah these boys
did not seem particularly remorseless. But they believed themselves to be in
the right, since they had caught him, and in their minds that entitled them to
do whatever they wanted to punish him. And he would have to let them, because
the alternative was to throw himself on the mercy of adults, who were even
harsher with their judgments -- and certainly less forgiving.

Inhaling shakily, Brett said, "Okay. I'll stay." The words sent a thrill of
terror through him, but in one corner of his mind the sensation resounded
strangely, changed into a kind of tingling elation that began to work its way
south.

The boys relaxed.

"All right, then who wants to ask the next question?" Dennis inquired,
straightening.

When none of his cohorts seemed to have another inquiry at the ready, Wyatt
frowned at them, saying, "Come on, guys. How often do you get to make an adult
answer any question you want?"

There was some stirring and raised eyebrows at this, his friends realizing just
what kind of opportunity had been presented to them. Brett eyed them anxiously,
fearful of the inquiries that might be made by youths who knew they could make
him pay for answers that were not to their liking.

"I have a question," Tyson put in. He turned to regard Brett curiously. "Do
you have a girlfriend?"

"Aw, that's an easy one!" Wyatt objected.

"Gotta start somewhere," responded Darien.

Brett shook his head, relieved that the answer, though personal, was hardly a
secret. "No."

Micah grunted. "I believe that."

"Why?" Darien inquired. "You don't think he could get a girl?"

The Asian youth shook his head, his upper lip curling. "No. He doesn't look
like he'd be interested, if you know what I mean."

"You don't like girls?" Tyson queried, frowning quizzically.

"Guys, then?" Wyatt prompted, eying Brett with amusement.

Brett hesitated, "Well -- I --"

"Or boys?" Darien said slowly, looking intently down at him. "Is that why you
were spying on us?"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Dennis interjected, coming to Brett's rescue. "Time out,
guys. One question at a time, remember? Tyson's first, then Wyatt's, then
Darien's."

Young eyes turned attentively in Brett's direction. The twenty-two year-old
stared uncertainly back at them. What was he supposed to say? The truth was, he
did not know the answer to their questions. Sometimes he found the curves of a
young woman's body interesting, but usually it was the more angular lines of a
guy's that caught his attention. He'd fooled around with guys, but didn't think
that precluded the possibility of intimate association with a girl, if the
right one came along. Neither did the potential of that sort of contact rule
out the same thing with a guy -- again, if the right one came along.

And boys? He was sure he wasn't attracted to them, except to occasionally
admire one who would one day grow up into a good-looking young man. But that
was okay, right? It didn't mean anything. Lots of adults did that. The older
youths before him had such looks, and in a few years he might be drawn to any
of them -- but he wasn't now.

So why did he have to wrestle the idea of baring all in front of them back down
into his subconscious mind? Was it just part of the overall exhibitionism? He
fervently hoped so.

"Remember what happens if you don't answer," Dennis reminded him.

At length, Brett grimaced and said, "Sometimes I like girls, sure, and -- and
sometimes I like guys. Um, grown guys. But otherwise I don't know. You want me
to tell you the truth, and that's the best I can do." He exhaled nervously,
waiting for their reaction. Would they punish him for what they might perceive
as a noncommittal response? Micah's face had drawn once more into its well-worn
glare, but Darien seemed willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.

He'd forgotten about his advocate in this affair.

"How can you not know?" Tyson inquired, his face scrunched up in puzzlement.
"Either you like them or you don't, right? I don't like girls very much."

The older boys snickered on hearing this, but Brett was not amused. _Great,_ he
thought sourly. _Now I have to defend myself from my defender._

Aloud he said, "It isn't that simple."

"Why not?" the ten year-old persisted.

"I don't know," Brett told him, a little exasperated. "It just isn't!"

From above, Wyatt asked slyly, "So, you ever been with a girl? Or a guy?"

Tyson stepped back a pace, staring with raised eyebrows at Brett. "Ew, you
mean like sex?"

_Here we go,_ Brett fretted. The topic was never far from the minds of
adolescent boys whose bodies were preparing for the capacity of participating
in the act. The trouble was, of course, that a person wasn't supposed to
discuss it with those boys -- much less one with one who was only ten years
old. In Brett's case, there wasn't really much to say but, even so, he knew
that once the topic had been broached there would be no end to the sensitive
and personal questions that he would be expected to answer in order to keep the
remainder of his clothing.

Once more he looked imploringly up at Dennis, who had the power to end this
affair, and once more his plea was rebuffed. The teen did not appear inclined
to intercede; he merely watched Brett with eyebrows raised quizzically, just as
interested in his response as the others.

"Not -- not with a girl," Brett answered haltingly.

"But with a guy?" Wyatt prodded, leaning forward slightly.

"N-no. Not exactly."

_Please don't ask for details, please don't ask!_ Brett urged silently -- but,
of course, they did ask.

"What does that mean?" Darien asked.

"Maybe it means another guy's been with him," said Micah derisively. He mimed
his intent: his thumb and fingers pressed together in an "O" shape while the
index finger of the other hand slipped roughly in and out of the cavity thus
created. This elicited knowing smirks from the faces of his counterparts -- all
except for Tyson, who looked utterly nonplussed.

Brett shook his head quickly, feeling the slow burning of his cheeks as the
youths turned their regard on him once again. Beneath their leers and
mischievous grins, he felt completely naked because he knew that, with the
assistance of Micah's helpful visual aid, the boys could easily picture him on
the receiving end of such an act, and it was humiliating to be considered in
that light by the bright-eyed youths.

But oddly it was also exciting. Why should the idea of these boys imagining him
in the midst of such an intimate act be exciting? It shouldn't!

Frantically, the twenty-two year-old sought to erase the image from his mind,
from their minds, saying urgently: "No! No, I haven't -- with a guy! Not, um.
Not either way."

Sounding a touch impatient, Wyatt asked, "Well, then, what have you done?"

Brett opened his mouth, then closed it. He'd steered the discussion away from
one sex act only to find himself required to describe another. The seconds
ticked by while Brett deliberated the best way to broach the taboo subject in a
manner that would preserve Tyson's naiveté. When Dennis leaned forward, Brett
panicked, fearing he was about to be declared in default.

Discarding any attempts at subtlety he blurted out, "I -- I jacked them off,
okay?"

Micah snorted while Wyatt and Darien chortled, and Dennis settled back on his
haunches with a satisfied expression. Tyson, of course, looked even more
confused. Brett willed the youngest to keep his mouth shut, not to ask the
question that he knew was coming, but the effort was just as vain as before.

"What's that mean?" inquired the ten year-old.

The boys above him tittered again but Brett was not amused because they had
come at last to a question he couldn't answer; not if he wanted to hold onto
whatever self-respect would be left to him after all of this was over. Assuming
there would be any left.

"Heh," chuckled Wyatt, turning to Dennis with eyebrows raised teasingly. "Have
you been keeping secrets from your little brother, Dennis?"

The youngest boy half-turned so he could stare up at his older brother, perhaps
anticipating an answer. The teen did not look particularly impressed with his
friend's wit, however. He replied coolly, "The question was for Brett."

Brett stared helplessly up at the dark-haired youth. "I can't!" he protested.
"You know I can't tell him!"

Dennis leaned forward. "You're not going to answer?"

The boys arrayed around him stared down with heightened interest at their
captive, eager, hardly aware of the inner turmoil raging inside of Brett -- not
that they would likely care. He was at their mercy, after all, and they were
not finished with him.

Brett experienced the sensation of falling into a well that grew narrower the
further he plunged. The walls were closing in on him; he was going to be
humiliated either way. He could save himself now by describing a sex act to a
bunch of adolescent boys in all of the intimate detail that they would
unquestionably demand, but then he would never again be able to look himself or
anyone else in the face. If he refused to answer, they would take another
article of clothing from him, leaving him one step closer to revealing other
kinds of intimate details -- and one in particular that he was still
frantically trying to keep quiet.

"He's not answering you now, so I guess that means 'yes' and he loses something
else," remarked Micah after a moment.

Dennis shook his head, keeping his attention on Brett. "I know the rules. Last
chance, Brett."

Brett considered Tyson, who stared back with dark eyebrows raised over his blue
eyes, tried to picture how the youngster would react to hearing the answer to
his question: eyebrows climbing higher and higher on the small face, eyes
growing rounder and rounder, nose wrinkling in dismay or disgust. He would not
understand. There would be more questions, even more embarrassing topics to
broach...

"I -- I can't!" the twenty-two year-old choked, sagging a little.

"Okay." Dennis settled back again. "Shirt or pants, Tyson?"

The ten year-old studied Brett's downcast figure for a moment. "Shirt."

"You'll probably need help," Wyatt declared, leaping down into the culvert with
him. "We can't exactly untie him."

The pair took up station on either side of Brett, who could only stand numbly
as he felt fingers fumble with the waist of his long-sleeved T-shirt,
occasionally brushing his skin as they worked the sodden fabric up his torso.
Soon his belly button was visible, then the area just beneath his ribs. Each
time the digits made contact with his flesh, Brett tensed as much from the
touch as from the thing inside him that was straining to get out.

After a moment, Wyatt swore. "Damn, you sweat a lot. This thing doesn't want to
come up. How's your side, Tyson?"

"Not -- any -- better," grunted the ten year-old.

The tight, oversaturated fabric clung stubbornly to Brett's upper torso,
inching up only reluctantly in spite of their combined efforts. The pair
stepped back after a moment, the attempt to strip their captive momentarily
stymied.

"Maybe you could leave it," Brett suggested half-heartedly, knowing full well
what the answer would be.

Wyatt snorted. "You wish."

"Here," Darien spoke up, slipping down from his perch and striding to the edge
of the culvert. Something silver glinted in his outstretched hand. _Is that a
knife?_ Brett wondered, his dread mounting.

Catching sight of it, Wyatt said, "Good idea, Darien. Grab it, Tyson."

Obligingly, Tyson darted to the lip of the culvert and accepted the tool before
dashing back. It _was_ a knife, Brett noted with dismay, as the ten year-old
carefully worked the two-inch blade out of the handle.

Once he had the steel tongue fully extended, Tyson warned in his piping voice,
"Stand real still, okay? Or I might cut you."

How much casual savagery was in those words! Here was another reminder that
boys could be heartless if they chose, particularly once they were fixed on a
goal. They had decided his shirt would be removed, and so it would; and if
Brett was injured a little in the process, the fault would be his own as far as
they were concerned. Perhaps they would be sorry for their part in it, but not
until they had accomplished their ends. So he tried to be perfectly still, as
instructed, but it was difficult to remain motionless with his nerves as
strained as they were. Not only was his shirt about to be sliced to ribbons
with him powerless to prevent it; of far greater concern were the stirrings of
desire prompted by the knowledge that he would soon be standing in front of the
boys naked from the waist up.

Pressure fell on his side, just below and to the right of his left elbow, the
blade biting easily through the sodden cotton. Brett grunted and fought the
instinct to flinch while the ten year-old lightly traced a line along the skin,
parting the material enough so that a moment later he could tear it in two
while Wyatt worked on the other side. In this way, the boys alternating between
slashing and ripping, Brett's shirt was gradually undone from his torso. Each
piece that fluttered to the ground revealed another square of bare skin, until
at last he heard the blade close with a _snick!_ The deed was done.

Though the air was still warm, Brett shivered. All that was left to him were
his sweatpants and underwear. Though tightly restrained, the desire that welled
up within him now had never really been forgotten; it had only slumbered. Now
it stretched languidly, uncoiling from the place it had slept, to pace at the
edges of his awareness; a mirror image of himself, but less inhibited, showing
everything and hiding nothing. He could see it even then: naked skin in the
wide open space beneath the bridge, wide eyes raking every square inch,
fastening on one particular landmark. The possibility of that was so close!

Too close! Brett bit hard at his lower lip, trying to drive the desire away.
Many older guys and girls had gazed from afar at the sight that now greeted
these boys, but few had seen it from this near at hand. Sweat glistened on his
bare chest as he faced his captors, felt their young eyes scrutinizing his
exposed skin.

Brett still shaved his torso, just as he had done while part of the college
swim team, so the skin of his chest was pale and smooth. His biceps and
shoulders, shaped by his workout routine, were nicely rounded; the curve of his
pectoral muscles was likewise well-defined. His nipples stood at the pinnacle
of the darker circles of flesh around them; puckered and pink in the slightly-
cooler environment in which they now found themselves. His taut belly was
without blemish, betraying the hint of a six-pack without being overly
muscular. In the middle of its tight, firm expanse was the shallow, narrow
indentation of his navel. And somewhat further below, still hidden from sight,
Brett's cock twitched as the tingling sense of urgency that had settled in his
midsection now worked its way further down, spilled out into his groin, tickled
his shaft.

Darien stirred, looking moderately impressed. "I guess he does more than run,
huh?"

"Who cares?" Micah muttered darkly. "You gonna go gay for him now?"

"You're staring, too," Darien replied evenly.

The Asian boy's cheeks colored and he quickly looked away.

Tyson remarked, "He really doesn't look happy."

That was true. Brett stood fretting anxiously, heart pounding in his chest, his
brows knit together in furious concentration while he tried to keep his
erection at bay -- and with it, the flames of his forbidden desire. For each
set of eyes that roved freely over his body, considered every inch of exposed
skin, it became more difficult.  They could already see half of him, though, so
where was the harm in displaying the other half?

"Guess he should have explained jacking off to you, then," Wyatt stated
blithely, grinning.

"Hey, yeah!" Tyson exclaimed, frowning and turning back to Brett. "You didn't!"

Brett stared at the boy in consternation. Certainly they weren't going to try
to get him to describe it again -- were they?

Dennis shook his head. "It's too late now. He paid for that with his shirt."

"Awww!" his younger brother groaned as yet another of his questions went
unanswered.

Relief swept through Brett, though it was short-lived. All they needed to do
was ask him to describe a different sex act and he would be in the same
predicament as before.

The boys realized something of this, however, and the next few minutes were
among the most humiliating of Brett's life until then, as he was forced to
answer one question of a sexual nature after another. Each question was a
little more extreme than the last, the older youths obviously pushing for Brett
to lose his sweatpants.

"Have you ever kissed a guy?"

"Eww! Did you like it, or something?"

"Did you use your tongue?"

"Did he use his?"

"Was this while you were jacking him off?"

"How many guys have you jacked off, anyway?"

"Did you touch their balls, too?"

"Yuck! Really? Why would you touch their balls?"

"Where did you do all this?"

"If you jacked them off, did they jack you off?"

"How many guys have jacked you off?"

"I'll bet you jerk yourself, too. Don't you?"

"How often do you jerk off?"

"Where do you jerk off?"

"Is jerking off like jacking off?"

"Do you get naked when you do it?"

"Do you cum into your hand or what?"

"How much do you cum?"

"What's cum?"

This last question had of course come from Tyson, who was once again confused
by the terms which the older boys took for granted.

Wyatt grinned up at Brett eagerly. Above, Darien and Dennis hitched themselves
a little closer. Only Micah looked uninterested in the answer.

Brett was sweating profusely, the sheen on his bare chest plainly evident even
in the subdued lightning beneath the overpass. The boys had been grilling him
thoroughly, mercilessly, for what felt like an eternity; one question followed
by the next in quick succession. This was was bad enough -- but all of the sex
talk and the attendant recollections of sexual contact were having a perverse
effect on a certain part of his anatomy. Despite his efforts to control it, his
cock had begun to grow, filling out the tight confines of his underwear,
threatening to reveal itself as a bulge that even his baggy sweatpants would
not conceal.

_Why conceal it at all?_ his exhibitionist side inquired suggestively.
_Wouldn't it be cool if they could see? If everyone could see?_

Wrenching his attention away from the idea, Brett told the ten year-old, "Um.
It's -- uh...the stuff that makes babies."

The blonde boy next to him sighed in exasperation, clearly disappointed. The
two interested youths overhead likewise seemed to deflate a little. Brett
himself nearly sagged with relief, grateful for the sudden inspiration that had
allowed him to dodge this particular bullet.

It was at this point that Micah spoke up, a malicious smile twisting his
otherwise-handsome features. "You know how it comes out when a guy fucks a
girl?" he related baldly to the ten year-old. "Well, guys can fuck each other,
too."

Tyson's brow dimpled as he considered this. _Oh, God!_ Brett thought,
horrified. _He's going to ask me what fucking is, or how guys do it!_ And of
course he couldn't explain the mechanics of sex to a ten year-old any more than
he could relate the details of masturbation.

But Tyson's train of thought had not quite pulled into the station. Looking
perplexed, the youngest boy asked, "And make babies?"

Wyatt snorted. "No, dumbbell! Guys can't make babies with each other." He cast
a cunning look at Brett, then finished by saying, "They just -- you know. Fuck.
Right, Darien?"

"Oh, yeah," the tallest boy agreed with a grin of his own. "Everyone knows
about how guys fuck each other."

Brett watched the wheels turn in the ten year-old's head, saw the slow
realization of what he was supposed to do spread across the youthful features.
The boy turned to him, curiosity in his eyes, opened his mouth.

"How -- ?"

"Just take them," Brett interrupted hoarsely, closing his eyes and swaying a
little on his feet. "You know I can't answer him."

The words hard hardly left his mouth before he felt fingers on the waistband
of his sweatpants. A moment later they had plunged roughly beneath, brushing
the bare skin of his hips and causing the young man to gasp.

"Whoops!" Wyatt exclaimed laughingly. "I guess you have another chance left
after all. Sorry, Darien!"

"I'm glad we didn't bet on it, then," the dark youth answered, a careless shrug
evident in his voice.

"Hang on, what's this?" Wyatt's left hand had wandered along Brett's leg until
it encountered the pocket of his sweatpants. Bold fingers delved inside,
fumbling for the rigid shape there and causing Brett to grunt at the contact. A
moment later Brett's phone slipped free of his pocket.

"Uh-oh," the blonde boy said, swiping at the screen. "No PIN? No password? Not
very smart." He shook his head and Brett paled as the boy began thumbing
through his text messages.

"Who's Hunter?" the towheaded adolescent inquired after a moment. "Boyfriend?"

"Brother," Brett muttered tersely, his cheeks flaming anew. There _was_ no
boyfriend, thank God, but that did not stop him from feeling the opprobrium of
finding another part of his private life laid bare to the boys even as he was
being laid bare to them.

_No secrets; everything on display..._

"Huh," said Wyatt. "Wonder what he'd think if I did this?" The blonde boy
turned, grinning, and Brett's phone went "click" as it captured a still of the
bound and helpless young man. This was followed by a soft "whoosh" that caused
Brett's innards to twist into all sorts of unpleasant shapes: a snapshot of
himself bound and shirtless was on its way to his younger brother's phone.
There was an awkward conversation in the making!

Why? Why shouldn't his younger brother see everything, too? But that was going
too far!

"Hey!" Wyatt exclaimed gleefully, having found another conversation in Brett's
messaging history. "I bet your mom and dad would like to see, too!"

Brett nearly fainted from fright at the prospect. "Please don't!" he cried out
beseechingly. _That_ was going too far!

Wyatt snickered wickedly, but let the young man's phone slip into his own
pocket before withdrawing his fingers from beneath Brett's underwear so that he
could pull at the waist of the sweating and terrified young man's sweatpants.
Brett's heart, still bouncing around his chest from the idea of having his
parents see him this way, now climbed into his throat. The athletic young man
tried to swallow it back down where it belonged, but it seemed to have become
lodged there, refusing to be still while the fabric of his pants slipped slowly
across one hip. His mind whirled with the realization of what he was allowing
the boys to do to him now, without putting up a fight, without even trying to
save himself this time, because there was no saving himself. He was doomed
either way, doomed every way, and the pressure of the waistband around his
midsection slid further south, and the secret part of him smiled at the
prospect, and the tingling in his groin grew --

-- and the last voice he would have ever expected to intercede spoke.

"Hang on a second."

Brett opened his eyes, staring warily at the Asian boy who now slipped from his
perch. He could hardly believe the youth meant to give him a reprieve; and,
sure enough, the adolescent leaped down into the culvert, the same malicious
smile on his face as before, and strode over to Wyatt, who had paused with his
fingers down the left side of Brett's sweatpants.

"I have an idea," Micah began, motioning for Wyatt to bend closer so he could
whisper something unintelligible into the blonde boy's ear.

Wyatt's eyes lit up and his grin grew very broad indeed. "Good idea!"

Micah smirked, turned away, and stepped to the edge of the culvert, where he
hoisted himself up to sit on the edge, there to stare at Brett with a smug
expression on his face. Brett stared back for a moment, then turned to Wyatt,
who was fumbling in his pocket for something. His phone? Nearly panicking at
the thought, Brett was about to turn to Dennis to protest having more pictures
taken of him -- then he saw the flash of silver in the blonde boy's hand again
and he gasped.

"No, please don't!"

But his plea fell on deaf ears. The blonde youth chortled and began to saw at
the waistband of the young man's sweatpants, which soon parted under the
assault. Stepping around behind Brett, the boy drew a line down Brett's left
butt-cheek, meanwhile holding the material up with his free hand and delaying
the moment of revelation.

Shaking with nerves, Brett could barely keep still as the boy worked. His shirt
had already been ruined this way. Was he to be left with only his underwear for
the return to his apartment? Or would that meet the same fate? The idea was
horrifying to one side of him, but this side was growing weaker against the
insistent demands of the other side. Wasn't that exactly what he wanted? To let
everyone see him? All of him?

And they would. Brett did not believe for a moment that these kids would stop
until they could take in every part of him, especially that which lay so
tantalizingly near the blonde boy's hands, which was now well over half its
erect size; which tented out his underwear and strained against the twin
pressures still holding it back: fear and the thinnest of shields that would be
left to cover it.

After a moment, Wyatt had to enlist Tyson's help in keeping Brett's pants up
while he continued to make incisions in the material. Tyson's fingers made the
same contact with Brett's bare skin as Wyatt's had done, slipping below Brett's
underwear -- though the youngest boys were rather closer to Brett's front, less
than an inch from what strove to be free there. He tensed, squeezed his eyes
shut and tried to fight down the surge of adrenaline. The boy did not seem to
notice his reaction, left the digits in place while watching as his older
counterpart finished his work. Warm air wafted over the back of Brett's thighs
as the material of his sweatpants came free. The fabric sagged on his right
side a little where no fingers kept it in place. Any second it would peel away
from his slick skin and these boys would have their first look at the outline
of his confined manhood. Even as the twenty-two year-old quaked at the
prospect, his cock firmed that much more, belying his restraint and making
plain his secret desires.

"So what do you guys think?" Wyatt wanted to know, straightening and flipping
the blade of the pocketknife back into the handle. "Boxers or briefs?" He
grinned up at Darien. "I know you would've said 'nothing' originally, but..."

Smiling back, Darien responded, "Yeah, so now I'll say boxers."

"I'll guess tightie-whities!" Tyson put in with a giggle.

Micah rolled his eyes. "Who cares?"

Wyatt stuck out his tongue at the Asian youth, then turned to his ten year-old
cohort and said, "Tyson, if you would?"

With a flourish, the ten year-old pulled on the ruined sweatpants. Brett
squeezed his eyes shut again, afraid to face the inevitable reveal. The
material slipped away entirely from his skin; warm air greeted his thighs and
knees. He whimpered softly, assaulted again by desire he did not want, by the
knowledge that only his underwear remained to keep the boys from seeing
everything.

They saw enough as it was. He heard the startled inhalations, the snorts and
sly chuckles, and Wyatt's voice went up an octave.

"Holy -- !" the blonde boy burst out. "Uh, looks the answer is 'boxer-briefs'
and -- uh -- shit!"

Brett felt, rather than seeing, the pressure of five pairs of eyes on his
groin. He still could not open his own. He was afraid to acknowledge that these
boys were staring at his package, hidden as it was behind the flimsy covering,
worried that it would only add further fuel to the fire that burned steadily in
his mind.

Micah groaned loudly. "Fuck, man! God dammit! He's actually _enjoying_ this!"

"Is that his dick?" Tyson inquired loudly. "It looks huge!"

"Yeah, it's not supposed to," Darien told him, sounding amused.

"Why not? Why's it so big, then?"

"Uh -- well," Wyatt began, still a bit at a loss. "It's like Micah said: I
guess he's enjoying this a little more than he let on." The mischievous smirk
returned to the blonde boy's voice and demeanor. "Aren't you, Brett?"

"Oh, now -- come on!" Micah exploded. "Why'd you ask that? You know what
you're gonna have to do when he says 'no'. Dennis?"

"Those are the rules," said the thirteen year-old, eliciting another vocal
complaint from the Asian boy.

"Aw, man! Fuck, dude! I don't wanna see that shit!"

"You can leave if you want," Dennis returned pointedly.

The boy's mutters subsided, but when Brett dared to open his eyes he saw the
Asian youth had not moved from his place. He looked furious, however. The other
boys looked less hostile; they rather looked quite eager to see what likely was
their first adult-sized dick.

His dick was eager to be seen. It twitched in Brett's boxer-briefs, having
finally achieved its full potential of nearly seven inches. Pointing toward one
hip, it distended the yielding fabric enough to provide the youths with a good
look at its length and breadth and a bit of the arc at the crown.

Even Dennis' usual facade of nonchalance had broken a little. He gazed at Brett
with interest, prodded after a moment: "Well? Are you enjoying this?"

Brett gazed anxiously up at him, at his green eyes. Shook from head to toe,
knowing what would happen but also aware it was inevitable, would occur one
way or the other regardless of his response, and was the only way to get
through this ordeal -- even though it would change everything forever, and he
did not know who he would see in the mirror anymore when looked, if he could
look at all. His heart fluttered against his ribs; his stomach quivered like
it was full of butterflies; his cock twinged longingly and his exhibitionist
nature surged in anticipation. He inhaled a ragged breath and spoke the most
terrifying word ever to come from his lips.

"No."

Two pairs of hands descended eagerly on his underwear, fingers slipping roughly
beneath the waistband, prepared to pull the material away -- to rip it away, if
necessary -- and reveal all of Brett at last.

But Dennis held up one hand. "Wait."

Wyatt and Tyson paused in the process of tugging at the elastic, which had
slipped by an inch or so, their fingers pressed against Brett's bare skin on
either side.

Rising to his feet, unwinding his lanky five-foot, five-inch frame, the dark-
haired teen and leader of the boys frowned down at Brett. "You're not supposed
to enjoy this, you know. That's not why we're doing it."

"You got that right," Micah agreed, his eyes flashing.

"This was your chance to prove your good intentions to us," Dennis continued.
"Now we can see you don't have any. You'll lie to us even when the truth is
right there where everyone can see it." He shook his head, looking a touch
disappointed.

After a moment his expression hardened. "So the trial is over. You're guilty.
Now you're just a prisoner. And I think," the dark-haired boy added, his tone
of voice lowering ominously, "we can make sure you won't enjoy that."

***

Please play nicely with your toys! The story above is a fantasy. In real life,
there are consequences to actions such as the ones portrayed in this story.
Fantasies wouldn't be fantasies without bending the rules, and though my goal
is to write the most vivid and realistic fantasies I can write, they are still
just fantasies. In the real world, all of your playmates must be of age to
freely and legally give consent, and must give it, before your play begins.

If you liked what you just read, please consider being generous to Nifty, since
they are generous enough to host this and many other fine erotic stories at no
charge to you and me. You are also welcome to let me know that you liked it at
the e-mail address below.

If you hated the story and have constructive criticism, please let me know
that, too. If you think you can do a better job of writing it -- by all means,
hammer out your stunning, prize-winning masterpiece of erotic literature and
tell me when it's done, if only so you can watch the tears cascade down my face
while your soaring, masterful prose forces me to question my manhood, my God,
and my reasons for living. Just be sure to give credit where it's due.

If you simply want to rant incoherently, you are free to do so. I have a
special place in my life for those who rant incoherently. It's right over
there, in the middle of the freeway. You can't miss it, but it might be better
if it misses you.

I can be reached at <neverspam.cheekychiquito@gmail.com>. You can figure out
the real address if you're human enough. I do not promise to reply to all
e-mails I receive, but I _do_ promise to consider all worthwhile ideas and
criticisms carefully, and to respond if moved to do so and when time permits.