From: organs@backdoor.com (Bruce)
Subject: BB: That Boy (m/b, sf - sortof)
Date: 28 Apr 1996 02:57:53 GMT
Organization: The Denver Exchange, Inc.

Please check the header! The following story contains some form
of gay sexual content  describing purely fictional events. If
this is "not your bag", do yourself and us all a favor and hit
the "n" key NOW!

Readers under a "legal" age somewhere who happen to be reading
this are used to being told to ignore the existence of this
material. Doesn't seem logical to me, if they happen to like and
enjoy it. As above, if they don't, they too can hit the "n" key
and be done with it. Since I have no control whatever over *who*
does or does not read this, I think this paragraph is silly. Some
hot-shot lawyer said it has to be here. Enough said.

Now, on with the show!                  (Hi, there, Senators!)

Oh: permission to archive and/or re-post granted, so long as the
author is credited. Otherwise, (c) Bruce Bramson 1995.

Bruce Bramson

NB: This'n's "sort-of" science-fiction - a bit different from my usual. - BB

                             THAT BOY

The Pastor ended his prayer, and I raised my eyes. Across the top of
Mom's casket, not ten feet away, I spied him. Fourteen, perhaps, possibly
younger. The face of an angel: clear, unblemished skin, wispy blond hair,
long, with a center part and swept back past his ears. His eyes were
closed still, revealing long lashes.

I stared as the Pastor droned on. There was just *something* about him
which caught my attention. He wore an appropriately dark suit, with his
hands modestly clasped in front, where glabrous skin shone against the
fabric. I had not seen him at the funeral. He was alone, vulnerable.
Those hands should have gripped an adult's, but there was no one even
close to him.

"...and go forward in the Light of God, Amen." It was over. The casket
descended as the bearers loosed their ropes, a few roses and some dirt,
and it was finished. My mother in her grave, our family broken. Sis took
my arm, but I watched as "that boy" turned and walked away. His gait was,
well, "different" somehow from what I had expected. Dignified - yes,
that's the right word. He disappeared from view, but not from my mind.

"Sis, any idea who that kid is, and why he was here?" I asked.

"No, no idea. I've never seen him before. I suppose he must have known
Mom, why else would he have come?"

" 'Spose so. Wonder why he was alone? He seems so *young*!" My thoughts
gradually returned to matters at hand. Mom's passing was no surprise -
she was 84; now all that remained was to close up her apartment, which
Sis and I would do the next day. For now, it was back to the hotel: we
were both tired, having flown in from opposite ends of the country.

After dinner, I stretched out on the bed in my room and watched the TV.
Not much else to do! But as usual, I was asleep within minutes. My wife's
the same way: TV is a soporific for us both.

                          *****************

My door opened silently. "That boy" wafted in. He sat stiffly on the
chair. No words passed between us: it was as if we already knew each
other. His beauty was electrifying, and my loins stirred. The dark suit
just melted away, and he sat nude before me. I studied every part of him
intently. His arms left his shoulders gracefully, muscles outlined dimly.
He stood up; his legs parted to reveal his pink manhood, rising from his
hairless groin to stand above his smooth testes. He smiled at me, and the
room was filled with light.

My own clothes disappeared as well, and this angelic vision of a boy
effortlessly moved over to my bed. He touched my erection; his pale hand
glowed against the darker skin of my engorged self. He stroked me slowly,
and in just a few moments my seed poured forth...

                          ***************

I awoke to the realization I'd had a wet dream - the first in years, and
the first that involved a boy. I could scarcely believe it! Only three
days away from the warmth and love of my wife, and here I was getting off
in a dream - and with a *boy* at that! Ah, but not just *any* boy: it was
with "that boy"...

I slipped out of my clothes, wadded up the soggy shorts, and took a long
hot shower. Despite my body's recent release, I found myself going back
over my dream. As the hot water flowed over me, I imagined "that boy"
there in the shower with me. I felt his spectacular little body all over,
cupped his pre-pubescent balls in my hand, and gripped his splendid
little pecker...

Ye Gods! I shot another load there in the shower! What in the name of
gosh-all-hemlock was happening to me, a happily married man a kid of my
own? When I finally got into bed, I slept fitfully, but there were no
more dreams...

Sis and I decided we'd just have the "Starvation Army" haul away Mom's
stuff. Except for a few family mementos, there wasn't much we wanted or
needed. Neither of us had lived in this apartment, so it held no
fascination. In the dark reaches of a closet, I came across a strong-box
of modest size, with my Dad's name stenciled on it. There was no key, so
I set it aside to take home to peruse its contents another day.

Two days later, Sis and I were in the Attorney's office. We'd assumed Mom
had divided her estate equally between the two of us, there being no one
else in our generation. Our only sibling had died years before in
childhood - scarlet fever, I think. So, it was with some amazement that
we discovered Mom had divided her estate *three* ways, with a third to go
to a "John Doe" through a bank connection. There was no explanation
offered, and the attorney knew nothing of who John Doe was. However,
since Dad, a well known M. D. and researcher had left Mom "well off", and
since she'd invested wisely, there was plenty of money to go around. So
Sis and I signed the papers, and left the logistics of probate to the
attorney. With fond farewells, we took leave at the airport to fly off in
opposite directions. It was *finally* finished; or so I thought...

Back home, I put the box I'd rescued on a corner of the workbench in the
garage, and forgot about it as I got back into the swing of work and home
life. A few weeks later, on a whim, I used a bolt-cutter to break the
lock. Inside I found a stack of laboratory notebooks, filled with notes
in my Dad's inimitable (and often undecipherable) hen's-scratch.
Formulas, tables, graphs, notes, all quite foreign to me, flashed by as I
fanned through the musty pages. At the very bottom of the pile was a
bound book labeled "diary", which I decided might be of interest. I took
it inside the house, and began to read:

                          ***************

"4/08/46 - My project at the Institute is winding down. Money's still
tight, and no one has yet discovered my little extra project that I've
squeezed in alongside the real one. Only Marian knows anything about it.
She has no idea what I plan to do, but it's clear I have to get on with
it soon.

"05/10/46 - The kittens are now four years old. They are *still* kittens.
The pituitary extract that's taken me so long to prepare actually works!
They're so cute: they play and tussle as all kittens do, quite unaware
they'll do so for the usual life-span of a cat, around 12-13 years or so.
Marian loves them. She's quite amazed by what I've accomplished.

"09/05/46 - Ten more pits arrived today. Really difficult to get. The
undertakers who supply me are forever raising prices. They know they
could be in trouble if word ever got out, but I assure them they have
nothing to fear. My connection with the Institute helps a lot. My studies
suggest I only need about 20 more, and I'll have enough.

"02/20/47 - 6 more today.

"03/14/47 - 7 today. Some sort of epidemic at the Childrens' Hospital.

"04/01/47 - 12 pits arrived today. That makes 45 in all, frozen and
ready. Now begins the long process of extractions. See Vol VI pp 34
et.seq. of lab notes.

"06/17/47 - Finished! 10cc pit ext on ice. I've decided to perform my
last experiment next week. Marian will figure it out someday, but I just
can't bring myself to ask for her permission, because I'm sure she won't
approve. Steven is ready. Dr. Murray is primed: it will be scarlet fever
on the certificate. The new parents are at the ready.

                            *****************

STEVEN! My *Brother*! "That boy". John Doe! Holy Christ!

Sweating profusely, I read on:

                            ******************

"06/24/47 - It's done! Steven is 13 years old forever. His boy-beauty
captured forever (if the experiment works). I believe it *will* work -
all my experimentation says it will. The "Jones's" have him now. Too bad
he had to "die". Marian is heart-broken, but Shirley and Ken are there to
comfort her, and I as well. She'll survive. Faking an attack of scarlet
fever was no problem - just an irritant injection to raise his
temperature and the cooperation of Dr. Murray. And Johnson at the
mortuary. I'll miss having Steven around of course, but I can visit the
Jones's any time. It's the only way to prove my theory is correct. The
kittens are still fine, and still kittens...

"06/24/48 - Anniversary! Spent the day with the Jones's and Steven. He is
recovered from the "discovery" that his mother and siblings were all
"killed" in a car crash - from which he miraculously "survived". He
hasn't changed a bit. I measured his body today, as I always do on his
birthday, and compared the measurements to those of last year (see Vol
VII, pp. 85). Absolutely no signs of secondary characteristics, his penis
is still exactly 9 cm. Voice unchanged. He adores me, and I him. The
fruit of my loins and the culmination of my project - my "life's work"
wrapped up in a bundle of beauty that's still breath-takingly beautiful.

"06/24/49 - Anniversary II. Steven is adorable, and unchanged. He evinced
some interest in sex today, got hard when I measured his penis (13 cm
erect). I confess I got hard myself. He is so *pretty*! To think he will
be this way for 60 years or more, bringing delight in his splendid
boyhood to who-knows-how-many before his life is ended? I won't be around
long enough to see it, but many others will...

"06/24/50 - Anniversary III. Oh, little Steven, how I adore you! When you
hug me on my visits, I melt inside, knowing you will be forever young. I
wish I could tell you how handsome your brother is, or how beautiful your
sister is, but for you they are no more. But for me, you are the
culmination of all my work, and while I choose not to reveal my discovery
to the world, I will go to my grave knowing I succeeded beyond my wildest
dreams. When I take the measurements of your beautiful body and watch it
respond to my fondling I know I was right to use *you*, my darling son,
forever young and tender. I really love you, Dearest Steven!

                         *****************

There were no more entries. Dad had died of a heart attack in December of
1950. The revelations of this diary churned in my mind. Steven would now
be 61 years old. Was "that boy" *really* my brother? Who else could it
be? Should I try to contact him? How would I do this? I fell into a light
sleep, the diary in my lap, as I pondered these things. Once again my
dreaming thoughts returned to "that boy". We were walking together,
somewhere, out in the country. His hair shone in the warm sun, and I held
his hand in mine. I heard his boyish laughter and he looked into my eyes
and smiled his radiant smile...

But the laughter was really that of my own son who found me flaked-out on
the family-room sofa. The old book was open, upside-down, in my lap, only
partly hiding the erection in my pants. Stevie (yes, we'd named my son
after my departed brother) eyed the old fabric-covered book: "Geez, Dad,
is that the first-ever issue of Playboy?" he asked.

"Why, no, Son, what makes you think so?"

"Looks to me like it had the same effect!" Stevie giggled.

"Oh, no, that's just a good old piss-hard," I replied. I'd always been
very open with Stevie: watching him grow up had allowed me to re-live
some of my own boyhood, and I'd never forgotten the simple amusements I'd
had with other boys my age. With a famous Doctor for a Dad, playing
`Doctor' was a natural enough past-time. It never seemed to me this
healthy "investigation" of my neighborhood chums had affected my adult
life, so I watched with amusement (and some envy) as Stevie and his
friends did their own exploring. We had no secrets.

Stevie leafed through the book, and put it back in my lap. He could not
be bothered to read the tiny hand-writing, though he seemed a bit
skeptical of the explanation for my erection. He jumped into my lap; he'd
always been a "cuddler". I hugged him and inhaled deeply through his
sand-colored hair. He smelled good. He was approaching his 14th birthday,
but his physical awakening was a bit late. I wondered for a moment what
he might think of having a "younger" brother suddenly appear out of
nowhere, but quickly dismissed the thought as impractical. The chances of
my finding Steven - Jones, I presumed - in a population as large as ours
seemed quite remote.

Stevie sat in my lap often, but his presence had never stimulated me
before as it was doing now. My erection refused to abate, perhaps because
Stevie's buns were astride it. I had a sudden flash-back to the wet-dream
stimulated by "that boy", and I found myself wondering if Stevie had yet
experienced an orgasm. I should not have been surprised when my hand
grazed the front of his trousers and found my Stevie also had a hard-on,
but I was.

"Well, well! Have *you* been reading Playboy, Stevie?"

"Naw. My thing gets like that all the time. It just feels good to sit
here with you, and I can't help it. But, you know, you said a while back
you'd show me some things I oughta know, and you haven't yet..." His
voice trailed off.

It was true: I'd been contemplating teaching Stevie about the "birds and
the bees", but had put it off. This seemed as good a time as any, since
he was in the mood, and I, too, was a trifle horny.

"OK, son," I said: "upstairs to your bedroom, I'll be right up. Just have
to get rid of this piss-hard." Stevie slid from my lap and scampered off.

He was sitting on his bed when I stepped into his room; my bladder was
empty, but for some reason I was still half-hard. Stevie looked up at me
expectantly, and I realized quite suddenly he was a very cute kid. In
form he resembled his name-sake, though his hair was several shades
darker and naturally curly and thick. I sat down beside him and squeezed
his leg affectionately.

"Well, to begin with, Stevie, the `thing' in your pants has several
functions: you know about peeing, of course, and later on when you marry
you'll use it for making babies; but for now, you need to know it is an
instrument of pleasure. I know you and your friends have been
`exploring': why don't you tell me what you've learned so far, eh?"

"Hmmm. Well, Donald and Rob have both shown me theirs; I even touched
Donald's, uh, - he calls his a `pecker' - mmm, his pecker the other day.
He said it felt neat when I put my hand on it."

"How big are Donald and Ron's peckers?" I asked.

Stevie thought for a moment. "I guess Donnie's about the same size as me,
and Ron's a little smaller. He's only twelve. We three were out in the
orchard the other day and, well, Donnie was peeing against a tree: Ron
and I couldn't help but watch, and then Donnie all of a sudden said, `I
wanna see your peckers', so we took our pants down and just sorta
compared..."

"Did either of them feel yours?" I asked.

"Um, no, no, I don't think so. We all got hard-ons - that's what Donnie
said it's called - and looked at each other an' stuff. I know I play with
myself sometimes, and it feels pretty good: usually just before I go to
sleep. Gee, Dad, what you're doing now feels real good, too!"

I had been massaging Stevie's rigid pecker through his pants as we
talked. "Yes, it should," I said, but we need to get your clothes off,
because they interfere with what I want to show you."

Stevie stood and unabashedly shed his pants, then popped his tee-shirt
over his head. His dick stood proud! The sight of him this way stirred me
in ways it probably shouldn't have, but I had to admit he was a sexy boy,
standing there on the threshold of puberty, fully trusting me to instruct
him. I stood and removed my shirt and unbuckled my pants. But I left them
on, and sat on the bed again. I patted my leg, and Stevie propped himself
against it. I felt the heat of his buns through my trousers, ran my right
hand along his smooth boy-thighs and grasped his dick, which throbbed in
response to my touch. I began to slowly jack him off...

"Stevie, what I'm doing now is a called masturbation, and it feels like
nothing else in the world. You'll hear your friends call it other things,
like `jacking off', `jerking off', things like that. All boys do it,
usually by themselves, but sometimes with others like we're doing now. Do
you think it feels good?"

"Gosh, yes, Dad! I don't think I ever felt quite like I do now..."

My left arm around his waist steadied my son, and his right arm clung to
my shoulder. As the pace of his breathing (and of my hand) increased
slowly, the faintest whiff of sweat from his hairless armpit struck my
nostrils. I knew my son was about to have his first orgasm in the safety
of his own father's embrace. Vague memories of my own youthful
experiments ran through my mind, and I read the signals Stevie's body was
sending: his leg muscles were beginning to tighten up, his mouth opened
to admit more air, and his eyes closed. I leaned forward and let my warm
breath flood his ear, and my left thumb gently rubbed his nipple...

Stevie instinctively moved towards me: his hip collided with my stiff
penis. My fingers grazed his scrotum on each stroke; his balls pulled up
tightly below his rigid pecker. He was almost gasping for breath now, and
his legs were as rigid as the rest of him. He was right on the edge; for
that matter, so was I.

"Ohhhh, Dad!" Stevie cried out hoarsely, "Oh, WOW, ohhh, unhhh..."

Stevie's wand pulsated in my hand: he thrust his pelvis against my hand,
gripped me around my neck, and lunged this way and that; and he sang out
his joy at having his first orgasm. His youthful body thrashing against
my cock almost pushed me over the edge. "Oh, GOSH, Dad, I never <deep
breath> felt any <deep breath> thing like <inhale> that before; oh, oh,
wow!"

He came down from his high slowly. It had been a dry orgasm. I felt his
body relax, unwind, and his weight back on my leg. His breathing slowed,
and his eyes opened. He turned and put his lips to mine: I ran my tongue
over his lips and tasted the salt of his sweat gathered there. "Thanks,
Dad," he said...

I pushed him upward far enough to maneuver my pants from beneath me and
down to the floor, then resumed our position; my engorged cock now
pressed against his handsome youthful leg. His eyes widened as he looked
down to see what the hot thing he felt there was.

"One last lesson today, Son," I said. "You can tell your friends what
will happen in just a few months when you jack off: you'll soon be
getting something out the end of your pecker when you do it."

I placed my palm against myself and pressed my rod against the flesh of
his thigh: he pressed his leg against my hand, and with scarcely more
than a rub or two, I ejaculated, my jism bursting forth to anoint his
leg. I spread my copious load around his leg, then slathered it on his
balls and still-hard pecker. Stevie moaned, and rapidly stiffened up and
went into orbit a second time. We very nearly came together, so quick did
he cum again.

Stevie went limp; I pulled him close and heard his rapid heart-beat. His
puerile dick shrank and his balls dropped back into their supple little
sack. We held each other for some while, our bodies in close communion.
Then, with the enthusiasm reserved for the young, Stevie jumped up,
pulled on his clothes and was ready to move on to something else.

"Thanks, Dad: I can't wait to tell Donald and Ronnie what I learned
today! I think maybe Donald can make stuff come out of his pecker."

"You're welcome, Son," I said. "Have a good time with your new
knowledge!"

                         *******************

That evening, I told my wife about the diary. Not unexpectedly, she was
quite shocked. "Ye Gods, Ken, that's *criminal*!" she exclaimed.

"Now, Shirley," I said, "You yourself have remarked more than once that
our Stevie is a very nice looking boy: but I can tell you, if posed
against Steven, he'd look *plain* in comparison." I decided not to tell
Shirley how *sexy* Steven was (or Stevie, for that matter). "But that
aside, it seems likely he *is* my brother, and I'd really like to see him
again. Problem is, how would I go about tracing his whereabouts?"

"Let sleeping dogs lie," Shirley mused sleepily, and we drifted off.

We dropped the matter, but the truth is I became obsessed with the notion
of finding my brother. So when my next vacation rolled around, I told
Shirley I was returning to Chicago to see what I could find. She was not
pleased, but a "bribe" in the form of a week in New York for her and
Stevie quickly reduced her opposition.

                          ********************

[continued]

--Bruce Bramson, 1995

                      ++++++++++++++++++++++

                          THAT BOY - PART 2

My mother's attorney refused to help. If he knew anything at all, he was
NOT going to tell me. The bankers were equally useless, and phone
directories had so many "Steve Jones, Steven Jones, Stephen Jones, S.
Jones" entries (with dozens of middle initials) I couldn't possibly call
them all. Besides, I didn't know if "that boy" even lived in Chicago: he
could just as well have come there for the funeral, as I had done, from
some other part of the country.

I enlisted the aid of a private investigator, but only told him I was
tracing a "relative"; I gave him what information I had. He agreed to
spend a couple of days on it, which left me with too much time on my
hands and nothing to do. I could not seem to put the image of Steven
aside. I even poked around in a couple of Chicago's better known gay
bars, hoping to find some companionship, but the "generation gap" worked
against me. I ended up wanking alone with my mental picture of "that
boy", over and over.

One morning as I mulled over these events, I recalled I had not seen
"that boy" at the funeral: but that didn't mean he wasn't there! Within
half an hour I was at the Funeral Home, poring over the remembrance book
the guests had signed. Sure enough! In a boyish scrawl, there was "Steven
Jones" - and nothing further. I'm not sure what I'd expected to find: no
one else had signed their name with an *address*, of course! Dejected, I
left the mortuary and decided to look once again through the diary for
clues.

Back in my hotel room, I went through the thin volume yet again. This
time, my eye fell upon "Steven is ready. Dr. Murray is primed: it will be
scarlet fever on the certificate. The new parents are at the ready."
Doctor Murray! Could I trace this Doctor? With some quick mental math, I
figured the doctor would now be close to 80 perhaps, but it was all I had
to go on. I leapt for the phone book! In the white pages I found many
listings for Murray, but towards the end I found "Thomas Murray, MD"! In
my excitement, I overlooked the fact there were two numbers listed:
quickly I dialed the first one.

"Doctor Murray's office, can I help you" - the voice was that of a
receptionist.

"I need to see Dr. Murray, today if possible," I replied.

"Is this an emergency," the voice inquired?

"Uh, well, not life-threatening, but it is a personal matter of some
importance..."

"Are you a patient of Dr. Murray's?"

"No, no; a family acquaintance of sorts, in town just briefly," I lied.

"Dr. Murray has afternoon rounds; he returns to his office to give me his
reports, usually about four o'clock. If you could be here then, I'm sure
he would have a few minutes for you, then, Mister..."

"Higgins, Kenneth Higgins. I'll be there, and thanks very much." I rang
off.

There followed one of the longest days of my life! Dr. Murray's office
was about an hour's drive from my hotel, but it was not yet noon. I
decided to have lunch sent up to my room; while waiting for it, I fell
into a light slumber, and found myself in thrall to my mental image of
"that boy" once again. Consequently, I was on the threshold of jacking
off when a tap on my door signaled the arrival of my meal.

I stumbled to the door, to be greeted by a very handsome bell-hop bearing
a large tray. He moved into the room with the grace of a gazelle, put the
tray on a small table, and handed me the tab. I fumbled and dropped it,
and when he bent to pick it up his pants pulled tight over his legs,
revealing strong, lithe muscles. He handed me the chit again, this time
glancing rather obviously at my crotch, a favor I returned. As he handed
me a pen, our hands touched for just a moment; his other hand he thrust
in his pocket, re-arranging himself. Oh, how I was tempted! But a look at
his face showed me he was just angling for a large tip (on the check,
that is!) so I added several dollars to the tab, signed it and handed it
back, amazed at how easily he had "earned" his gratuity. He tipped his
cap and sauntered out, giving me a nice view of his shapely buns as he
closed the door...

Much later, in Dr. Murray's waiting room, I found myself sweaty and
uncertain. I was not sure how to approach my subject with the Doctor. So
I was thrown totally off-guard when a tall, lanky chap of perhaps thirty
or so entered from the office door and extended his hand in greeting.

"Mr. Higgins? I'm Doctor Murray. Have we met before," he asked warmly?

"No, no, - uh - uh - I had it in mind you would be much older!" I blurted
out.

"That will come soon enough," Dr. Murray chuckled infectiously, "but what
gave you that idea?"

I had a sudden insight: "Was your *father* also a doctor," I asked?

"Why, yes, my Dad is - was - he's retired, of course - a surgeon. Did you
know *him* perhaps"?

I clung to that "is": still alive! A "lead" at last!

"I know *of* your father, slightly," I said. "You say he is retired"?

"Yes, and still sharp as a tack! Perhaps you'd like to meet him?

"Uh, maybe. You see, Doctor, I've made a rather startling discovery. It
might be best if you and I discussed it before I meet your father. Could
we possibly get together over dinner very soon?"

"You're in luck, Mr. Higgins: my wife plays bridge tonight, so I'm on my
own. I have about half an hour's work to finish here, then we could
meet..."

"I'm from out of town: you'll have to name a place."

"Oh; well, there's Anderson's just down the boulevard a few blocks.
Suppose we meet there, say, 6:30?"

"That's fine with me." Dr. Murray shook my hand warmly. "See you there,
then," he said, and showed me to the waiting-room door.

                           ***************

I sat at the bar in Anderson's. A double scotch-and-water worked its
magic, and I was well along with a second. I'd reserved a table in a
quiet corner, to which we repaired when Dr. Murray arrived. I found I
liked this man: he was utterly unpretentious. I felt he might not be
"ready" for what I had to reveal to him, especially as it concerned his
father. But I had come this far, so there was no going back. I'd decided
to just let the doctor read the diary and "take it from there".

I watched his face intently as he strove to decipher my fathers's tiny
scratchings. There was little reaction, until he read the passage about
his father: at that point his face clouded a bit. Sipping coffee slowly
as he read, he got to the end, closed the book thoughtfully, then looked
at me and said, "This would be science-fiction, except for the curious
reference to my Dad: but where do you fit into the picture?"

I recited the details, judiciously leaving out my sexual excitement
engendered by my sightings of "that boy", emphasizing my interest in
finding my long-lost brother. I concluded by pointing out there was no
reason to believe Dr. Murray's father actually knew *anything* about my
father's experiments, but it was the only "lead" I had come up with.

Dr. Murray nodded in agreement. "Still, medical ethics back then weren't
what they are today. Dad *might* have known; I suppose the only way to
find out is to ask. I expect if he *does* know anything, he'd be quite
willing to share it now. If you'd like, we could visit him tonight: I
know he stays up very late, and I'd only have to phone ahead..."

                          *****************

Father and son greeted each other effusively with much back-slapping and
joking. The elder, Dr. George Murray, was, at 82, still hale and hearty,
silver-haired but handsome in a way. He had comfortable bachelor "digs",
with a lounge crowded with book-shelves. He accepted me with a strong
handshake. His son and I had agreed Thomas would get the ball rolling.

"So, to what do I owe the favor of your company?" Murray senior asked.

Thomas went straight to the point: "Does the name `Steven Jones' mean
anything to you, Dad?" he asked.

His father paused, looked at me for a moment, then replied, "Yes, yes it
does." He looked at me again, fathoming that I had some connection with
this visit, and with Steven Jones. Then a look of comprehension swept his
face: "Ah, `Higgins' - that's your name, Tom said, so you would be Fred
Higgins' son, right? Fred and I graduated from Medical School together:
he was brilliant, absolutely brilliant!"

Memories flooded back. "Fred's research in endocrinology was a terrific
piece of work: his text is still in print - I suppose you get royalties
to this day, eh? But his masterpiece never saw the light of day, and by
Tom's opening pot-shot, I'd say that's why you are here, right?"

"Exactly!" I exclaimed. "Mother died a while back, and I found Dad's
research notes, and a diary. It's a long story, but it's led me to you."

The old man closed his eyes. "And now you want to find your long-lost
brother, I expect. I've wondered for many years if this might come to
pass. I can tell you this: Steven finally coaxed his story from me, and
shortly before your - and his - mother passed on, he visited her,
although *she* never knew who he really was: to her, he was just a
"neighbor boy" who took a fancy to a lonely old lady."

"Do *you* think I should contact Steven?" I asked, now less certain than
ever I was doing the right thing; "does he know of *my* existence - and
of our sister as well?"

The old gent's eyes popped open: "But he told *me* he visited you right
after the funeral! And..." (the old man's eyes twinkled and his mouth
smiled wickedly) "...he told me you were a horny bastard!"

I felt blood rush to my face, and although I opened my mouth to speak, I
could think of nothing to say! There was an awkward silence. This was
totally unexpected.

"Relax, Son," the old fellow said, "my son and I are doctors, remember:
we've seen and heard it all." Thomas nodded in agreement.

"You see," George went on, "your father's experiment succeeded beyond his
wildest expectations, as far as Steven's *physical* development is
concerned. But we will never know if the extracts which brought that
about had the side effect of making Steven gay, or whether it might have
occurred *without* the intervention of the `experiment'.

"But, but, but..." I stammered, "that scene in the hotel was just
something I *imagined*! It could not *possibly* have been the *real*
Steven there."  ... "Could it?" ... My mind raced!

"Well, Steven described it pretty graphically to me, and now that I think
on it, he gave a pretty accurate description of you as well."

"Perhaps the right question," Thomas Murray interjected, "is, `did Steven
say he *enjoyed* the meeting'?"

George chuckled knowingly: "Oh, yes, he said it was an experience he'll
never forget! It was, after all, his first time..."

"What?" Now I *was* confused! "In all these years the poor - uh - kid
never had sex?"

"That's right: and as far as I know, not with anyone his own - um - age,
either. You see, due to his obvious arrested development, Steven has
lived pretty much as a recluse. Your father's estate paid his bills, and
he felt no one would ever take his claim to perpetual youth seriously.
After your Dad died, I was the only living soul who knew his `secret',
and it was safe with me."

"But Father," Thomas chimed in, "don't you think the world should know
about Fred's discovery? You've kept this to yourself all these years?"

"Thought long and hard about it, Son. But I wasn't privy to Higgins'
notes - he never revealed to me exactly what he'd done. And, I have to
admit, the uncertainty about whether the side effect was homosexuality or
not helped me decide not to follow the matter up. Besides: how would the
world get on if no one ever grew up? Steven is a boy: he is physically a
boy. He's also *mentally* a boy!"

We all pondered these words silently for a time.

I broke the silence. "So, Steven is now, chronologically, 61 years old;
physically he's 13, and presumably will remain so for, oh, maybe twenty
years. His future is that many more years of living in the "twilight
zone", so to speak?"

"Can you suggest an alternative?" the old man asked. "Do you want to deal
with this situation on a daily basis?"

"My son Stevie, an only child, is just a year older than Steven;
physically they're on a par. I think they'd get along famously!"

"But *your* son will grow up, Ken! - Steven will not. What are the
ramifications of this?" Thomas asked.

There was a long silence as we mulled over his question. The father
finally broke into our trains of thought. "I have a *theory*: it's only -
a theory..."

"From what I recall of my days in practice, I have the notion  Steven's -
ah - `condition' - might change *if* he were *not* to remain isolated. In
other words, if other aspects of his life were to become - ah - `normal',
he might resume a more-or-less conventional pattern. That's as far as his
*physical* being is concerned: I doubt his homosexuality could be
changed, though I could be wrong on all counts."

"You could very well be right, Dad!" Thomas exclaimed. If Steven's
endocrine system could be stimulated, he might just grow up! I suppose
there is a risk he might grow very fast, and age *too* rapidly, but
after, what? 48 years of hormonal inactivity, I shouldn't think that
would happen. It would be a continuation of Fred's experiment!"

"And, from what I can gather, uh, Higgins here can probably steer him and
his son in the right direction!" the old man chortled, the gleam back in
his eye.

My face flushed again. Fleeting visions of "that boy" and my son danced
in my head. "You make me sound like the original `dirty old man'", I
said, a trifle annoyed. After all, that was *my* first time with a boy,
too!" I decided not to mention there'd been a second time, with Stevie.

"How might your wife figure into this?" Thomas asked. "I mean, does she
even *know* about all this?"

"Oh, yes: we have no secrets. Hmmm, well, there may be one or two. But I
think I can bring her around. She's often said she'd like another child,
but there were complications with Stevie and she can't bear another..."

It was growing late. "Let's all think on this matter, and get together
again tomorrow," the wise old doctor said. "A good night's sleep on
something as momentous as this seems a good idea."

With agreement all around, we went our separate ways, with plans to meet
again the next evening.

                          *****************

We met as before in his lounge; Dr. George poured us each a thimble of
ruby port. I studied the fingers climbing the glass, formulating my
thoughts. As the wine calmed me, I finally screwed up my courage and
spoke.

"We sit here, discussing Steven's possible future, but we've not heard
from Steven himself! Aside from my own admittedly selfish desire to - if
nothing else - *see* him again, I'm inclined to think his desires might
be worth considering, don't you?" I postulated.

"Absolutely correct!" old Murray said. "Knowing this would occur to you,
probably sooner rather than later, I've taken the trouble to make an - ah
- `arrangement'".

"Which is...?" his son asked.

"Steven - in the flesh - is in my bedroom adjoining as we speak. And, I
should add, is *very* anxious to be with us, instead of in there!"

My heart pounded in my chest. Steven - my brother - "that boy" - here! I
gulped the last of my port.

George Murray grasped a wooden cane propped against the wall, and tapped
it vigorously on the floor three times. At this signal, the door opposite
me opened slowly, and there stood my brother, dazzlingly beautiful,
exactly as I remembered him from that day at the funeral. He wore the
same dark suit; he moved dreamily across the room, smiling, and climbed
into my lap. He looked up into my eyes, ignoring both of the others, and
whispered, "Hello, brother Ken: I am very glad to meet you - again."

"Oh, Steven, at last I've found you!" My arms flew around him and I
pulled him to my chest. He buried his splendid face in the front of my
shirt, snuggled against me just as my own Stevie liked to do, and closed
his eyes in contentment. If he had been a cat, he would have purred!
Despite my tumbling emotions, I felt a heat in my loins where his lovely
buns pressed against me. My heart pounded furiously. The doctors, I
scarcely noticed, had disappeared into the kitchen.

I stroked Steven's wispy blond hair, the feel of it electrifying. I
wanted to cry tears of joy, but for some reason I could not. This was a
moment I had dreamt of many times, but now that it was a reality, I was
overwhelmed.

After some time had passed, the doctors returned with re-fills of port.
They sat unobtrusively, chatting quietly. Presently, I realized Steven
was asleep in my lap. I took another sip of wine, then gently shook my
sleeping brother. I had the fleeting thought that there is nothing more
beautiful than a thirteen-year old boy rubbing sleep from his eyes.
Tossing back his golden locks, he turned to address Doctor Murray.
"Thanks, Doc," he said in a lilting boyish voice; "only you knew how much
I wanted to see Ken again."

Again! *Again*!

"Steven, I *have* to know: did you *really* visit me in my hotel room
after Mom's funeral?"

"Oh, yes! Silly of you to leave the door unlocked and then drop off to
sleep. You could have been robbed, you know! It happens all the time!"

"Well, you *did* rob me, in a fashion: you stole my innocence."

"The pleasure was all mine!" Steven was laughing gaily, his voice like
silver bells on a Christmas Tree.

"And now?"

"I want to be with you. I want a father! Oh, I know, you're really my
*brother*, but, as things are, you can be the father I never had. And
your Stevie can be my brother, too! I've never had any *fun*! It's time I
had a *family*!"

                          ****************

Things were quickly settled. That very night found Steven and me back at
my hotel. I had a roll-away bed sent up, but in truth I had no
expectation of using it. Steven pranced around the room, bounced on the
big bed, and behaved *exactly* as my Stevie did when he was excited. I
drank in his boyish exuberance, reveled in his flawless beauty, and
touched him as often as I could. His giggle was infectious, the dimples
that formed when he smiled were endearing, and his joy, joyous! Here
before me was a bit of my own flesh and blood, a bundle of enthusiasm,
just beginning to break out of a 48-year shell of loneliness and despair.
We played together for at least an hour, just getting to know a bit about
each other. Every few minutes Steven would throw his arms around my legs,
or grasp my hand and nuzzle it, or climb into my lap again and run his
glabrous hands over my face as though he were blind. All the while, my
hormones were racing, my manhood rose and fell time after time. I finally
realized Steven was teasing me! Now and again his hand or leg would brush
against me in a way clearly calculated to arouse, and it never failed to
do so.

Around midnight he tripped me quite deliberately and I sprawled on the
bed. He jumped upon me, playfully pinned my arms against the spread, and
stared briefly into my eyes. Then, slowly and delicately, he brought his
face down to mine and kissed me. His arms folded, mine, freed, flew
around him, and I pulled him against me. Our bodies met fully, he ground
his hips into my groin, and our tongues entwined.

Steven's long blond hair fell forward and splashed around me. His odor
was intoxicating. We drew each other's tongues into our mouths in turns,
sharing our saliva. His eighty pounds or so rested so lightly upon me I'd
have scarcely noticed his presence but for the insistent motion of his
hips. When at last we broke apart to catch our breath, he spread apart my
coat, bunched my shirt up around my neck and buried his face in my chest,
reveling in my blanket of fur. My hands found their way under his shirt,
where I felt his silky skin, hot to the touch. My crotch was ablaze, my
rigid cock mashed against my stomach by Steven's groin. Welling up
somewhere in my gut was a long-pent load of seed...

"Oh, Ken," Steven whispered, "make love to me!"

With some effort, I rolled him to my side; my hands flew to his clothing
and in a trice he lay naked. Boldly, he unzipped my pants and released my
throbbing member: when he grasped it, electricity shot to my brain and I
had to restrain him. I knelt between his legs, grasped his ankles, pulled
his perfectly shaped hairless legs up over mine and massaged his lovely
thighs. As my hands found his boyhood, he began to tremble. He stiffened
as I placed one hand under his pink ball-sack, and when I bent over and
plunged down on his erection, he began to shoot. He shook violently,
thrusting up into my mouth, each lunge propelling a flood of youthful
juice into my hungry throat. So exciting was this, that as he finished
his ejaculation, my hand flew to my meat to aim my own release out over
his gorgeous young body.

I collapsed upon his spent form, my shirt soaked up my effusion, and we
kissed passionately yet again. We explored each other dozens of ways that
night, showered together about four in the morning, and finally fell
asleep, our bodies fully entwined.

                       *********************

"My God!, Ken," Shirley exclaimed. He *is* beautiful! I can't believe
it..."

Steven flew across the airport lounge and leaped into my arms. "Dad, I
can't *believe* how *big* that airplane is! It's *huge*! And flying way
up in the air is such fun!"


"Glad you liked it, Son," I said, as I hugged him then put him back on
his feet. "Now, it's time to meet your new family! Shirley, meet Steven.
Steven, meet Shirley."

Steven appraised my wife for - oh - thirty seconds or so, then stood on
his toes as she bent to kiss his cheek. Tears welled in Shirley's eyes:
"Please, call me `Mom', Steven."

"Sure, Mom!" Steven planted a wet kiss on my wife's cheek.

"And, Steven, meet Stevie" (I pulled Stevie from behind Shirley and
thrust him forward): Stevie, meet your new brother, Steven."

The boys eyed each other warily. This was the only moment I thought might
be a bit sticky. After persuading Shirley we could afford another
"child", I had explained to Stevie as best I could our family was going
to expand by one. There had been little time for him to get comfortable
with the idea.

"Hi," Steven said. <awkward pause> "Ya like to play Scrabble?"

"I think I'd like to if you'll teach me how," Steven said. I've never
played it... he extended his hand.

Stevie shook Steven's hand. I knew what *that* felt like, and I saw 
Stevie's eyes light up; "All *right*, Man," he exclaimed: I think I'm
gonna like having you for a brother!" As we turned to head for baggage-
claim, Stevie sang out, "Race ya!" and scampered off with Steven in hot
pursuit. I heaved a *big* sigh of relief: it was going to work!

                      **********************

The boys are off at school now. Old Murray's theory seems to have been
right: Steven is growing up. Only his prematurely grey hair suggests
anything odd: "it runs in the family" takes care of those who enquire.

As for sex, I know the boys sleep together, and Steven is popular with
the other kids on the block. But Shirley and I have resumed our love-
life. I fantasize about the boys occasionally, and maybe one day I'll
look in on them when I know they're having fun...

***********

(c) Bruce Bramson, 1995