Date: Sat, 19 Nov 2005 15:05:35 -0800
From: Bruce Bramson <organs@bdcsi.net>
Subject: THE ORPHANAGE REVISITED (Revised)

We paid no attention to him at the time: in retrospect, I realize this was
a mistake. Things had gone so well at Hilltop, we had all become
complacent. He was just another new-hire. Dropping salaries were leading to
high turn-over.

Kent Bradford was in his late thirties, had impeccable references from
several social-service agencies, and made few bones about his penchant for
boys (and their bones). He had fallen into our routine easily, and it was
not long before reports reached me he'd developed a series of "favorites"
with whom he carried on quite regularly. There was nothing whatever strange
about this: I had a stable of favorites of my own, as did every man on the
staff.

One of mine, Eugene Distler, had been twelve or so when I witnessed the
initiation of Wayne Henry Lane in which Gene had played an important role
several years previously.

Back then, he was spectacular! Physically, he looked quite immature, with
wispy blond hair, and opalescent skin through which shone bluish veins in
the sexiest patterns. His dark chestnut eyes always sparkled mischievously;
his mouth was small but his lips were those of a cupid. Despite his youth,
he had proved capable of an explosive ejaculation which had sent me over
the edge as I watched his hairless arm and fist work on his little
hard-on. His friend Tim had been there to lick his arm-pit, which seemed to
make Eugene quite frantic.

A couple of weeks after that memorable scene, I arranged to have Eugene
spend the night with me in my quarters. No stranger to Hilltop or the mean
streets where he grew up, he knew what was expected, and knew as well it
would be unwise to refuse whatever I might ask of him. I knew he and Tim
were lovers, but Tim was not really my kind of boy, and I wanted to revel
in Eugene's lithe little-boy body all by myself.  Still, I didn't want to
intimidate him, because I also wanted to enjoy him often, and watch as he
grew up.

By the time Bertram delivered Eugene, I had prepared a DVD with several
torrid scenes for our entertainment, and had even included the episode
recorded with Tim, LeRoy and Mr. Lane: I thought it might amuse Eugene to
see himself in action, and re-runs had never failed to bring me to a high
level of excitement: Lane's denouement, as Eugene showered him with boy-cum
and LeRoy pissed over the three of them, was one of the more spectacular of
those shows which we arranged from time to time.

"Sure you can handle this lad by yourself?" Bertram asked wistfully as he
ruffled the boy's hair and pushed Eugene through the door. He hoped he
might be invited to participate.

"No need to worry about me, Bert: I know this youngster will behave as a
gentleman."

"Good luck, then," Bert said as I closed the door in his face: no way was I
going to include him in a three-way. Besides, he had his own little group
of favorites.

"Hi there Mr. Smith!" Eugene exclaimed. "Got 'ny soda-pop?"

"In the refrigerator."

I watched as Eugene scampered about the unfamiliar apartment, trying to
locate the kitchen. His energy was boundless: his dinner was probably just
now getting into his system. He returned with a can of Dr. Pepper: I had
learned from other boys it was his favorite drink.

"We all call it Dr. Pecker, ya know," he said as he took a long pull at the
can.

I always marvel at the inventiveness of boys, and their readiness to make
the most mundane occurrences into sexual events.

"I've never developed a taste for that stuff, myself," I replied.

"But you do have a taste for pecker, don'tcha?" Eugene rejoined.

"Ah, yes, my boy, that I do, that I do!" The word had gotten around!

"Lemme show you mine!" Eugene pulled the cord on his loose pants which fell
away from him at once.  Close to my eyes at last, I reveled in his
structure, about as near perfection as I'd ever seen. Vigorous activity and
approaching puberty had burned off every ounce of baby-fat, leaving only
his glabrous exterior to sheath his budding musculature. Every movement he
made as he turned slowly around so I could inspect all of him (what a
helpful young fellow!) was a symphony of concerted muscular effort. He had
on snowy white y-fronts about three sizes too small which clung tightly to
his boyish behind, leaving very little to my imagination. Poised on one leg
with his back to me, he drew one side of his shorts down, revealing a
noticeable tan-line and a dimple just above his cleavage: then he slowly
completed his turn, and by the time he faced me again the white cloth was
stretched tantalizingly. By this time, my own condition was identical to
his, except I still had on all my clothes.

"You're overdressed!" Eugene exclaimed, reading my thoughts. "Let me help."

He stepped to me and quickly un-clasped my belt, dropped my zipper and
pushed my pants down over the bulge in my briefs. I kicked off my shoes and
sent my pants flying across the room, then rapidly shucked my shirt. Eugene
meanwhile extricated my manhood through one leg-opening of my briefs and
stroked it admiringly.

"Sure is big, Mr. Smith."

"You've nothing to be ashamed of yourself," I replied as I bent over and
pushed his y-fronts down. His perfect little pecker popped out, aiming for
the ceiling as boy-pricks usually do.

"It gets lotsa exercise!"

"I'll bet it does! I know Tim takes care of you a lot."

"Oh, yeah, but I let a lot of the older guys swing on it now and then: I
get candy and cigarettes and a reefer now and then."

The thought of this perfect boy being sullied with cigarettes, and
especially reefers disgusted me. But, I knew there was absolutely nothing I
could do about it. Cooped up in Hilltop, the boys had to have some
amusements or they'd go crazy. Since the 90s boom, budget cuts had reduced
our teaching staff to nearly zero, so the boys were just being ware-housed.

I sat down on the sofa and pulled Eugene on to my lap. "Here's some TV
stuff you might like," I said as I pushed the button on the remote. Soon
there were several youngsters entangled on the screen, leading up to an
orgy I remembered as being particularly erotic.

They drew Eugene's attention, just as they did mine. The producer had
brought together three boys of nearly the same age but as disparate in
appearance as could be: one was a "blond bomb-shell" type who resembled
Eugene superficially, though he was perhaps a year older. The second chap
was a darling Oriental boy with medium complexion and jet-black hair on his
head and almost nowhere else; and the third boy was a lanky black, all
sinews and muscles and DICK! As the other boys sucked on him, he seemed to
shrivel up even as his log got longer and longer!

"Man, that dude's gotta toad-stabber to end 'em all!" Eugene
exclaimed. "Think my little pinkie is ever gonna look like that?"

"Well, it's a sure thing, it will never be that color."

"Oh, silly, I know that! I mean, is it gonna get to be so long? That thing
looks like it's a foot-long hot-dog!"

"No, my boy, this (by now I was playing with Eugene's rigid little prick)
will never be that long. But it will be long enough. In fact, it's long
enough now!" I re-arranged the two of us so I could suck that charmer into
my mouth and savor the little-boy smell from his crotch. What an
aphrodisiac! He absent-mindedly fondled me, but his attention was still
riveted on the TV screen. The "money shots" were approaching, and Eugene
wanted to see the boys shoot.

The Oriental boy lost his load first, jerking himself as the others smeared
his body with saliva and pre-cum.  This was the only disappointing scene:
he hadn't much spunk, probably having jacked off not long before appearing
on camera. (It must be tough for these producers to get kids to lay off
long enough to store up a good load). The blond, however, unleashed
powerful white jets across his belly and chest as the black boy gave him a
vigorous hand-job: that black hand fondling the boy's erection-blanc was
exquisite to behold.  Last of all, the black boy flogged his meat
mercilessly and brought forth great gobs of cum that flew in all
directions. All three boys got some part of his copious effusion.

"He sure cums a lot," Eugene observed.

"Yes, but so do you."

"How do you know?"

"Watch."  The scene starring Eugene came on the screen: he bolted upright
on the sofa.  "Who's that holy cow, that's ME! 'N who... oh, gosh that's
Tim, LeRoy and... and... that's LANE!"

Eugene watched intently as the scene played out once again. I noticed his
pecker seemed to get even harder as he watched Lane licking his balls and
Tim his pits. I turned up the sound just as LeRoy pulled out of Lane's butt
and shot his wad all over the trio in front of him "Yahhh-hooo! Holy
fuckin' christ! Ohhh, ohhh, take that load!" LeRoy's unmistakable shouts
came from the loud-speaker.

"Gee, I was too busy to see that at the time," Eugene said. "He sure fired
off!"

"Just as you did: watch closely."

Gene's left hand flew, and LeRoy's piss arched out over the group. At the
critical moment, I pushed the button and we watched Eugene erupt in slow
motion, his young seed shooting high in the air before falling back on his
hand, tummy and the back of Lane's head. It was all I could do to avoid
cumming as Eugene squeezed my erection: I had to restrain him.

I backed up the CD and played the scene again at speed. "I remember that
day," Eugene said, "but I don't remember anybody there with a camera."

"They were there," I lied, "but you just didn't see them, you were too
busy." I don't think he was convinced.

However, he was fired up by seeing himself on TV. "Don't know how you did
that, but it's kinda neat seeing myself there on the tube. And that Lane
fella's been very easy to get along with ever since. ... And, that
Dr. Pecker's gone through: I gotta pee: where's the john?"

"I've had a plumbing problem lately, so the toilet isn't working," I lied
again, "you hafta pee in the bath-tub."

"What if I gotta shit?"

"Do you?"

"No."

"Well, don't worry then. You see, I will be in the tub when you do the
number 1."

"Oh, whyncha say so?" None of us are strangers to water sports. Like you
saw LeRoy there: that dude loves to piss on us twinks any time he can. I
hold him up for a reefer whenever he wantsta piss on me. But, Mr. Smith, I
think I'm gonna burst if you don't let me piss somewhere."

"How about right here?"

"On the sofa?"  "Standing on the sofa, yes, with your pecker in..."

"Your mouth!"

"Right!"

"Cool!"

Eugene quickly unfolded himself and stood on the sofa cushion between my
legs: he was the perfect height, and I placed my mouth tenderly around his
half-hard prick. He passed his water instantly, the way boys do, releasing
his sphincter all at once. His yellow nectar flowed into my mouth and I had
to swallow vigorously and repeatedly to avoid losing some and making a
mess.

"Gee, Mr. Smith, that feels really good!" Until he finally stopped peeing,
I could not respond. When he had pumped forth the last of his supply, I
replied, "It's supposed to!"

"Bet I can get at least two reefers outa LeRoy if I take him that way. Far
as I know, no one ever has."

I thought it best not to mention I had "taken" LeRoy that way a number of
times: it surprised me to learn he hadn't forced Eugene to drink, for LeRoy
was quite the bully where younger boys were concerned.

I continued to massage Eugene's wonderful prick with my tongue: by now, he
was again fully erect. He put his hands aside my head and gently regulated
my speed: before long, signs I recognized from having sucked literally
hundreds of boys told me he was about to cum: that's when I stopped and let
his prick begin to droop.

"Darn!"

"What's the matter?"

"I thought I was gonna shoot."

"You will, you will!"

"Ya want me to suck ya?"

"No, Eugene. I want us to go to bed and sleep. Sometime during the night,
I'll wake up and make you shoot."

"Don' wanna do it in my sleep: that's no fun! But if you need your beauty
rest, I'll help if I can."

What a wonderfully compliant boy! We were soon snuggled into my big bed: I
wrapped myself around his small body and inhaled deeply of his little-boy
smell. Despite himself, Eugene was soon fast asleep. Before long his
twitches told me he was in deep REM sleep, so I gently disengaged myself,
went around to the other side of the bed and slipped a hand beneath the
covers. Sure enough, there was his boy-dick, hard as a rock. I put my head
under the covers and that hard-on into my mouth, knowing that in just a few
moments it would respond with a flood of semen, flowing out like pee,
rather than spurting out, for that's the usual way with "spontaneous"
emission. There was nothing spontaneous about it of course, for my warm
mouth on his prick and hands on his thighs brought about the desired result
in moments.  I could only imagine what delicious dreams he was having as he
spewed: I had no illusions they might include me: no, more likely Tim, or
even LeRoy. When the event was over, I returned to my place beside him,
savoring his ejaculate as if it were manna from Heaven.

Eugene became a regular visitor over the ensuing months. He even mentioned
Kent Bradford once or twice, but in some context that I failed to connect
properly. As I watched, Eugene grew up. By his 13th birthday, he was eight
inches taller than when I had first brought him under my wing. His
baby-fuzz was turning to hair, though like that on his head it was so
transparent it was only obvious in a certain light. His prick gained some
length and a bit of girth. Before long, he sprouted a blond bush restricted
almost exclusively to his pubes, where it grew thick and lush and curly. At
fourteen, Eugene stood nearly as tall as I, and his muscles had been
transformed from those of a boy into those of a youth. He was still
spectacular to behold and to hold, and he still loved doing sex with almost
anyone, including me. But, alas, he was fast becoming a man, as boys do,
and I found my interest in him waning. His invitations, and his visits,
became less and less frequent. I vaguely remember seeing his name on a
transfer list, realizing that yet another of our boys had grown up and
moved on.

More and more frequently, my visitor was Matthew, a tiny wisp of a fellow
whose diminutive size led to his being the butt of many pranks. These
resulted in a rebellious lad with a big chip on his little shoulder,
inclined to make trouble whenever he could. Oddly enough, it was Kent
Bradford who first brought Matthew to my attention, saying he thought the
boy needed "discipline".

But, what Matthew needed was love, and when after some visits and
sleep-overs he came to believe that I loved him, he became quite docile in
my company, and was a delight to have around. He knew I liked boys sexually
and in many other ways, and teased me constantly by parading around my
apartment nude. For his size, he was better equipped than one had any right
to expect, and he could cum several times a day with little effort. He
spent whole weekends with me, and many a time as I was reading by the fire
he would sit on the arm of my chair and spray a load into my lap. He loved
to serve me his semen on puddings, or on ice-cream, or on toast. But he
seemed happiest when we cuddled at night and I would masturbate him with my
left hand and receive his last load of the day in my right: he would lick
that hand clean and drift off to sleep.

The first note of alarm was sounded by Lance Johnson, our most senior
Councillor, by now well past retirement. I knew he would never retire
because he enjoyed boys far too much to go without them; I fully expected
him to one day die "in the saddle". For a time there had seemed a chance
that Democrats might win the Presidency in 2004, and many of us at Hilltop
quietly defected to John Kerry. None of us, fond of boys as we were, found
it comforting to realize we were raising cannon-fodder for George's private
war for oil.

But it was not the possible election of "Dubya" that worried Lance:
instead, he had a vague notion that someone in our compound was stirring up
trouble. He'd heard odd snippets of gossip here and there, and somehow they
seemed to revolve around Kent Bradford, our only self-professed
Democrat. Still, there was nothing he could put his finger on, and he knew
with certainty (because he planted spies in Bradford's harem) that Kent was
up to his balls in boy-cum, and was a principal motivator in our side-line
business.

Discussing the matter with Lance, I did remark that perhaps it would be
prudent to reduce the amount of pornographic material we supplied to the
outside world.  We had first tried publishing magazines, but it seemed to
us the paper-trail led back to us too easily. With our unlimited supply of
horny boys and staff, it was natural enough that we had spent some of our
slush-funds on quite sophisticated video production gear, and had
established a clandestine marketing arm to disseminate our product. We
out-sourced final production by shipping master tapes to China where they
were copied by the thousands, sold for hard-currency to drug smugglers
eager to launder money, and shipped back to the US to be distributed and
sold in "adult" stores everywhere. Inevitably, clips and stills found their
way on to internet sites and use-net. It was not unusual for me and other
staff members to watch the videos being made, and at one time or another
most of us had put in cameo appearances when an extra was needed. The
steady income from our video sales (and then DVDs) gave us an advantage
over the numerous other institutions like ours all over the country
suffering from massive cut-backs as Dubya diverted every available dollar
to secure his Middle-East oil.

One of our most famous productions (you may have seen it) was "Hanky-Panky
on the Hill". I was always surprised no one connected it to us, given the
title, but then, no one ever paid any attention to the orphanage, except to
reduce its funding again and again. Hanky was a spoof on the Washington
scene: we cobbled together some stock-footage of Congress in session,
dressed our boys in preppie suits to resemble Pages, and turned them loose
on each other as usual. We could not resist the temptation, though, to
include a scene of "Jizzie Helmz"'s butt (actually one of our more
corpulent councillors) draped over a congressman's desk and assaulted first
with the microphone, then a succession of vegetables and dildos,
culminating in the "real thing" provided by one of our Councillors of
color, a Nigerian with a monstrous wang. We also included a brief view of
"Jessie Jacking" (another staff member with appropriate side-burns and
moustache applied) getting sucked off in the back seat of a snazzy white
limousine. The penultimate scene (just before the de rigueur orgy with all
the boys) was a Bill Clinton look-alike getting blown in the oval office by
"Monique Lewinsky", one of our prettier boys done up in full drag.

Although all of us were beholden for our cushy jobs to the Republicans
elected with George's Dad, many in our party were disillusioned by those
who professed to be holier than the rest of us: the so-called "Religious
Right" had gotten a firm grip on George and his buddies in Washington and
made noises from time to time as though they might press Congress to
regulate the internet, or worse yet, to clamp down on pornography. Those of
us who had been around long enough knew this posturing was intended to
divert the finger of suspicion away from their own nefarious activities:
their unspoken motto has always been, "Do as I say, not as I do!"  We who
watched the demise of the Jimmys Swaggart and Baker knew the mind-set
well. We watched in horror as Ken Lay walked free from Enron with millions,
as thousands lost their savings and their jobs. The fall from grace of
"Fairy Fallwell" (found on a surveillance tape swinging on a huge black
swizzle-stick poking through a glory-hole in the "First Baptist Hiway 76
Rest-stop") was delicious to behold. Even ORU got shut down when it was
discovered "fairies" had taken over the toilets.  So, for a brief period in
the early 90s, we curtailed our production, only to see prices go through
the roof on the old stuff that had been around for years!


Then came November, George won handily, Ashcroft moved on and we all faced
the future with some apprehension. Kent Bradford moved on as well, claiming
he wanted to get into "law enforcement", which seemed far-fetched at the
time.

All hell broke loose early one morning in March, when a flotilla of police
cars, paddy-wagons and media trucks broke through the gate at Hilltop. Our
compound soon swarmed with burly uniformed officers who proceeded to round
up the entire staff, myself included.  Assembled in the dining-hall, we
were informed we were "being detained" and that we would be moved to a new
location. No reason was given for this intrusion. As Hilltop's Chief
Administrator, I had to stand up to them.

"If we are removed, who will look after the boys?" I shouted loudly.

"Don't worry about 'your boys'," a gruff voice shouted back: "we have the
situation covered."

All twenty of us were herded unceremoniously into wagons, not even allowed
to put together any belongings to take along. An army of younger-looking
fellows in fatigues were already carrying out boxes of what we assumed were
records and other paraphernalia connected to our operation. In an
astonishingly short time, we were ensconced nearby in what had once been a
school, long closed, which had been put into some sort of operation
apparently just to receive us. By chance, I was thrown into a room with the
young staffer Lane and several others, where we had only cots to sleep
on. There were uniformed guards everywhere. Lane sat, his head in his
hands, the very picture of dejection. I tried to console him.

"I knew it could not last," he sobbed.

"What couldn't last?" I asked.

"The whole Hilltop scene: the boys, the trysts, the fuck-flicks. It's all
falling apart. They're going to boil us in oil!"

"Now, now! I think there's been something of a set-back, yes. But, I have
connections in Washington, and I believe we can get this sorted out
quickly."

"You're in a fantasy world, Smith! The game's over! That "Moral Majority"
bunch is going to eat us for breakfast, lunch AND dinner!"

"I hope I can surprise you, Lane, before this is all over. I'm not without
a contingency plan."

There was a certain irony in finding ourselves incarcerated in what had
been a school, for that's just what Hilltop had originally been. The days
stretched into weeks, weeks into months. I managed to get private quarters
for myself, as Chief Administrator, though I still had to share toilets
with everyone else. Except for the guards, we saw no one, and no one came
to see us: we were held incognito, against our will, with no recourse to
legal action or representation. But, there were avenues of recourse, one of
which was to scrutinize the guards carefully, and to befriend one or two
who seemed too young for the job, and from whom I could get small favors if
I behaved myself and didn't make trouble. I slowly gained the confidence of
Bob Thornton (so proclaimed the patch on his uniform). As we all had time
on our hands, conversations gradually expanded from the usual greetings to
(eventually) inquiries about our situation. I learned we were being held
under the Patriot Act!

One afternoon, as a late March storm lashed the windows, Bob asked me what
it was like working at Hilltop, for he had often thought he might like to
work there. I asked him what appealed to him about the jobs there.

A sudden flash of pink on his face told me everything! He covered it well,
but the words he spoke were the truth: " Uh, well, I kinda like boys. I
coach them after school sometimes."

Pregnant pause.

"And, I seen the papers..."

I zeroed in. "Ah, boys are really fantastic creatures! Incredibly
beautiful, smarter than we ever give them credit for, and perpetually
horny."

 I noticed a twitch of something in his crotch.

 "Don't you remember yourself, when you were, oh, twelve or so, and your
hormones got the better of you?  Didn't you jack-off every chance you got,
with or without your buddies?"

 His crotch expanded noticeably.

"Uh, well..."

"Sure you did!  Every boy does at that age. And can you imagine the scene
when several hundred guys are dumped into close quarters like at Hilltop?"

His crotch expanded further: he would soon have to adjust himself.

"There's kids pulling their puds every hour of the day and night! Why
should we try to stop it? What good would that do? We just watch and enjoy!
What harm does that do?"

Bob absent-mindedly groped himself, but he was beyond hiding the fact he
had an erection in there. I stared at it intently, making sure he knew I
knew he was getting stirred up.

"And, if now and then, one of the boys gets his cock sucked, where's the
harm? They love it. I expect you love it, even now, aren't I right?"

"Uh, well..."

He toyed with the tab on his zipper. At thirty-something, he was far older
than anyone I had blown in years, but these were perilous times: I had to
press my advantage.

"You'd be happy if I offered to do that hard-on of yours right now,
wouldn't you?"

"Uh, well..."

He could not articulate his desire, but he slid the zipper down slowly,
fumbled inside his uniform and extricated an exceedingly hard cock already
glistening with pre-cum. He spread his legs invitingly: I was on him in an
instant. I gripped his thighs and gave him the blow-job of his life, the
one he had been longing for since well before our conversation began. I was
rewarded with an explosive eruption of man-seed more powerful than those of
the boys with which I was so familiar. I thought I would drown before he
stopped cumming, but my vast experience stayed with me to the end. I sucked
on him until his hard-on subsided and he came down from his high.

"Christ!"

I hammered my point home: "Would you deny a horny boy that pleasure?"

"Uh, well..."

He put himself back together and zipped up. "I guess I wouldn't object if
one of them asked for it."

"Oh, they ask for it all right, both in words now and then, but more
commonly in behavior. After a while, you get to know what's on a boy's
mind, when he's feeling horny, when he's ripe for suggestion. It's
perfectly natural social interaction in the artificial situation inside
places like Hilltop. Keep your eyes open, next time you 'coach them after
school'."

"Uh, well..." Not a man of many words! "Guess I should be making my
rounds. Thanks for listening."

I knew I had him right where I wanted him!

I black-mailed Bob quite mercilessly, promising him a job at Hilltop "when
all this is over", but meanwhile pumping him (and his cock) for information
(and warm jizz). Before long a name I recognized, Kent Bradford,
surfaced. It turned out he was a "plant", in law enforcement all along,
carefully installed by a local Sheriff who was anxious to move up in the
world. Out in the real world, it seemed, all sorts of charges against us
were being readied, based on testimony from Bradford and (I was sad to
learn) Eugene Distler, among other ex-wards of our orphanage at Hilltop. In
the fullness of time, Bob was able to get me a boot-leg copy of what
purported to be an indictment that was supposedly working its way through
the courts. It was, of course, mostly a collection of deliberately lurid
accounts of some of the alleged activities at Hilltop, designed more to
titillate than to inform. As I thumbed through it, I realized someone
(probably Bob) had read it before me, and had left several pages glued
together with what I recognized as a load of cum. So, the document worked
just as it was designed to do.

Before too much more time had passed, Bob pointed out Danny, a Hispanic
guard about the same age as himself.  He confessed he'd fantasized having
some sort of sex with Danny, but as usual he could not put into words what
he had in mind. Still, he had excellent taste: Danny was a real "looker",
lithe and handsome. It was clear Bob wanted me to facilitate a meeting. My
chance came a few days later when I found Danny taking a whiz in the
bathroom. Uninhibited as many Latinos are, he unabashedly stepped back from
the urinal so I could get a good look at his meat as his urine splashed
noisily against the rusty porcelain. I watched appreciatively as he sprayed
left and right, aiming his dark brown cock with his tanned palm. He was far
better hung than Bob.

"Ola, amigo! Some pinga ya got there!"

"Si, es mas grande."

"Say, Guapo, I know someone who would love to service it for you."

"Yourself, I imagine," he said, fondling himself lasciviously.

"No, no! Someone far better looking than I, but somewhat, ah,
'inexperienced' and reluctant to approach you."

"Oh, I let most anyone swing on this thing. Even you!" He flipped it back
and forth: he was horny. I almost gave in to him: his dark meat was rising
rapidly to reveal a large purple head as he pulled back his loose foreskin.

"Too dangerous here. Come to room 212 tomorrow at noon: I'll have a
surprise for you."

He shrugged, walked over to a booth, and without bothering to see whether I
watched or not, quickly beat his meat and flung his load against the
wall. His wad was thick and white, and slow to sag and begin its decent
down the dingy metal where it would eventually drip to the floor. What a
waste!

"Que lastima!", I said.

"I offered," he replied, but you didn't want it. See you tomorrow for your
'surprise'." He sauntered out of the bathroom, leaving me a bit shaken. I
hadn't refused a hard cock in years: perhaps I'm losing my touch, I
thought.

The next morning I reported to Bob that he would have no trouble whatever
making contact with Danny.

"Uh, well...," he replied characteristically: "I'm not sure what I want to
do with him, or where we can find a place to do it anyway."

"You be here at noon today: Danny will be here, and I will see to it we
aren't bothered. I still have a little bit of clout in this place. As for
what you two can do, I have the feeling that when you see Danny's dick,
you'll want to suck on it: I certainly did yesterday, but I resisted the
temptation."  "Uh, well, I ain't ever done that you know. Not sure how to
go about it."

"Trust me, instinct will be your best guide. Remember how it felt that
first time I sucked you off? You can make Danny feel just like that, and I
know he will enjoy it. He has a gorgeous pecker. Now run along, and let
your imagination run wild about what Danny looks like desnudo: by noon
you'll be rarin' to go!" I shooed him out the door.

Curiosity got the better of Danny, who arrived at 212 half an hour
early. He had on the tightest uniform I'd yet seen: he knew it paid to
advertise.

"So, where this surprise?"

"I can only hope he won't show up, 'cause then I'd have you to myself: I
wouldn't turn you down a second time, believe me. You look delicious in
those snappy threads. But I expect he will be here, 'cause he really likes
your looks, even though he isn't really sure why."

"Sounds like a typical gringo: they love to 'look but not touch'."

"I think if you don't come on as too macho, you won't have any problem. The
fellow has been wondering all morning what it's going to be like to meet
you and get it on somehow, but at the same time he's afraid."

"Aw, I'm not one to be afraid of. I can be gentle as a lamb."

There was a timid knock at my door. I opened it to find Bob standing there,
almost shaking he was so nervous: but a distinct enlargement in his crotch
told me he'd taken my advice and had been fantasizing all morning about
what would happen.

"Is he here?"

"Of course: come on in! He won't bite!"

I locked the door. "Bob, meet Danny: Danny, meet Bob."

Danny grasped Bob's hand as if to shake it conventionally, but instead used
it to draw Bob to himself so he could throw his left arm around in a
Latin-style abrazo.  I thought Bob would faint, but he responded: the
warmth of a man so close to him was something new, but he appeared to find
it agreeable. Danny's hand swiftly went down Bob's back and gripped his
left cheek affectionately. As they broke from the embrace, unmistakable
signs of excitement showed in the right places. To my surprise, Bob
summoned the courage to put his hand directly on Danny's basket, where the
rapidly stiffening woody he felt there would soon burst the seams of
Danny's already tight uniform.

There was no practical way to give these boys any real privacy, since my
classroom-turned-home was just a large room with a cot in one corner. I
pushed them both in that direction. "I'll try not to bother you two: just
enjoy getting together! The first time isn't always the best, but it IS
always the first!"

They sauntered over to the cot hand in hand: to my surprise, Bob initiated
the action, going for Danny's belt-buckle and zipper with uncharacteristic
zeal. I needed something to distract my attention from them, but all I had
to read was the copy of the so-called indictment against our group (the few
newspapers we got were heavily censored: nothing there about us, though we
could easily imagine the lurid headlines and salacious articles). I thumbed
through the inch-thick tome, reading here and there:

   "...did wilfully and forcefully and with malice aforethought
systematically abuse, molest, flagellate,
   fornicate with and sodomize youths..."

Not a word of truth here, except possibly 'wilfully'. 'Abuse'? Our boys had
the best, and well knew how to coax the very best from us. 'Forcefully'? We
never forced our boys we didn't need to! 'With malice aforethought'? There
was never any malice: DElicious, yes, MAlicious, no! 'Molest'? A stupid
word: we adored the boys: some of us, I would say, worshiped
them. 'Flagellate'? No boy was ever whipped on my watch: the Sheriff
probably meant "fellated", but was too stupid to get it right. 'Fornicate'?
He would call curling up with a tired youngster and sleeping peacefully
fornication? 'Sodomize'? Well, maybe now and then, but never under duress:
who can deny a shapely butt that's offered willingly?

Bob and Danny were slowly getting out of their uniforms, groping each other
as they did so, getting to know each other.

   "...under the age of consent..."

'Under age'? By no means all of them, in fact not even most of our boys
were under the legal age: as for being under the physical age of consent,
there's no such thing!

I glanced across the room: the guys were down to their shorts, sitting on
the cot pawing at each other wildly and slathering each other with
kisses. It was going to be a hot afternoon.

   "...did knowingly permit, foster and encourage the co-habitation of
boys...

So?  This was exactly what any orphanage is supposed to do. The Republican
takeover in 1994 had ended "Welfare" as it had come to be in those days,
and substituted the "Welfare State". Basically, it was cheaper to warehouse
the mendicant than it was to keep them in decent homes, and of course the
welfare bureaucracy had to be kept intact at any cost. Hence, orphanages,
segregated first by sex: there were signs that segregation by ethnicity
would be put in place before too long.

At the far end of the room, "white-bread" Bob was getting another lesson in
fellatio from "hunky-latino" Danny. No need (or desire!) for 'segregation
by ethnicity' here.

   "...under the protection of the State..."

'Protection'? It always seemed to us the only thing boys on the outside
needed protection from was their parents, the "fondling fathers" of the
Roman Church, and the Mormons who prohibited masturbation!

Imagine, trying to prevent what every sane psychologist since Freud and
Ellis has declared (at the minimum) harmless, and (at best) beneficial, and
(in any case) pleasurable!

Bob was now kneeling beside the cot on which Danny reclined, vigorously
jacking Danny's colorful prod.  I knew he would soon be giving his first
blow-job.

   "...did knowingly take or cause to be taken numerous photographs, videos
and DVDs of boys
   involved in sexual activities including but not limited to kissing, solo
and mutual masturbation,
   fellatio, micturition, defecation and sodomy..."

Here, I thought, the law might pin something on us. Since many of our tapes
were made clandestinely, there was no way we could get releases from boys
in that situation: but none of those tapes had ever been seen outside our
compound: we did get releases from all the boys who appeared in tapes we
made for distribution.

I turned my attention back to the fellows on my cot: sure enough, Bob was
now going down on Danny, and appeared to be learning the ropes quickly. As
I watched, he adjusted his position and encouraged by Danny's hand on the
back of his head, deep-throated Danny's throbbing pollo. A quick learner!

   "...did knowingly co-habit with boys in private quarters without benefit
of guards or chaperones..."

'Guards'? The boys didn't need guards! There were times when some of us
thought we needed guards: horny boys can be very aggressive, sometimes
unwilling to take NO for an answer. Chaperones would only have gotten in
the way of doing what comes naturally when there are no females around to
divert attention.

Bob may not have been a man of words, but he turned out to be one of deeds!
As I glanced their way, I noticed he was already screwing Danny's
back-side: my poor rickety cot swayed dangerously from end-to-end in
response to Bob's thrusts. For his part, Danny pushed himself up to receive
Bob as deeply as he could. "No stranger to gay sex, this Danny," I thought,
"but Bob's not doing too badly either."

   "...did knowingly distribute or cause to be distributed to boys in their
care harmful materials,
   regulated materials, drugs..."

As if we could stop it? Our staff was woefully underpaid, a situation that
grew worse as cut-backs affected our operation. Who could blame them for
doing some deals, any of which would net them a month's salary or more? The
boys were bored beyond belief: our teaching staff dwindled along with the
cut-backs. The "pushers" were for the most part pillars of society, good
"god-fearin' folk" and politicians on the take: there's no way we could
control them. So far as we could, we found better things for the boys to do
than drugs.  Sex usually prevailed over drugs.

I looked up from my reading just in time to see Bob pull out of Danny's
behind and launch his load across the broad brown back in front of him. He
was a real "cummer", not an oozer like some guys. Clearly, he'd been saving
up for this occasion. He sank down heavily, exhausted, and my cot, also
exhausted, collapsed with a crunch of cheap timber. The boys landed with a
thud, but as neither had sustained any damage, they began to laugh. It was
a funny sight, and my laughter reminded them I was still in the room (there
was nowhere else to go).

I went over to help them up. "Is that what you call a 'crash course' in
sex?" I asked. This reduced them to giggles again.

Like everything else these days, the cot was a cheap piece of junk made in
China, probably bought by the Government at an exorbitant price even though
it could have been bought at Walmart for pocket-change.  I extricated the
boys from the remains; both still stark naked. Danny's delicious long brown
cock was about at half-mast, drooling wildly. He needed relief I knew Bob
was now too tired (and, for now, too timid) to provide. I sank to my knees.

"You won't go spraying your wad on the wall again," I said, as I sucked him
into my mouth.

Danny was rally wound up! He grabbed my head and fucked my mouth and was
off in about five strokes.  It was the best meal I'd had in several days.

"You'll get the next load, Bob, promise!" Danny said, clearly quite smitten
with Bob's prowess at fucking.

"Uh, well, uh, I think I'd like that, Danny. Just gettin' off kinda took
the starch outa me, know what I mean?"

"I'll save it for you now: this old fart Smith here has had his share."

"Admit I've probably had more than my share, guys. But from now on, you'll
have to find a better place to get together, hopefully one with a sturdy
bed."

They dressed and laughed together: I could see they hit it off: I figured
they'd be living together within the week.  And I had another guard I could
blackmail.

I used them relentlessly as couriers, taking notes around to others,
gathering information , keeping in touch.  Lane was in a deep funk and
would probably have committed suicide by now, except he was still bunked
with several others so there was no chance to do it. I worried a great deal
about Johnson, without boys for the first time in years, but he assured me
he was holding up. I learned that our captors had been offering various
rewards for information, but so far as I could determine, the only "rat"
was the one who had been paid in advance to inform on us: Kent Bradford.

It was through my two new love-birds that I got word from Johnson that he'd
had the foresight to "get the goods" on Bradford, in the form of an
explicit video with unmistakably under-age boys, and that he had stashed
this evidence off-site with a friend. It was time to act! Time to call in
my chips!

Through Bob and Danny I got the necessary paper and pens. I drafted letters
which they had one of their friends type and mail: letters to a few
well-chosen Congressmen, some equally well-chosen drug dealers, and a few
well-placed persons of influence in the community who liked boys. I knew
they liked boys because I'd supplied them a few tender Hilltop morsels from
time to time over the years. Our I-T man, incarcerated with us now, knew a
good hacker on the outside, and through that connection the video of Kent
Bradford entertaining a bevy of young beauties suddenly became available on
the Hilltop web-site!  Time passed, but I heard nothing. I was worried:
morale was slipping, which would make it easier for our captors to get
someone to "spill the beans". Having spies on the guard staff helped
immeasurably, so when the dirty tricks began, I was ready. I had our group
warned in advance when one of the guards showed up with what we were told
was a "runaway" who had breached the fence around the school. The boy was,
of course, another "plant", and a pretty good-looking one at that! But, no
one gave him a tumble. When the guard came to my room with the boy and his
silly story, I told the guard, "If that boy gets fucked here, it will be by
the likes of YOU," and kicked them both out.

A couple of weeks later I received an unexpected visit from an old friend,
a former Governor of our state.  We had once worked together in
social-service many years earlier; we both admired boys, and had shared one
briefly. He had gone on into higher politics and had led our state back to
Republicanism with, for the most part, disastrous results. I was always
amazed that his past never caught up with him, despite his being more than
a little on the "nellie" side. By now he was closing on 80 and seemed a bit
feeble. He carried a large briefcase.

"Smith, um, I've been sent here..." he began.

"Pity, Guv. I thought you came because you wanted to see me."

"Don't be difficult, Smith. Yes, I've been sent here by, um, 'others', but
you won't dislike the reason I've been sent."

"Hmmmmm."

"Fact is, Smith, the case against you and your staff has, um, fallen apart,
as it were."

This was good news. "Really?"

"It seems you have friends in, um, high places. Certain strings have been
pulled, a certain Sheriff has, um, resigned, a certain informer has been,
um, discredited, and certain indictments have been, um, quashed."

I tried to remain calm. "What does this portend for the future?" I asked
Mr. Wilson.

"Um, once certain paperwork has cleared and, um, certain waivers have been
obtained, you and your, um, staff will be re-instated at Hilltop and, um,
business can get back to, um, normal."

"The waivers, of course, will hold 'certain persons' harmless from suits
for false arrest, I presume."

"Mm, yes, that's the meat of it."

"And why have you, of all people, been chosen to bring us this news?"

"Mmm, well, Smith, your case has brought forth a good deal of, um,
attention which has, through some as yet unexplained mechanism attached
itself, um, to some of the, um, movers and shakers in this state who wish
to have the matter disappear, um, as swiftly as possible."

I chuckled inwardly at that "as yet unexplained mechanism": my letters and
Thomas's hacker had paid off.

"Swept under the rug, as it were."

"Mmm, precisely."

"Leave the papers. I have to convene our group, we have to examine that
stuff, we'll probably have to hire attorneys."

"I'll leave the papers. You'll see that under the terms of the, um,
capitulation, you won't be able to hire attorneys."

"That sounds ominous, but leave them. Come back in three days' time: we'll
see how things are going."

*****

Our return to Hilltop a month later was tumultuous, exhilarating, and
chaotic! All sorts of odd people, including a large number of women, had to
be gotten out of the way before we could return to our quarters and
offices. It was not yet clear to us who these people were, but I can tell
you, if looks could kill, we would all have been dead in an instant. I have
never seen the kind of hatred that oozed from every pore of these
unfortunate folks. Granted, after a somewhat less than a year, they were
back on the streets, apparently having been led to believe they were in for
the long haul, so I can understand some of the hard feelings. But in these
folks, I sensed pure, unadulterated hatred! I had yet to discover why.

 It didn't take long: these folks were Christians!

Practically every inch of wall space inside Hilltop was festooned with
bible quotations, jolly little sayings, prayers, crosses, cartoons about
Jesus, songs, disciples, psalms, pictures of the holy land, and so on ad
nauseam. My first official act when reinstated was to order a hundred
gallons of paint!

But I was far more concerned for the boys, and found them traumatized. They
were listless, bored and unresponsive, though most of them did seem sort of
glad to see us back. But there was something terribly wrong, which took a
bit of time to ferret out.

Our kitchen staff reported finding strange things in the pantries: bottles
of unfamiliar chemicals and "spices". I ordered all of it destroyed. They
had been feeding the boys salt-peter, when all they really wanted was --
peter!

I sought out my diminutive friend Matthew. He had not grown so much as an
inch, and was morose and quarrelsome, very unlike how I remembered him. He
refused my offer to stay over the next weekend and shrank from my touch:
this was utterly unlike him, but he seemed unreachable and withdrawn. What
had been going on while we were away?

That night Bertram rang my bell soon after lights-out. He fell onto my
shoulder, crying!

"Whatever is wrong, Bert?"

"You won't believe it," he sobbed.

"Believe what?"

"I found... I found ... I found this cupboard. All locked up. I didn't
think much about it, it was just there in the hall outside one of the
dorms. But I noticed the boys: they all avoided even looking at it. So I
broke it open!

"And?"

"It's full of whips! And chains! Harnesses! And... and... hateful things."
He sobbed uncontrollably.

I was beginning to comprehend. No wonder Matthew had been sullen!

"We'll have a bon-fire this week-end, Bert. Now, don't tell anyone just
yet: we have to make some preparations. There's more than one dorm, so
there may be more than one of those cupboards. Tomorrow, I want you to find
them all and bring me a list showing where every one is located."

I made him a cup of hot cocoa, and sent him back to bed.

The next morning I got up early and went to the showers for the dorm
Matthew slept in. I tried to be as inconspicuous as possible as I scraped
Cleanliness is next to Godliness off a glass door panel. But when I spotted
my little treasure, it was my turn to cry: the poor kid had been severely
beaten. Huge, ugly black-and-blue welts disfigured him. And he was not
alone: once I realized what I was seeing, there were marks on most of the
boys. I dashed back to my quarters.

My phone lists were gone but the phones still worked: through information,
I got MaryAnn's number.

"Good Lord, George, how long has it been?" she asked as I identified
myself.

"Far too long, dearie, but I have a crisis: we need Florence Nightingale at
Hilltop, and we need her NOW!  We need you now!" MaryAnn was a retired
nurse, a dear old friend, and a wise soul.

"What's going on?"

"I have to document several hundred cases of child abuse."

"Dear God!

"Do you have an electronic camera?"

"No, but I sure can get one."

"I'll pay for it, eventually. Right now, I need you here with the camera
tomorrow morning. I'll fix it with the watchman at the gate."

"You know I'll be there!

"Thanks, sweetie!"

Later that morning the staff met. We had to act fast: the first step was to
thoroughly document the condition of the boys each and every one of them
who had been returned to our care. To avoid embarrassing them, I explained
that MaryAnn would see each boy individually for as long as necessary to
get him to disrobe and allow photos to be taken. It would take time, but it
had to be done. I forbade the staff to ever ask any boy about the time when
we were away: I knew they would eventually tell all.

Meanwhile, Bertram had found a cupboard near each of the five dormitories:
only one had been opened, but I detailed several staff members to inventory
and photograph the contents of that one. The others would be dealt with at
the week's end.

With these and many other matters attended to, I took our panel-truck into
town to pick up the paint.  Twenty five-gallon pails of paint, and the
rollers and brushes to apply it, filled the truck. On my way back to
Hilltop, I stopped for gas. The attendant looked familiar: my God! it was
Eugene, my "blond bombshell", now 18 or so and still a beauty. There was no
question he recognized me; he didn't want to acknowledge it, but I wanted
to know how they had gotten to him.

"Hi there, Eugene," I said, as if nothing had ever happened. "How have you
been?"

"Hello Mr. Smith."  "Just fine."

"You look as delicious as ever, Eugene; you've grown up to be a
fine-looking young man!"

"I'm, uh, a bit surprised to see you."

"Really? Why?"

"Well, I thought..."

"Yes, I expect you did. ...  How much did they pay you, Eugene?"

"Pay?"

"You testified against me: what did it cost them?"

He hung his head and mumbled, "That Camero over there."

A bright red Camero was parked beside the gas station. With dealer
discounts, it probably cost about fourteen thousand.

"It's nowhere near as handsome as you are, Eugene," I said. "Drive
carefully!"

I knew it was money: it's the only thing more powerful than sex these
days. I drove away, looking intently at the driver of every Camero I
passed, wondering who else they managed to corrupt in their zeal to put us
out of business.

The next few days were busy ones. MaryAnn was marvelous: warm and motherly,
the boys took to her quickly and passed the word that she could be
trusted. She got the required photos of close to four hundred badly
battered boys by the end of the third long day. What an appalling record!
Knowing Matthew as I did, I was not surprised that he had suffered more
than most: he was a rebellious little tyke, and must have tried their
patience greatly. But NO boy deserves to be beaten like a dumb donkey. For
that matter, donkeys don't deserve it either.

I turned the boys loose with buckets of paint, rollers, brushes and
drop-cloths. They got as much paint on themselves as on the walls, but in
time, the defacements and graffiti left by the "occupying forces"
disappeared. Slowly but perceptibly, the boys' sprits began to
rise. Giggles and laughter echoed once again through the halls: flirtatious
glances and furtive gropes were occasionally to be seen again. The
salt-peter was washing out of their systems...

On Friday, I had a lock-smith in who quietly changed the pad-locks on the
four remaining un-opened lockers. I arranged for delivery of a sizeable
pile of scrap lumber from a construction site, and after dinner, I gave a
little speech.

"To whatever extent I am personally responsible for the mistreatment you
boys have had for the past eight months, you have my apologies: my deepest,
my most heart-felt apologies. Those few of you who know me intimately can
surely testify to the others that I have no room for anyone who would bring
harm to any boy. Those who perpetrated the indignities I have seen among
you will be called to account for it, I promise you that. I promise you
further that as these horrific events fade into the past, we will return to
our fun-loving ways here at Hilltop."

"As I am speaking, Bertram, who you all know, is opening all five of those
horrid lockers that contain the instruments of torture you have, with every
good reason, come to loathe. I want each of you to go to your respective
dormitory, there to remove from the appropriate locker any and all of the
items contained there, and to carry these out to our south lawn, where you
can throw these barbaric 'things' on a large bon-fire we've built
there. Staff members will carry out the cupboards themselves and add them
to the inferno. You have my word, so long as I am in charge at Hilltop,
those cupboards and their fearsome contents will never again be returned or
inflicted upon you."

There was stunned silence. Then an uproar as all together the boys leapt to
their feet knocking over chairs and anything else in the way as they rushed
out of the room. I called the fire department and told them not to worry!

The fire raged. The bizarre assortment of whips, harnesses and other junk,
much of it being made of leather or rubber, was slow to catch fire. But
when it all got going, it burned hot. I've no idea which of the boys was
the first to shuck his clothes and enjoy the heat, the sweat, and the
stench, but before long all of them had followed suit. We of staff simply
stood back and watched. The boys' collective catharsis was marvelous to
behold, and glistening nude bodies added much to the evenings beauty. At
some point I found myself next to Lane, obviously enjoying the show.

"You see, Lane," I said, "we're back in our fantasy world."

"I don't know how you managed it, but I'm surely grateful: you nearly lost
me, you know."

"Yes, I know. I'm happy you made it through. Happy we all did."

As the fire died down, I passed the word that staff were to retire and
leave the boys to whatever they wanted to do the rest of the night. How
they paired up, who they slept with, or whether they slept at all was not
to be any business of ours that night.

******

Life as we had known it was gradually restored at Hilltop. Of particular
joy to me was the Friday night a month or so on when Matthew asked if he
could stay with me. Who could refuse?  A month of decent unadulterated
meals, and loving care by MaryAnn (who became our resident nurse), had him
back in his trim shape, eager to prance around my apartment in the buff. He
whipped up a batch of instant chocolate pudding, topping it as he always
did with the result of a quick wank. Once in the night he screamed,
re-living in a dream some horror at the hands of the religious fanatics: I
pulled him to me and calmed him down, wondering how long the nightmares
would last for him and the others.

The next morning, after sleeping in and enjoying each other's company in
the warm bed, Matthew opened up as I prepared bacon and eggs.

"It was horrible, you know," he said flatly.

"I'm sure it was."

"Anything, everything we wanted to do was forbidden. If we did things they
didn't like, they beat us. If we didn't do the stupid stuff they wanted us
to do, they beat us. I caught it every day 'cause I wouldn't do what they
wanted. If I jerked off and made a mess in the bed, they whipped me for
beating off, and for makin' a mess. What would I care if there's a
cum-spot? Th' nex' night ther'd be two!"

I waited.

"They put us in the classrooms and bitched at us all morning, talkin 'bout
Jeeezus and Gawd, and all shit like that, hour after hour. If we fell
asleep, they beat us. If we complained, they beat us. Afternoons they made
us listen to crappy music: more bullshit about Gawd and Jeeezus an' goin'
to heaven or hell. What's with those freakos?"

I knew there was more: I waited. His chin trembled.

"Then, only at night, they'd raid the dorms. Guys would disappear, be gone
all night, come back in the morning so sore they couldn't walk. Got stuff
shoved up their butts, shoved down their throats, 'n if they refused, they
got beat some more. Two guys never did come back. The freakos said they
escaped, but we knew they killed 'em."

"Dear God!"

Matthew was crying now, his head down on the table-cloth.

"'N if we so much as looked sideways at one another, they beat us some
more. We couldn't touch each other, but they could touch us any where, any
time, any place. And they did, over and over and over..."

He sobbed for a few minutes, then sat up defiantly and wiped his eyes with
a napkin.

"But they never broke me! I told them to shove their Jeezus crap up their
cunts, 'n the women come after me with long black billy-clubs. Made me take
off my clothes, then beat the living daylights outa me. I gave the finger
to one of the men, an' he stripped me bare 'n whacked me with a goddam
shovel! But when he was through, I flipped him again: thought he was gonna
bust a gut, he got so mad!"

"It's over now, Matt. You're safe now, and I'm proud you stood up to
them. They are hateful folks, but they'll never be back here."

I mopped the tears from his face and set the bacon and eggs in front of
him: ever the clown, he anointed them with his personal sauce before wading
in with his fork.

******

Collectively and individually, we of Hilltop staff had signed away just
about every right we had, to get back to our boys at Hilltop. We had no
idea we were rescuing them from a fate worse than death! But the lawyers
had left one loop-hole: the internet. Hilltop's website invited viewers to
a gallery of beautiful boys, bruises, scars, welts and all. Readers were
urged to write their congressmen and to urge restoration of proper funding
for Hilltop and the many other orphanages around the country. Eventually,
I, George Smith, was on Larry King Live!

But in the end, it was Wayne Henry Lane who was right: the Hilltop scene couldn't last, and it didn't. The
complete melt-down of the Middle East in 2005 and the world-wide economic
collapse in 2006 put us and thousands like us out of business, but also put
the skids under Dubya and his neocons and his "Religious Wrong". There's
never before been an impeachment of both the President and the
vice-President. The Republicans were crippled, and when in 2009 President
Obama declared a state of emergency, it was so the New Deal could be dusted
off and people could get to work to un-do the damage of the previous seven
years.

A few of us who retired from Hilltop still get together now and then: Lance
has long since gone on to the big Boy's-Town in the sky, along with several
others. Matthew and I manage easily on my pension and his income from a
website devoted to boys, and the men who love them.


Copyright BRUCE BRAMSON 2004