by
Part 24: Apocalypse
I think I was awakened at intervals by the relentless bombing that was taking place above ground. At some point, while I was asleep, a ferocious aerial bombardment had begun, and it could be heard even far below ground. Throughout the time I was left alone in that room, deep inside the bunker, the bombing never stopped. It was ceaseless. It still seemed quite a distance away though, because the rumble of the explosions was quite faint, although the odd tremor could still be felt, even so deep underground.
I was finally and irreversibly awakened by the clanging of the door and the sound of voices outside in the passageway. A key in the lock alerted me that someone was coming in. I sharp jab of pain shot through my sore head as I looked up from my makeshift pillow. Still bleary-eyed and sluggish, but instantly alert by a jolt of adrenaline, I sat up. It was Steine, the Halcyon League patrol leader, and he was with a VLA officer. I recognized him. It was the same Lieutenant that had been at the inn when they arrested the two refugee boys. That had not been a pleasant experience. He was the one who pistol-whipped Altair, the humorless, mean-looking bastard with a thin face and pockmarked cheeks, who had no patience. This time he was without his kepi, and his gray tunic was hanging open, so that you could see his undershirt, which was also unbuttoned halfway, looking much like he had been interrupted from some other, less pressing, but more edifying task.
Still sitting on the floor, against the wall, I watched them shuffle into the room, their steel-tipped boots clattering on the bare concrete floor. Steine shut the door, and stayed by the entrance. The Lieutenant came over and stood above me, looking down at me. Suddenly the bare room looked quite crowded with three of us in there.
'So, you thought you could escape us, did you?' the Lieutenant began.
I didn't answer. I didn't even look at him.
'Who was your driver?' he demanded, staring down at me.
I cowered on the floor at his feet, huddled up, with my arms around me. I was still shirtless and felt very vulnerable. I looked away.
'I'm sorry, I can't tell you that,' I said.
I was frightened, but refused to be cowed. I wasn't going to betray Orion. I wasn't going to play their game. I was pretty ornery when I wanted to be and was determined to tell them nothing. The Lieutenant paused, clearly contemplating how to respond to that. Then he started a line of questioning that was almost robotic and completely without expression or emotion.
'Where were you headed?' he demanded.
'I'm sorry, I can't tell you that.'
'Whose car was it?'
'I'm sorry, I can't tell you that.'
'Who are you protecting?'
'I'm sorry, I can't tell you that.'
'What CAN you tell me?'
'I'm sorry, I can't tell you that.'
And on it went.
Eventually, he stopped firing questions and just stood there, towering over me, and he huffed in disgust.
'You won't tell me anything? Fine. You'll go up in front of the High Representative. He'll decide what to do with you.'
And with that, they both turned abruptly and left just as hurriedly as they had arrived, once again slamming the heavy door and locking it shut.
I didn't know who the High Representative was, but he must have been someone of great importance. Apparently only the High Representative was able to decide my fate, like he alone had the authority to determine what they were going to do with me. Though I couldn't help wondering what exactly he was the representative of, and for that matter, what exactly was so 'high' about him.
Still scared and apprehensive, I went back to sleep, knowing they would be back. Meanwhile, the distant rumble of the bombing somewhere above ground continued unabated.
Some hours later, they returned, once again crashing into the room without any formality and urging me to get up. This time it was Steine and his two Halcyon League cohorts, who started prodding me with their machine-pistols, digging their muzzles into the side of my ribs quite hard. I leapt to my feet, despite the pain in my head, and stood there, teetering uncertainly, plagued with a disorientating dizziness and not really able to see clearly. My head was throbbing and I couldn't focus my eyes, so that everything was slightly blurred and indistinct. The room seesawed a little and my limbs felt heavy. It was similar to how I felt during those rambunctious evenings at the Saxon Club, after a few too many Black Deaths.
'Move!' Steine barked, prodding me towards the door.
I didn't have the opportunity to put my shirt back on, so I had to go without it. I had taken my sneakers off too, so I was also barefoot. They ushered me out of the room at gunpoint and I stumbled out into the passageway. The lights out there seemed to be unbearably bright, searing into my retinas. The bare concrete floor was rough beneath my feet and I was very hot and sweaty. In this state of half-undress, I was forcibly marched along another endless network of passageways.
As we walked, I could hear the distant bombing that was still in progress above ground. It hadn't let up at all, as far as I could tell, and I couldn't help wondering who was doing the bombing. It was dangerously close, but the VLA wouldn't be bombing their own positions. KAPO had no bombers, so by default they could only be coalition aircraft. I wondered if that was an indication that VFOR were finally getting a grip on this conflict.
The Halcyon League boys escorted me at a brisk pace, turning this way and that in a disorientating route through the bunker. Eventually, we passed through a bulkhead with a vault-like hatchway, and we arrived at a slightly more salubrious part of the complex, where the floor was actually carpeted and the walls were painted. The rooms here were slightly larger. The ceilings were higher and the doorways wider. Something told me this was a more exclusive, perhaps more secure section of the bunker. Maybe an addition or an extension of the original structure. There was a large foyer area with several passageways leading off it. I was escorted to a brightly lit room at the end of one of the passageways.
In this windowless room, the atmosphere buzzed with many voices. Sure enough, the room was filled with people, seated neatly on two sides. At the center, near the back of the room, there was a large trestle table that seemed to take up a lot of space. There was a grand, elaborately embroidered tablecloth draped over it and a big ornate chair behind it. Immediately I knew that someone of great importance was to sit at that table. I was escorted into the room by the Halcyon League boys and ordered to stand in the middle of the room facing the table. I noted that this room was higher and rather more airy than the rest. Though it had no windows, there was a calming chill in the atmosphere. Sure enough, there was a large fan in the high ceiling, rotating at a slow, lazy pace, and I could instantly feel the soothing brush of cool air against my skin.
'What is this?' I asked, turning to Steine who was standing next to me.
'A hearing,' Steine hissed.
Sure enough, I could see that the arrangement of the room represented a hastily improvised courtroom. On one side, two rows of VLA soldiers sat in neat, uniformed ranks. More VLA soldiers guarded the entrance. There were yet others positioned around the room with holstered pistols. There was a row of uniformed VLA officers right at the front, their field-gray tunics festooned with medals and gold braid. It wasn't a public court, but the VLA top brass sat there anxious to witness the spectacle, looking somewhat like the plebs in some ancient Roman amphitheatre, waiting for the slaughter to commence. There had been rumors about hastily convened tribunals, kangaroo courts with summary trials and summary executions. Of course, it was advisable not to pay too much attention to the rumormongers. I was sensible enough to know that in times of war, hearsay and conjecture was rife, teeming with gossip and tittle-tattle about the supposed atrocities perpetrated by the other side. Likely those stories had no substance to them at all and that, just like Chinese whispers, the enormity of the so-called atrocities was embellished and exaggerated beyond all recognition, becoming impossibly inflated at every step as they were transmitted from one person to another. No, it was best not to pay too much attention to the rumors.
As we waited for the proceedings to commence, I looked around curiously, momentarily overwhelmed by the sheer number of people in the room. All eyes were on me. Ordinarily, I would have reveled at being the center of attention like this. I usually relished approving spectators ogling me. But this was not a partisan audience. They were hostile and disapproving. I found myself standing there shirtless and barefoot in front of all these people and I felt suddenly very naked and scared. Ordinarily I was a confirmed exhibitionist, but now, for the first time in my life, I actually felt exposed and vulnerable.
On the other side of the room, against the wall, was a little gallery, separated by a low partition, behind which were boys from the Halcyon League. Their pristine, neatly pressed uniforms contrasted starkly against the rather bedraggled and sorry-looking knot of young boys they were guarding. There was a gaggle of boys of various descriptions, from about 10 years old and upwards standing there, looking somewhat lost and bewildered. Most of them were in a state of undress, having been brought in with what appeared to be minimal clothing or having opened or removed their shirts because of the stiflingly hot atmosphere in the bunker. I noticed that some of them were, like me, barefoot. They were probably all prisoners of the VLA, no doubt rounded up by the Halcyon League, just like me. I assumed that some of them must be shota boys, in which case the correct collective noun would have been a precocity of shota boys. There must have been boys there from all over Verolino. And as I looked amongst their grimy, forlorn faces, I spotted Orion. He was standing towards the back, between two immaculately uniformed Halcyon League boys. My heart soared. So they had picked him up too! But something was very different about him. He looked drawn and pale, and had a black eye that was puffed and shiny. He had his head bowed and was looking down at his feet. His demeanor was one of defeat and subjugation, and I knew then that something awful had been done to him. He saw me, and attempted a smile, but it was an apologetic, regretful smile. I couldn't be sure whether his black eye had been sustained in the car accident or not, but it was encouraging that he recognized me and still had enough spirit left in him to smile at me. But most of all, I was glad he was pretty much intact. It was comforting that I didn't recognize anybody else. There were no other familiar faces, so that I could at least be fairly certain that my old Saxon Club compatriots had not been caught, and was reassured that River and Tallin had probably made it out safely.
After a few minutes of delay, a rather important looking man appeared, escorted into the room by a phalanx of armed VLA guards. They came in from the door behind me, and everyone in the room instantly hushed. There were a few anxious moments of silence as he came past me and took his seat in the rather imposing chair behind the table. He was wearing a plain tunic, but had a distinctive blue and white sash over it with a silver clasp bearing the VLA insignia. He was quite a distinguished-looking man, with a neat, thick head of hair that was silvery in color. He was very clean shaven and the shirt beneath his tunic was a bright white, with pristine collar and cuffs. I figured this must be the High Representative they had talked of. He certainly looked like an important man. He took his seat, taking a moment to arrange some papers on the table in front of him, and then quite deliberately looked up, fixing me with an intense stare. I noticed he had very bright, pale blue eyes. He was quite handsome, and I remember thinking how cute he must have been when he was a much younger man.
Steine thumped me hard in the back.
'Stand up straight in front of the High Representative!' he hissed.
I wasn't aware I was slouching. His blow elicited a hollow thud on my bare back. It hurt and I thought it unnecessary.
I was asked to give my name and then the High Representative leaned towards me across the table with a firm and authoritative tone, and explained that this was not a trial. He was very specific in pointing out that this was only a hearing - to try to establish whether there was any case to answer, and he asked me if I understood. I nodded and uttered a meek 'yes'. Then he handed the proceedings to the Lieutenant. Steine sat down on the front row, next to the VLA officers. I figured it wouldn't be too long before he himself became a VLA officer cadet.
The thin, mean-looking Lieutenant then stepped up to the table and turned towards me. He had been hovering around to the side somewhere, clearly relishing an opportunity to question me further. I noticed that his uniform was now all buttoned up and secured with a shiny leather belt, although his kepi was now resting on the table.
'This boy was picked up this morning, Your Excellency,' said the Lieutenant, turning to address the High Representative, 'He has been extremely uncooperative, refusing to answer any questions. Therefore I intend to make an example of him.'
The High Representative looked unconvinced, but allowed him to continue anyway. He turned back to me.
'You're from The Saxon Club, aren't you?'
'How do YOU know?' I asked, mostly out of surprise and curiosity and not really meaning to sound impertinent.
'We know all about you,' said the Lieutenant, ominously, then he turned back to the High Representative, 'The Saxon Club is a notorious shota club, Your Excellency.'
The High Representative nodded.
'You don't deny that you're a shota boy?' the Lieutenant continued, turning back to me again.
'No,' I replied, hesitantly.
That was evidently not the answer he expected. He furrowed his eyebrows and shook his head.
'Why didn't you tell me you were a shota boy when I questioned you?'
'You didn't ask me,' I replied, flatly.
It was true. He'd asked me everything BUT that.
Some of the boys in the gallery sniggered. The VLA officers were all silent and focused intently on me. The Lieutenant decided to dismiss my answer and continued.
'The truth is, you have something of a reputation as a shota boy, don't you?' he began again, glaring at me accusingly.
That statement caught me off-guard somewhat. I was surprised, not only that news of my exploits had reached as far as the VLA's commanding officers, but also that they should be in the slightest bit interested. I cleared my throat and spoke as loudly as I could, though I was still having trouble focusing.
'What of it?' I replied, defiantly.
'You're known as something a nymphomaniac, aren't you?'
The other boys laughed with derision. I understood exactly why. Because the context was completely wrong. A boy could not be a nymphomaniac. That was a term that could only be applied to girls. The correct term was satyromaniac, but I granted him the grace of answering his question anyway.
'I admit that I like sex,' I acceded, 'sure I do.'
'Then you agree, you are obviously suffering from some kind of hyper-sexuality?'
I had to think carefully, because I couldn't work out the point of his questioning. I wasn't sure if he was maybe trying to get me to incriminate myself in some way. In fact, I wasn't even sure I understood the thrust of this particular question at all.
'I wouldn't call it suffering,' I replied, precociously.
That elicited a few titters from the gallery. I think even the High Representative might have smiled momentarily. My reply seemed to wrong-foot the Lieutenant for some reason. He had no immediate response. At this point I thought I was holding up to his questions very well. It was not that I intended to smartmouth him, but his line of questioning seemed aimless and uncoordinated. It almost felt like he didn't really know what questions he should be asking me. Even the High Representative noticed it, and he chose to interject.
'Lieutenant, what is the point of this questioning?' the High Representative asked, tetchily.
'Your Excellency, this boy is an example of the corrupt and immoral regime that we aim to eliminate. He represents all the things that are wrong with the old Verolino.'
The Lieutenant was addressing the little gathering of VLA officers on the front row, but he glanced quickly at the High Representative, looking for approval. He thought he was clever, playing to the audience, putting on a show to demonstrate his deftness. But I could see that the High Representative was not so easily taken in by him.
'You admit then that you have no morals?' the Lieutenant began again, 'That your behavior is that of complete and utter turpitude?'
'I just did what I had to do to survive,' I said, making it clear that I was not ashamed of my exploits as a shota boy.
'You don't see that you were doing anything wrong?' the Lieutenant asked.
'No,' I said loudly and emphatically, my high pitched voice echoing around the bare concrete walls above the heads of the assembled onlookers.
'You don't you see that you were abused by people who didn't care about you?'
'What would YOU know?' I hissed back at him, 'Our handler was good to us.'
'Or rather he exploited you?'
'You didn't know him!' I shot back, genuinely resentful that Guus should be thought of in that way, 'He gave me food and shelter. He looked after me and treated me well. And he never made me do anything I didn't want to.'
The Lieutenant was not convinced. I could see by the look on his face that he remained totally intransigent.
'He was ruthless and calculating,' he said, determined to stick to his blinkered view, 'He abused you.'
That was the height of hypocrisy, in my view. Here I was, a boy alone, semi-naked and defenseless, brought before all these armed soldiers, being interrogated by these imposing authority figures. I stood there braving this barrage of questions, cowed by all the uniforms and guns. I had suffered more at the hands of the VLA than I ever could at The Saxon Club. These were the same soldiers who arrested the refugee boys and had rounded up all the sorry-looking boys who were now standing in the gallery. I had been imprisoned and intimidated by them, not to say smacked around, and was now being tormented by their questions, and they had the temerity to call Guus an abuser? What an undeserved designation for the man who had probably saved my life; who gave me a roof over my head and the means to scrape a living; who had protected us from the ravages of war and who, in his own special way, I knew had great affection for us. Although I was well aware that most fathers would not pimp out their sons to sell their ass to other men, Guus was probably the closest I ever got to having a father. Guus was never an abuser. No sir. There was no doubt in my mind who the real abusers were.
'No,' I countered, firmly, not willing to accept that, 'He was a GOOD man.'
The Lieutenant shook his head.
'He deprived you of an education,' he rebuffed, 'Children like you should be in school, not being pimped out to pernicious strangers by manipulative svengalis.'
That struck me as a particularly odd turn of phrase. I had certainly never thought of Guus as a svengali. On the contrary, everything he asked me to do, I did willingly. I wasn't in his thrall. There was never any coercion. Where I had any qualms or doubts, he always brought me round with charm and diplomacy. Come to that, I never thought of my tricks as pernicious strangers. Most of them were pleasant and respectful. Of course there was always the small minority who were perhaps brusque or slightly violent and forceful, but they were rarely abusive, except in a pervy way, and that I didn't mind at all. No, on the whole I had no regrets about being a shota boy. I perhaps didn't fit into the conventional mainstream view of how 12 year old boys should live their lives, but it suited me just fine. As for education, I'd had more life experience in the last few months and years than any kid my age. This war had been education enough, and the last few weeks in particular.
'What's the point of education if you have no food in your belly and nowhere to sleep?' I asked, earnestly.
'He could have given you those things without making you work for him,' the Lieutenant insisted, 'the truth is, he used you for his own ends, didn't he?'
'No. He was a good man,' I said again, refuting that.
'Good?' the Lieutenant exclaimed, with a note of ridicule, 'Hardly. He likes to insert his penis into little boys' rectums.'
What a vulgar turn of phrase, I thought. I abhorred the word penis. Such an unspectacular word, so clinical and undeserving of such an important part of the anatomy. I never used the word penis. Dick, cock, todger, fuckstick, rod, pee-pee - yes. Boy-plunger or yoghurt-squirter even. But penis? Never. It had no beauty to it, no class, no thrill. Penis did not afford that magical appendage the recognition it deserved. Calling it a penis denied it the privilege of its status. For an instrument that was essential to most sex acts - indeed a prerequisite for fucking, of whatever persuasion - an instrument that was the focus of our libidos, the chakra where all our erotic pleasures culminated, penis just didn't cut it. Come to that, rectum wasn't much of an improvement. Call it what it is: a boycunt, ass, butt, pussy, fuckhole, chute, snatch, ring, star, pucker, maybe even fanny, but rectum? No. Rectums were for shitting, for expelling the unwanted, where boycunts were for fucking, for sticking desired things into. As for the act of inserting, that was a term more akin to feeding coins into a slot machine. Insertion was too lame, too polite, too ineffectual. You don't 'insert' a cock into a boycunt - 'inserting' implied all the jaded dullness of following an instruction manual - the lameness of merely going through a mechanical motion, like a key into a lock or a tenon into mortise. Fucking a tight little boycunt was more than just insertion. You fuck it, you root it, pump it, stab it, nail it, ream it, drill it, stuff it, hammer, pierce, puncture or even ram it, but you certainly don't merely 'insert'.
'If he fucked little boys, it was with their permission,' I said, allowing myself to lapse into the vernacular.
Unsurprisingly, my language elicited a muted little gasp of collective dismay from the VLA officers.
'You just can't accept that little boys enjoy sex,' I went on, critically.
'This is not about what I find acceptable,' said the Lieutenant, condescendingly, 'It is about upholding the law of the land. Shota clubs are now illegal. Besides which, you are not at an age where you can determine what you can do sexually.'
'My stiffie doesn't much care for the law of the land,' I scoffed, nonchalantly.
The other boys all sniggered loudly. That drew a disapproving glare from the Lieutenant. The High Representative appeared unmoved by it. I decided to go for it and speak my mind.
'And you know what else?' I said, with a challenging grin, 'I cum so much harder with a stiff dick up my butt.'
'Watch your mouth!' the Lieutenant warned threateningly, for the moment forgetting his air of formality.
The VLA officers all gasped in horror, perturbed by my straight talking. I could see that my plain turn of phrase was getting to them. Good. Their straight-laced prudishness was starting to aggravate the hell out of me, tell you the truth.
I could see Steine sitting on the front row with the VLA officers. He had his hands resting on his lap and was furtively pressing the heel of his palm into the crotch of his blue dress pants. He even let out an involuntary but silent little sigh, his eyes closing momentarily with the pleasure. The randy little tyke was all horned up by this. He was getting off on my dirty talk!
'I bet you never fucked a tight little boycunt, did you?' I accused the Lieutenant, inciting his distaste even more.
All the boys laughed, so that a tremor of high pitched giggles emanated from the back of the room. The High Representative fidgeted uncomfortably in his big chair and seemed to be adjusting the crotch of his tight dress pants. In fact, the High Representative stared intently at me the whole time I was being questioned. Except it wasn't directly at my face. More like at my body - his eyes fixed on a spot somewhere between my chest and my tummy, running his eyes over my physique with a furtive approval. He was clearly checking me out. I put on my best look of little boy lost, to try and elicit his sympathy, looking around the makeshift courtroom in open-mouthed innocence, as if overawed by the proceedings. I stood up straight with my shoulders back, so he could see my smooth chest, flat tummy and little innie belly button; maybe imagine what it was like to slip his big hands over my young body and caress my hairless skin, maybe pinch my little pointy nipples between his thick manly fingers, or maybe frot his big dick all over my tummy until he squirted out his hot adult fuckwad in long wet streaks across my silky chest.
The Lieutenant merely glared malevolently at me. I could see he had no sense of humor.
'What you need is a good belting, young man,' he threatened.
'Is that what you'd like to do to me?' I shot back, 'That's your thing, is it, hitting little boys?'
'Might knock some courtesy into you,' he added.
'You'll never know,' I replied, 'Cos you couldn't afford me anyhow.'
Again the boys laughed. I could see the Lieutenant's face becoming more and more uptight. This dirty talk was anathema to him, which made me even more determined to smartmouth him.
'You'll just have to jack off fantasizing about me,' I went on.
'You're disgusting,' he said, with real revulsion.
'That's how I earn my living,' I replied, with a leer.
'You're corrupt and immoral,' he insisted, haughtily.
'All boys jack off,' I asserted, 'Don't you know that? Or did your mom make you wear boxing gloves to bed?'
The boys laughed even louder. The shock on the Lieutenant's face was priceless. He was so indignant, that he stepped up to face me and stood very close. I could hear him breathing, like he was seething with rage.
'Y'know, you got a really bad attitude, kid,' the Lieutenant grumbled, 'And a really filthy mouth.'
'Yeah? Well some people pay good money for that,' I rebuffed, speaking right into his face.
Again the other boys laughed.
'Don't get fresh with me you little shit!' and he slapped me real hard across the face, finally losing patience with me.
The sharp crack of his blow reverberated around the room.
'No Lieutenant!' the High Representative snapped.
The entire room fell silent. I held my smarting cheek, shocked by the force of the blow. It stung savagely. Tell the truth, it brought me nearly close to tears, but I fought it. I held it together because didn't want to break down in front of all these people.
The Lieutenant stepped back, turning to the High Representative.
'I am sorry Your Excellency, but you have just seen that this boy is utterly wayward and incorrigible. He has no respect for authority and a most unattractive manner of speaking. He is simply beyond redress.'
The High Representative nodded assuredly and raised a hand as though to indicate that things should calm down.
'This is only a hearing Lieutenant, we are not here to condemn these boys.'
And with that, the High Representative moved the proceedings along. He asked me a few questions himself, but not in the antagonistic way that the Lieutenant had. He was altogether calmer, kinder and not intent on showboating. As I answered his questions, I had my mouth slightly open and licked my lips a lot, so the High Representative could see my slick little tongue and shiny, pink, inviting lips, and maybe imagine what his cock would feel like inside there. He stared at me fixedly for the whole time I was talking. He listened intently and I could see his body twisting this way and that in his big chair as he fidgeted under the table. I almost felt sorry for him. I bet he had a big thick adult fuckstick under there, hot and stiff, with a hefty adult spunkwad that was ripe for blowing, probably bursting for release. What a shame I couldn't give him a token blowjob to relieve his frustration.
When he was finished with me, the High Representative asked me to stand in the gallery with the other boys. Then he called some of the other boys one by one. Each of them were to be questioned in a similar way.
When I joined the little group of boys in the gallery, I inched over to where Orion was standing. He was still languishing at the back looking cowed and demoralized, and was still mostly with his head down. He saw me take up position next to him and we stood there for a while, watching the proceedings, under the watchful eye of the Halcyon League boys. I turned to look at Orion discreetly. With a quick, sidelong glance I could see that his eye was painfully puffed up and purple, and had virtually closed up so that he could hardly see.
'What happened to you?' I whispered, under my breath, 'I woke up after the crash and you were gone.'
'I went to get help,' he whispered back, still looking down, 'You were unconscious and the car was stuck. I tried to find help so we could rescue you. But I failed.'
'It's okay,' I whispered, not wanting him to feel bad.
He shook his head regretfully, still focused on the floor.
'It's NOT okay!' he exclaimed, in a harsh whisper, 'I promised Altair I would get you to the field hospital and I failed. And I wrecked the car too.'
'It wasn't your fault,' I replied, trying to reassure him, 'It was an accident.'
'Whatever,' he said, dismissively, 'Now we're stuck here and it's all screwed up for the both of us.'
'I didn't tell them anything,' I whispered to him under my breath, 'I promise.'
I hoped he wasn't going to be angry with me. But Orion didn't turn to look at me, like he was almost ashamed to face me. He whispered back to me, but was staring regretfully at his feet.
'It's all my fault,' he whispered, 'I betrayed you. It was me who told them about you. They tortured me. I broke down. I'm sorry.'
It certainly explained how they knew that I was a shota boy, and that I had worked at the Saxon Club. Orion had told them everything. But I was not angry. Instead, Orion's whispered apology brought tears to my eyes. I couldn't be angry with him. I was only sorry that he had suffered so much on my behalf. To show him that I was not angry, I felt for his hand, and we furtively linked hands in the little space between us as we stood there side by side. We tightly interlocked our fingers in a gesture of solidarity as we languished at the back of that impromptu courtroom. For my part, I thought Orion was very brave, and I knew that he had done all he could for me. When I looked at him again, I could see that there were silent tears trailing down his face, tracing a thin silvery line down his grimy cheeks. I almost felt bad for him taking it so hard. For me, I just accepted it as another quirk of fate which was only to be expected in a war where everybody else was always trying to kill each other. It was simply unfortunate that my aspirations were always being thwarted by unrelated events.
After me, the other boys were called one by one, and were questioned before the High Representative. As it turned out, my testimony was exactly the same as all the other boys who were called to give evidence. None of us denounced our shota boy patrimony. Not one. We only spoke in its favor. None had a bad word to say. Only that our handlers were good to us, treated us well and looked after our needs. That we were invariably used by our handlers for their own sexual gratification was not in dispute, and we all conceded that our handlers had fucked us at one time or another, some more often than others, but we all asserted that it was consensual. There was never any question of coercion or inducement, or of boys being forced to do anything against their will. It was a ridiculous notion. If the purpose of these proceedings was to try and discredit the shota clubs, in the hope of exposing an institutional regime of abuse, they were very much mistaken.
For my part, Guus had never needed to coerce or threaten or bribe. He was too charming, too likeable, too clever. I had no doubts about what Guus was capable of. I have already said he was sometimes mean, but only to his enemies and only when circumstances required it. These were hard times. This was war. We all had to do what we needed to do in order to survive. Running a shota club was not without its challenges. If Guus was sometimes mean and ruthless, it was because he needed to be. And if he asked me to do anything I had any qualms about, I knew that he understood and that he only required me to do what was necessary. He was a businessman and something of a hustler. Sure, he was sometimes shady and questionable in his dealings, but he was not nasty. Guus may not have been universally popular, and some of the boys, like Sunny, openly disliked him. But we all, without exception, respected him.
As a whole series of shota boys were paraded before the High Representative, I started to envisage just how many shota boys there were still left in Verolino, and every one of them was the epitome of shota boy beauty: youthful, sexy, ultra cute; their skin radiant with that healthy glow of burgeoning boyhood sexuality; a precocious gleam in their eyes; that unique blend of young male horniness; that feigned, almost deceiving, guileless innocence that was present only in boys of this age group. I saw the way the High Representative watched these boys longingly as they came before him, and I noticed how he fidgeted in his seat when a particularly pretty boy was being questioned. One boy that particularly caught my eye was a very beautiful black boy who stood before the High Representative and assumed a sassy, rebellious stance. I knew from the way he cocked his head and pouted his lips that this was a boy with attitude. He gave his name as Trye. Trye looked a little younger than me, perhaps about 11 years old. Very small in stature, but perfectly formed. His skin was a delicious dark brown color, like milk chocolate, and he was complete with long, sandy-colored dreadlocks which adorned his head in thick, irregular-shaped little ropes. I thought his dreadlocks were incredibly cute and couldn't help wondering what it was like to be sucked by a dreadlocked little boy like him. He had big, bright eyes that were alert and inquisitive. He had a beautiful physique too. You could see where his shirt was unbuttoned and hanging open that he was svelte and well proportioned. He had wide shoulders and was slightly bull-chested, and his torso tapered down to a trim tummy and slim hips. His little preteen body looked firm and well-defined with a rather pronounced pert little butt - so symptomatic of all black boys. Oh what a popular shota boy Trye must have been. His tricks must have been queuing up for the privilege of playing with him. Fuck, he was exquisite! Evidently, the High Representative had similar taste in boys, because he seemed to swallow quite hard a few times as he was questioning Trye, and you could see his Adam's apple bobbing up and down crazily like it was doing a jig. The High Representative seemed to view us all with admiration and appreciation. His countenance exuded sympathy and respect, rather than contempt and revulsion. And why not? Boyfucking was rife - more commonplace than the authorities cared to admit. It probably always will be. It was said that prostitution was the oldest of human exploits. If that was true, then I'm sure boyfucking came a close second. In fact, I would willingly wager that boyfucking was even older, since boys were generally more amenable. I was sure men had been fucking little boys' butts as soon as they discovered that their cocks could fit inside there. Dads had been fucking their sons since the beginning of time. No sir, there was no doubt in my mind that the High Representative was a secret boyfucker.
When it was all over, the High Representative dismissed us all and ordered that we be held until he decided what to do with us. In the interim, the Halcyon League boys grabbed me and quickly marched me away, half carrying me and half dragging me, for they were moving faster than my poor aching legs could move. I stumbled, but they had grabbed the back of my pants and hauled me up again as they guided me away.
'Where are you taking me?' I deigned to ask.
'To the bearpit,' said Steine.
'What's that?'
They all looked at each other as they marched me along, and they laughed, no doubt sharing a mutual joke, the substance of which was lost on me.
'It's where little perverts like you end up,' said Steine, licking his lips with relish.
'Yeah, it's where all filthy fuckboys get their just desserts,' said another.
'What do you mean?'
'You'll see,' he said, narrowing his eyes sinisterly.
We stopped abruptly, outside the door of yet another room. The other boys held me there, pinning my arms to my sides so I could not lash out. They surrounded me menacingly, looking at me with pitiful stares. I could not say they were sympathetic, but they did seem full of regret. Then Steine moved around so he was stood in front of me. He reached out and clasped my jaw in his palm, looking at me with an ominous appreciation.
'What a shame,' he said, 'you're such a good looking boy.'
And he looked me up and down, studying my shirtless body and for a moment he looked as though he was admiring me. He looked deep into my eyes with a cruel malevolence and almost whispered.
'They're gonna break you, fuckboy. They're gonna hurt your little body real bad. You won't be quite so pretty when they've finished with you.'
Then he pushed my head back and let go, as if in disgust.
'It's what all you shota boy scum deserve. We're going to get rid of you - you and all your seedy shota clubs.'
And for the first time I tasted the extent of their malice. Their hatred of me was tangible. They harbored a deeply rooted and unsavory ill-will towards me and my kind, and there was no possibility of ever convincing them otherwise. The hatefulness and spite they exuded was frightening - frightening because I knew there was no way to reason with ignorance. No sir, no amount of precocious smartmouthing was going to get me out of this one.
Resigned to my fate, I could only hit back by uttering something particularly vehement and vitriolic. So I leaned towards Steine confidentially, and whispered to him.
'Why don't you just admit that you fancy me? You like boy butt as much as all those men you claim to despise. I saw you with a hard-on in there. Bet you'd love to fuck me, wouldn't you?'
There is no description for the hateful and vindictive look he gave me. But Steine didn't say anything. He merely curled his lip in disgust and then they all pushed me into the room. They pushed me through the door with such force that I stumbled into the center of the empty room. Then they left me there. A few anxious minutes passed. Then the door opened again and four burly men came in. They were all naked. The door was promptly slammed. Then a big, heavy steel filing cabinet was pushed against the door, sealing the room against any possible escape, and I knew then that this was not going to be pleasant. The naked men stood around the edge of the room eyeing me up with menacing and evil stares.
'Strip!' one of them ordered.
They watched and waited while I tentatively removed my jeans and boxer briefs. I bunched them up and threw them aside, finally standing before the men, naked and exposed. A very tangible aura of sensitivity and vulnerability pervaded my whole body. It was almost painful.
'What a lovely bit of cunt,' one of them said.
'Yeah, shame it's gonna get busted,' said another, heavy with sarcasm.
That's all I was to them. A bit of cunt. A worthless piece of fuckmeat for them to violate.
They were all big guys - hairy, muscly, quite stocky and heavily built, and more than that they had enormous dicks. They were all hard and were stroking their dicks in a threatening manner, preparing to use them on me. I was sure these men had been specifically chosen for this task, for they really were inordinately large. Their dicks were like enormous plugs - like oversized probes that they were going to punish me with - long, thick, hard and unforgiving - real boysplitters. I noticed that one man was handing round a bottle of oil that they were liberally lubing their dicks with. Another had a thick dildo that he was oiling up - a big, black, mean-looking instrument with ridges in it.
I considered trying to bargain with them. I could probably service them all if they let me - show them all a real good time without any coercion or violence. But I didn't have the chance to utter a single word. I stood up and, suddenly without warning, one man stepped forward and hit me with the hard silicon dildo. He whacked me across the face causing me to momentarily loose my bearings. My head turned with the force of the blow. I lost my balance and collapsed back onto the floor. That was confirmation that no amount of bargaining was going to work here.
I curled up and held my head. It was a couple of seconds before I felt the searing pain. The force of the blow momentarily blinded me. I only remember thinking, as I crouched there on the floor, reeling in agony, that if these men were going to beat me, I hoped they wouldn't spoil my good looks. It was funny really - quite stupid in hindsight, but at that moment I could only hope that, no matter how much they were going to hurt me, they wouldn't scar my face. My looks were important. Up to this point, my prettiness was an integral element of how I earned my living - a key component to my survival, a gift, a bargaining tool - and I didn't want my lovely face to be scarred or disfigured. It was odd, but I think I actually feared that more than the pain.
The fact that I was at that point already incapacitated didn't stop the man from hitting me again. He lashed out with further blows to my head and arms, using the thick black dildo as a cosh. The searing pain was indescribable - at these moments the ebb and flow of pain totally controls you and it almost became a battle of wills between my mind and my body, partly to endure the pain without blacking out, and partly to summon the will to survive this trauma. The men were unforgiving and relentless. They took turns bashing me with the cosh. I tried as much as possible to shield my face. There was real malevolence in their eyes. It was evident in the way they took a running jump as they swung their blows at me. And yet they would not let me pass out. If I looked like I was losing consciousness, they roused me with slaps and cold water. Something told me they were saving me for something.
I don't remember much about what followed. Maybe I don't want to remember. I do recall that at one point they stretched me out on the floor, facing up at them and one stood between my opened legs and emptied his bladder all over me. He made sure that he peed all over me, directing his jet of hot pee into my face and all over my boyshit. One of the others recorded it on a small digital camera. Another grabbed my crotch roughly, easily engulfing my boyshit in his big fist, and pulled hard as though he was trying to desex me. It hurt like hell. Then the other one forced the dildo into my boycunt and pushed it in all the way. I could feel the tapered tip of the dildo dig painfully into my colon. The dildo was way too big to fit comfortably in there. I squirmed and struggled and screamed. The more I screamed the more they laughed. They seemed to relish my screams, as though that in itself ratcheted up the cruel pleasure they derived from torturing me. They recorded it on camera and stopped to look back at the footage on the camera's LCD screen, even as I was doubled up on the floor in extreme agony.
In the end, they all forcefucked me, forcing their enormous dicks into me without any formality, the last two taking me at the same time, one in my ass, one in my mouth. A third tortured my balls and spent ages squeezing them. They all fucked me hard, cruelly and savagely and for a very long time, busting their big loads inside me and hurting my little snatch. One of them came back for another helping, blowing a second fuckwad into me that took a lot longer than the first. My boycunt was ruptured and bleeding. I knew that because it stung savagely. I saw the blood that was smeared around their cocks. One of them had a pinkish slime dripping down his hairy thighs. That was my blood mixed with their evil spunkwads. It was oozing from my injured boyhole, mingling with the unwarranted spunkloads they had injected into me.
Eventually, the trauma stopped and they stood around my broken frame laughing and poking fun, exchanging crude remarks with each other, genuinely proud of their handiwork. It was as if they derived genuine pleasure from inflicting pain, like it gave them real satisfaction to beat little shota boys into a pulp, such was their hatred and revulsion of me and my kind. They recorded and photographed the whole thing, no doubt intending to review their spoils with great relish later.
'He won't be taking anything up his pussy for a while,' one of them said, with an air of accomplishment.
The others all laughed callously.
Lastly, they gathered around and finished off with their favorite little distraction: cigarette burns. That was one rumor I knew was not false. I had heard all about it. They were quite specific in where they applied the cigarette burns. They had a number of areas they targeted. A favorite place was under the arms. It was well known that the skin in the armpits was much thinner and more sensitive, thus increasing the pain inflicted. Another good reason was that it was an area that ordinarily didn't show. Even if you were shirtless, that might not be easy to spot. Other favorite places to apply cigarette burns were the soles of your feet, thus making it painful to walk. But there was one place they liked to apply cigarette burns which they reserved specifically for shota boys: on their dick - and that was the one they used on me. This was normally under the foreskin or, for cut boys, around the rim of their cockhead where the skin was thinnest and most sensitive. The purpose of this of course was to ensure that all sex, and even masturbation, was painful. Even an erection was uncomfortable. They knew what they were doing. It was a particularly cruel and vindictive kind of torture, a sadistic and inhuman act of torment, designed specifically to cause pain and suffering. They held me down, so I couldn't see what they were doing, and I could feel them roughly peeling back the foreskin on my floppy little todger. The glowing embers of their cigarettes pressed cruelly into the most sensitive part of my boyflesh and I screamed louder than I had ever screamed in my life. I screamed so loud, it must have reverberated throughout the bunker. The pain was indescribable. My boycock stung excruciatingly. By then, I was barely conscious. I was drifting in and out of consciousness, aware of what they were doing, but helpless. They were too strong and too overpowering. They were four big men and I did not have the strength to resist. They could do whatever they liked with me. I was totally helpless. I knew that if they chose to snuff me, there was nothing I could do. They could eradicate me completely and probably nobody would ever know. I wondered if this was where it was all going to end for me, whether my short existence was going to finish here, in this bare, soulless room, deep underground, at the hands of these brutal, heartless tormentors, never to be seen or heard of again. Poor Ciggy. He would always be wondering what had happened, and would never know how much I really loved him.
When they were finished with me, they dragged me out by my hair, grabbing big handfuls of my shaggy blond mop, almost tearing my hair from the very roots. I was hauled out into the passageway, my bare butt scraping along the damp concrete floor, and I was thrown into a cell. It wasn't a cell as such, more like an empty storeroom. It was a hot, airless, windowless place, completely bare, without so much as a blanket for me to sleep on. I was left there for hours, abandoned like a broken toy, still naked, barely conscious, bruised and with my punished little boyhole still bleeding. It was only then that I finally lost consciousness. I felt my frail body weakening. The strength drained from me. My vision grew dim and I felt the welcome desire to let go, to allow myself to finally lapse into oblivion, the welcome deliverance from the unbearable pain of my tortured little body.
I slept fitfully, perhaps disturbed on and off by the bombing that was going on above ground. Throughout the whole time I was in the bunker, the bombing continued. The bombardment was relentless and, it seemed, getting closer. It was intensifying. The explosions were louder and the tremors reverberating throughout the concrete structure were becoming stronger and stronger. It went on at all hours of the day and night. It was so unrelenting that I wondered how much effort was being expended and how many resources it was consuming to sustain a bombing campaign of such prolonged ferocity. I rather imagined that the fight that was going on above ground echoed the struggle that had been played out within the bunker itself: that the conflict between the heroic forces of the NATO coalition that sought to liberate Verolino from the dark, oppressive regime of the VLA, mirrored the very essence of the opposing doctrines that had locked horns during the course of the hearing, serving as a metaphor for the age-old struggle between those who believed that boyfucking was a natural, desirable state of affairs, which recognized a boy's right to self-determination over his own body, and accepted their natural state-of-being as sexual creatures with a powerful erotic drive that needed placating - as opposed to those prudes and fuddy-duddies who would seek to stamp out such activity and who could not accept that older men had a natural predilection for those young boys, and sought to forbid that primeval symbiotic relationship that had been an integral element of man-boy liaisons since time immemorial, and which strove to eradicate it in the name of morality, political dogma and religious fundamentalism.
As the raid continued above ground, I dreamt of Ciggy. If you could call it a dream. I lapsed into a feverish, barely conscious delirium, where Ciggy represented maybe my only hope of salvation. I wished he was here with me now, to comfort me during these, the lowest hours of my entire life. He would hold me and tell me that everything was going to be alright. It was funny, but out of all the people in the whole world who meant anything to me at this time, all I could think of was Ciggy. Here I was, my life in crisis, my very survival in the balance, totally at the hands of cruel and ruthless barbarians who would think nothing of snuffing me in an instant. My existence was nothing to them. It was only thoughts of Ciggy that gave me the will to hold on.
Locked in that room all alone, I was frightened. The concrete walls trembled and shuddered from the persistent pounding. It gradually intensified until the explosions could be felt in the very fabric of the bunker itself. The bombs got louder and closer, until I was convinced the bombs were exploding immediately above my head. Then there was one almighty explosion of dust and splintered concrete and everything went black. The room I was in had been blown open. I was momentarily dazed and disorientated by the blast. I was buried under some rubble, but I found myself cowering in the corner where the thick concrete walls of the bunker had held up well enough to avoid crushing me. I was covered in dust, and the air was thick with smoke. I looked up and suddenly I could see daylight. I saw that the very roof of the bunker had broken open, cracked like an eggshell by the sheer power of the bombs they were dropping. Bombs so potent, they had penetrated into the very depths of the bunker. From several levels down, I looked up and a section of light blue sky was visible, crisscrossed by the vapor trails of military jets. They were darting about the sky so fast that they could only be military aircraft. Sure enough, they were American bombers - F22 Raptors with US Air Force markings, coalition aircraft - confirmation at last that VFOR had not forgotten us.
Luckily, I wasn't badly hurt in the raid. When the smoke and dust had cleared, I found myself being pulled out of the rubble by a pair of big, strong arms. I was dazed and not very coherent, but I knew they were friendly. Suddenly, I was out in the open air. They lifted me up and I was passed along a chain, sailing through the air propelled by several pairs of hands. I felt small and light, and was passed from person to person with ease. Still naked, but caked in dust, I was finally transferred into the welcome embrace of a uniformed soldier at the end of the chain who wrapped me in a big khaki blanket. The soldiers were from VFOR - American troops this time. They took great pride in telling me that they were from the 101st Airborne Division and had a distinctive eagle's head insignia on their sleeves. Something told me that I should have been impressed by that. I will certainly never forget those soldiers. They all had that characteristic Yankee twang in their accents, all loud and confident, but very friendly and with a wicked sense of humor. They were well trained, and well equipped, with slick night vision goggles fastened to their helmets and the latest M4 carbines, some with grenade launchers attached. They were spectacularly efficient and utterly professional.
I was taken to a dressing station nearby where they cleaned me up and had a medic check me over. He was a young, fresh-faced rookie with a stethoscope hanging around the back of his neck. He checked all my injuries and washed my wounds with a warm saline solution. There was a lot of swelling on my head, with various bumps and bruises from the many blows I had suffered, but thankfully nothing serious. Most of all, my face was okay. There was a small cut just above one eye which I hadn't even noticed. I was surprised I had withstood all the cruel mistreatment so well. The medic treated the bruising and he even put some soothing ointment on my burns, lightly dabbing a cold, clear gel with the tips of his fingers onto the cigarette burns on my todger. He was very gentle, and handled my sensitive little piece of flesh with great care. Then he tucked it back under the blanket and ruffled my hair affectionately. 'You'll survive,' he said, with an encouraging smile.
They gave me a disposable white paper suit to wear. It was temporary emergency clothing - a type of all-in-one coverall with stud fastenings up the front. It was slightly too big for me, but I liked it. It had a crinkly, fabric-like texture which was soft and warm against my skin. I still had no shoes, but I didn't really need them. They put me straight into an enormous olive-green Humvee and offered to take me home. I told them I needed to get to the field hospital. They agreed to take me. One of them was a rather laid back, showy and talkative sergeant. He said his name was Count, though his colleague, a handsome black man with a distinctive Southern drawl, joked that he usually spells it without the O. They sure had a wicked sense of humor, and the one-liners were coming so thick and fast I could barely keep up with their clever repartee. I smiled manically, overwhelmed by their warmth and hospitality. But they kept me amused all the way to the field hospital.
On the way, Count sat next to me in the back of the Humvee with his arm around me. He kept looking at me benevolently, giving me the odd squeeze or stroke. He seemed very sympathetic and was very affectionate.
'Did they hurt you, little buddy?'
I nodded meekly.
'Don't worry, you're safe now. We'll see to that.'
'Hey Count,' the driver called from up front, 'Leave the boy alone will ya?'
'Aw, he don't mind the attention,' Count replied, 'do ya kid?'
I smiled humbly and shook my head. I didn't mind at all. These Americans were my saviors. I certainly wasn't going to begrudge them some boytime. These soldiers were sweaty and dirty, seasoned veterans sporting the ingrained dirt and grime of battle, but I found that actually quite attractive. They were real men - professional soldiers - and civilized human beings who knew how to treat a fuckboy with dignity and respect.
On the way to the field hospital, I saw the extent of the destruction caused by the recent fighting. For quite a long stretch, the road was reduced to half its width because one side was blocked by a column of wrecked VLA vehicles. The road was strewn for miles with burned out trucks which had been reduced to blackened metal shells. It was clearly the remains of a VLA supply convoy that had been ambushed. I was relatively safe in the back of the Humvee, but still got thrown around a little as the vehicle negotiated the potholes and craters, and in places had to go off-road to take a detour where the road was impassable.
After an arduous drive of about an hour, during which I was constantly jiggled about on the back seat of the high vehicle, we finally negotiated a winding dirt road that took us into a shallow vale. As we approached, from high in the surroundings hills, it was possible to look down at the field hospital from above and get a good sense of just how big it was. The field hospital itself was a sprawling network of temporary structures. The whole site consisted of row upon row of white marquees, within which every aspect of hospital activity took place - the hospital wards, the offices, the staff accommodation, even the operating theatres, was all made up of marquees. Okay, they had thoughtfully laid down planking and matting between the marquees, creating a kind of network of walkways, a web of artificial thoroughfares that ran through the whole site, and probably prevented everything from sinking into the ubiquitous mud. But it was an utter shambles of a place. When you witnessed it first hand, and saw what went on there, it was one big cacophony of suffering and confusion.
We arrived at the main entrance to the site where there were fleet ambulances pulling up. So many ambulances were vying for space that they had to queue up to unload their gruesome cargoes. It was clearly the trauma station, where the casualties were brought in. What I saw was overwhelmed medics and nurses, with bloodstains on their white overalls that looked so fresh they could almost have just stepped out of a butcher's shop. Everybody was in a rush, shouting hurried commands, and always looking flustered and under pressure. It was clear that they couldn't cope. Patients were stacking up on gurneys in the triage area, some clearly still in pain, calling out for morphine, or just screaming uncontrollably, some of them with bloodstained bandages, others with the most horrific head injuries, some peppered all over with shrapnel wounds, or with arms and legs missing. You could have easily mistaken these casualties for military personnel. But they were not. They were all civilians: young children; women; the elderly, all victims of the indiscriminate shelling. Some seemed to be totally burned - their skin red raw and bleeding from head to foot, their faces blackened, their skin peeling off in ragged shreds, as thin and transparent as tissue paper, many with deep lesions in their flesh - the unmistakable legacy of phosphorous grenades, the modern day equivalent of napalm. Officially, the use of phosphorous grenades was forbidden by the Geneva Accords, and neither side confessed to using them. But clearly, they were being used. Phosphorous grenades were only ever used against civilians. It was horrible. Like a vision of hell.
Count made enquiries at the information post, to get directions. I was surprised that even amongst this apparent pandemonium, their records were pretty accurate. We were told exactly where we needed to go. Still barefoot, I padded along beside Count, who kept a fatherly and reassuring arm around my shoulders. This tall, friendly sergeant quickly hustled me past the casualty station, not wanting me to dwell too long on the horrors to be seen there, and he swept me down a long row of marquees. Away from the business end of the field hospital, other staff went about their daily routines. In one marquee some medical orderlies were busily preparing surgical instruments. In another there was a communications post, with radios and transmitters and thick bundles of cables trailing everywhere. Yet another was set up as a canteen, with rows of folding tables and a server counter with a large tureen of steaming hot soup. Another was open at the front, so that you could peer inside and see a Red Cross worker sitting there getting a haircut. It was a quick cross-section, a whistle-stop tour of everything that went on in a field hospital.
Finally, we reached the marquee where Ciggy was supposed to be. It was a large structure, away from the busy area of the field hospital, quieter and out of earshot of the cries of pain of the unattended patients and the barked commands of the overworked staff. It was altogether calmer and more civilized. Inside this marquee, there was a little reception area where a nurse sat at a portable table, entering data into a laptop. The only other items were a filing cabinet and a lockable medicine chest. She greeted us and seemed to know immediately why we were there. Count stayed by the entrance and the nurse beckoned me towards the main part of the marquee, the small ward where the patients were. It was sealed off by a canvas partition which had an opening mounted in it, itself covered by a thin curtain. The nurse held it open for me, inviting me to go in. Hesitantly, and with a heavy heart, holding my breath in anticipation, I stepped through the curtained partition into the ward. The nurse didn't follow me through, apparently happy to leave me to it.
Inside the ward, I stood in the entryway and looked around. I noticed how spotless everything was. I was almost afraid I might contaminate the place because my bare feet were dirty. My toenails were ingrained with grime. Daylight came through a clear skylight in the roof of the marquee. It was very calm and quiet in there. There were only four beds, three of them empty. Then I saw Ciggy. He was sitting up in bed, right at the far corner, propped up on a big mound of pillows. I recognized his distinctive head of floppy black curls, and the gold earring. His top half was naked in the bed. I was relieved that he looked relatively intact. In fact, the only sign of any injury was a bandage wrapped around his head. It was funny, but it closely resembled the bandana that he used to wear. He had his eyes closed, and his head was turned away from me, slightly tilted to one side. And yet I knew that he wasn't asleep. Perhaps there was something in his posture that told me he was only resting.
Hesitantly, I approached the bed. I felt hot, clammy, weak and dizzy. My heart was beating fast and hard in my chest. I went and stood close to him, right at the side of the bed, within touching distance. My throat was so dry I was unable to speak. But I didn't have to. Instead, Ciggy turned to look at me, rotating his head, and opened his eyes. It was almost as though he had detected my presence, like he could instinctively feel me standing there beside him. At that moment, I didn't know what to do. I just looked at him. To my relief, he smiled. It was a loving, welcoming, forgiving little smile. He flashed his perfect white teeth at me, apparently happy to see me. I had almost forgotten how beautiful this young man was. I had thought he might be angry and reproachful. But in the event, he was nothing of the sort. He was simply lying there, expectant, anxious, maybe even impatient, but definitely not angry.
'Hello Cloud Nine,' he said, in a kindly, benevolent tone.
I hesitated, still unsure. Tears came to my eyes, partly because I was so happy to see him again, and partly because I was so relieved. He still wanted me! I wanted to reply, but I found I couldn't speak. So much had happened since we last saw each other. I didn't know where to start, what to say, how to explain. He saw my turmoil, and reached for my hand.
'You don't know how happy I am to see you,' he said.
And then, his expression changed to one of horror and revulsion. I saw the dismay in his eyes as he noted the bruising and swelling in my complexion.
'What did they do to you lil man?'
He pulled me towards him, instinctively wanting to hug me. I fell onto the bed. It was quite low, so that I was able to clamber up and lie next to him. We clinched in a welcome embrace that was comforting and forgiving. I was still pretty sore all over, but it didn't matter now. Ciggy almost pulled me onto him so that I could feel his powerful teen body beneath me. His bare chest was warm and strong through the thin paper suit I was wearing. At the moment our bodies embraced, I knew that everything was going to be okay. All my fears and insecurities suddenly vaporized, and I couldn't hold back my emotions. All the submerged feelings that I had for him at once resurfaced and totally overwhelmed me. The last few hours had been the lowest of my life, an my suffering too horrible to contemplate. There were so many times I had thought I might never see him again. There was so much I needed to tell him, so many things to explain, and it all bubbled over in one big jumble of words and emotions that came out in no logical order.
'I'm sorry I couldn't get on that transporter,' I blubbered, trying to hold back the tears, 'I tried, I really did.'
He held me on top of him, and I wept helplessly into his bare chest, my whole body shuddering with grief even as he held me there.
'It's okay lil man,' said Ciggy, in a hushed, even tone, stroking my back reassuringly, 'It's okay.'
'We did get to the airfield,' I cried, appealing to him, 'But we couldn't get through the crowd.'
'I know, I know,' he said, quieting me.
And for a few moments he just let my cry.
'I was afraid you would think I'd forgotten about you,' I sobbed.
I felt slightly ashamed of myself because I couldn't disguise my emotions. I felt just like a little kid. But then, I always felt like that when I was with Ciggy. I felt so inadequate, so immature, in the presence of this magnificent young man, this wonderful human being who was so much more worldly than me, and who seemed to conjure such deep emotions in me. What was it about him that made me feel so meek?
'I was afraid you would think I had changed my mind,' I bawled.
Ciggy lifted my head, so that he could see the copious tears that were streaming down my face, and he smiled, almost as though he thought my tears were quaint. Then he gently put a finger to my lips to stop me from saying any more, indicating that I didn't need to explain.
'No, never,' he whispered.
'You mean...?'
He nodded.
'I saw the crowd,' he explained, 'I was there. I waited for you.'
I took a deep breath, trying to understand what had happened.
'But, how come you're still here?' I asked, confused, 'Didn't you get on that transporter?'
He shook his head emphatically.
'No.'
'Why?' I asked, quite innocently, as I tried to dry my eyes, my tears for the moment stemmed.
His face lapsed into a resigned expression.
'D'ya think I could have gone without you?'
'Why not?' I replied, mystified, wiping the tears from my face with my knuckles.
Ciggy laughed, as though I'd just said something quaint.
'Because I love you, silly.'
It took a moment for me to assimilate what he'd just said. I looked at him through my tear-stained eyes with a quizzical expression because I wasn't sure I really understood his motives.
'Don't you get it?' he asked, plainly, 'I love you lil man. Can't you see that?'
I looked at him blankly, the tears still wet in my eyes. I was confused. It didn't really make sense to me that he would knowingly risk his life by remaining in Verolino.
'I don't understand,' I said, puzzled.
He smiled and pulled me towards him once more, squeezing me affectionately.
'No, I guess you don't,' he said, muffled against my dirty-blond mop, 'You've had your body abused for so long you don't know what real love is.'
It was an extraordinary remark, so succinct, and yet ringing with the note of pure truth. Just like a lot of the things that Ciggy said, it encapsulated his sentiments exactly. More than that, it demonstrated to me that there was something going on here that was way beyond my limited shota boy experience. Something I had never encountered before. Something new and unfamiliar. Something slightly scary and out of control. Something real and profound and wonderful.
I looked into each of his warm brown eyes, trying to understand, trying desperately to make sense of everything. In frustration, I just burst into a renewed fit of crying.
'Oh Ciggy!' I bawled, and once again buried my face in his chest.
He let me cry. Calmly and patiently, he just waited until my tears had abated, and I knew that his benevolence was true and unconditional. Everything was always okay when I was with Ciggy. There was no rush, no pressure, no judgment, no agenda.
When I had finished crying, and my sobbing gradually petered out, Ciggy dried my tears for me, wiping them away with his thumbs. My mood brightened and I smiled bravely. He kissed me on the lips and embraced me, still lying next to him on the bed. As we were entwined like that, he took my little hand and guided it under the bedclothes. It was very warm under there. He placed my hand gently on the crotch of his pajama bottoms, as though there was something there he wanted me to touch. There was a tangible lump in there. It was hot and hard. It took me a couple of seconds to work out what was going on. He had a hard-on! That was his erection trapped in there! He smiled mischievously when he saw my expression and he leaned over to whisper in my ear.
'That's for you,' he whispered, and I could feel his moist, warm breath on my ear lobe.
I raised my head and stared at him, open-mouthed with delight.
'See... I'm all fixed,' he said, smiling smugly.
'But... how come...?'
'When I came out of the coma,' he explained, 'I realized I had a raging boner.'
And as he said that, he clasped my hand in his under the bedclothes, and invited me to squeeze. My little fingers clenched, digging hard through his pajama bottoms and into his hard column of flesh. I could feel its heat through the thin fabric of the pajamas. He kept my hand there, forcing me to grab at his equipment, a substantial handful of teen meat in my childish little fist, and he tilted his head back into the pillow, closing his eyes in ecstasy.
'You're so beautiful,' he whispered, his eyes still closed, his words filtering quietly into the air, 'I'm so hard for you lil man. My cock is aching for you.'
To an incorrigible little shota boy like me, it was the greatest compliment. His words induced an instant hard-on. Little Cloud stiffened in my pants. I pressed my hips onto Ciggy as he held me there, my face buried in his bare chest, him holding onto my head, and I thrust my hard little lump right into him. It was still hurting from the cigarette burns, but the stinging was numb and strangely pleasurable. I was so aroused by Ciggy's words that I wanted him to make me cum right there. I wanted to unload my little kiddie fuckwad for him and feel the ecstasy of my todger going out of its head. I wanted him to cum too, I wanted to feel it with him, so that we could cum together and so I could finally get to witness that magnificent teen dick burst forth, so I could taste his scalding hot cum, so I could feel its stickiness, so my naked hairless little body could wallow in its filthy slickness.
'I thought I'd lost you,' he murmured, still clutching me to him tightly and this time there were tears in his eyes, 'I thought I'd never see you again.'
And no sooner had he said that, he moved on up and kissed me tenderly all over my face, his warm, wet lips affectionately skimming my cheeks and lips ever so lightly, kissing my chin, the tip of my nose, my forehead, even my eyelids. It was exquisite. I held onto his fragile, bandaged head, loving what he was doing to me, and finally realizing that the attention he was giving me, and the way he held me in his arms, that must be what he meant about real love because, at that moment, there was no doubt in my mind that this boy loved me - loved me in a way I had never been loved before.
'I love you lil man,' he said again, 'I love you.'
He was saying that over and over again as his big hands warmly stroked my back. I laid my head on his bare shoulder and could feel the faint vibration of his voice as he was speaking. His words soothed my ears and comforted my soul, and as I buried myself in his embrace, I remember thinking: those must be the nicest words in the English language.
* * * * * *
Author's note: This is not the end. There is one remaining chapter to follow, which will be the final part of this story.