Date: Sun, 24 Mar 2024 17:23:08 -0400
From: Jacob Schwann <cobschwann@gmail.com>
Subject: Pen&Cob #10 (bisexual incest)

P&C #10

(To replace previous `P&C #10`)

PEN&COB     Welcome to P&C #10. This revision of earlier Nifty bisexual
incest et al. submissions is in the manner of Victorian erotica, being
soft and slow as well as hard and fast - an original exercise in
plagiaristic pornography.

Herein are recounted the amorous misadventures of young Cobby, his sister
Penny, and their family and friends.

Authors' note:   We'd love to hear from you.   Please let us know what
you think.   Our email is always open at cobschwann@gmail.com.

Support Nifty!  (using link https://donate.nifty.org/).

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Letter #10:  SILENT COUSIN BAALAM

Epistler #1: Penelope Cygnet Schwann  (Chapter I)

Epistler #2: Silent Cousin Baalam Cygnet Schwann  (Chapters II - XIX)





Letter #10;  Chapter I:  SILENT COUSIN BAALAM  - Introduction

Epistler #1: Penelope Cygnet Schwann     1930's

To: Uncle Doctor

From: Penelope



Hi there, dear Uncle Doctor  --  your niece Penny here writing to you
&....



YES! - as promised here is `family dirt' -- just like you asked for:
 Incest..., Seduction..., Kidnapping..., Achillean manhood...,
Emasculation..., Slavery..., Murder... -- what next? All about Immense
Cousin Max & his paramour, Silent Cousin Baalam. Whew! They really went
through it together, didn't they? - These papers had been tucked away in
that old family calf-skin letter chest, the small barrel-topped trunk
hidden away in the Parsonage, the one Cobby & I later kept in the closet
of our squinchy bedroom at our `Home-House' (what Cobby called the
`Shotgun Shack' out behind of Old Aunt Elsa's redbrick farmhouse at
Pike Lake Crossroads). [Letter #15   ]



Everyone in the family knew the story - The chest had come down to us
from the earliest Caanan Community times, so Old Aunt Elsa would tell -
back before the Niagara escarpment settlements, back before the Green
Mountain gold panning camps, even back to the New-Found-Land beginning
times up on the eerie Isle des Morts at Red Lake. The mingling of our
Viking-Norse & Native blood was very old, the story went; how the
starving, freezing, pale-skinned nordic castaways were sheltered & fed, &
taken to bed just as family is taken to bed, by the enchorial red-ochred
natives who had been there for all time. Yes - the blonde-haired & the
black-haired, the golden freckled & the coppery burnished, the ox-eyed
lads & earthly lasses lying abeach together with one another from the
first days - just as in the goodness of time my ever-so-young,
red-headed, well-knit, freckly brother & his comely, dark-haired, tawny
sister -- me! - were destined to lie conjointly & copulatively all
entwined in magic together-times -- ...mmm..., yum! [Letters: #25, #26, #28
 ]



One worse-for-wear manilla-hemp envelope in that little calf-skin trunk
included a scribbled pencil note in Immense Cousin Max's bold squiggly
hand about when he first met his dearest cousin.



Here's Max's note, Uncle Doctor:

.....

-..."Baalam's mother left him when he was a young boy, and he grew up
depending on the help of Old Aunt Elsa, and later yours-truly."

-..."Here was this skinny, scrawny, beautiful kid -- as was to be all his
life. Tall for his little more than eleven years, his ears stuck out, his
white-blond hair was wild, he was pale as an albino ghost -- as was to be
all his life. Silent Cousin Baalam showed a lifelong `aphasia
voluntaria' - or sort of selective mutism - that is, a failure to speak
in nearly all social settings, in spite of seemingly having the ability
to speak. Yet he did sing in the highest registers of a sweet,
mellifluous castrato-soprano voice -- as was to be all his life. His eyes
were like deep, sad pools, reflecting sweetness and hope back to any
observer -- as was to be all his life. And still is! As I've said, he
was the most beautiful boy you could ever imagine -- as was to be all his
life. My heart dropped into my belly, which for me was a big drop. Thus,
right then and there my heart went out to him, as it might to a stray
puppy who adopts you on first sight -- as was to be all his life."

-...Maxamilian Cygnet Schwann



Post Script:

-..."Even with age, our Baalam has the appearance of a spare young man,
spectral with his long snow-white hair; his long straight nose and high
cheekbones, and a long ghost-pale face that is, somehow, quite Spartan.
He has a way of nodding at you without looking up. He might sit with his
arms folded, his long legs stretched out, one ankle over the other.
Sitting there, he appears to be sighting carefully past his feet, as if
his toes were the outframe of a gun sight and he could see some sort of
target in the floor. And he still sings in the highest contra-tenor
imaginable."

M.C.S.

'

'

'

As I was saying, dear Uncle Docter, there was also that legal document on
vellum paper -- a `Will & Appurtenances' penned in Silent Cousin
Baalam's fine calligraphic hand, a Last Will & Testament - & also long,
extended bits & pieces of diary entries about him & Immense Cousin Max.
Now and then some forebears' notations were added inside of squiggly
parentheses: {...}



...Here follows the remains of those writings.



Hugs & Kisses to you, Uncle Doctor

From your xxxx niece - Penelope Cygnet Schwann

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Letter #10;  Chapter II     Last Will & Testament

Epistler #2  (Chapters II -- XXI): Silent Cousin Baalam Cygnet Schwann
{during the time of ~1880 -- 1889 et postea}

Place: Old Aunt Elsa's farm,  Pike Lake Crossroads,  Grey County



Silent Cousin Baalam's LAST WILL & TESTAMENT:

-

-"In the Name of our Great Mother, Amen:

-I Baalam Cygnet-Schwann (ne Baalam Cygne-We'jitu) of Red Indian Lake in
Newfoundland, and of Pike Lake Crossroads in Grey County, Ontario;

-Farmhand; Treble voice (Evirato; Castrato);

-Being in bodily health, and of sound and disposing mind and memory;

-And considering the perils and dangers of being of the Cainan Faith
Community and other uncertainties of this transitory life;

-Do, for avoiding controversies after my decease, make public and publish
and declare this my last Will and Testament in manner following:

-That is to say first I recommend my Soul to Magna Mater, our Great
Mother that gave it;

-And my body I commit to the Earth or Sea or Flame or Knife or Noose as
it shall please our Great Mother to order;

-As for and concerning all my Worldly Estate I give bequeath and dispose
thereof as follows:

-That is to say after all my just debts are fully satisfied and paid then
all and every such wages sum and sums of money, lands, tenements, goods,
chattels and estate whatsoever as shall be any ways due owing or
belonging unto me at the time of my decease;

-I do give, devise and bequeath the same unto my beloved
many-times-removed cousin-brother Maximilian Cygnet-Schwann, his heirs,
executors and administrators forever.

-When I am dead, I charge you to mingle our cousin-brother ashes and bury
us together.

-And I do hereby nominate and appoint Doctor Foster Drake Executor of
this my last Will and Testament;

-In witness whereof, to this my said Will I have set my hand and seal,
the fifteenth day of February, Anno Dominae Nostrae 1897, and in the
sixty-second year of the Reign of her Majesty Queen Victoria over Great
Britain, the Dominion of Canada, etc.

-{signed} Baalam Cygnet-Schwann

-

CODICIL:

-"My dear Maximilian, my darling love, I have no wealth or property to
bequeath to you, so instead here are a few pages from my life
remembrances."

.

{ - The following was written in cursive longhand on common note paper -
}

.

So. Call me Baalam -- just Baalam.



Once, when I was but a boy I advanced in fear, barefoot, through the ebbs
and flows of the last of the red and yellow autumn leaves. By some
miracle I had made my desperate way up and along the winding old path
over the high Hill of Sorrows on a late fall day. I was in flight from
that `House of Ill Repute', that spunk-bucket doss-house, which forever
had been my home. In the aftermath, under the seared leaves of a huge
shedding maple, I stood by the back kitchen porch of the redbrick
farmhouse known as `Old Aunt Elsa's'. In high treble voice, clear
toned and sibilant, I, a runaway of perhaps as much as eleven or so
years, began to sing.

.

-[appended draft note:]

...{ I sang in an exceptionally high and clear voice, such that my Madam
Mother had often  `loaned' me (for a price) as lead boy soprano to the
choir master Mr. Mackie at the Sparrow Boys School. The boys, who ranged
from middle school age to eighteen, hailed from local hardscrabble farms
and the back alleyways of old Mount Forest town. As they grew up they
sang soprano, tenor, alto, contralto, baritone and eventually an
uncertain bass. We younger ones with unchanged voices would sing high
soprano. The older ones would sing the lowest parts. Also, I had to
perform as a child soprano soloist around Grey County with the choirs in
provincial cathedrals, basilicas, minsters, and all sorts of so-called
"Houses of God".}...

.

That day by the redbrick farmhouse kitchen, I could only sing the
Reverend Neal's old traditional Christmas carol, `Good King Wencelas'
--high soprano: clear, breathy, full with fruit-like tone - yet
free-forming the forgotten words as they came to me:



"Good King Wencelas last looked out,

-On Saint Sebastian feast-day.

-When the snow lay round about,

-To celebrate his birth-day.

-

"Brightly shown the moon that night,

-On the arrows so cru-el,

-Piercing poor boy, what a fright,

-At the Sparrow Boys Schoo-el."



She had come out onto the back kitchen porch. The old lady with gentle
face and piercing eyes was shrouded in black and looked like an ordinary
fairy-tale grandma. There was a small waistless woman, squat and round,
whose witches-knot necklace of obsidian baubles seemed to pull her head
down and forward in belligerence. I sang to her in my high, clear choir
by-tones, desperate for shelter.



"Hither boys and stand by me,

-Until we hear the bell-rung.

-Who hath pierced our handsome lad?

-So fit and fine and well-hung?

-

"Sire, the night is darker now,

-And the wind blows stron-ger.

-Fails my heart, I know not how.

-I can't go on any lon-ger."



I stood in fear, struck dumb as always, having no voice to speak of, yet
able to sing hours on end. Silence. Her eyes grew sharp. How she knew who
I was I could not say, but she did. (Later, I learned of my extraction
from out of the profligate loins of our primal, ancestral familial
kindred procreator Jaazaniah Cygnet Schwann.) After Old Aunt Elsa had
taken me within the kitchen, fed me (my first true food in days), she had
me rest my head upon the table and I slept. Later, without a word from
her, she bid me tell my tale. Not able to speak, I burst into tears. Yet
somehow, she already knew of the `last straw' that led to my running
away.



She knew.

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Letter #10:  BAALAM  Chapter  III:   House of Ill-Repute  #1



{{So begins Cousin Baalam's remembrance of his things past:



... - { For I was a foundling and an inconvenience, presumably a bye-blow,
and evidently an ignoble one. Being the youngest serving boy at my
Madam-Mother's `House of Ill Repute' -- as much as eleven years old
perhaps - I poured pleasure from pitchers, scantily clad, quick to avoid
despoilment, yet subject to the occasional pinch or goose -- surely a
parody of that "Olympian steward Ganymede, carrying the drawn wine and
filling the Gods' cups to the brim".



Lest you make a wrong opinion, at our age it was not as though we
house-boys were engaging in wild, unremitting amorous contacts. We were
innocent guttersnipes of nine or eleven or thirteen. What we were called
upon to do was sexual, but quite inexperienced and harmless -- I suppose.
Yet I did hear stories of boys taken and kept until they lost life from
misuse.



My elder Beloved Sister kept me from the more despicable fornications at
our family's bawdy house, yet on this rare day here I was with the young
workman. He barely had stubble of new beard, yet made no attempt to hide
the swell of his trousers - hints of round green apples flanking a
middling, fun-sized carrot. I watched. He fumbled to undo first one pants
button and then another while that damp spot grew from the dogwater he
was putting off.



"Gettin' jizzy. Good, we'll need it," he said to no one in particular as
he smeared it about. "Didn't bring no greasy `stuff'.... You know I love
little ones like you; I was your size a bit ago."



Out of my `blood & guts' Madam-Mother's sight, I had followed the
younker onto the dusty straw tick behind the hanging blanket in one of
the low-roofed ells off the Big Room. We heard the honky-tonk piano and
the laughter and grunts and calls for ale. This thin boy-man gave my
narrow shoulders a squeeze. I lifted my eyes to his face. I knew him from
some years earlier. An older choir boy at the big Mount Forest church
when I first sang there; he had left soon after I came. I had so wanted
to be like him -- tall with a ready smile, slight yet strong young limbs
with light-dusky skin on his face and arms. He had changed from soprano
to alto and then to baritone and so had gotten pulled out to work
alongside his father as a brick hoddie to other bricklayers.



His eyes were bright, his grin scampish, as he sweltered in a sheen of
salty sweat. He placed his hand under my chin and lifted so I had to look
straight up. Glancing in his eyes, I saw both wonder and hunger there. I
hoped he would be easy on me. I felt myself warm to his touch in that
familiar way, and I sighed as I sometimes did with the younger, sweeter
men.



"Hmm..., so soft and pale," he whispered. "You're my good laddie, yes? I
love ones like you; like the church choir boys. So fine. So ready. So
sure-fire. They'd call us `Priest-bait Scottish-catamites'. That was
me then, too. I won't do nothing you don't want. I'll just touch. Can
I touch you down there? And you me?"



I nodded in silence, having no protests to offer. He loosened the buttons
on his soiled work shirt, and I could see his pale, narrow chest. He was
lean and sinewy in his strength, with spare strings of dark chest hair.
As he undid more of his trouser buttons, the swell of his bung and
ballocks welcomed the swipe of his hand in the slicked, sodden wet
dripping there. Then he slowly slipped his salty, slimy forefinger into
my own mouth. My lips were loose about the calloused digit, so I gave a
familiar lick and a suck. The glob of his wet stuff was slick and tart,
yet sweeter than any old man's. He swirled it in my mouth - I knew
enough not to gag or bite.



Then he pulled out.

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Letter #10:  BAALAM  Chapter  IV:   House of Ill-Repute  #2



The youth leaned forward, growing red in the face and gave a quick, dry
peck to my lips. His eyebrows rose as he tugged at my pajama top. That
was old, flimsy and loose, stained and cruddy from times with others. I
shrugged my shoulders and it fell from me. I knew what to do. I dropped
my eyes and struggled with the knot tying the string about my belly. He
reached down to help, grabbed both sides of it, pulled, and it broke. My
pajama bottoms slipped down and I shrugged them to the floor and stood
naked. While quite tall and skinny for my age, I was not without strength
from lugging buckets of coal and pails of water. But still I was all
white - that pinky-pasty white from being `Albino'. I looked hard at
him. No, there was no sneering disgust as there sometimes was from
others; for I had done this before. Rather, his eyes and lips were open
more in wonder and he even seemed aroused.



" `Tender cherub..., shining pure like crystal...'," he may have
whispered from some old hymn; it was hard to hear.



I stood upright before him, naked, quiet, obedient. His calloused fingers
landed on my soft little boy-nub and he went at me down there. He quick
squatted on the straw tick to pull off his own dirty worn-out jeans,
boots and smelly socks, leaving himself about bare. Then his open flannel
shirt dropped far down his shoulders to show ripples of wiry biceps. He
looked young but knotty, and I did fancy his friendly face. He pulled me
down so that I knelt on my knees before him. Taking me by the shoulders,
he nudged me to hug face-to-face against him, which I did. Readily
enough, I must say, as I liked him more than most.



"Open your legs for me."



I knew and nodded slowly, spreading my thighs, offering more for him.



"That's my good lad."



He breathed out, heavy. I hadn't known he'd been holding his breath. He
spit in his hand then worked his fingers soft and easy over my boy sack,
rolling the balls inside like bearings - and they were not so small
anymore.



"Ah," he whispered, "like robin's eggs."



His pinching grip made me lurch forward against him. He rubbed his other
hand on his own balls, and along his thickening prick, not nearly as
bulky as some. He took up his own dripping, gummy ooze and began to wipe
it on me down there.



"Go ahead, smear your little cocklet with my dick-snot," he whispered.



As I did, he felt me all over -- ears, neck, bum, thighs - rubbing his
own seepings into my skin -- chest, belly, butt, balls. He got very
gentle in an urgent way.



"They'd do me this way; wasn't so long ago," he sighed. "Heh, heh --
one day these dick-stringers of mine'll make some girly feel really good
and get her storked!"



He held me face to face. I tensed, yet softened to him while growing a
stiffy. Facing him, glancing up into his eyes, I knew what to do. And so
I tumbled all naked, full backward onto the thin bedding before him,
bending both knees tight up on my chest.



"Oooh, let go, itty-bitty boy," he whispered, as his eyes skimmed and his
hands fondled -- `molested' me as some might say. "This'll be good for
you, I promise. You're easier down there now; even as you've hardened in
my hand. Oh baby, let me make you feel good, my little chavvie...."



I sniffled; I got teary. His fingers went low between my legs, and I knew
where he was heading - down where his source of good feeling was to be
found. He shoved me harder onto my back and then lifted my legs up onto
his bare shoulders. I stiffened.



"Yeah..., let loose, let loose," he urged.



He had an air of playfulness to him. It put me at ease. So, in a
practiced move I made myself loosen as he spread my tight ass cheeks. His
sticky fingers were down underneath at my hole.



"You're lovely," he whispered, arching like a billy-goat above me. "I've
dreamed of doin' this, ever since they'd do me back down there before."



He looked in my eyes, all business. Then he prodded my hole down below. I
felt the familiar stretch give way a bit. I could not help but clench
tight about his finger and cry out.



He giggled, "Need more to get in, don't I." Then his call out a slit in
the hanging blanket:



"YO! GREASE HERE!"

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Letter #10:  BAALAM  Chapter  V:   House of Ill-Repute  #3



Watching his eyes, I lay back before him, with my knees pressed tight to
my chest. The kitchen-drippings pot got thrust in. It was nearly empty,
being always in high demand. With one hand, the lad used the gooey grease
to smear me down-below back there, touching and thumping and tweaking and
tupping. I gasped. Then he slicked the head of his dick.



"What a beaut," he muttered as he felt down along my crack. "Ah, the
`sacred valley'. Not enough slime here, but you'll get through it. It's
got to do. Lift your butt, buddy." he whispered.



I complied. He put more force with his finger and I squirmed when he
broke through.



"Uhhnn...!"



He grabbed my shoulder with his other hand as he poked me down below. I
grit my face. He shut his eyes tight too -- not looking at my pain. His
finger went in high and deep. I gasped and teared up.



"Got to the first knuckle," he glanced down at the business there. "Your
little fuck-chute's so warm and tight."



It felt like fire. I scowled, determined to be silent in my pain. But
high-pitched kiddy groans came anyway. He pressed down. He tugged me
tight to his chest and body. I could smell him, and feel him pant like a
dog as he got all of one, then two whole fingers in there. With each
addition I cried loud and long. I heard the echoing jeers and calls from
the big room on the far side of the hanging blanket as they kept count.
Then my young guy went slow. He comforted me.



"Good boy," he whispered. "I been there. I know what things are like. See
how hard you're making me? I need to turn you over now, kid, to lie you
face down on your belly. It's time. I'll go easy, but it'll hurt. You
gotta be brave. I'll be quick. I know I can't last long in such a beauty.
Lie front first here."



I nodded. I was turned over all bare, face flat onto the straw tick. Once
he had me on my stomach, he made my legs go wide apart, then wider. I
knew to be quiet. But I knew I couldn't be quiet. He grabbed a sticky,
cruddy feather bolster and pushed it down on my head.



"Yeah..., my cock'll be worse than fingers. I'll muffle you if you get
too loud; I hope I don't gotta. Look, your little hole's popped out for
me."



I was sprawled - spread eagle - belly down on the straw tick, but peeked
around. He hawked up a huge, hacking glob and wiped my butthole with it.
He spit again into his hand, and spread that over his cockhead. I looked
at his closely, which was not so fat or long, but to me looked as gnarly
smooth as a pokey branch on a slick hornbeam tree. His stiff thing
lengthened to about the span of his hand. Yet the skin fold still covered
a good bit of the pink bell-end tip. Then with some care he placed that
part at the entrance to my bum. I watched him pinch the base of his cock;
I knew they did that to keep it hard. With his other, he used his fingers
to spread my cheeks wide. I gasped and cried out. High and loud. More
than once.



"Ah, sweet one, your hole is already wet and puffy from my finger
bangin'."



He then lay face down on top of my back. I could tell he was trying not
to let his weight bear on me too much. He pulled the feather pillow away
and I gasped with intake of breath. His young chest and belly and groin
lowered full weight on my bare boy-butt and back and shoulders. He kissed
and nipped about my head and neck. With all of him on top of me, I let
out a high-pitched moan - a squeak even.



That made him laugh.

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Letter #10:  BAALAM  Chapter  VI:   House of Ill-Repute  #4



"I got you now, kid," he said.  We giggled together for a bit after
this. Then he shuffled about. "Here. It's at your rosebud. I'll go in
slow."



He placed it and pushed it. Pressure! Pain! It hurt! Mouth wide open, I
lifted my head in a drawn out, high wail. He shoved my whole body hard
face-down on the straw-tick, pulling the feather cushion tight over my
head to keep me quiet. His stringy, muscled weight held me.



"UNH...! Whew! Well, little lover, we'll take it an inch at a time.
That's good, huh?"



I did know that slow was better than fast. He continued to enter me...,
even more..., then more. Slowly, slowly.... Moaning moments went by as he
moved deep - so deep - within.



 "Ah, the feel.... The feel of your hole, your tight hole, your tight
virgin hole wrapping around my cock.... Oh, pure magic.... Yesss....
Heaven!"



By the time his hanging balls brushed upon the skin below my hole, I was
sniffling and weeping.



"Bottomed out - beautiful! I'll get maybe two, three good thrusts in
there."



As we embraced, he tried to kiss me, but each time I turned my head away.
I did this because I did not know how. He did not seem to care about
that, and went on doing what he was doing - and I got a charge from what
he was doing now.



"Ooh, I fuckin' love you so much, little angel." He whispered and
licked in my ear, nibbling on it. "This means the world to me."



He began to pull back as I bucked and sighed aloud, giving a whining
wail.



"Found your `spot', ehh?



Again, he thrust slow inside me. With ins-and outs did come receiving
whimpers and my gasps of surprised pain, with louder moans. That strange,
cock-a-hoop, chuffed, giddy thrill of fulfillment with gratification --
all from being buggered.



"Let me love you, baby."



Remembering that he was a customer -- and I liked him - I managed a thin
smile and a nod of my head, "Hmm...."



He giggled, "Aw fuck...!" as he got in another thrust amidst my
ever-increasing groans.



"Hush, baby," he whispered and laughed, "I'm there! I'm there,
buddy! I'm in there! AHH...!"



He gave a high cry as his flexing dick hit deep inside, his hips jerking,
his weight falling full-bore on top of me. I twitched and shook as, with
a moan and a sigh, I gave-to in yet another of my young-boy cumless nuts.
With his loud cry, someone out in the main room gave a raucous laugh and
clapped hands.



Before I knew it, it was all over.



"Whoo!" He panted. "Ropes and ropes of stuff..., shooting up in
there..., ahh...! Best ever...; you're best ever!"



He tightened his arms around me, then quick rolled over onto his back,
pulling me with him. His stuff still in me, my back to his front now - I
was face-up on top of his belly. He felt of my scrawny body as it rose
and fell on him while his breathing slowed. His rough fingertip on my
neck and nipple, along my belly, upon my slick, itty prick. There were no
other sounds. His shrinking presence slid free of my loosened opening.
Such grateful relief from pain! Such lamented loss of shining! I raised
my head to look down at the older boy's limp and glittery pisser with
that foamy slime at the tip. Streaks of syrupy, white semen seeped out of
me. We were done.



In a daze, I stared up toward the cobwebbed ceiling rafters of the low
ell we were in. I watched the house spider repair her web and roll
threads around a small fly she had captured. I was that small fly -
caught deep in thought, relief, shame, and yes, unexpected pleasure. The
boy-man shifted his head about to watch me. I dared not look at his eyes.
Yet I stretched out my small hand. I stroked along the soft, new bristles
on the side of his cheek. My eyes asked, `Was I good?', when all along
I knew I was. I saw him smile.



"Yeah, buddy," he said, fingering my hair. "You're best ever. The
best boy."



Eye to eye for the moment we lay in peace - soft-hearted as our tremors
ceased, our breaths released, our bodies at ease....

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Letter #10:  BAALAM  Chapter  VII:   House of Ill-Repute  #5



...But then...



"Hey!  HEY!  H-E-Y!!!"



The blanket of our ell was ripped away. The harsh voice screeched,
"He's used; but aint used up! I'll gag `im! You bear-hold `im!!
Father and Son!"



In terror, the younger lad clasped my thin arms tight and tighter so
movement was impossible. The old man tugged down my chin. His hand
pinched my nostrils to force my mouth wide. He jabbed his stiff, stinking
club of a man-cock between my lips. I gagged for breath in gasps as his
dick swelled big in my mouth. It rammed home hard all the way back in my
throat. My eyes bugged out and I flashed `he's killing me. I'm gonna
die.'



My head bounced with each of his three jerks. Then wads of thick, bitter
spunk spewed and choked my gob with his gunk. When I was scared, I got
quiet. So, after struggling, in time I did not cry anymore and I ceased
to give any resistance. I thought I was done. But my `obedience' only
seemed to work him up even more. He made me do it all again before he
pulled his meat from my throat. The old man set back on his haunches,
closing up his trousers.



"Aww...,", he laughed, "Our spent little angel! That's it, Sonny. We
move out. Back to work. NOW!"



Both men were gone in the instant, leaving me huddling hacking and
spitting and gagging, naked as a butt-dripping jaybird. I rolled up into
a tight, helpless ball at the side of the pallet with my pj's down by my
ankles. I had a huge headache; my jaw and bottom hurt. I choked badly,
nearly passing out from lack of air. I was confused about why I did not
fight? Why I had an erection while I was being raped? Why I was the one
to deserve it?



"BAALAM!" my `blood & guts' Mother-Madame screeched. "Up and at em!
Get out to the pump! Rinse off! Bring back two pails of water and two
scuttles of coal. Now! Quick! NOW!!!"



Her hard clawed fingers raked my shoulder, pulling me in-the-raw out into
the big room and to my feet. All this amidst the catcalls from other
customers, too far gone in drink and hanky-panky to do anything but
laugh. For the instant, I stood front-first before them all in my shame.



I was stripped baby-bare, stringy tall and awkward; as still as a pale
white alabaster statue intimate with suffering. I stood inglorious yet
erect, narrow and naked; a lean coltish boy with long legs spread wide,
bald budding sex blatant and diminishing. My head thrust far back, my
crossed arms lifted off my narrow-ribbed chest, to fold anonymous across
my face, covering my eyes from my own self-disgust. 



Yet, although I have no explanation for it, during the entire time I felt
that I was not alone. I felt as though there was some presence standing
close by my side with me. A presence which understood what I felt, and
held me. An unsuspected inner resource? A spiritual experience? Who can
say.



My old Madame Mother thrust raggedy pants and shirt at my belly and sent
me spiraling starkers out the side door. Whimpering and spitting bitter
old-man spunk, I squatted to dump a great milky shit, and then doused
myself beneath the cold, clear water from the hand-pump. I pulled on the
frayed clothes.



My elder Beautiful Sister appeared at my side saying, "Take her the coal
and water. Then get back out here. And run! Run away! RUN, Baalam.... Do
you hear me? Run for the hills!"



I hauled the first bucket loads into that House for the very last time.
Madam Mother watched when I went out for the next, but I was never to
return as her minion. I saw the high hill to the east -- the Hill of
Sorrows. I heard tell of the twisting and turning forbidden path through
the Big Woods - that dense, dark forest smelling of frost, dank earth,
and dead leaves, where an unsuspecting traveler might be ensorcelled by
witch or wizard. Yet I hoped for sanctuary on the other side of the
wilderness.



And so, I escaped. }



... - {{ End Baalam's remembrance of things past. }}

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Letter #10:  BAALAM  Chapter  VIII:   House of Ill-Repute  #6



Yet she knew.



She knew as she stood by the woodstove in the kitchen of the ancient
redbrick farmhouse. Old Aunt Elsa reached up to a high shelf. Books and
figurines and a little soapstone jug stood there. And also a modest
Viking-type, slab-leg chest, far smaller than a bread box. Lifting the
lid she gazed within, and withdrew something quite small and shiny,
something sparkling in the last of the setting sunlight.



The family matriarch then took me by the hand to lead me out of the
kitchen, down from the porch, across the back yard, and into the forest.
She went on the endless old path as it wound far up the high hill amidst
the oaks and maples and pines and wound long down back to the wretched
place on the far side.



A weed-grown brick path led up to the front door of the "House of
Ill-Repute". As it swung wide, there was revealed a smelly kitchen
midden. Here were everything from dirty rushes smelling of urine and
rotting meat, to the contents of chamber pots. My `blood and guts'
Madam Mother stood broad and defiant in the doorway. She sneered,
shouting a non-stop blue-streak as she reached her claws out to clutch me
and pluck me back into that base life. Yet old Aunt Elsa stood firm, with
her small, iron hand on my shoulder, never to release me. Madam Mother
scowled and shrieked, as she always did best, as if in a market
lambasting a seller of squash or potatoes.



Old Aunt Elsa held out her other hand. She opened the fist. Madam Mother
stopped her shout mid-syllable. She stared at the glimmering, glowing,
glistening and gleaming chunk in Old Aunt Elsa's palm. Gilded scarlet --
a thimble-sized nugget of red gold, as it turned out. I soon learned that
it was a piece of the authentic totemic hoard extracted from the ancient
Cygnet-Schwann family cave and tomb on the Isle des Morts, at Red Lake in
Newfoundland. The deal was struck. The sale was done. The bit of gold
fell from Old Aunt Elsa's hand. It fell into Madam Mother's grip, whose
power I knew well from the countless thrashings and beatings I had taken
in my short time.



My freedom was bought, thanks to Old Aunt Elsa.



Beloved Sister, a full dozen or so years older than me, stepped from
behind the door. She hugged me in tears, kissing my neck and cheeks and
hands. For the moment I too fell into her arms, the one safe harbor for
me in that Den of Vice. Then she pulled back, letting me go, liberating
me from all that had held me. Her tears damp on my cheek, mine on hers,
in silence she bid me go and be forever free. Old Aunt Elsa, not once
releasing her tiny, firm hand from my shoulder, turned and we left that
place, never to return. I glanced back at Madam Mother, her eyes only on
the gold in her hand; and elder Beloved Sister, her tearful eyes upon me,
silently wishing me well. I was brought to freedom as the dark deepened
on that autumn night. Old Aunt Elsa led our return along the worn forest
path, beneath the trees, among the brush, seeming to meander up the hill
and down.



It was some years later when I came to understand that `blood & guts'
Madam Mother was not my actual mother, but rather my grandmother. I had
brothers, but they had all been sent away. I had three sisters. The
eldest was my Beloved Sister, twelve years older than me. I did not know
she was my true birth mother. She had been lured into service at a young
age, to give her favors to the higher paying customers at our House of
Ill Repute. In the course of time, my own dear Maximilian gently let me
know that - while of quite different mothers and birthdates -  his
begetter and mine were the same; that my generative father had been none
other than an august and elderly progenitor patriarch of the whole
Drake-Cygnet-Schwann family:  Jaazeniah Cygnet Schwann. In his day he had
been an enthusiastic visitor to what was to become our House of Ill
Repute. And he was well known for having an unharnessed appetite for the
young. As a near centenarian, he had engendered me upon my elder Beloved
Sister, my true birth-mother, taking her at her first tender age of
conception. Just as she had been engendered by him upon another of his
scions - our own Madame Mother - at her menarche a dozen or so years
before that. He not knowing or caring that either of them was his own
daughter.



So I was a Schwann! I had a first and a last name: Baalam Cygnet Schwann.



Upon returning to the farmhouse Old Aunt Elsa had me lose my clothes and
stand in a bath-basin to have warm, soapy water poured over my tall, thin
frame. With a dishrag and lye-soap I was instructed to scrub every inch,
both the get-at-able accessible and the out-of-reach inaccessible -- all
maw-gullet and whole butt-hole included. My clothes were boiled in a pot
on the stove. I rubbed myself dry with a bit of Turkish toweling, and
stood naked in the center of the kitchen. I was tall, boney, with a wiry
-- but strong - scarecrow frame that I have since possessed even unto old
age. Having extraordinarily light -- nearly white -  hair, skin, and
eyes, I had inherited the rare and ancient family trait of acromasia.



Flustered at not having any clean and dry clothes my size, Old Aunt Elsa
bustled about and invaded that as yet unmet cousin's clothes cupboard up
in the third floor `Kith `N Kin' room. She wrapped my narrow frame in
the borrowed voluminous cerise folds of an immense, blood-red heavy
flannel work shirt that enveloped me in a great scarlet shroud. This
proved to be a garment which -- in its various incarnations -- I have
valued all my life and worn as a night robe for rest and leg-over times.
It has been washed now and then down in the soapstone basins of the lower
cow barn. May it ever be put to use in amorous Schwann family cuddlings
to come. [see Letter #24  )



We grinned to one another, Old Aunt Elsa and I, at the existential joke
of my being there -- rescued from perdition -- freshly cleaned and garbed
for my new life in the old redbrick farmhouse.



I had arrived.

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Letter #10:   BAALAM  Chapter  IX:   Kith `N Kin Room  - 1



Half awake, I arose from exhausted sleep. I was in a small, low bed -- my
own solo bed just for me! - a trundle bed as it turned out, that was slid
back under the much wider and higher upper bedstead frame. Starlight and
the setting moon at the window showed me to be in a low-ceilinged room of
moderate size. I had learned that this was the `Kith N` Kin' upper
room, so called, a safe attic bedroom at Old Aunt Elsa's farmhouse for
families to sleep in, with topmost great bed and lower trundle bed to be
occupied all at once by parents and offspring alike. I was alone. How I
valued being alone, having grown up on the rank cots and stained
mattresses of our House of Ill-Repute, under or upon or next to the
sticky, musky bodies of sweaty, snatchy, spermy siblings and customers of
the night. I delighted to be alone. Alone!



Old Aunt Elsa had used her backyard network of matrons, elderly aunts,
inquisitive soul-sisters, and the occasional fey older man to arrange for
my schooling, and to advance my career as a fledgling boy-soprano singer
of note. I did not merely sing along with the Sparrow Boys Choir, but now
I was enrolled as a full-time student at the Sparrow Boys School. Unlike
many of the boys, I was already well-versed in Latin and the classics and
in playing chess and reading music and a fair hand at the piano thanks to
previously having been trained by a harmless octogenarian. He was an
early morning habitue of the House of Ill-Repute who, while never - or
only rarely - touching me, was handy at his own semi-silent senile
masturbatory fantasies while I studied quite naked under his tutelage.
Which he paid for. I had come to understand that the tender washtub
scrub-downs he gave me on those days were not just my regular baths, but
rather lovely rituals strewn with caresses and ripe with unnamed desires.



I was grateful to be a Sparrow School Day Student, and hence enabled to
escape to Old Aunt Elsa's farmhouse each evening for supper and sleep,
rather than sitting in formal jacket and tight tie on a hard bench before
a long table filled with some bland, overdone dinner fare. Plus, I
avoided the `well-known-to-me' experience of occupying a cot in some
attic sleeping space and being at the mercy of hassling-heckling-hazing
upper classmen who turned sexually ravenous on their midnightic,
spunkpuppy rounds after lights out. Although I could tell some tales! And
it was understood that, rather than having to publicly recite in my
ineffective, squawky, falsetto speaking voice, I could submit my reports
in writing and/or suitably sing them to classic or made-up melodies.



In the `Kith `N Kin' upper room I shared a closet with that as yet
unmet older cousin, Old Aunt Elsa let me know. I hung my voluminous red
flannel night shirt (it had been his actually) on a hanger next to work
clothes of similar immense size. These, I was told, belonged to that
mysterious cousin of mine who worked as an apprentice grocer in Toronto.
He must be a big man, I thought, as two or three of me could fit into
every outfit of his. Mementoes of him were to be seen in the room. Other
clothes and man-treasures were packed into the `gentleman's chest',
that is to say in all of `His' upper dresser drawers, over the solo one
assigned to me as `My' lowest bottom drawer. Unable to resist, I had
pawed through the ones above, surprised to find decks of boudoir photo
cards. These were of higher quality and more explicit than any dirty
pictures I had seen at the House of Ill-Repute. Those showed voluptuous
women in various stages of undress disporting in wanton risque poses and
obscene sexually explicit behaviors. Yet the packs of cards in my
cousin's dresser drawer, while similar in being sepia-tinted
daguerreotypes, largely displayed men -- young men, very young men and
boys like me even -- also in various stages of undress, or no dress at
all. And in consensual activities with one another that made me blush --
even with my `House of Ill Repute' experience. Then the ones with
animals...! As I lifted my gaze to the mirror atop the dresser - the blush
of my albino-white facial features turned quite red, I assure you.



Fascinated, I pocketed one of the decks of photos and repaired to the
covert comfort of my trundle bed below the other bigger bed. Mouth-agape,
eyes-bugged, in the pre-dawn glimmer I stared at card after card of
ladies, men, boys, girls, alone and together, faces in ecstasy or misery,
mounting or being mounted by one another and by every sort of creature
known to forest, farmyard, jungle or veld - cats, dogs, donkeys, horses,
cows, pigs, chimps, snakes, and also chickens. Even a picture of a
dolphin doing it with a young boy, from an ancient Greek red-figure vase.
And I was aroused! And so my own pubescent time arrived.



There came that gushy day when shots of white, sticky, slimy, syrupy,
sweetly-sour procreant cum were brought forth from my pizzle by my own
hand.

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Letter #10:  BAALAM   Chapter  X:   Kith `N Kin Room  - 2



Some months later, in the late-night dark of the Kith `N Kin room, the
door to the hallway opened. The pulsing glow of a lit tobacco-pipe
appeared - seemingly drawn and puffed by some giant. A Giant! Broad and
tall, a mythic-being whose form filled the narrow doorway. I stared -- as
much in fascination as in fear. Gruff, grumbling drones emanated from the
form, non-sensical and meaningless, meandering monotones. Song! This was
song. The giant was singing! `Singing' in low mumbling rumbles that
fully disguised whatever the melody was supposed to be. The fearsome
creature stood unseeing, wide and high above me, then toppled forward,
falling headlong. He missed me in my lower trundle bed, but landing
wholly on the knobby cornhusk tick of the upper great-bed, with its
creaking frame and complaining rope lattice. Here was the other occupant
of Old Aunt Elsa's farmhouse -- the fledgling kinsman colossus of
perhaps twenty-five or twenty-six years of age, to whom I had yet to be
introduced, but who was destined to become my Life-Mate. This was Immense
Cousin Maximilian.



From the larger bedstead above me, I heard the grunts and snores and
farts of my cousin -- the young Man Mountain. I sighed with relief that I
could continue to sleep alone in my sheltered trundle bed. This offered
me my solitary peace all alone - given that in the years previous I had
had to wrestle at rest with any number of cousins or siblings or defilers
at the House of Ill-Repute. Now, alone at last, I tugged that voluminous
red flannel shirt about me and sighed with contentment.



I sighed.



And I kept sighing.



I sighed and turned and I tossed in my trundle bed. I could not find
peace. I decided that I was not made to sleep alone, without family or
bedfellows. I poked my head up to look at the playing field in the upper
bed. That Great Mound - rising and falling, snorting and snuffling -
slept beneath black and grey sheepskins stitched together in a vast
blanket. With a silent move that I was surprised to find so familiar, I
rose from my trundle into the cold night air and rolled onto the upper
bed. I softly nestled against my as-yet unmet cousin, seeking his heat. I
lay close by him as in a dream.



...As in a dream....



My cousin Maxamilian! `THUNK', in the heart -- I was struck. `Un coup
de foudre' - Bolt of lightning -- LOVE  AT  FIRST  SIGHT !!! Eros had
marked me out, taken aim, drawn back his bow and let his love-arrow fly.
I had sighted `My Other-Self' as the one romantic ideal. In all truth,
I waited for my `God-Chosen' Kissing Cousin to initiate something. He
did. He responded in kind and put his arm around me. And then nothing
happened. Finally, my voice sounding high and scratchy from disuse, I
chuntered in the fashion of my `tried-and-true', nearly mute mumchance.



"Hey, Cousin, you can `do' me, if you want...."



I heard the Man Mountain inhale deeply - the silence lasted long until a
sighed, "Let's just sleep, Cousin."



And so we slept. We were safe and sound on that first night of what was
destined to become our new spousal life in Old Aunt Elsa's farmhouse.



Long before dawn my eyes blinkered open. I had forgotten my dream. This
world, this farm, this room, this bed, this other creature.... I was in
the upper Kith `N Kin room alright. But I was up in the big higher bed
and not down below on the trundle. And I found a heavy arm thrown over
me. A strong, fuzzy arm - like a gorilla covering me in a most loving and
affectionate manner as though I were his mate. It was only by the sense
of weight and pressure that I knew the sleeping Man Mountain was hugging
me. How strange! At length all the past night's events came to mind, one
by one, and then I lay at ease in our comical predicament. For though I
tried to move his arm -- to unlock his `bridegroom' grasp -- yet
sleeping as he was, he still hugged me tightly, as though nothing but
death should part us. I tried to rouse him --



"Maximilian!"



For I well knew my cousin's name, even if we had not yet been formally
introduced. But his only answer was a solid snorting snore. I rolled
away, my neck feeling as if it were in the horse-collar of his arm, when
suddenly I felt `IT' -- `IT' being the definite, hard push of his
firm, rigid object violating my butt. This brought to mind every
indecency I had ever experienced at the House of Ill Repute. I reared up
in offended and justified rage -- here! - even here in this house of
safety? Was I to be abused further here? I threw off the heavy blanket.



Huh?



There `it' lay: like an ancient Greek `olisbos' -- a dildo perhaps?
Yet the poke was just a stiff, yet very cold and innocent prod of my
cousin's corncob pipe. I gave a smile at my own presumption. Or did I
regret the loss of opportunity, I wondered? `A pretty pickle' I
giggled, abed in this strange house before the break of day with a
`fee-fi-foh-fum' giant and his ever-ready pipe.



"Maximilian! -- in the name of goodness, Cousin Maximilian, wake up!"



At length, by dint of much wriggling and loud and incessant
expostulations upon the unbecomingness of his hugging such a vulnerable
young lad as myself in that matrimonial sort of way, I extracted a
grumbling grunt. Presently the great arm was drawn back. With shakes and
gruffs like a Newfoundland Pup just out of water, up sat in bed the
Man-Mountain himself. He looked at me. He rubbed his eyes, not altogether
remembering how I came to be there. Then a dim consciousness slowly
dawned over him. At last his mind seemed made up touching the character
of his bedfellow, and he became, as it were, reconciled to the fact.
Meanwhile, I lay quietly eyeing him, having no serious misgivings now,
and bent upon narrowly observing so curious a creature by star and
moonlight.

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Letter #10:  BAALAM   Chapter  XI:   Kith `N Kin Room  - 3



"A-HAH!



"You be my cousin, no doubt. You got a fine form for such a skinny kid.
I heard tell of you from dear Old Aunt Elsa, in her breathy-silent manner
of speaking to us family, as you know. You be young Baalam. And I be your
cousin Maximilian. And so, young sir, the time has come to talk of many
things...."



And so we did. Or he did, as we lay thus in bed, he chatting and me
napping in short intervals. Right from the start we communicated fully
together -- he by non-stop exclamations and me by semi-verbal smiles and
nods. He approaching twenty-seven and me going on twelve. We just knew:
`Un coup de foudre' and all that. Little by little we found ourselves
sitting up; the black-grey sheepskins well tucked around us, leaning
against the head-board with our four knees drawn up close together, and
our two noses bending over them. We felt very nice and snug. Maximilian
now and then threw a mighty, muscled leg over mine, and then drew back;
so entirely sociable and free and easy were we.



"Perhaps we might strike a light to have a few quiet puffs from my
corncob pipe!"



I liked nothing better than to share a pipe and a blanket and a bed with
a true friend. We passed the pipe from one to the other, till slowly
there grew over us a blue hanging mist of smoke. There we were, bosom
buddies, best of friends, believably-biologic-brothers, close cousins
only a demi-generation apart, and as chaste as nuns at prayer.  With his
well-fed and well-toned muscles and good looks, I was in love with
Maximilian from those first warm, welcome moments. And I tried to imagine
him naked, as I tended to do with handsome, bristly men.



Maximilian learned of my sad story, both by my sighs, signs and
susurrations, { see Chapters III - VII: Baalam's remembrance of things
past } and likewise from Old Aunt Elsa, in her strange, sibilant way. By
gesture and grin, I begged him to tell of himself. The Man Mountain
gladly complied. With many a vociferous exclamation of ecphonesis, in his
ejaculatory way, he told his tale:



-How at a tender age, a Provincial child of blizzards and cold, he had
crossed the `Canajun' border and gone into the rain and steamy heat of
the American Deep South. He was a quite young anti-slavery,
pro-emancipation, Canuk drummer boy for the Billy Yanks in the War
Between the States. This with all the excitement and lovemaking and
starvation and degradation so entailed.



-How he had learned much about men and mankind in the shared
bunker-bedrolls. Hence, he well understood how I might have had such
`enculade' experiences in my own private battlefield-beds at the House
of Ill-Repute.



-How, following hunger and famine and starvation, he had returned to the
Great White North. Max was older and wiser and made a vow to live a quiet
life and to grow the best quality food and make such available to all.
Hence, he had worked some years at a high-society grocer in Toronto. Now
having completed an apprenticeship, he determined to found his own
`Carriage Trade' greengrocery in our local community. And indeed, after
spending time as a pushcart peddler, he was to successfully build up
`Max's Market' in Mount Forest town with fine produce from our area
farms and fields, and by rail from the Toronto waterfront Night-Market
for specialty items.



And so began a fine courtship for me and Cousin Maximilian -- initially
Friends, evolving as chastely intimate Kissing-Cousins, developing into
Special Friends, to emerge as Life-Lovers. Hence there came that frosty
night when I played the hand I had ached to play for months. I was not
without certain understandings and skills honed from my youthful time at
The House of Ill Repute. So it was that I lay against him, pulling that
sheepskin blanket about us both, tucking it around his bare shoulders. I
slid one arm beneath his neck, wrapped the other around his immensely
strong bare torso as best I could, considering my significantly smaller
frame, and held him close. His broad hairy back pressed against my
slender hairless front. Surely he felt the physical evidence of my
excitement against him, pressing hard from out my voluminous red-flannel
nightshirt. But, if so, he made no objections to our bedding ritual. And
so we slept.



Toward morning, I was in the midst of slinking back down away to the
trundle bed and beneath my own blanket when I heard Maxamillian's moans
and mumbles. Moving fast, I was back up on the big bed and by his side.
The Great Bear was weeping - shaking and jerking in his drouse, sobbing
and speaking of past times and past fears and past dreams. I squeezed his
shoulder and patted his face. He awoke from his nightmare, eyes rolling
and wild. I smoothed his hair and brushed his jet black beard with my own
albino tresses. I kneaded the tough mounds of his chest.



"Will you forgive me for touching you?" I begged. "I won't do
anything. I just want to touch you."



We were in love.

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Letter #10:  BAALAM   Chapter  XII:   Kith `N Kin Room  - 4



Cousin Max and I faced each other, giggling like two schoolgirls. He was
more than a best-buddy, he was my true-love.



"What? They call this `spooning' where you're from?"



"No better way to spend a chilly night."



We lay side by side then -- the small and the tall - my chest pressing
his broad back; my lap cupping his big butt; my arms gripping his great
frame. He was about naked - I having pushed his nightshirt down. I
loosened and lost my immense red flannel pajama top so we lay skin to
skin. Curled together beneath the covers, we feared to do any more than
cuddle until we were certain.



"You sure have a fine form for such a scrawny lad. Makes me feel safe."



"How a tyke like me could make a colossus like you feel safe is beyond
me."



Ahh.... Such was my desire for him. I felt a flicker of it each morning as
I watched him bare to the waist and bathing, splashing cold water on his
face, his vast, lean chest and wide hard belly coated with dark hair. And
so my hands moved over his flesh freely. My fingers tended to his great
body as he subsided into sleep. I took delight in the density of muscle.
I traced his bodily wounds, and the rigid curves of old battle scars. My
prayers were all for more -- more touch, more taste, many more shared
days to come. And so we were introduced to an ardent, yet basically
chaste loving life one with another together - if but by the occasional
strange route.



He told me, "I don't know how.... How to make tender-love, true-love.
Look, I'm begging you to touch me whenever you can, as lovingly as you
can and as often."



His face got red and hot.



"For while your Maximilian acts a Hercules, a Giant with rippling
muscles, an Achilles - yet he has a softer side. You've got to know I
could not take it in The War Against the Rebellion," he murmured. "I
cried when I got whipped. And I cried when I got bucked. And I cried when
I got fucked." Maximillian drew a deep breath. "For I break easy, oh my
Baalam." Maximilian's voice was low, shaky yet given to viva-voce
utterance. "I may look strong, but I've got this scared little boy
inside me whose tears shame me again and again." My great cousin gave a
small grin, "In any case, I only regret the affections that I did not
share with the other boys and men.



Maxamillian looked into my eyes, and I told a tale.



"We are like one of Old Aunt Elsa's stories. The small Knight enters
the chambers of the bewitched Prince, the big one, who has been asleep
for many centuries. The Knight's affectionate concern causes the Prince
to awaken from his deep slumber. But..., when the young Knight tries to
take the Prince out of the castle and into the world, the Prince turns
into a beast - fearsome, large, and ugly. And it is only when the young
Knight shows that he can love the beast in spite of his ugliness, that
once again he turns into a handsome Prince and they are free to go where
they will."



I pulled Max closer. `I'll teach you to love,' I murmured. And I did.
As we embraced, our tongues and lips sealed together. Strange and good
and pure. I slid my hand over my cousin's buttocks. They were hard and
curved. I loosened my cousin's pajamas to pull his great limp penis and
balls out. I spit into my palm, applied the wet, and stroked. Cousin
Maxamilian shifted onto his back. I tightened my grip around his
`Membrum Virile', as he termed it. I bent to lick his chest curls. I
lapped at a wide nipple then drew it between my lips. Maxamilian's head
fell back, his shoulders flexed, he arched against the bed. He bucked his
hips into my thin hand. He stared up at me as I rode my palmful of saliva
hard at him for long minutes. My shaft-stroking sped up, he grunted and
thrust, rocking the two of us in the bed. When I tugged hard on his balls
he gave a strangled cry. That finished him with a spewing eruption of
slick, sticky semen.



Lying half on him then, I pushed aside my pajamas and plucked out my own
thin prick. Cousin Maxamilian nodded, grinning. He heaved a long sigh.
Such sweet swelling. In a learned move I leaned to his face. I rubbed my
stiff prick through his shaggy hair, across his taut lips and cheeks and
tongue. Then, I was taken to a new level. He pushed me and held me up
against the headboard at the end of the great bed. He tossed aside my
nightshirt, working on my chest and tummy with his lips as he made his
way down. Once there, he nosed, he licked, he nibbled, he slurped and
sucked my middle leg. He would not just go up and down, but upside,
downside, underneath, and all around. As always, I was quite literally
speechless. Of a sudden it was as though an underground spring leapt
forth to surge spurting into the sunlight. His bearded cheeks splashed
with my own copious sticky white stuff. His long dark hair streaked with
my glistening, spasmodic dew. And I fell against him, breathing hard,
staring into his eyes. He nodded, and had me rub my thickening seed over
his lips, into his hair and beard, over his shoulders. Then I pressed my
mouth against his in what was to be our endless time of play. Tasting
myself in his mouth, our kiss lasted long. We had asked for this  for
months, by word and deed. Thus our prayers were all for more.



More touch, more taste.

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Letter #10:  BAALAM   Chapter  XIII:   Toronto  - 1



And so, I attended school and extended my treble singing voice - ever
higher and stronger. I was featured in choirs at the Sparrow Boys School
and at churches throughout Grey County. I was `in demand', as they
said. I often practiced and sang and performed with another boy
high-soprano from school. This was "Giddy".  He wore a sterling silver
`Sancta Caecilia' medallion around his neck, the patron saint of music,
with his name engraved on the back: Gideon Tuffin Taylor. He was
thirteen, a year younger than me, and I admit that his voice was high,
sweet, and clear of tone. In all modesty - and he agreed, everyone agreed
- my vocal tones were stronger, purer, more sonorous and higher even than
his. Plus, I stood a head taller than him. However, where I was tall,
scrawny, ghost-pale and funny-looking, Giddy was a most beautiful boy in
every way. Finely formed, cheerfully faced, and a comfortable and
endearing manner with an audience to boot. So..., whenever our Boys Choir
sang, Giddy was placed prominently in front to be the fresh face of our
choir, while I was tucked discretely behind among the taller alto and
bass boys, so as to recede into the background. Except my voice -- which
soared above all others and rang pure and sweet of tone throughout the
hall. Usually, people thought those notes came from Giddy. I cannot say
that we were friends, but we did not hate each other -- rather we
tolerated one another mostly. There was respect, too.



It came to pass that Giddy and I won summer scholarships to practice,
rehearse and sing with the elite boys choirs in the cathedrals of
Montreal. This was a true honor for the Sparrows Boys School, and our
choir master Mr. Mackie was beside himself with pride. Giddy and I got
quite a sendoff at the Mount Forest train station, and we boarded the
coach and crowded together on the wicker seat to get both our heads out
the window. We waved and yelled back at the kids seeing us off. The train
pulled out for our connection in Toronto - and so we were on our way.



It was an exceptionally slow, jolting journey with many wayside stops. We
had time to check out our fellow travelers, including two unlikely
gentlemen who had bowed and waved to us when we boarded. One tall and
smooth like nothing so much as a high-end card shark, and the other short
and pudgy and stupid who smoked a long, white pipe and handled their sole
valise. There were unexpected delays to get some milk cows off the
tracks, and so we missed our connection to Montreal. Here we were, two
country kids alone and lost in the bustling, cavernous train station of
Toronto.



"Perhaps we may help," warbled a slick, silvery voice. "Allow me to
introduce myself."



It was the taller of our two fellow travelers on the train from Mount
Forest. He wore a derby and expensive suit, although now worn and frayed
at the cuffs. He spoke in a suave patois with a Quebecois French accent,
while sliding a quick hand along Giddy's narrow shoulder and down to
palm the trim lad's receiving taut, round rump.



"I am Jean Honnete, and this my mute associate little Gedeon. May we be
at your service! I do believe that we had the honor of attending your
spectacular `choeur de garcons' recital at the church hall in Mount
Forest. Young Master Gideon, I believe, named so like my companion little
Monsieur Gedeon. And Master Baalam, is it not? Each of you is an
exceptional sopranists of the adolescent tessitura type to be sure. Ah,
the great choirs and theaters of Europe surely await your gifts, if only
one might perpetuate your voices as they now are before they age even a
day more. How honored we are to meet you here, all as castaways in this
vast city. May we lodge you both until our morning train to Montreal? An
associate stables horses for hire in town, and I am certain we may be
casually accommodated in the loft of his city barn."



With a glance to one another, Giddy and I gave a tentative nod as we did
not know where else to stay. Our small bags were grabbed and we were
whisked off before we hardly knew it. To Giddy's and my astonishment,
there was a city hack-and-horse sort of cab right outside the station and
we all climbed and jostled aboard. The glowering, brawny coachman
immediately flicked his whip and we clip-clopped off along the wide
metropolitan boulevard with those fancy cars and spiffy department stores
and so many rushing, rushing people. The driver drew on the reins so our
nag gave a sudden, unexpected turn to draw our dray onto the back streets
of the great city. We meandered among alleys and narrow passages until we
came to a tiny paddock crammed between the tenements. The old lift-off
oak-slatted gate squealed and creaked as it closed behind us. The
tumbledown stinky stable housed but one horse, some chickens, and three
great grunting, snorting, squealing hogs in a pen. And now us.



Giddy and I were handed dirty mugs of reddish-brown tepid liquid and told
to drink up, as this was likely to be our only nourishment. We did. What
a bitter, bitter concoction; one they called `mule-kick', which made us
grimace and dizzy and likely drunk. We were laid out on some straw and
covered with a horse blanket.



That was the last of the ephebic lives that we - Gideon Tuffin Taylor and
Baalam Cygnet Schwann - had come to know.

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Letter #10;  BAALAM  -  Chapter XIV:  Toronto -2



"SING! Sing baby! Sing for us....!"



"AIEEE...!



Screams of agony. Screams of terror. A horse's panicked whinnying bray;
chickens' flustered squawks; hogs' hellish squeals, grunts, oinks,
snorts. The whole stable twisted around me as I struggled. They kicked
and pushed me - the brawny coachman and little Monsieur Gedeon hit me,
twisting my arm. I kicked out with both feet. I was lifted off the floor.



"Sing for us, baby....!"



I growled, but vowed not to cry out. I would not `sing' for them!
Instead I would take anything. Anything! By lantern light, smirking Jean
Honnete puffed a cigar with a banshee's grin. They carried me...; oh, so
cold. Men threw me on my back. A man's weight crushed me down on the
upended fence gate. They had lifted the swinging paddock gate right off
the hangers. They lashed my flailing arms and kicking legs onto that
pallet as if onto an operating table. My shirt gone, torn away, boots
off, feet cold. Pants pulled down and away. Underdrawers torn. I thrashed
and writhed with all my strength. My arms got twisted back over my head;
rope and bailing twine burned tight around my wrists. I was stretched out
taut and hard. I sank my teeth into their muscle and hair. They hit me. I
heard cloth rip even before the cold touched my new nakedness. I broke
from the daze to find myself stripped nude; filthy rags jammed deep in my
mouth; ropes chafed; splintery slats tearing my bare backside. Ankles
caught, stretched down and out. Such pain at my head, back, butt, thighs.
I had got trussed-up; splatchcocked; splayed-out like a hog to be
butchered - like a deer to be gutted. Slaps on my face and hits to my
chest and belly. Yet I would not cry out.



I jerked my head to look about. Young Giddy, also a stark, stripped
youngling boy; was wracked out and bound next to me. In our laudanum
stupor we had been plundered in the raw and hogtied. His open mouth wide
in horror; his unending screams. The brawny coachman had his hand up. A
click and snap of his wrist. The lantern light flashed on his hand. The
blade! The knife opened with the blade. And the hook. The hook! The men
vowed to castrate us both - castrate us like sheep and wave our testicles
in the air before feeding them to the frenzied hogs.



Yelling, shouting, NO......! The screams Aieee....!  Help....!



What chorus was this? What choir of boy sopranos in agony? No, the tones
were higher even, not voices, but shrieks, screams. Giddy. Gideon Tuffin
Taylor -- thirteen. His voice. There was his voice, high, shrill,
piercing, begging. Then a crisp -- `snap' - and the fine sterling
silver chain and `Sancta Caecilia' medallion was whipped from his neck
into the air as a burly hand lifted to snag and pocket it. There was
yelling. Some call from Jean Honnete to "Shut Up!" - not to Giddy, but
to the men. The knife and hook gleamed again in the lantern light. The
brawny coachman bent over Giddy. Unending savage shrieking screams. Then
a long, panicked wail. And with the first cut of the knife the battle was
lost. He knew just what they were doing to him. He fell powerless.



Silence.



Laughter.



Laughter as the brawny arm held up one pulpy mass of gory red tissue,
dripping blood -- then a second. Laughter as the gore was waved about
then tossed into the hog pen with the huge animals ramming, squealing,
grunting at their feed. Giddy crumpled like a ragdoll - a limp, lifeless
form slumped cast-down on the gate; head dropped in silent, senseless
stupor; bright red blood pumping-pulsing-coursing-draining down his
thighs in a spurting crimson rush from that open wound.



So much blood.

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Letter #10;  BAALAM  -  Chapter XV:  Toronto -3



A stroking; a dry rough hand at me - but tender, so tender. Stroking,
sliding, touching. Stroking over my neck and mouth, stroking around my
lips. I flipped my head from side to side, desperate. Jean Honnete's
voice mummering all the time, talking of Ideal Celestial Beauty and Form
and Perfection and Balance and of a Child, a Child-man, a Trophy. Me! He
was talking about me. Hands sliding over my rib cage, soft, feeling,
palpating, sensing; tender and loving, even. Then about my belly and
belly button, just barely touching over my thin, long torso. Along my
thigh and calf, drawing up my feet to pull on my toes. His voice. He'd
been talking the whole time. Not singing but sighing. Saying my name
softly. Calling to me. Admiring me. Loving me. My gorge rose. Were I to
vomit, I would vomit in his face. But my throat was gagged. I could not
cry or call. I would not. I felt my legs forced apart. Hefty, horny hands
at my cock, caressing, tightening about it. Down around my butt, hot
hands now, gripping the muscle. That muffled shrieking moan -- My Own!
Pulls on my ball sack, lifting, tightening, drawing it out. Then the
opium-tinged cloth gag fell from my mouth. Too parched to cry out, yet
gasping shrills. Calls. Begs.



"NOoo....  NOoo.... NOoo...!"



My own dry strident voice. The ball sack grasped. The blade raised and
falling. Sharp! Hot! A cut! Shrieks. Another cut. Another shriek. Fingers
at my center, at my soul, punching, pulling, pitching my soul forth and
away, as if assaulted by a scuttlers' street gang down there. The hook.
The brawny coachman showing me the hook of his knife set.



"NOoo....!"



Sharp. Pain. A digging deep into me, a snagging, a pulling. Fire! Hot! A
pull and ripped open and out and gone. My ball gone. Again. The butcher
at me. The screams. The burning and pulling at my soul with my insides
torn out. Gone.



"Ma' balls...!" In stifled scream, "Wha ya' done w' ma' balls!"



Hands away. No touching. The men's calls and cries and laughter and
jeers. Me trussed on the oak-slat fence gate. Lantern light. Jean Honnete
leering, teeth bared, voice reverberating, voice lost on me. There. In
the light. In his fist. The bloody pulps held high in his hand. He
dangled them before my eyes.



"NOoo....!"



He was saying, `Look!" or "See!" or "Watch!" or "Mine now!"



He pointed with his leering face to the hog pen, where the porkers were
snuffling. The animals knew. They understood. This cruelty had happened
to them. He flipped his hand to the side and the bloody bits sailed over
the fence into the midst of the hogs. High squeals and gruntings. The
hogs fought over them. Pushing and snouting one another away. Hungry
squeals and ecstatic shrieks from the hogs now. Screams. My balls....
Gone.... Deepest heavy kicking pain in my groin. Wet with blood. Empty.
Gone.



The shrieking. The crying. The blubbering. My voice, so high, so lost.
Silence. No, not silent. Laughter and calls and one of the men, little
Monsieur Gedeon, vomiting in a corner, again and again. But my world
silent, sharp with pain, an agony of degradation, a lamenting of loss.
Fire! Sudden fire in my groin. Wet splashing there, burning, searing.
Jean Honnete pouring bootleg homebrew over me down there. Hot hurt and
searing stinging as hooch moonshine, ninety proof alcohol, burned me.
Then the sizzle, pop -- screams -- the smokey smell of scorching cautery.



Weeping. Who was weeping? Some small child. Bereft. Abandoned. Alone. My
own voice, whimpering and childish. So sad. At some point, hours later,
moments later? Hands and feet let loose. Dropped off the gate onto the
barn floor. Hard and cold - but could clench tight now; tug arms and legs
drawn down about the great central hurt. A horse blanket, heavy, dropped
on me. I was rolled up like in a rug, kicked, tossed in a corner, then
nothing. No sound, no light, no calls, no hits. Sob. Sobs. Sobbing.
Murmuring, muttering, sighs of loss and degradation. I was gone, out....



Then back. Men's angry voices. Heavy fists hitting other's faces.
They'd cut too far. They'd lost him. Giddy gone..., unintended...,
incidental..., bled dry..., dead.... The brawny coachman and Monsieur
Gedeon slinging a load; a slim, pale, naked boy-form slung between them;
flipped in a swing and a toss; lifted high over the side rails of the
pen. Splat! Into the muck. Hogs snuffling, squealing and shrieking. I was
gone, out, then back. A momentary memory. A detached thin arm flung up by
a grunting hog then splat down into the slime. Giddy's gnawed arm, the
hand's thumb and forefinger lost, severed, chewed off; the hand splayed
out with only the final three digits.



I was gone, long time out, then back. I had been cut. I was castrato.



Their castrato.

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Letter #10;  BAALAM  -  Chapter XVI:  Paris -- 1



Days, weeks, months of candlelight in catacombs and underground cells
with wet rock walls. Below a cathedral or charnel house, likely. Below
the cobble Parisii streets of La Ville Lumiere, certainly. The floor, the
ceiling so close. Hermit's cells. Curate's crypts. Sputtering candle
flame flickering on dark, dripping stone walls. Cold, wet, chilled. Small
figures in gray; wizened, shrunken, jostled to and fro - nuns or
apostates brusquely bathing us, re-wrapping our wounds. Nothing but bits
of bread, cheese and sour soup.



I shivered in rags on a narrow cot, trembling, shaking. I regretted not
being dead - that I had not died like Giddy under the knife on that
pallet in Toronto. In time however, I came to give thanks that I was
alive. So I laid back the cloth and looked at the mutilation. The skin
moist and feverish still. My scrotal sack had been gashed, my balls out,
the small wound crudely cauterized. In time the sack would wither to
nothing. I had seen calves and piglets and lambs and cockerels grow as
steers and barrows and wethers and capons. I stared at myself, at my
`membrum virile', as Cousin Maxamilian had once spoken of it. I still
had it. It lay in repose and had lost none of its first inches of
manhood. In fact, it could thicken and lift as if an engorged priapic
Lazarus raised from the dead. Certainly still virile, if not ever
fertile. And having been cut when I was older, I could handle myself to
stiffen and to a sort of grateful release. A tight 'pinch'; not unlike
what a woman might feel perhaps - likely not as intense. Trickling spurts
of clear, thin, mucus-like fluid. No more geysering, spouting ropes of
procreative thick, clotted, sweetly sour, creamy-white milky cum. My face
smooth, never to bear beard. Nor would there ever be hair on my chest.  I
wept at the monstrous violence, the appalling injustice.



Yet I was alive only because of him -- because of Jean Honnette. My
rescuer was both my maimer and my deliverer, my mutilator and my
redeemer. He had cut me. He had saved me. He had carried me from Toronto
to Montreal and la ville de Quebec, then by steamship to Le Havre. He
kept me safe in the catacombs of Paris. He would see to my vocal training
and my operatic career.



"Ah, the glory of the theater!," proclaimed Jean Honnette, "I am
speaking, my boy, of THE OPERA! Bright lights! Applause! Fame!"



My new name was Monsieur Gedeon -- after his beloved, now eliminated
colleague, and also the beautiful lost boy Giddy. I was Gedeon. I was in
training to be a great castrato. The price for being alive was my voice.
My high, perfect voice -- ever stronger, ever richer, ever more supple,
and guaranteed perfect for life due to the gratuitous cutting.



For three or so years they worked me hard, as a trainer might with an
athlete. A grueling routine of stretching and lifting and running. I
added strength and tightened muscles, gained a great capacity in my
chest. A long period of rigorous voice training ensued - hours morning,
afternoon, evening. During the remainder of the day, we young castrati
had to find time to practice pianoforte, and to compose vocal music. This
demanding schedule meant that I might be able to make a debut with a
perfect technique and a voice with the flexibility and power no woman or
ordinary male singer could match.



Finally, it seemed that my voice was right enough. I had the voice of a
soprano woman, but the vocal power of the full-grown, eighteen-year-old
contralto man that I was. A powerful, clear, equal and sweet voice, with
perfect intonation and an excellent `shake', as they said. There were
six of us castrati in our `classe debutant', ranging in age from little
more than eleven to `le vieil homme' -- me -- having been cut when I
was fourteen. Now at eighteen they saw me as a boy who was almost a man -
a tall, lithe, angelic youth with a man's bearing. For a joke they
dubbed me `Maestro Farinelli'. Farinelli being the most celebrated
Italian castrati singer of a hundred years before. He had a voice that
ranged over three octaves, and was able to prolong a note for a full
minute without taking a new breath. Gelded by age eleven, tradition held
that his breath was not the only thing he could prolong - given that his
castrato-phallic-erection lasted long and could be vigorously enjoyed
with a paramour for hours.



For him there was never a climax nor an ejaculation.

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Letter #10;  BAALAM  -  Chapter XVII:  Paris -- 2



The number of our `classe debutant' dropped to five when one of our
stellar members - le petit Etienne -- was retailed by Monsieur Jean
Honnete to be sold and carried off by a Shiekh from Arabia. The rest of
us were destined for more local markets. The catacombs and sewers beneath
the Paris streets led to sub-basements in a number of halls, recital
spaces, auditoriums and grand theaters. I might be ushered along to a
practice hall, or to join a church choir, or to cover for an opera
performer where my odd tall, thin albino look with pink face and whiteish
hair might be made-up, camouflaged and costumed so as to not be alarming.
Where it would be my voice that commanded attention.



Ah, le petit Etienne....



Before his abduction to the seraglio in Arabia, Le Petit Etienne, at
perhaps eleven or twelve years old, was among the youngest and freshest
of our number. I knew that every eunuch had been cut as a small boy,
almost as soon at the testicles gained their first weight. Le petit
Etienne told his story of how the boys from the canton of Lozere with
good, promising voices, such as he had, were taken to a back-street
barber-surgeon, just as he had been. The boys would then be placed in a
hot water bath with special herbs and spices. They were doped with opium
since there was no anesthetic. The procedure involved squashing the
testicles and then removing them by cutting at the groin and severing the
spermatic chord. As if to justify this assault, Etienne's clear, strong
voice filled the room like a bright golden bell. He ran up and down the
arpeggios with ease. By swelling the notes, he inflected them with what
seemed to be joy. He was so beautiful. I was half in love with le petit
Etienne.



Offering me a slight smile he whispered, "Tiens moi un moment...."



"Aimer et etre aime...."



Well.... "Behave `as if' you are a man", we were told. Something
flexed and swelled within me. In truth, my cock was straining my
trousers. I flashed a winning grin his way before picking the lad up and
cuddling him. My hands moved over his smooth, cool flesh and the curves
and hollows of his slight, trim form. Meanwhile, Etienne delighted in
handling the heft of all my older boy muscles about my shoulders and arms
and the whole of my long frame.



In a moment, the two of us were on our knees. We were half undressed
already. I jerked his pants and drawers down, exposing his pale, thin
thighs. I hungered for his sweet boyhood caught forever on the cusp of
adolescence. His slight sex lay small in the chill of the dank air. I
tugged it out, cupping it in my hands. The limp thing nestled hairless,
an inch or two worth. Yet it did swell a bit. We both stared at the
growth -- his spring bud -- his tiny twig - plumping up to pinkie size. I
took the little crown between my thumb and forefinger and stroked it. The
thing lifted. Le petit Etienne flexed his hips to shove his flesh into my
fist. He groaned. I looked up to find him gazing at me, smiling, with
tongue tip between lips. The boy drew near. His practiced fingers
extracted my own longer, phallic flesh. He lifting all so gently from my
loosened trousers. Things lengthened and expanded in his small hands.



We looked about - no one was in sight - we shed our garments and lay upon
them. At last, le petit Etienne slipped his arms about me. I embraced his
stiff form with all my strength, until I felt him go limp and silent
against me. Le petit Etienne then lay back down on my heavy woolen cloak
spread on the smooth, cool, stone floor. I felt his hand close on my sex,
abusing it as if he meant to break it off. He offered himself face-up in
all simplicity as if he were a woman. I positioned his compact, vibrant
body against my own so that movement was not possible. I wound my arm
around him like an agreeable serpent in the garden of Eden. My fingers
clasped and flexed the youth's legs to hold him firm. We smiled, knowing
pain was to come, yet understood the need for care. We laughed at wanting
to ravish and rape, to break, yet cherish and save each other.  Le petit
Etienne grit his teeth and gave an awful moan as he thrust himself up at
me. His anal pore was tight. So tight. Tighter at the very opening, and
rough feeling inside and then smooth, miry, hot. I thrust harder, and
harder until at last the crowning pinnacle of climax....  Ahh....



Then we lay there, shuddering. We moaned and sighed and settled one with
the other. In my drowse, I thought of the small, snug buttocks under me.
I was engulfed by the memory of such a resistant opening's sensations,
its little rough mouth that was almost too tight and the warmth inside of
it. I felt his nakedness upon my own skin, his chest against mine, the
bare flesh of his neck under my teeth. Suddenly I embraced his stripped
figure once more. I ran my hand down along his smooth, soft belly and set
my stiff, hard-again sex to enter into him all over again. He gasped.
Within the boy as before, I rode him hard with vicious thrusts. Edging
toward pleasure, taking time to build, repeatedly nearing close -- then
-- shiver shudder upsurge shoot enfilade burst frenzy pangs - glow
ennui....



"Ah, je vois des etoiles...."



"Ah, je sens la vague...."



I felt the uttermost crowning moment in a new way, as Le petit Etienne
shuddered lovingly beneath me. The lad moaned, wept and laughed, saying
that his body loved mine just as `meat loves salt.'  And ultimately, we
two coupled yet again. We lay together exhausted, drained - as if the
energy had been sucked from us and been replaced by a void.





I eased my now lifeless penis from between the youngster's buttocks.
There was no sound as it pulled free. His loose opening was stretched
wide, revealing a ruddy-pink canal which became crimson just inside, and
the streaks of my own eunuch-thin, clear, colorless, watery fluids led
the way into the ridged, hidden darkness of his inner cavern. My own
flesh was limp and shiny, visibly wet from le petit Etienne's juices and
my own copious, unclouded emissions; a visible reminder of what had
transpired between us for no less than three times that night. Le petit
Etienne snuggled against me. He nodded sleepily. No words, just the
rhythms of breathing and the patterns of cold drips from the walls and
ceiling of the catacombs. In reverie I imagined we two free and happy -
sporting pas-de-trois with beloved Immense Cousin Maximilian. A happy
threesome on our rope-bed back home at the redbrick farmhouse by Pike
Lake Crossroads.



Then the little lad offered me a gift - his own thin secret knife: a
stockman's `spay blade', a slim-honed castration-cutter with a sharp
edge and dull, rounded tip. It was to be hidden and used to protect a
life or to take vengeance.

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Letter #10;  BAALAM  -  Chapter XVIII:  Paris -- 3



The time had come when I `heard' my own voice perfectly. My voice was
mine again. My voice was high, pure, utterly translucent, with none of
the opacity of the falsetto. Mon maitre maestro Jean Honnete stepped
forward.



He said, "Jeune monsieur Gedeon, your voice is magnificent. Your true
soprano range is obviously phenomenal. And the liquid manner in which you
connected your rounded tones..., - ah! -- such is a voice to reckon
with."



As a discipline, I did allow the notes to rise from within, following
them in my mind without the slightest effort to modulate. When the
simpler, more rustic parts of the chorus and arias came, my voice took
wing. And the joy in all its purity was given to me. Jean Honnete
introduced me into the body of the choirs of the smaller opera houses. I
became one of the lead chanteurs even in the great opera centers of
Europe: - Brussels' La Monnaie, - the Odessa Opera Theater, - Warsaw's
Grand Theatre, - Paris' Palais Garnier, - the Royal Opera House in London
- the Vienna State Opera. The European press covered "Gedeon - L'Ange
Albinos", or `Gedeon - The Albino Angel'. 'Le Correspondant' and 'La
Presse' in Paris; also 'The Illustrated London News' and 'The Daily
Telegraph' in London, all published articles and wood-block print
illustrations of theatrical events. My own published etched portrait was
an idealized caricature of a tall, slim young man with wild white hair
and pale skin, elaborately costumed and posed as singing at high voice to
a full house of opera aficionados.



Then came that day at a society reception in the grand ballroom of the
Hotel Le Meurice in Paris. We two retreated to a small side room where
Jean Honnete fixed his eyes on me. In front of everyone, he planted a
kiss on my cheek. I drew back as if burnt. The others saw, and quickly
left us alone.



"Ah, my young Gedeon, I see the surge of firm muscle beneath your tight
stockings and trousers. The curve of your calf is lovely to me, inviting
my touch. The tight-fit of the black coat upon the slim beauty of your
chest and belly distracts me. Each time you turn, I look at that cloth
pulled taut over the small of your back, the snug fit of the waist and
inguina, and then the gentle flaring of the hips. Always I am wishing to
touch you in that way."



I felt a soundless and invisible wallop to my gut. So, my secret
sodomistic slant and sin was known - and shared. As if my body would not
obey me, I turned and went to my knees. Of their own accord my hands
opened the front of my master's breeches. I felt down along the smooth,
hairless flesh of Jean Honnete's belly and I lured out that jutting
organ - longer, thicker than my own. Immediately I drew it into my mouth.
I required no instruction, having been schooled at The House of Ill
Repute. I felt his meatiness swell as I stroked him with my lips, tongue,
palate and teeth. My body commanded my mouth. My fingers pressed upon the
flesh of Jean Honnete's buttocks, urging all forward. My moans were
rhythmic, desperate, heard harsh over the older man's deliberate sighs.



"Ah, gently," breathed Jean Honnete, "softly-softly."



Yet with a thrust of his hips, he pressed all the savage scents of his
violator's body against me. His guttural cry rose as I felt my own thin,
raw pinnacle of passion pulse from me. At that moment I clung weakened
and reverberating from my shock. He thrust his hips as the thick fullness
of the man's sickly-sour seed overflowed my mouth, pulsing upon me. All
unknowing, I opened to it. An overpowering thirst for the bitterness of
it, the savor of it, the evil wolfishness shown. I realized that if I
could not swallow it in an instant it threatened to choke me. Then I
bowed my head, I slumped down. I had not been prepared for this to so
abruptly finish me.



I saw myself mirrored as the melancholic minion in his eye -- the
pitiable underling - the roach to be crushed. My face, which a moment
before had been blank and almost angelic, took on a most bitter
expression - brittle and frightening. Malice sharpened it, giving a
menacing glint to my eyes. Jean Honnete looked away. I had been scorched
by his fire. I screeched a shrill shriek.



"I have no desire to be with you, to be yours. Whatever made you think I
would do it? I shall free Giddy. I shall free Etienne. I shall free
Baalam."



And I shot a spray of spit at him. My fists pounded into the man's
middle, knocking him back. Then I had his face in my hands and I was
gouging his eyes. It happened so fast. I came at him, my arm plunging
straight forward, feeling my blade - Petite Etienne's sharply honed
castration-blade - jam up into him. But the blade was stopped. With all
my might I forced it, past cloth or flesh or bone or whatever impeded it.
With another high slash it sank weightlessly to stab and slit his throat.
I was crushed up against him splattered with surging blood. Ah, the
blood. The blood so severe. He stumbled into the hallway, gasping and
grasping for air. He fell to the floor - dead.



Things broke around us. There was the splitting of wood. I was falling
because I had not expected it. Then the rain was coming down on me. I had
gotten away. I later learned that the young lads from our classe debutant
stripped the hated corpse and sent it seaward in the sloughs of the river
Seine -- never to be seen again. I ran into the Paris night.



And I ran.

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Letter #10;  BAALAM  -  Chapter XIX:  Home -1



And I ran along the streets and dives and sewers of Paris. Down the
alleys and rear-ways and cul-de-sacs of Pigalle and Porte de Clignancourt
and Montmartre. Worn and weary I lay in the filth. I had become filth. I
was never to return to `La Vie' of a chanteur.  Reluctantly I fell into
`street trade' in la Ville de L'Amour. Le petit Etienne had told me
that the younger and prettier and more fit I was, then the more clients I
might attract.



"And when those gentlemen come up and introduce themselves," he had
said, "then pay attention. Those are your new patrons."



I knew I was not so terrible to look at. I knew how to be attractive to
the roving, feral noblemen. They looked for robust, potent chests
gleaming beneath open shirts, courtly arms tense and beautifully
muscular, the kingly bulge of luring scrotum between the legs. Even the
odor of strong, two-fisted sweat drew them. A count might approach me,
following the animalian scent, delicious and hot. He could not keep his
fingers at bay. His tongue tore my mouth open. I felt his hardness
against my leg. He freed his phallus from his breeches. I made the cavern
between my thighs or buttocks or lips. I was Ganymede to his Zeus in
those moments; carried aloft to Olympian heights with such sweet
humiliations of surrender -- I but a young lad fashioned for conquest and
to be won. Yet the conquests were indeed mine.



In the untold nights that followed, all my conquerors were older men,
late in their prime, streaked with grey, quick to seek the release of
young flesh. At times I startled them as I dropped down to my knees to
take a chode into my own mouth with all the force that it could contain.
When it was finished, I knelt there still, before them, head bowed as if
I were a first communicant at the alter rail, as if I were tasting the
touch and feel and presence of a living lord. I was sought after.



Many months later there came the night when I loitered, laden with
laudanum, by the gas streetlights upon the steps of a vacant manse off of
Place de Clichy. A horse and covered carriage drew nearby, the driver
being told to pause while the fare looked for what he wanted in the
night. I stood mutant-albino in the doorway; my hips thrust forward; my
shirt open on my sleek, pale-white chest; pink nipples prominent, with
whisps of curly, chalky hair descending below the heavy leather belt
above the indecent bulge of goods which grew larger, as if deliberately
to make itself known. I puckered my eyes at first to show my face rough
and raw, then held them wide open and uncorrupt, as might appeal to the
trade.



That evening, when our eyes met, the current between us caused my breath
to halt in my throat. By instinct I stumbled uncomprehending to the cab.
The door opened, I stepped up and within and fell upon the seat against
the massive man of that night. A mighty man. A prime man. I drew my
breath, inhaling him in my excitement. His hand brought down the blinds
to seal us off with only the thinnest seams of light. The horse plodded
forward. The little compartment rocked slowly on its giant springs. I
stared at the black curly hair upon his skin. As expected, I laid my
white hand upon him, and felt the hardness of the man's broad chest. I
could just see the glimmer of his dark eyes, the thin light etching his
jaws. Very cautiously I felt there, too, feeling the dark beard over the
taut skin beneath.



I drew back with intention. I let my head fall to one side. Turning away,
I raised my shoulder to shut the man out - or draw him in. I leaned
forward, loosening the ties and shedding shirt and trousers, spreading
myself face-down onto the seat beneath me. Then I felt the man's immense
weight against my back. I stretched out on the leather until my face
rubbed it and my eyes closed as if in sleep. The man's burly arm came
under me, gathering me up tightly as if the better to hold me for the
assault. And feeling that tightness, the tough muscle against my back,
pinning me below the man above me, sent shocks through me as much as the
iron itself driving in. For one moment the pain was almost too great.



And yet the pleasure blazed with it, such pleasure, such unexpectedly
familiar and desired and near-forgotten pleasure. Here, now, in that
moment until we two were one harrowing flame. I realized my captor had
not let me go. With the most gentle of nudges, I was let to know this
young Mountain Man was stoking my fire for the second assault. I drew the
bizarrely familiar breath of him into my nostrils. And in my drowse, I
sought it, I wanted it, I begged for it.



I needed him.

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Letter #10;  BAALAM  -  Chapter XX:  Home -2



When was it that I knew?



When did I surface enough from my self-imposed opium oblivion to know
him? My tears were first. My sobs overcame me. My wails of welcome and
deliverance came freely. As did his. Even as I was taken yet again, I was
liberated, unbound, set loose from the bonds of degradation and isolation
and sadness that had become my life. I was set free.



"Ah, my beautiful one. Try as I might I cannot find in you evidence of
evil."



In the arms of this other, I knew a healing satisfaction so powerful that
it was for me a sanctifying grace. I fondled his beard. I caressed the
hairy nests in his armpits and the muscles of his arms. I took his hands
in mine and squeezed. I lifted his hand to my mouth and kissed it, first
the palm then the back of the hand, soft against my lips. He squeezed
back. I began to cry. He joined me.



With no discernable pause we were in the garret of his rented room in
Montmartre far above the street. For long moments we simply huddled in
silence close beside one another. I awoke before dawn. He was warm beside
me, his naked body heavy with sleep. I could see the features of his
face, the strong bearded jaw and gentle curves of the eyes. I wanted t
wake him and see those eyes open. I would never tired of them. My hand
slid lightly over his chest to stroke the muscles beneath. We were both
of us strong now, though I the much leaner. My man-mountain shivered
beneath my hand, and I felt desire rise in me. I threw back the covers
that I might see all of him. I bent and pressed my mouth to him, in soft
kisses that trailed down his hard belly. I saw the moment he awoke and
knew me.



Rendered speechless, I gasped and signaled that I had another prize to
claim. Our limbs slid against one another, on paths that we had traced so
many times before, yet were not ever old. I pulled away for the instant,
and, patting his hip, I commanded him to go on his elbows and knees. He
obeyed -- a silent surrender in his mighty nakedness. My trousers were
unbuttoned, my underclothes pulled down, and I pulled it out. My limp
thing nestled within my soft bush of pale hair. It began to swell. My
fine hand tugged the thick column of his sex and snagged at his scrotum
sagging with his two precious orbs.



Some time later we arose and took our breakfast. Here was my beloved -
for it was my beloved Maximilian miraculously before me in this atelier.
He pressed his face upon the mattress and lifted his beautiful flexing
buttocks in the air, clearly waiting for me to again share our
long-postponed pleasures. Shed of clothes, and glistening from a splash
bath, I positioned myself behind him. I rubbed my pale cheeks and lips
over the irresistible sheen of his thighs and buttocks, then down the
crack of his bottom. And there -- the musk that clings to men's crevices
and secret parts. He trembled. He released a husky whimper.



"Yes. Oh, yes," he whispered. "This is here. I love you."



He raised his head, met my glance, and nodded before lowering his head
once more. I felt him tremble. Me too. I asked if he was as frightened as
I?



"Yes. Yes, a little," he murmured meekly.



I fondled his ass-cheek. I kissed it.



"Yes, yes...."



Then I took him. It hurt both of us, but seemed to delight him mightily,
as it most certainly did me.



With time, we were to be in a cramped intermediate steamer cabin, fleeing
the Old World, west-bound over the ocean waves toward the New World and
the Saint Lawrence River. My tongue trailed his shoulders and belly then
dropped deeper. Maximilian bucked back against me. I gripped his hips,
nibbling his gluteals - ahh! I fumbled for his balls, found them, clasped
the base of them in one hand. I shifted my grip to his very hard penis,
wrapping my other arm around his waist. My tongue tip found his tiny
opening and lapped it, then pushed within. Maximilian made such noise
that the neighbor in the next cabin kicked against the wall for quiet.



"I want you in me...."

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Letter #10;  BAALAM  -  Chapter XXI:  Home -3



In a turning whirl, I brought my long flexing form upon him as he bent
low with his knees pulled together. I tickled and licked and found the
winking circle - and I pushed. Maximilian grunted. He shifted his hips.
Moving lower, I pushed again. His flesh fought me. Then ever so slowly
the head of my cock slid a bit within, then abruptly more. Wet tightness
swallowed my wallowing prick. Ecstasy shuddered through me. I gasped to
grasp his hips harder. His hands gripped into tight fists as he buried
his face upon the berth, giving guttural moans. His hole spasmed and
tightened around me. I edged further, another rapturous inch. He
flinched.



"Don't stop. Pain's nothing to how I love you. I want you inside me --
now!"



With a sudden shove and a rough sob, he bucked backwards, impaling
himself fully with my all. The greatest carnal bliss seized me. Fervor -
beginning in my buried cock and rushing through my groin, torso and limbs
- overtook me. Wailing, I fell forward upon him, kissing his back,
cupping my hands about his taut breast mounds, squeezing them, stroking
his ribs. Maximilian's hidden hole constricted ever so tight around my
stiff, keen, cutting `pudendum-virile'. Shuddering, he spread even
wider. I could do nothing but kiss his burly shoulders and stroke his
brawny chest.



Then, we were within a private high-class rail compartment heading west
on the Trans Canada Express. I spit in my palm and slipped a hand around
his epic prick. It had softened a bit. But with a few tight strokes was
rampant again; the tip welling with hot juices. He drove his penis into
my hand. I stroked his sex faster then I took him with tongue and throat
in an eager swallow. We fumbled and stripped; knocked and channeled one
another into position. He soon shifted the angle of his ass, then gasped
as he took it from me.



"There! That spot. Inside. Yore prick hits it. So sweet. Fuck me. Fuck
me, lover. Fuck me."



I obliged, sliding, shoving, furrowing, plowing into him only to pull out
and in. Again. Again. Again.... Frenzied now, I slapped his buttocks. I
bit his back. I reached about to pinch his nipples. I clutched and tugged
his swaying balls. I pounded him harder, faster. He was with me within
this loving and brutal moment. Between low growls and choked sobs - with
my sweaty, bare, raw-boned chest pressed to his sweaty broad, brawny back
- I commenced to doggedly batter the tight cleft between his buttocks.
His moans mounted. Growling low, he bucked back against me. I rolled us
onto our sides, jerking his head back against mine, and worked his prick.
He thrashed; shoving against my gripping hand. Ahh...!



At last, by late-scheduled, noisy-railed, slow travelers' coaches on to
Toronto, rounding into Mount Forest, back home to Pike Lake Crossroads.
We entered the redbrick farmhouse, mounted to our Kith 'N Kin upper room
and sought the safety of our wonderfully lumpy, corn-husk mattress.
Within my pursing lips and pumping fist his great member pulsed and
jumped. He stiffened and roared. Maximilian's slick, thick seed surged
forth in great white viscous gouts, spattering the black and grey
sheepskin bed cover and welling through my fingers. With my own
`one-score' self fully inside his `five-and-thirty year self' - his
muscles rippled and tensed about my slender shaft. Seconds later I
generously gave of my own thin spend, filling his ravished ass with
copious blasts of a gelding's clear, viscous, fruitless fluid. Then for
endless drowsy minutes we lay there, breathing heavily, fagged-out. I ran
my fingers through his sweat-damp hair, and felt the gradual slowing of
his great heart.



"Stay inside me, please."



Nodding, I tugged the mass of blankets about us. We fell together with
limbs intertwined -- my front to his back - my softening sex ever lodged
within my lover's body. Thus we gammed mightily through the night.



Maximilian again told the tale of learning of a certain sterling silver
amulet in a Toronto pawn shop, a medallion of Sancta Caecilia, the patron
saint of music. The name Gideon Tuffin Taylor engraved on the back; it
was the one the missing Giddy had worn around his neck. The hunt was on.
And so, Maximilian told of working at the Mount Forest grocery and
unpacking a wooden case of bottled Shepherd Neame brew from the Feversham
Brewery in Kent, England. The bottles were wrapped in copies of 'The
Illustrated London News'. There on page one was the prominent woodblock
illustration of `Gedeon - The Albino Angel'. He knew that I was found.



And so, Old Aunt Elsa retrieved the small Viking chest from off the high
kitchen shelf. She brought forth the red-gold nuggets long-since grubbed
from the cave at Isle des Morts on Red Lake in Newfoundland. Maximilian
had sailed for England - then France. And so, the lads in our `classe
debutant' told him of `le vieil homme' dubbed `Maestro Farinelli' or
`Gedeon  - L'Ange Albinos' who was wanted for murder, and was hiding
out on the back streets of Montmartre. And so, Maxamilian found me, and
rescued me, and brought me home.



Reunited in our companionable tribal incest, so shall we be united
forever - until death do us part.



Cousin Baalam Cygnet-Schwann



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END OF PEN-COB LETTER #10

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