Diary of a Shota Boy - Part 1

by

Cosmo

Prologue

Boys! The endless wonder of them! Cute, naked, horny young boys. Pretty, hairless, nubile little shota boys, bursting with youthful lust. There was an increasing demand for sexually precocious young boys. There always had been and always will be. Perhaps the proliferation of Shota Clubs was the belated concession to the fact that the beauty and sexuality of young boys was something to be revered, and the idea of wanting to have sex with a young boy was not actually anathema, but something to be enjoyed and even celebrated. Shota Clubs, whilst still hovering on the borders of acceptability in most places, at least acknowledged this irrefutable truth. Shota Clubs catered for those who really appreciated young boys, those who idolized the young boy physique, who worshipped young boys' sexuality and accepted that their beauty and prodigiousness was there to be enjoyed. Of these, The Saxon Club was the most famous. It was certainly the most widely known of the sudden spate of Shota Clubs that had begun to spring up all over mainland Europe. The Saxon Club had an unrivalled reputation for the beauty and expertise of its shota boys.

At The Saxon Club, shota boys were the specialty of the house. There were boys everywhere. Lots of them. Boys of every description, all laid on just to service the clients. The Saxon Club provided all manner of diversions and delights for its horny clientele. The clients knew that they would be taken care of by the pretty little shota boys that were there to pleasure them. Those boys were sensational - young, slim, tight, with perfectly proportioned hairless little bodies. They were remarkably pretty, no doubt especially selected for their cuteness and good looks. And they could perform too. Their capacity to take cock and swallow cum was mind-blowing. They could keep wood for hours and they could fuck like nothing you had ever seen before. The clientele were mostly virile, horny young soldiers, all at the peak of their sexual performance, starved of any suitable outlet, and they needed to get satisfaction somehow. The Saxon Club provided that outlet. It provided hot, tight, willing little boycunts for the soldiers to stuff their deprived dicks into. Plenty of accommodating little sphincters, begging to be pummeled raw by rampant cocks and pumped full of steaming hot spunk.

Of course, by its very nature The Saxon Club attracted the most unscrupulous and unorthodox characters for miles around. They were invariably drawn to the one venue where they knew that, whatever their particular peccadillo, it would be catered for. It was apparent in every aspect of the Club, so that you could never mistake the nature of what went on inside. It was apparent from the garish neon sign above the door - the sole external pointer, if indeed was one was needed - and from the jaded, almost anonymous look of the place, as though it was slightly ashamed of itself and did not wish to attract attention. The bare, dusty parking lot outside was always crammed with military vehicles, ATVs and Humvees, pickup trucks and motorcycles. But if that didn't provide a clue, it was apparent as soon as you entered the door and descended the steep narrow steps. It was apparent from the way the whole room was enveloped in a thick, stubborn cloud of cigarette smoke which hung permanently in the atmosphere, as though the Club had its own weather system. The bare wooden floor was dull and unpolished, just like the wooden pillars and the little wooden tables that were dotted about the place. It was always oppressively hot which, as there were no windows, served to compound the already darkened, subterranean feel of the place.

The Saxon Club was perpetually inundated with off-duty military. The clientele seemed to consist mainly of soldiers, quite a few of whom were undoubtedly drunk before they arrived and would burst through the doors at the top of the stairs in gaggles of four or five, announcing their arrival with loud, incoherent vocalizations. There were a few airmen, distinctive in their blue tunics, and there was more than the usual smattering of UN 'observers', their light blue berets slotted neatly into their epaulettes. They were known as observers not because they were monitoring the truce - the sixth such truce in as many weeks - but because they stood mostly at the back, reluctant to ever get involved. A few drank. Mostly they just smoked and were nearly always the first to leave. Apart from the odd few aid workers and relief volunteers, the remainder of the clientele was made up of mercenaries and militiamen, who freely consorted with the black-marketers and drug peddlers. Perhaps they were all one and the same. The whole regime was rendered all the more unorthodox and bizarre by the huge amount of black market drugs that were freely circulated, the choice of which grew in variety and diversity all the time. That was the other specialty of the house.

Most of the clients weren't particularly selective who they went with. As long as they could stick their dicks into some hot, tight little shota boy's ass, they were happy. This was Verolino after all. Verolino, also known as the International City, the United City, always had been a mecca for free living and free thinking even before the war. It was famed for its liberal laws and lax restrictions. Now it was the only truly free place left in the whole of mainland Europe. It was a little island of relative peace and harmony, surrounded by warring factions who each sought to possess it. But it was a UN-declared safe area. It was protected against invasion by a UN mandate. Everyone knew that the mandate was only as good as the troops that were sent to enforce it, and that the goodwill which had brought the mandate about was wearing thin. UN peacekeeping troops were being killed, supposedly through 'accidents' and 'misunderstandings', but the fact still remained that UN personnel were dying. The mandate was fragile and probably unsustainable. It was only a matter of time before they were all pulled out. If they did leave, the warlords who controlled the surrounding regions would stop at nothing to gain control of Verolino. Even now, as those left behind pretended to aspire to some kind of normality, they were bombing and shooting and shelling each other not thirty miles away. They surrounded Verolino in anticipation, like baying wolves. Verolino was doomed. And like all doomed people everywhere, those left behind just drank, and smoked and danced. They sucked and fucked and wanked each other because it was all they knew how to do. Verolino was like a neutral no-man's-land in a sea of animosity and destruction. In fact, it was of such standing that the warring factions themselves passed in and out with impunity. Strictly speaking, no one was excluded. Thirty miles away they maimed and slaughtered each other, but in Verolino, which was in UN hands, they even drank in the same bars. That was the kind of place Verolino was, and The Saxon Club was at the very heart of it.

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Part 1: A Boy Named Cloud

If you really want to hear about it, I'll tell you. If you really want to know how I ended up as one of those notorious little shota boys, I'll be only too pleased to explain it. But let's get one thing straight from the start: you've got to promise not to judge me. I know you might think I was a worthless little fuckboy, plying his trade around the most permissive venue in Europe, but you have to understand how I got there and why. You have to understand the sad reality behind my lousy childhood and how my parents didn't want me, and how I ran away from an abusive and dysfunctional home. You have to understand the unforeseen circumstances that led to me being caught up in all this conflict and animosity, and how I was badly injured and nearly lost my life and all. And how Guus took me in and coaxed me into a life of servitude and sex. But don't expect me to start going into details about whether I thought it was right or not. Don't start preaching to me about morals and self-respect because I really don't feel like going into all that, tell you the truth.

They tell me I've got a smart mouth for a kid my age. What if I do? I've got a smart brain too. I can think for myself, and I can talk my way out of most tight spots, so don't try and blind me with your moralizing. If you come at me with a holier-than-thou attitude, you'll get no respect from me. I had proved that whenever any of my tricks tried to get haughty and moralistic with me. And believe me, I've had a few.

'You're just a fuckboy,' some of my tricks would say, 'You're a prostitute. A worthless bum boy with no self respect.'

'No,' I would say, 'I'm a working boy. I work hard for my money, just like you.'

'I don't fuck for money,' they would reply.

'No, you do it for nothing,' I would say, 'More fool you.'

They didn't like that. My smartmouthing always drew a glare of contempt. So what? They deserved it. They wanted to tell me I was worthless and had no morals? Fuck them. Especially when I thought about how they would so impetuously shed their clothes to fuck my ass, and how eager they were to stick their dicks into my tight, hairless little shota boy cunt, and then go home and kiss their wives or girlfriends after they had just worked themselves into a frenzy busting a wad of spunk into my hot little butt. With that kind of subterfuge and infidelity, they were hardly in a position to pass judgment on me.

Luckily most of my tricks weren't like that. They weren't interested in the whys and wherefores. All they wanted was a quick and efficient little fuck and they were on their way. Most of the time it was a pretty utilitarian transaction. They paid me. I let them do what they wanted with me. That's how it worked. Quite simple really. During the day I laid low, whiling away the time in my room, resting my poor abused body and just minding my own business, waiting for the war to be over. During my downtime I read books and fed my mind. I absolutely devoured books. I read just about everything I could get my hands on, books of all genres and persuasions. I didn't go to school, so that was my education. During the day I read books and in the evenings I went to work just like all the other shota boys at the Club.

My room was in the hotel above The Saxon Club. I rarely left the premises these days. It was considered too dangerous. Everything I wanted and needed was right there, and since I was kidnapped by the KAPO militia the last time I ventured out, I figured it was far safer for me to stay put. At least I was fed and had a roof over my head. So I spent my days inside the compound of the hotel. Of course, it wasn't really a hotel, since the guests hardly varied. I suppose it had been a hotel before the war. Now it was just a convenient boarding house where we shota boys lived and entertained our clients.

This evening I came down the back staircase which stretched directly from the first floor to the basement, and was a good way of making a discrete entrance - or exit, depending on who you were taking back to your room. I was naked, as always. We were required to be naked and accessible at all times. The opportunity for the clients to look at our young, hairless little bodies was one of the attractions of the Club. For my part, I didn't feel vulnerable at all. I loved being naked. I think all us shota boys did. We were proud of our bodies. It was what afforded us the privilege of serving at the Club. Only a special type of shota boy could work here. The only drawback to working naked, especially if the Club was particularly crowded, was the sheer number of accidental cigarette burns on my skin at the end of the night. I swear, some nights I finished work looking like I had been attacked by a swarm of mosquitoes or something.

So, I entered the Club with nothing on but the tight little arm strap around my bicep. Oh, it wasn't for decoration. No. It was just a convenient receptacle for the client's dough. Well, they had to have something to stuff their buckwads into, otherwise where else were they liable to stick them? You see the problem? So apart from the arm strap the rest of me was as naked as the day I was born, and proudly so. Tell you the truth, I liked the clientele looking at me and admiring my tight, youthful 12 year old body. I loved showing it off for them. I wasn't particularly muscly or anything, but I suppose I did have quite a good physique. I was slim and nicely proportioned, with incredibly long, shapely legs. I didn't have any hair down below yet, but that was just the way Guus liked his boys to be. Guus was the Club's proprietor, and my boss. The thing about Guus was he had impeccable taste in boys. I was good looking, like all his shota boys. I had long, shaggy dirty-blond hair that was thick and straight and was always falling over my eyes. The clients loved that. And I had a neat arrangement of features on my face with a lean, hungry, haunting kind of expression, with gray-green eyes that looked almost supernatural when the light caught them in just the right way. I was lucky and I knew it. I was blessed to have such good looks. I really played on that. Sometimes I could look at the clients in such a way that I could make them fall in love with me at first sight. I got a real kick out of that. But I had something else as well, something special, something that very few of the other shota boys had: I was incredibly well hung for a kid of my age. I had a noticeably long and thick little cock. Not enormous, but just the right side of big to cause passing clients to look twice. The way they stared longingly at my cock always reminded me of how lucky I was. That gave me such a thrill. Sure, I got groped a lot. We all did. But I found that strangely arousing, tell you the truth. I enjoyed all the attention. I loved walking around naked. It had become almost a default mode for me. Let them look. It wasn't difficult to interpret those longing, envious stares that almost begged for the opportunity to fuck my slim, round little ass. You could see it in their eyes. You could almost see the cogs turning in their pervy pedo minds, working out what desperate little hustle they would have to pull to get even an illicit little grope of my smooth, milky white skin. I got a twisted little thrill from seeing the anguish in their eyes, fantasizing about what they wanted to do to me if only they could get me alone. It actually turned me on thinking about that, let me tell you. Made my stiffie ache real good. Let them fantasize. Let them think about what they would like to do to me. Some of them - a select few, if the price was right - would actually get to do it too.

I entered the Club just as the place was already packed to the rafters. It was crowded tonight, much like every other night. It was still early, and yet the 'anything goes' mystique of the place was already taking hold. No sooner had I reached the foot of the back stairs, two UNHCR workers were furtively negotiating a transaction for opium sticks with a member of the militia - exactly which militia was unclear since all sides wore irregular uniforms and nearly always carried the token Russian-made assault rifles. This one had his safely strung across his back, with the barrel pointing down. Those AK47s were very distinctive, with their curved, forward-pointing magazines, and were pretty much ubiquitous these days. I noticed that even the UNHCR workers carried pistols. Despite my nakedness, they hardly batted an eyelid as I brushed past them on the stairs.

The Club was always bristling with guns. As I passed by the entrance to the back rooms, away from the main arena of the Club, where the more illicit transactions were usually conducted, I looked in through the open doorway and saw one of the low, circular booths with six Marines around the table playing Blackjack. They all had their Berettas on the table, next to their drinks, mingling with the usual paraphernalia of cards and a little pool of paper dosh at the center. One of them had a sniper's rifle propped against the seat next to him, complete with telescopic sight, and the barrel pointing precariously at the ceiling. At another booth, two paratroopers, distinctive with their 'airborne' patches on their sleeves, were fiddling with a tourniquet and busily shooting up cocaine with a hypodermic. Next to them were five airmen, still wearing their olive drab flight overalls with the familiar winged emblem on the breast, studiously rolling up several large joints. They didn't strike me as combat aircrew. Since there were five of them they were probably the crew of a transporter plane. There was a C130 transporter that came in regularly every week, bringing fresh supplies and aid and also served as a taxi service for anyone wanting to take a flying visit to Verolino. The transporter plane landed at the airfield - which was in UN hands - every Thursday, and left again on the Friday. That afforded visitors one night in Verolino, so long as they could meet the transporter plane out again the next day. You never could anticipate who came in on that transporter. All kinds of military, UN personnel, humanitarian aid workers, and sometimes freelancers, reporters and photographers from the press and media who were covering the conflict. Verolino was a relatively safe place to report from. The transporter plane was the only safe way in and out for visitors just passing through.

Leaving the questionable activities of the back room behind, I entered the main floor of the Club and crossed the crowded room heading for my usual seat. My regular seat was a bar stool at the corner of the L-shaped bar, overlooking the little stage which was sunk into the center of the floor. The fact that the stage was sunk into the ground afforded a great view from the edge, but not from further back. When the audience surrounded the stage it wasn't visible at all from any other vantage point. For this reason, it was wise to take your place well before the proceedings started.

No sooner had I sat down, I felt a comforting hand on the back of my neck.

'Hey Cloud.'

It was Ten. Ten was the bar boy. He leaned in and raised his arm to touch fists with me.

'Hey,' I acknowledged, bumping fists with him.

I liked Ten. I liked Ten a lot. He was a little older than me, I think 13 or 14, and infinitely more streetwise. He wasn't a shota boy like me, although he did often get propositioned by the clients. In fact he was very much in demand. But of course he never fucked about with the clients. He just tended the bar. To me he was always a good companion. He stroked the back of my neck in his sensuous, feather-light manner, running his fingertips quite deliberately down my bare back. Then he sat on the stool on the other side of me, his white apron flapping around his knees, as always.

'What no luck?' said Ten, quite sympathetically, I suppose because he'd seen that I didn't have any clients yet this evening.

'Too much rough trade,' I said, a little downbeat, referring to the quality of the clientele.

'Oh I don't know,' Ten went on, 'What about that one there?'

He gestured towards the other end of the bar with a quick dip of his chin. There was a Red Cross volunteer standing alone, looking distinctly out of place amongst all the uniforms, impetuously sucking on a cigarette and blowing thin streams of blue smoke up into the atmosphere. I was expected to approach the clients if they didn't approach me. The philosophy of the Club was that we invited them to partake of our services, so anyone standing on their own was considered to be a prime candidate. It was not to be, however. We watched the young Red Cross guy for a couple of minutes, only to observe a military policeman sidle up to him and hand him a drink. He was with someone after all.

'Maybe not,' said Ten, 'Never mind, I might claim you myself if you're still free at the end of the night.'

He said it suggestively, almost half in jest, but as we both knew it was a scenario we had acted out for real on many occasions. That was what I liked about Ten, not only his sympathetic ear, but his good heart, his raffish sense of humor, his boyish good looks, and his good sex. Ten was sensational in bed.

The bar was busy tonight and I knew Ten would not be able to talk for long. For a brief few moments we chatted idly, nothing heavy, just observations about various familiar characters hanging around the bar, and as we talked, the prospect of going back with Ten at the end of the night was infinitely appealing. After our brief exchange, he got up, giving me a quick kiss on the lips, and at the same time he felt for my hairless crotch.

'Yeh, save some of that for me later,' he whispered in my ear, squeezing my balls firmly.

It hurt, but it was also strangely erotic. Then he let go and disappeared behind the bar again. He always kissed me on the lips now. And he was always very tactile with his hands. He liked hugs and closeness. Ten was a very affectionate boy. After we'd been intimate with each other for so long it just seemed natural to kiss like that now.

I watched Ten as he got back behind the bar, and sat back while endless waves of clients shuttled back and forth ordering drinks. He was a diminutive figure behind the high bar, but very efficient, moving around as though he was on roller skates, busily pouring drinks and engaging in his over-familiar repartee with the clients. He had a relaxed, natural demeanor about him which the clients found very approachable. And he had a dry, spontaneous sense of humor, which helped a great deal. He could banter and joke with the clients, and was never fazed by anything they did or said. He was perfect for the job. He was very popular too because he was so pretty. He had really dark olive skin and longish black hair that was always flopping over his mysterious emerald eyes. As he worked, pouring drinks and polishing glasses and wiping down the bar, he would sometimes look over to flash a smile at me. In these troubled times, when so much misery adorned people's faces, he knew the true value of a smile. And he wore it so well. I loved his smile. I loved his lips. I tell you, a smile from Ten could really make my day.

The other reason I loved his smile was because he had such a sensuous mouth, such luscious, pouting lips. I loved his mouth because I knew he gave such a superior blowjob. I had certainly never forgotten my first time with him. The body never forgets. It was something he did with his teeth, a faint biting action, something like that. I didn't really know. Whatever it was, it was quite unlike anything I had ever experienced. That was what I thought of every time Ten smiled at me. No, the body never forgets.

Ten was also very special in another way. Let me tell you why Ten was so special. I had idolized him from the very first time I met him. Not only because he was so handsome and affectionate, but because he was the type of boy you just knew had a good heart. Ten was one of those few people which stood out from the rest. He was the rare type that made an instant and lasting impression. When I say I idolized Ten, actually I was secretly in love with him. I think I fell in love with him the very first time I set eyes on him.

I still remember the first time I saw him. It was the day he found me in a ditch on the roadside, bleeding and muddy, with a gash in my head that must have looked pretty gruesome. It was just after I had been kidnapped by the KAPO militia. They fucked me hard, then beat me and left me for dead. Ten rescued me. He scooped me up in his arms, bleeding and unconscious and carried me back to his room above the Club. I can just recall the moment I opened my eyes in his squalid little room upstairs and found his cute olive-skinned face bearing down above me, his pretty emerald eyes glinting benevolently. I was not aware then that he had just saved my life. I still remember the way he nursed me, the way his gentle movements tended my injuries, the way he spoke in low, hushed tones. He was so considerate, so complete in his regard for me, I just fell in love with him. I loved him but I had never told him how much I loved him. I regretted that. I regretted it then and every single day that had passed since then. What difference could it make to someone so handsome, someone who walked about with the quiet self-assuredness of one who knows what a gift it is to be endowed with such looks and to be able to arouse such popularity? Okay, he was only 13, or thereabouts, but he seemed so much older than me. He was a young man who was on the cusp of adolescence and seemingly had the world at his feet - such as it was. I was a relatively unworldly 12 year old kid who had no future and no past. The scar in my head had healed, but I remembered nothing except my own name and a few fleeting instances of my troubled childhood. Thanks to the KAPOs, I had very little recollection of anything before the war. And so, with nowhere else to go, I ended up staying here. It was Ten who introduced me to Guus. It was Guus who persuaded me to stay on as a shota boy. He offered me a means to scrape a living, and to be fair to him, he did take care of us. Thus, I was trapped in this strange state of limbo, surviving one day at a time, and plying my trade amongst the Club's dubious clientele because it was all I knew how to do. Luckily, I had youth and good looks in my favor. I became just another one of the resident shota boys who gave his little ass to the clientele every night. I blew a few cocks and jerked them off with my expert hands. My only muted joy was their hot spunk pumping into my hole, squirting into my mouth or dribbling over my knuckles. What would Ten ever want with someone like me? I was nobody to him. We shared a hotel, that was all. Just casual cock play between buddies. We jerked and sucked each other. A few furtive little blowjobs or handjobs. A quick fuck if I was lucky. That was as far as it went. I knew Ten had no further interest in me beyond that. I was just a little playmate to him, nothing more.

On the far side of the room, I could see Guus, as usual standing ominously on the sidelines watching the proceedings. Guus was the Club's proprietor and our boss. He was our 'handler'. All shota boys had 'handlers'. I guess it was something to do with how shota boys were perceived in the outside world. After all, 'handlers' were usually associated with animals. For some reason it applied to shota boys as well. Guus was a mysterious figure, and one with many paradoxes and contradictions. He was tough, yet camp. He was corpulent, yet nimble on his feet. He was uneducated, but probably the cleverest person I knew. He could be mean, and yet was charming and likeable. Guus was Dutch. He had the free-thinking, liberal, open-minded views of the Dutch, and was into just about every libertarian pursuit you could care to name. He was into rough sex, fist fucking and bondage, and he was fond of a joint or two. Although, oddly, he disapproved of smoking. He always took his drugs intravenously, preferring instead to jack up the odd concoction of cocaine or opium. But when he was on duty, he was utterly committed and professional. He ruled the Club like some self-appointed dictator, with no equivocation in what he expected from us. Luckily, he treated us well. We were 'his' boys, and he was clearly proud and very protective of us. He looked after us because he knew we were his greatest asset. We were the Club's unique feature, the one thing which drew the horny clientele here in the first place, so he made sure we were well cared for. He diverted any possibility of dissention because he chose his boys very carefully. We weren't likely to complain about our working conditions or strike for higher pay - every one of us owed our lives to him. We were a motley accumulation of waifs and strays who were grateful to him for providing a roof over our heads and for presenting us with a means to scrape a living. It was a nice arrangement, perfectly balanced by the complementary nature of our agreement: our need to be protected and provided for, and his need to lay on the nightly entertainment - the 'fringe benefits' of the Club, that made it so unique and sought after, and which drew clientele from all over central Europe. Its reputation was spread far and wide. There was nowhere else like the Saxon Club. Even before the war, its reputation was unequalled.

It was interesting how Guus and I met. It was almost two years ago now. I was only 10 at the time. He was much slimmer and much more attractive then. In fact he was a bit of a looker, with platinum blond hair and the most gorgeous blue-gray eyes that immediately struck you when you looked at him. I thought maybe he wanted to fuck. But he didn't. In fact he didn't lay a finger on me. He thought I was too young. Can you believe that? Guus actually turned down an opportunity to thoroughly molest me. Instead, all he did was watch me jerk off. He took me out, around the back into the alleyway and had me strip open the front of my pants. I took out my hard little todger, and mechanically jerked it between my fingertips until my clear kiddiecum trickled out. I cummed even less then, but it was enough to make my palm wet, and a few stray droplets found their way onto the dirty ground of the alleyway, sweet young kidspunk squandered in muted pleasure.

When it was over, Guus stuffed a handful of crumpled notes into my fist and left. He had happily paid me for jerking off in front of him. Easiest buckwad I'd ever made. It wasn't until much later that I learned that this was the way he 'auditioned' all his shota boys. And that's what sowed the idea in my mind. It was almost inconceivable that there was a living to be made out of doing something that all boys did for their own pleasure. To get paid for jerking off? To make money from spilling a few expendable drops of boyseed onto the ground? What's the difference if you have an audience? Tell the truth, I cummed even harder when I was doing it for money. Or perhaps it wasn't the money at all. Perhaps it was the idea of having an admirer who I knew had a boner in their pants from watching me jerk mine. It was the ultimate voyeurism, the thrill of watching someone watching me while I squirted my kiddiecum into the air.

I sometimes wondered about Guus. He had a weight problem, which had bloated his body and distorted his frame out of all proportion. And his face was showing signs of ageing, the inevitable ravages of time which had taken their toll on what was once an irrefutably pretty face. Undoubtedly he had been extremely handsome in his younger days. And on some nights, after the Club had closed, those of us who were still awake and not otherwise engaged, would gather around the table in the little kitchen upstairs, in Guus's private apartment, and he would ply us with big fat joints and entertain us with his reminiscences. What a life he'd had. It seemed he had done a lot, compared to us relatively unworldly shota boys who knew nothing much about life before the war. Guus would regale us with stories of his many lovers, which sounded like an endless parade of beautiful, handsome young men, a series of homme fatales who had tramped in and out of his life in a seemingly endless succession of torrid affairs which always left him jilted and abandoned. If all these stories were to be believed, his heart had been broken so many times it must have resembled a jigsaw puzzle. Whether it was all true or not, I didn't really care. Guus was very entertaining, and he certainly spun a good yarn.

When on duty, on the other hand, you saw a different side to Guus. Guus was not to be messed with. He ominously hung about at the Club, always keeping a low profile, but never taking his eyes off us. He watched us with an almost grudging possessiveness, which I found oddly reassuring. Guus would walk around with his Uzi machine pistol tucked under his arm, suspended from a strap on his shoulder, always at the ready, forever in wait for the first sign of trouble. But it never came. In all the time I knew Guus, I had never seen him use it. To me, that was a mark of success. He ran this place, with all its illicit dealings and all the outlandish goings on, and all the extreme activities, with guns bristling all over the place and the most shady clientele, but there was never any sign of trouble. He had never used that machine pistol because nobody ever overstepped the house rules. And no wonder. The house rules allowed for a pretty wide scope. They were pretty lax, so no one had a reason to be reprimanded or confronted by Guus because they could do pretty much as they liked. We shota boys provided the unique entertainment, which supposedly justified the Club's stiff admission fee, and I think because of that the clients were never tempted to engage in any behavior that might risk them being ejected or barred. If you were thrown out, there was no refund. And anyway, we shota boys kept them distracted. It was funny, I thought, that in a place with so many shady and undesirable characters, with so many guns and so many drugs, there had never been any serious trouble. The range of acceptable behavior was pretty wide anyway. They could do pretty much what they wanted with us, including fucking, sucking, jerking us off and even a bit of mild discipline - it didn't even have to be in private. They could do it right there on the Club floor if they wanted. There wasn't much that was forbidden. The only stipulation was they couldn't do anything that would leave a mark on one of the boys or result in a lasting injury. I think you'll agree, that still leaves a pretty wide scope of acceptable misbehavior. I should know. I had been on the receiving end of it many times. My exploits in this profession were testimony to that. But I'll tell you all about that next time.

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