FOR OTHER CHAPTERS, LIST OF CHARACTERS, WARNINGS, THANK YOU, ETC, CLICK BELOW

The Eros Union

 Book IV: Yearning

By Ganymede

GORSEHILL LIGHTHOUSE, GALLOWAY.

After six hours of driving, the last five miles were on a bitumen-smeared farm-track. Two tire-width paths, pot-holed and overrun with tussocks, zigzagged across rolling hills, ever closer to the coast, leaving hedge rows and scraggy woods behind. Soon, it was too narrow to turn around, crammed between piled-rock walls spotted with lichen and barbed-wire fences infested with gorse, looking over pastures and sheep grazing, a quilt of irregular fields.

Finally, the endless ocean, dull gray with whitecaps, jagged rocks extending from a grassy promontory. Slowing down, shifting to low gear, just a crawl even though gravel now filled the gaps between bitumen paths. At the end of the road, dead ahead, was a curving white wall, scattered outbuildings, and a pristine lighthouse.

Holding his breath, Bruce reached over the console, avoiding contact until he touched his son’s crotch. Very lightly, his fingers stroked white linen, feeling the little lump underneath, warm, firm boyhood. Daniil glanced up from his iPad, ready and eager to play again.

Between smirking and giggling, “It looks like a dick, Dad, only way bigger than Richard.”

“About now, your mom would be really upset.”

“But it does. It’s even got a helmet, see.” He pointed right at it.

Bruce patted bulging boyhood, small yet robust, tightly constrained. He was ready to do away with underpants altogether. Would he be a bad father if he required his son to wear a pouch full time, non-stop, 24-7?

He winked at Daniil, looking around.

Crawling along at five mph, it was only a minute to their destination, yet he was sorely tempted to pull over again. No matter they were in plain sight if anyone looked up the road. Their first stop, other than for provisions and petrol was a quick fiddle on the sunny shore of Loch Lomond. The next time was at a scenic stop on the drizzly A77, a mile north of Ballantrae, a fishing village more dreary than quaint. With the soft-top up, and hidden behind the Aston’s dark-tinted windows, his hand cupped his son’s head, their tongues fully extended, French-kissing, Five minutes, perhaps ten, until a delivery truck honked its horn.

They tried again on the other side of Ballantrae, parked under towering pine trees, a few moments of frenzied tugging to open his zipper. Incredibly, Daniil sucked his father’s erect penis in daylight, insistent, hot, halfway inside. Just a dozen yards from the road, greedily lapping preseminal fluid. In just three days, playful kisses had turned to insatiable desire. He was so good at it, his father had to bribe him to stop—any dessert he wanted for dinner.

oUo

Bruce parked in the forecourt of Gorsehill Lighthouse Hotel and turned off the engine. He smiled at Daniil, surely the hundredth time since leaving GlenIolaire.

“You promised puppy suck, remember?” Daniil whispered before he got out.

Bruce winked, no bribes needed with a bedroom waiting. “As soon as we check in.”

Another fatherly wink before he quickly looked away up to see a man in stained dungarees and a grubby fisherman’s sweater, hurrying down the stairs.

“Professor Stirling? Tom Bradstreet. My wife’s sorry she couldn’t be here.”

Bradstreet bustled over, shoe laces flipping about, plaster dust in his hair, smears on his face.

“Her thrombosis flared up this morning. She had to run down to Stranraer, the Community Hospital.”

He shook hands with Bruce, immediately envious after taking in the Aston Martin, the top down since the pine forest. Daniil’s iPhone and iPad were on the console, passenger side littered with pine cones, a half-eaten apple, a Mars bar wrapper. Spoiled brat, obviously!

“Welcome to Gorsehill Lighthouse Hotel. I just got off the phone with your Ms. Handley. You’re already checked in; the Lighthouse Suite.”

Before Bruce could say a word, he gestured at a building adjoining the lighthouse, white with khaki embellishment, quoins, cornices, and window sills.

“I’ll take care of your luggage. Complimentary drinks in the Lighthouse Bar. Dinner starts at six bells. That’s seven pm for landlubbers.”

He handed over two keys.

“It’s a pity your wife couldn’t make it. Still, you brought your son, which is super.”

A two-faced smile, a glance at the little boy beside his father. Cute as can be and dressed in all-white, he was a spoiled brat for certain.

“Ms. Handley said you’ve come all this way to see our Guillimots and Gannets?”

“Um... yeah,” Daniil ventured.

Bruce concealed a smile and opened the boot. He lifted out their bags, and left the important stuff for later, the sporran and his laptop. He closed the lid, returning his gaze to his son as the man rambled on.

“I counted 79 Guillimots this morning, 137 Gannets. You couldn’t come at a better time, plus Dr. Hellene Hawke is staying with us, as I’m sure you know from your governess.”

He looked around as if spotting rare species.

“She’s out looking for Manx Shearwater. She’s doing a feature on Puffinus puffinus in next month’s British Birds, so rather important for us...”

Daniil shared an uncertain glance with his father. He wasn’t paying attention, either; not confused, infatuated; but who wouldn’t be by a stunningly beautiful boy in creamy-white pants and fisherman’s sweater?

“Ms. Handley said you’d want to go for a walk after your long drive. Lots of places for a lad to ramble, and lots to see, razorbills, kittiwakes; oh, and puffins, of course.”

“Did you hear that, Dad? Kittiwakes!”

Unaware, the man gestured northward. “And our Herring Gulls are breeding. Go past the seal colony. You can’t miss them.”

“Can we go see the seal colony, Dad?”

Their eyes locked, man smiling, boy on the verge of giggling; nothing to do with seals.

oUo

They rambled, following a path through thistles to spiky grass preceding a barren shore of scarified rocks, slathered with gray and orange lichens. Daniil clambered onto a ragged rock as big as a car, surrounded by sea on three sides. He scanned the shore for seals.

“You get down here this instant, Master Daniel,” Bruce shrieked, voice falsetto.

“But I can see Ireland, Mum.” Daniil smirked and pointed west. “It’s green waaay in the distance...”

“Bravo for you. I’m scared stiff.”

“You’re stiff because you’re horny, Dad.” Smirking right at his bemused father. “Face it, I turn you on more than Mom ever did.”

He stepped across the rock, placing each foot, skirting clumps of white bird dung, precarious with waves splashing up, grinning at his still-dazed father. Ignoring the wind’s constant buffeting, he took a step back, pretending to be preparing to jump.

Bruce stemmed incredulity, to mutter, “Your mom would have a fit if she saw you up there.”

Daniil shrugged. “She’d have a bigger fit if she saw me doing gay stuff with you.”

Increasingly nervous, and uncomfortable, Bruce beckoned, watching his agile offspring until he was safely off the rock.

They followed a tortuous route over pock-marked rocks back to the path. Indian file with jolly-as-can-be Daniil leading, following the shoreline, steel-gray waves crashing, splashing, tossing spray in the air.

The shrieks and squawks of seals became louder. They climbed onto an outcrop overlooking a promontory, a dozen seals basking, many more in the water.

“Stinky, huh Dad.”

Bruce closed the gap, tousled Daniil’s windswept hair, turning his amazing son toward him. His brazen Adonis, beautiful features, compelling eyes, flawless complexion, mystique to enrapture any man.

Daniil inclined his head, eyes averted, distant, more serious, contemplating who knows what.

“I don’t know what’s gotten into you...” Bruce began. “If you want to talk about it, I’m here for you, the same as Edwin.” He regretted the last bit as soon as he’d said it.

His son pulled away to stare at the sea, his expression worrying. He needed say to something.

“I hope you’re not upset about this morning.” He let it sink in. “It was the hottest thing ever.”

Witnessing his nine-year-old son in the throes of ecstasy excited him wildly. His first time playing with a ‘gay toy’, not having it done to him. Laying back against his father with his knees next to his shoulders, reinserting Alistair all by himself. It didn’t seem possible.

It was only a matter of seconds before Daniil discovered the spot for himself. He started moving the ivory dildo in and out, wriggling it at a certain spot. Harder and harder, pushing his pelvis down to greet it, then jabbing rhythmically, getting faster and faster. Eyes closed, legs twitching, narrow hips squirming. Then, the rush of spasms from deep within, buttocks lifting off the bed, straining against ivory as his little hand pumped frantically.

At the time, Bruce told himself his fifteen minutes of preparation immediately preceding made the difference. The alternative was too disturbing to consider.

“I could tell it felt really nice. You enjoyed it, didn’t you?” he added.

Caught on the spot, Daniil shrugged. “What does that make me?”

Slowly, Bruce stepped back, drawing Daniil with him. Still not sure if he’d witnessed his son’s first anal orgasm, a proper one with squeals, whimpers, and groans. However, he was extremely loose afterwards, enough that Claire used the douche and lukewarm water to help his anus close up.

“You’re my son, and I love you very much. It doesn’t matter what you are.”

Daniil chewed on his bottom lip. “It sure matters to Grandma!”

“Grandma says things, silly stuff. Remember what she said about your iPad not having a real keyboard? Old people are entitled to their hang-ups.”

“I suppose… Mom...”

“Unfortunately, your mom listens to her. She’s not happy about... well, things.”

“You and Mom argue about me being gay. I heard you when I was in the shower.”

“She suspects, that’s all.” Bruce regarded his son fondly. “I won’t ever lie to you. It used to bother me that you might be. Life is hard enough as it is. Now, I’m glad you are... Edwin is; I guess you know that.”

Daniil looked him in the eye. “You’re the same as him. Not for men; for boys.”

Hesitating as panic set in, Bruce felt Daniil tense, looking over his shoulder, spotting seabirds on a rock ledge. They needed to talk about it, sooner, not later.

“Being around you, who wouldn’t be attracted? You’re a hot kid, raging, in fact. Not raging, well you are, but in a good way... You’re a sexy boy, okay. Really sexy.”

Daniil raised his eyes to the sky. “I’m queer, I get it, Dad. Despite what everyone says, being gay isn’t cool, Dad.”

Bruce considered saying that loving little boys was infinitely worse; however, it was more than likely Edwin had covered that complication already.

Instead, he sat on a ledge, pulling Daniil onto his lap, front to side hugging, absorbing his warmth. Sweet gentle kisses on his forehead, nose... He was still surprised when his son’s head turned slightly, accepted his tongue, and offered his own. It was natural, satisfying, reassuring, nothing like kissing his wife.

“You feel so much nicer than your mom,” he murmured when they parted

“You feel nicer than Alistair,” Daniil snickered.

Bruce brushed away curls. “I also love you. I have no idea why. Crazy, huh?”

“You better love me bunches and bunches if you want me to keep doing this.”

Giggling, sliding his little hand between them, rubbing the thing that was already hard and hungry for him.

“Your mom loves you, too, Babe,” Bruce whispered.

“Not like she used to...” Daniil rested his forehead against his father’s cheek. “When I told Mr. Ed, he took me out for a milkshake and we talked about it for hours. Not her.”

“When I was a kid, no one could tell their parents. Anyone, for that matter. It’s different nowadays.”

Bruce kneaded his son’s knobby spine from neck to tailbone, fingers sliding past the waist of his linen pants to deftly rub the start of his crack, barely bumping the silicone handle, mutual awareness and reassurance.

“We talked about not needing a pretend personality, remember? Your mom was at her big end-of-year party in New York.”

“’You can only be yourself, if you’re honest about who you are... I thought about announcing it in home room before our Christmas party,” Daniil said, a weak smile at the end.

“Cheep, cheep.”

“I didn’t exactly chicken out, Dad. Most girls would’ve cheered because they like me; maybe a few boys, only because our teacher always says being different is the new normal. The rest would make fun of me behind my back. I couldn’t see the point of being lonely.”

Bruce smiled and kissed his nose; then, a baby-soft dimpled cheek.

“It might take your mom a while to get used to the new normal.”

He didn’t intend to sound quite so melancholy. He hugged Daniil tighter, his hand inching under the back of his chinos, plenty of room under the cord-tied waist; no underpants was a godsend.

“Mr. Ed doesn’t want me to talk about it with her. You don’t, too; admit it Dad!”

“She has preconceptions; not as bad as your grandmother,” Bruce sighed.

“She’ll blame you for sure if she finds out I’m really gay. Like when I went to work with her for a day. Justin was really nice to me. She still said mean things about him all the way home.”

“She thinks gays should act straight. Hiding yourself... it’s not healthy.”

“Mr. Ed said it deforms you.” Daniil took a breath. “On the way here, he texted me about the Eros Union; whether we’re going to join.”

“What did you say?”

“If I can talk you into it. Duh!” He gave his serious look. “It’s our only chance to be with men and boys who are like us.”

He snuggled into his father’s shoulder, unaware that a tall, thin woman with a telephoto-lens camera was skirting the seals. She dodged the more aggressive males, composing photographs, finally squatting before emboldened puffins pecking at fish scraps.

“Your mom would never allow it,” Bruce muttered, hesitating as a thought came to him.

“Mr. Ed said not to tell her.”

“I was going to say we can’t worry about her, not now. I love you so much more than her.”

“If you want, I’ll be your boy-wife; your parastatheis. That’s what Graeme calls it.”

Bruce gulped. He wasn’t worthy, nowhere near good enough even if it was possible. Still, craving went on regardless, desire without end, wanting to propose right there and then.

Unable to admit that he wanted to be husband to his son, he sighed deeply.

“I’m happy being your dad.”

“And my boyfriend.”

“Especially that. I love you.”

Katrina could never find out how much he loved Daniil—she’d destroy them. However, now wasn’t the time or place to bring it up, or drill his son in keeping secrets. They’d need to find ways of spending time together, going on trips without her. So much to worry about...

“Dad, what if we asked Mr. Ed? I bet he knows what to do...”

Not wanting to answer and spoil the fantasy, Bruce cupped a little buttock, fingers pressing against the handle. Daniil clenched, drawing in. Contented, calm, cozy in his fisherman’s sweater; he was loved in ways that mattered, no matter what.

He nuzzled his father’s neck, inhaling lingering aftershave, turning his head, eyes wide, needy, longing. Inhaling sea air, fresh, salty, invigorating, waves slashing so close that spray splattered the rock they were sitting on.

Urgently, he reached for his father’s head, pulling their heads closer, lips joining, both offering mouths to exploring tongues. Hot, wet, writhing pleasure, Daniil’s small heart beating rapidly, eagerly submitting to his man’s demanding embrace.

The woman draped her long-lens camera around her neck and searched for birds. Manx Shearwater were easy to spot in flight from their shearing wing motion, stiff wings dipping side to side, wingtips nearly touching the sea.

Nearly a minute passed, scouring nooks and crannies along the shore, before she spotted them, a father and son having a rest on a rock ledge. She smiled, recognizing an intimate moment. She lifted her camera, zoomed in, focused on the boy’s knitted-wool sweater.

“This Eros Union thing... it might be fun sharing you,” Bruce ventured, unaware they were being scrutinized. “I already shared you with Simon. Seeing him bum you was awesome; really hot.”

“It was fun watching you play with him, while I played with his dad.”

‘Fun’ didn’t come close. Mutually gratifying kissing and fondling games opened minds to obscene possibilities from swapping sons and fathers.

“I keep thinking about you with Edwin... I don’t see why not.”

Strangely, saying it was easy, not at all what he’d expected.

“Um... Dad... What if he wants to bum me? I’m pretty sure...”

“Lord Stirling, Master Daniel; hello!” the woman shouted—hardly dulcet.

Daniil spotted her and waved back. Startled, Bruce swiveled to look behind him. She clambered over rocks, on a beeline for them.

She was gaunt, likely as tall as he was. Perhaps taller. Her attire was standard British-birdwatcher, loose khaki cargo pants with plenty of pockets, an olive-green birding vest and matching wide-brimmed hat. Tied around her waist was a green anorak, all very functional.

He pried his son away, a fond kiss on his forehead before brushing windswept curls.

“We’ll finish this later,” he whispered, glancing down.

There was no mistaking Daniil’s excitement. Constrained in his pouch, his erection protruded, still small, more exaggerated. He peeked under the waist of his pants, snickering and pushing with the heel of his hand, not stopping until the prominent bulge was less noticeable.

“Fancy meeting you here,” she called. “’Better late than never, or better never than late.’”

“We might have a nut case on our hands,” Bruce murmured.

“Wanna bet five quid she’s Eros Union?” Daniil still reached for his father’s hand. “She obviously knows us.”

They watched her skirt two randy seals, disappear behind rocks, reappear again.

“Dr. Hellene Hawke... ‘Oh, 'tis love, 'tis love that makes the world go round.’ Peculiar as the love between a man and a boy may seem to seals.”

Bruce growled through his teeth. “She’s cra-z-y.”

“I’m so pleased to meet your acquaintance at last,” she announced, still yards off.

She waved royally, sweeping off her hat to reveal mousy-brown hair, rather short for a woman. She winked at Daniil, as much as saying she’d seen them kissing. Not to worry; a boy French-kissing his father on a deserted foreshore was ordinary, entirely normal, commonplace.

Daniil smiled as the woman stepped closer, certain he’d seen her before. But where?

“I expected to meet you over a glass of Chablis and Mrs. Bradstreet’s Roasted Comice Pears, not at the seal colony,” she went on, almost giddy with excitement.

A skinny hand extended to catch Bruce’s hand, a cursory shake before taking Daniil’s small hand, lingering as she caressed his soft warm fingers.

“Oh my, you are a sexy little tartlet, aren’t you?” Her voice was resonant, yet strident.

Daniil frowned, deciding his first impression was hopelessly wrong. Worse, she wouldn’t let go of his hand.

“I’m sure ‘sexy’ and ‘little’ don’t bother you. It must be ‘tartlet.’”

He shrugged tactfully.

“‘A tart is a pretty and effeminate-looking small boy who acts as a catamite,’ sayeth the great C.S. Lewis,” Hellene declared upon finishing her up-close inspection.

She stepped back, ignoring Bruce’s blank disbelief, still admiring Daniil, her thin-fingered hands now on her hips, shockingly slender compared to most women.

“You do know what I’m talking about, don’t you Master Daniel?”

“He wrote the Narnia stories,” he muttered.

She gestured dismissively. “One would think Mr. Lewis knew what he was talking about when it came to boys. But no; he was much too sanctimonious. Not at all Eros material. Now, J.M. Barrie? Entirely Eros, what with Peter Pan, the nonchalant, cocky boy who never grew up. Where was I?”

Daniil giggled, his second impression reconsidered. “’It must be tartlet.’”

A few moments later... “You’ve just turned nine, so you’ll be a tartlet for another two years!” She regarded him severe, yet sardonic. “But which type are you?”

“Raspberry with custard.” He smirked, mocking her in return.

She folded her arms, pretending pedantic. “Common, House, and Royal; and never forget them! The Common Tart occurs if a boy’s so inclined. The House Tart has breeding and heritage. The Royal Tart is without equal, the imperial standard.”

“My governess said I’m a House Tart.”

“Not quite. You’re a Stirling House Tartlet; younger and lovelier than a regular catamite. Graeme tells me that Lord Handley ranks you among the best, not Royal, but close.”

“I’m sorry...Ms... Um... Dr...” Bruce stumbled, mind reeling. It was as if she knew all about the Eros Union.

She plopped her hat on her head. “Hellene, please.” She pointed at Daniil, an eyebrow raised, almost comical. “Your dear little tartlet must call me ‘Mum.’”

“I already have a mum, and a mom.”

“If I’m to train you, I require respect.”

“But Claire’s my trainer?” Daniil protested.

“With a sponsor from one House, and a companion from a different House, you get two trainers. I’m the other one.”

Bruce picked up on ‘sponsor.’ He was about to ask when he thought better of it. Edwin always counseled patience; it would all come out in good time.

“Yes, Other Mum,” Daniil chirped, on the verge of a giggling fit.

“Oh my! Claire said you were a wit. ‘Mum’ does make me feel rather antiquated, though. I look nothing like the Queen ‘Mum.’”

She captured Daniil’s hand again, turning it over, a sideways glance at his father, critical and curious, not deprecating.

“Soft small hands, nice slender fingers, and a firm grip. Perfect for a tartlet. However, your fingernails belong on a scullery maid.”

Still holding his hand, she raised his head, scrutinizing again, nose, eyes, neck, even parting his lips. Then, smiling, she peered at his eyes.

“Tiny slivers of emerald in sapphire eyes, I suppose it’s to be expected when a boy is as pretty as you.”

“What’s expected... Mum?”

“You’ll be popular. You’re far too good for just any principal.”

She stopped, swiveling to at birds. Daniil gave his father a sly ‘loony bin’ look.

“Puffinus puffinus are from the Procellariidae family, tubernoses.” She turned abruptly. “Where was I before I got carried off?”

“Drinking Chablis,” Daniil snickered.

“Chablis indeed! I'm not drunk, except with desire. Not ‘strange, weird, off, nor crazy, my reality is just different from yours.’”

Daniil returned a toothy grin, iconic from a nine-year-old.

“The tartlet grins like the Cheshire cat. Claire also warned me you were spot on.” She laughed, raucous as a seal. “One must admire Lewis Carroll’s imagination; ‘twas a pity little girls were his thing.”

“To come to the point,” Bruce interrupted.

Hellene cocked an eye at the father. Barely adequate for his tart, she surmised; likely not ‘cocky’ enough for more adventurous boys.

“Claire requested my expertise, gay bird watchers and Master Daniel’s training in particular.” She smirked at Daniil. “Including any immediate deficiencies. Then, I’ll assist in his celebration, followed by his Grande Tournée.”

Daniil cocked his head. “I get a Grand Tour.” He could tell she was impressed. “My friend, Mr. Ed, is teaching me French so I’m ready.”

Bruce nodded, more worried than thoughtful—it was the first he’d heard of it.

“You’ll need German, too. We’ll talk over dinner, Master Stirling. Seven o’clock. His Cuteness should be attired so I can see what I have to work with.”

Suave, perplexing, yet succinct.

oUo

“Your mother is prompt to a fault,” Bruce chided, bustling Daniil into the dining room.

Five minutes past seven, it was drearily empty. Black-timbered posts and beams that at first glance appeared burned, were in fact, adzed and stained. White plaster infills, dark brown tables, dark brown high-backed chairs, dark-brown sideboards and cabinets...

“Bit bloody gloomy,” Daniil whispered, skirting a prominent ‘Please wait to be seated’ sign.

“Shiver me timbers; it be from The Scurvy Queen, me old ship, matey.”

Daniil groaned.

Art helped the theme, conspicuously appropriate ocean steamers and square riggers, with backgrounds to match the last of a blazing orange sunset beyond the windows.

“Wanna bet they all ran aground here?” Bruce whispered.

“Wanna bet no one eats here,” Daniil giggled, peeking around the corner.

Not a single table was occupied, and hadn’t been for a while from the droopy flowers.

“Good evening, Lord Stirling. Professor Hawke has requested you join her, if that is to your liking, Sir?”

Mr. Bradstreet was less dusty, more sycophantic, already leading the way across lighthouse-themed carpet.

“Most definitely,” Bruce replied, winking at Daniil.

“Mrs. Bradstreet has returned forthwith, and is busy in the kitchen. I believe she’s making her prawns tonight. They’re fresh from Iceland, served in a piquant dressing with capers and Romaine. Unfortunately, we are running a few minutes behind.”

“We’re not in a rush. Perhaps a bottle of Chablis and something to nibble on. A selection of your domestic cheeses, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“Right away, Lord Stirling.”

Hellene Hawke was seated in an alcove out of sight, the window behind her overlooking the shore and sea. She smiled tactfully until the host departed.

“Loathsome creature,” she whispered to his back. “It’s obvious he’s envious of anyone who's better off than he is. His wife’s cooking is divine; it’s the only reason I stay here.”

She turned her gaze on Daniil, appraising him with a critical eye, the image of innocence in a white shirt, creamy linen pants, and nearly new sneakers.

“Not what I’d hoped for, but tasteful enough.”

“Mum?” Daniil peeped, head down yet nervously peeking at her.

She sighed. “A catamite always dresses to attract men; always.”

“It’s the best we could do at short notice. His new wardrobe is being delivered to Lord Handley’s house,” Bruce snapped.

She gestured at Daniil. “Frankly, he’d look cuter in girl’s clothes, not a dress, slacks and a blouse. However, it’s not about the clothes; it’s what he does with them.”

Bruce and Daniil exchanged glances. She was about to comment further when Bruce observed Bradstreet leaving the kitchen. He gestured, a one-finger warning.

“Only the male Manx returns to the colony every year,” she segued smoothly. “The female finds other pastures. They don’t nest, they burrow...”

She went on, pedantically describing the habitat and breeding of Puffinus puffinus while Bradstreet served wine with a hastily assembled cheese platter. He left with their main course orders, and not a moment too soon after informing Daniil that there was no child’s menu, and Gressingham Duck was not available.

Father and son held hands under the table, watching the sun’s dying glow, listening to the dulled rush of waves.

“Rather romantic,” Hellene mused, sipping Chablis and watching Bruce feed Daniil with thin slices of cheese.

“Rather,” Bruce murmured, tapping his son's little nose with a sliver of cheddar. “Give your palate time to savor it.”

“I’m surprised he likes Black Crowdie. Sour isn't for kids,” she said. “Or me for that matter. I much prefer the Orkney cheddar.”

“You don’t sound English, Mum.”

“Neither do you,” she teased. “I lived in Washington D.C. for three years, beginning when I was 12.” She lowered her voice. “When I was your age, I was a catamite, like you.”

Daniil’s forehead furrowed. “But how? You’re a girl.”

She raised an eyebrow, holding his gaze, not a word. It was all very perplexing.

“I was christened Troy Hawke,” She watched him process, still frowning.

“Are you transgendered?”

She regarded him patiently, silence acknowledging.

“The kids at school joke about guys getting their junk cut off. Did you?”

She clucked. “Oh my, you do come straight to the point, don’t you?”

“I didn’t mean... I’m really sorry.”

“I still have some of my boy parts, if you must know... When I was eight, my older brother used to mash my testicles. It would make me less girly, he said. The last time I was in agony. He wouldn’t let me tell my mother.”

Daniil bit his bottom lip. “What happened?”

She glanced at Bruce. “They got twisted. They were cut off the next morning. After I was better...” She exhaled deeply. “I wanted to be a choirboy so my parents sent me to St. Edmunds at Canterbury Cathedral.”

Daniil sat up, suddenly alert. “That’s where Mr. Ed went, didn’t he Dad?”

“Edwin Browne; he’s a close friend of the family,” Bruce explained.

“I love him bunches. Not my Mom, though.”

“It’s because of Edwin that I went to St. Edmunds and joined Eros.” Hellene smiled fondly. “Between him and Master Browne, I learned how to give pleasure. Oral especially.”

“That's why you're here, isn't it; to teach me to suck?” Daniil asked.

“There’s no need to be vulgar about using your mouth.”

Daniil exhaled. “I don’t know what else to call it.”

“Then, you have a lot to learn in three days,” she said quietly. “Over the years, I’ve learned it’s best if a boy thinks of me as his friend, not as his teacher.”

A moment later, he raised his hand, giving her a quick 'five'.

“We’ll begin with how to present yourself. You want men to look at you, don’t you?”

“Yes, Mum.”

She wasn’t about to ignore Bruce’s obvious disapproval. “Every gay boy wants to be looked at.”

Bruce gulped Chablis. “What if I don’t want strange men looking at him?”

“Being looked at is the prelude to sharing, Master Stirling.”

“Claire talked about how sharing builds a relationship... We’ve *shared* already. I get it.”

Hellene returned a disdainful glance. “I’m sure you enjoyed kissing and molesting Simon as much as his father enjoyed your son.”

“It’s a start.”

“Catamites need men to desire them.” She turned to Daniil, taking his hand, a finger tracing his palm. “Be honest, you want men to look at you, don’t you?”

He blinked, and murmured, “Um, I guess...”

“And your father, you really want him to look especially hard?”

“Yes, of course.”

“You like when his cock hardens the instant he sees you, don’t you?”

Daniil smirked, peeking at his father.

“If you excite him enough, he has to go in your boy-hole, no matter what; not once, again and again.”

After another peek at his father, he nodded agreement.

“Your shirt is buttoned up, your collar is buttoned down, and your long-sleeves, too, Hellene went on. “I think buttons are boring unless they’re undone.”

“Then, they’re sexy?” Daniil posed, not nearly as awkward.

“You’re way beyond sexy. With your body, you’re hot even with clothes. However, buttons get in the way of expressing it. Let’s undo your sleeves.”

She took over. With the buttons undone, his sleeves hung loose, then rolled midway up his forearms, then beyond his elbows.

“I like them best part way,” Daniil decided, unfolding critically.

Swept along, Bruce smiled. “Dani-casual is cuter than I expected. Seeing a little boy-tummy wouldn’t hurt.”

Hellene nodded encouragingly. Daniil unfastened the top two shirt buttons, the third... then another. When he stopped, his navel was peeking over his pants’ waist.

“Seeing your bellybutton is scrumdiddlyumptious hot.”

He blushed at her tone.

“Now he’s embarrassed, poor thing.”

“I’m hot, that’s all.” He grinned all himself. “Like burning up hot.”

“Tucking in your shirt doesn’t help.” She reached, tugging a handful of soft warm cotton.

Daniil giggled, wriggling in his chair and yanking his shirt from under his pants. Only one button held the front of his shirt together, and that was too much. Unfastening it with his left hand, he squared his shoulders. His shirt parted in front, exposing a swathe of smooth pale skin.

Bruce grinned, an appreciative nod in Hellene’s direction. He leaned across the table, picking up a slice of cheddar on the way. For several long seconds, he gorged on his son’s firm flat belly, little pectoral muscles, a delicious shallow groove from neck to navel, no flab at all...

“Am I hot enough now?”

Bruce sank back to earth, slumped into his chair, gulping, fanning his face for effect.

Hellene stifled a laugh, peeking sideways to make certain they weren't being observed. Then, she leaned to look, craning her neck to see past the table.

“Not yet. You’re getting warmer, though,” she snickered.

“Dani, your pants are in the way of the really hot stuff,” Bruce teased.

“I am so not taking off my pants!”

“Maybe you could wear them lower.” Outright suggestive from a middle-aged ‘woman.’

Furtively, Daniil glanced behind him. Hidden behind his high-backed chair, his confidence bloomed. With a jerk, he opened the bow securing the cords at his waist. A sly smirk at his father as he squirmed about in his seat.

“Oh my!” Hellene tittered.

He tugged at the waist, loosening the cord enough to pull down the front of his pants. Bare except for his small lambskin pouch.

Then, she gasped. “Oh my! Such a precious pochette, and un médaillon de maison, too.”

Bruce gaped as she leaned closer. For a moment, she might have been going to crawl over the table.

She reached, not for the pouch, lower down, pushing down loose linen pants. With them out of the way, she revealed the handle of the Daniil’s blue plug, ending where his scrotum disappeared into the pouch.

“I’d rather use red to loosen him properly. Still, a blue L’ Entraîneur will do, I suppose.” She glanced at Bruce. “I hope you’re using a dildo beforehand?”

“He’s only just started. Claire’s worried about bruising.”

“Lift up a bit, Master Daniel.”

She craned lower, a quick peek at the handle, seated tightly with darkness encroaching on his crack. A playful flick of her finger on warm silicone before yanking up Daniil’s jeans. Just in time; Bradstreet brought appetizers, roasted Comice pears for Bruce and Hellene, and....

“Prawn Rosette,” he announced, a flamboyant sweep to place a plate before Daniil.

“Could you come back with cocktail sauce?” Daniil squeaked.

With his white shirt wide-open, he looked like a fashion model in Côte d'Azur casual.

oUo

They circumambulated the lighthouse in an amber glow, stuffed with Kirkcudbright monkfish in redcurrant and port jus, drizzled with basil and pine-nut pesto; and dessert of Scottish cranachan, various berries infused in honey and whisky syrup and fresh cream. It was delicious, although Hellene picked at hers, eating only berries, something about antioxidants.

“You’re head over heels in love, Bruce. You’ll have a difficult time sharing him,” Hellene confided.

“Who me? The first man who wants him can have him,” Bruce joked.

“Fine with me, so long as his dick is bigger than yours.”

Giggling, guffawing boy, skipping out of reach and running ahead, leading the way back to the Lighthouse Suite. His father couldn’t take his eyes off him, not even for a second. Daniil disappeared into darkness. He stared, anxious for a glimpse. Desperation lurking—in three days he’d have to deal with Katrina again.

“I may have shared him already.” He sighed. “I don’t mean with Trevor.”

“It bothers you that Simon bummed him?”

“Boy bumming boy doesn’t count in my book.”

“Bruce, sucking a man is barely sharing, unless he swallows without being asked.”

“So another man’s cock has to be in his ass to count?”

“A catamite saves love for the man he loves. For men who he respects, there’ll be union aplenty, never complete possession; that part’s the principal.”

“Meaning what, exactly.”

She returned a cold look. “Only a House catamite satisfies the principal. Supposedly, it’s the ultimate pleasure. I wouldn’t know. My parents were shopkeepers, middle-class nobodies.”

“What’s social class got to do with anything, other than saving your left-over dessert?”

“I am *not* sharing this with you, Lord Stirling.”

Bruce laughed. “Better watch out or the tart will finagle half of it before he’s asleep.”

“Oh, I guarantee it... The Eros Union is all about social class, Bruce,” she resumed. “It began as a noble institution, borne of Ancient Greek traditions. For obvious reasons, it flourished in England’s best boarding schools.”

Staring into darkness, straining his ears. Only minutes apart, yet he longed to see Daniil; even to hear him would be enough. If this was true love, it was his very first time.

“I was the prettiest boy at St. Edmunds,” she continued. “However, I was Common. For a year, any man or boy who wanted to, bummed me. Graeme stopped that when he recruited me into the Eros Union. He taught me a new use for the Lord’s Passageway. It was utterly delightful. I even got my nickname from Edwin.”

She touched her neck, low down, below where an Adam’s apple would’ve been.

“I was Gullet for a reason,” she murmured.

“He was Gobble for the same reason... Your days as a choirboy were over, I assume?”

“Anything but, especially with my condition,” she snickered. “My voice didn’t break; that’s a godsend for a choirboy. Of course, my willy didn’t grow bigger, and no pubic hair, which was even better. For a Common Tart, I was extremely busy.”

“It’s a high price to pay.”

“But you’ll let him wear a pouch for a few more years?” she said testily.

Bruce was either deep in thought, or too lovesick to answer.

They turned a curved wall, leaving the lighthouse lawn, a few dozen paces on a stone-flagged path, following the shore. Inhaling salty air, reviving Bruce’s desire. The last thing he wanted was more conversation.

“Being a House catamite offers abundant opportunities,” Hellene said, sotto voce, behind him. “Your son will have access to things that I never had. He’ll always get whatever he wants.”

“At what cost?”

She shrugged. “Does it matter? He’s already inclined. Once he perfects the art of pleasuring, he’ll be in constant demand.”

Bruce cringed at the thought. The problem was she was right; there were obvious benefits.

“I don’t want my son with just anyone. He’s not a…”

“He’s ready and willing; the ability part is up to you, Bruce. You’ll need to be careful when he starts with other men. Slow and gentle.”

“Claire said you’d teach him about oral sex.”

She leaned against the lighthouse tower, looking up. High above, at the very top of a massive stone column, a searchlight slowly rotated.

“You’d be surprised what that boy can swallow when he puts his mind to it. That said, a man’s glans can traumatize his throat. He’ll get hoarse from time to time. Look for Wedderspoon’s Manuka Honey and Echinacea, not cough drops,” she went on.

“Something else to worry about! If his mom hears him...”

“You can use a dildo to coax his larynx apart; teach him to control his gag reflex. It just takes careful insertions over time.”

“Claire said to use a dildo four times a day. I’m pretty sure she meant in his butt.” His joke splatted.

“Yearning comes with practice.” Clearly, she wasn’t amused. “And motivation.”

Bruce turned. Redirected, he couldn’t stop staring. The Lighthouse Suite included a glazed conservatory with a spectacular view of the sea.

“We practiced before dinner. He wriggled all over the place; I know he enjoyed it,” he muttered. “I’m supposed to use it harder before I go in him... I’m scared I’ll hurt him.”

“You’ll hurt him more if you don’t. Make sure you wash it properly first.” It was curt, unsympathetic, almost brutal.

He smiled strangely. “I don’t think she meant to use it in his mouth.”

“My vocal range and strength improved by exercising my throat muscles.”

He gulped at the thought; jamming ‘Alistair’ into his son’s mouth.

“You do know I’m new to all this?”

She looked up, ignoring him. Perhaps she was fascinated by flashes of light, myriad brilliant diamonds in Fresnel glass.

Bruce started toward the door, searching his pockets for the room key, only to realize he’d already handed it to Daniil in the dining room. Muttering under his breath because the door was wide open, mostly angry at himself until Daniil jumped out from behind the wall. Instant joy at seeing his son framed in light from within. Naked, grinning, his iPhone in hand, held out for a reason.

“I flushed by myself, Dad.” He spotted Hellene lurking behind him. “Oopsie!”

Hellene heaved a fake sigh. Not the closeup inspection she desired, still examining him with a connoisseur’s eye. Circumcised even tighter than she anticipated given Claire’s description. Not acorn-tipped like most boys, or with his glans exposed from the trendy American high-and-tight cut; extreme, like Marten.

“Now, that’s sexy, in fact, very sexy.”

She made herself look away, gesturing for him to go inside with his father. She closed and locked the door behind her. Her gaze returned, fascinated. Like Marten, circumcision went far beyond exposing the glans for hygiene; it was way down the shaft, exaggerating, enhancing it. No fetish, or some kind of ritual, yet either possibility made her tremble.

Smirking to herself, she looked around. The Lighthouse Suite commanded the best view in the hotel, modern sliding doors looking out over the dark shore and the entrance to Loch Ryan. It was romantic with the private conservatory, big enough for two rattan armchairs and a daybed, with personal potted palms and miniature black-lacquer tables, Chinoise style.

She turned back, a silent witness as Daniil danced around his father, becoming erect without touching his penis. Having fun, showing off, a bizarre mating ritual; whatever it was it was a pleasure.

“Hey, Dad, I got an awesome email from Mr. Ed,” Daniil crowed, pressing up against his father to share his iPhone.

“Lucky boy, aren’t you?” Bruce said before he started to read.

My Dearest Daniil,

The EU underground whispers about you in my ears late at night, and sometimes early in the morning. Such happy news makes LilB hard; though not quite as hard as my favourite Willy.

It pleases me greatly that you are finding your way into catamite-hood with every parting of your delectable buttocks. As much as I would like to be with you, you must progress in the way of all catamites, empowering that wonderful joy which is limited to a few lucky men, the principal notwithstanding. Training your throat is the next big step, one which you will surely delight in. I dream of your skills applied to BigB…

“He spelled ‘favourite’ wrong, and ‘principal,’” Daniil pointed out.

Bruce nodded vaguely and returned to reading.

… Now, to the point; you will receive a special gift when you arrive at Lord Handley’s house in London. I would be honored if you wore it, just as I wore it for Graeme when I was your age. As you know, a Catamitus ring symbolizes the union of master and catamite. While I can never supplant your father, I will always think of you in that way. I think, and hope, your father will understand.

Finally, dear Daniil, remember me fondly, as I dream of you, being taken further into the rainbow your life is becoming. Serve as you must in your union with Eros, my beautiful and loving boy.

With all my love for you and your doting father,

Edwin, EU Master

Having read it twice, Bruce was pleased, yet perturbed. “You sent him a selfie, didn't you?”

“While I was flushing. Just a dick pic, not my face.”

With enviable dexterity, Daniil thumbed back on the screen. He smirked and held up his iPhone. He had reason to be proud; his stubby erection was perfect; short, curved, pink skin stretched taut, tiny lavender-blue helmet plopped on the tip.

“Almost no balls to speak off; no wonder Edwin is lovesick,” Hellene murmured, still feasting her eyes on bare boy.

Daniil peeked at his father. “Does it bother you, me wearing his Catamitus ring?”

Bruce gulped, enough envy to last a lifetime. He shrugged, already heading toward the mini-fridge.

“Dad?” Daniil murmured, his voice breaking.

Bruce turned.

“I really like Mr. Ed, and I respect him... I love you.” Daniil blinked, meekly peeking up at his father. “I really, really want to be your boy-wife...”

“Of course, you do. Now isn’t the time,” Hellene interrupted. “We need to get started.”

“Before we do, how about a sip of Uachdar Iolaire, Hellene? GlenIolaire whisky and cream. The House Tart loves it.”

She left her unfinished dessert on the table, taking a glass with her as she peeked into the main bedroom. It was tastefully modern, interior-designer-decorated in pastel blue and green, with paisley curtains, wallpaper, and bed coverings, littered with Daniil’s discarded white shirt and pants, socks, and...

A sniff inside his little lambskin pouch made her feel quite quivery. It was delicate and delightful, vaguely sweaty; all boy. Yet, he was such a sweet gentle child, not manly at all.

“Such a tiny purse for the family jewels.”

She smiled wryly. He was lucky he was small enough to fit inside it; unlucky in other ways.

When she looked up, Daniil was standing by the door, curious with his head tilted, absently fingering his still-erect penis.

She scooped up his shirt and turned him around. A playful pat on bare buttocks became an intrusive finger checking L’ Entraîneur.

“I’m supposed to wear it all the time,” Daniil said.

“Be sure you do. Night and day,” she emphasized.

She guided him into the conservatory where Bruce waited with the opened sporran. He’d laid out boy toys and other essentials on the little table beside the daybed.

Daniil grimaced. “We only just did Alistair, Dad!”

“Alistair’s the small one, named after his great uncle,” Bruce explained. “The big one he calls ‘Tuwile.’”

“He was Alistair’s boyfriend, from Kenya,” Daniil said gleefully. “Wanna bet his willy was bigger than Uncle Alistair’s?”

Hellene endured nine-year-old humor as she examined the dildos, width, length, and shape.

“Master Daniel; What is the difference between anal and oral sex?”

“You don’t know; seriously?” Daniil looked around. “Oral sex makes your day. Anal makes your hole weak.”

Pre-warned by Claire, she smiled appreciatively. “A catamite must be proficient at both. Whether sucking or bumming, each requires using your muscles properly. The difference is how you use these devices to train your muscles.”

“Yes, Other Mum.”

She held up the ivory dildos. “Despite what you think, either will fit.”

He regarded them doubtfully. “No way is Tuwile fitting in my boy-hole.”

“Not in a day, perhaps when it’s weak.”

Then, with a slight smile as she placed a large canvas outdoor pillow in the middle of the daybed. When he didn’t move, she took charge with an unfriendly glare.

“I want you on top of the pillow, bum up, Master Daniel.”

The dulled crash of waves was as much a distraction as Daniil, bouncing around on the pillow, pretend humping. He stopped when she sat beside him and parted his buttocks. One finger slipped under the flexible L’ Entraîneur handle, an abrupt deft tug. Daniil gasped, surprised that it popped out on the first attempt, not shock.

“As Graeme always said, serving necessitates preserving,” she began, leaning closer.

Bruce stepped closer, looking down at the now-familiar sight.

“Definitely getting bigger,” he murmured.

“That’s the goal; and deeper. Access and aesthetics are essential,” she confided. “We aim for the Royal Five Standard. ‘Five’ means he’s smooth, soft, supple, sensitive, and stretched. Right now, he’s passable.”

“Passable?” Bruce repeated.

Hellene unscrewed the lid on a jar of Finest Merino Wax, dipped a finger into thick, sticky, yellowish paste, and wiped it between Daniil’s buttocks.

“Your job is to keep him highly desirable,” she said quietly. “The visible part must be pliable, no unsightly bruises and minimal pucker; ideally, none at all. Absolutely no ‘starfish’; wrinkles are very off-putting for most men.”

‘Starfish’ clamored as Bruce leaned in again. Up close, he was somewhat relieved; it wasn’t as dark between Daniil’s buttocks as it had been a day earlier, and there was no sign of the flowery ripples that Claire was worried about. However...

“Roseate is a problem,” she went on. “Little boys are often inflamed. Mostly because of their delicate skin. Sometimes, it’s a reaction to preseminal fluid and semen.”

She pressed her index finger into Daniil’s elongated anus, instantly penetrating beyond the first joint.

“His boy-hole is receding quite nicely. That’s why he’s easily entered. You might want to go up to a red L’ Entraîneur. I wouldn’t, though. You’ll have your hands full just as he is.”

She withdrew her finger and held out the jar. “Lots of lanolin, Bruce. You want him to stay soft and smooth, inside and out.”

Bruce wriggled his lubricated index finger into Daniil’s body, his little anus well-used since leaving London. It was highly erotic, intensely arousing. Of course, if his wife saw it... noticeably depressed, as well as bigger....

Daniil relaxed, watching Hellene over his shoulder. “What are you doing?”

She added the rest of her Uachdar Iolaire to her leftover dessert, carefully stirring.

“’Just a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down, in a most delightful way,’” she said, sing-song yet brusque.

“What medicine?”

“Focus on your bum. You, too, must learn what your master is doing.”

Thus, began a process necessitating skill and dexterity. Her instructions were curt, detached; rub in greasy goop by kneading, pinching, rolling, manipulating skin and the tissue beneath... When she was satisfied Bruce knew what to do, she turned her attention to more pressing matters.

“Tonight, you’ll be impaled at both ends, Master Daniel.” She held an ivory phallus in each hand. “One in your hole and one in your mouth.”

Daniil looked dubious. “Like I said, Mum; Tuwile won’t fit in my boy-hole.”

She held Tuwile in front of his face. Incised around the pointy end was, ‘این نیز بگذرد .‘ 

She snickered and pointed. “It says, ‘This too shall pass.’ However, *this* goes in your mouth, tonight.”

Distracted by an awareness of something slowly entering, stretching behind him, he muttered, “No way.”

Unaware, Hellene stared at the knob end, incised with ‘أبو نواس السلمي

“Abu Nuwas al-Salami... Hardly likely. It must be a later imitation...”

She peered closely, not to make sure she’d translated correctly, because she had; it was simply impossible; no doubt a fan of the bard of boy love had owned it in the past. It had certainly been well-cared for over the years. The ivory retained an oiled sheen despite being yellowed and grimy.

“Abu Nuwas was a Persian poet, Eighth Century,” she added.

“In my mouth, huh...” Daniil murmured before a curious giggle, not from the sensation of a finger pressing into his immature prostate—he was used to that.

She kept an eye on him after she handed it over, along with a small box of sanitized wipes. No matter that Tuwile was ancient, or merely antique, he treated it with the utmost respect, wiping it meticulously.

“Abu Nuwas was Graeme’s favorite,” she went on, stealing another peek at him. “Edwin’s too. Of course, loving pretty little boys like you has a lot to do with it...

’Are not this child’s eyes all fire?

O Desire, Feel the first flush

of the eggs Between his legs!

Dearest, seize what you can seize,

If you please;

Fill your boyish fist with me

And then see Will it go a little way,

Just in play?’”

Daniil erupted in giggles and wriggles, teasingly holding out his hand, not making a fist, holding an erection vastly bigger than his own.

His father stopped applying goose grease to Alistair and playfully clutched his bottom, pinning him to the daybed.

“You’ve heard that poem before, haven’t you?”

“Uh uh!”

He shook his head wildly, trying to avoid a greasy finger sliding along his crack, intruding, playfully goosing him.

“Yes, you have. I can tell by your smirking.”

“What goes a little way, just in play, Dad?”

“Maybe if you feel the eggs between his legs, he’ll behave,” Hellene snickered.

Bruce laughed, going for gonads. Nothing to grab from behind, almost a eunuch with loose silky-soft skin.

“My Dearest’s got a long way to go before his first flush.”

“Which reminds, Bruce,” she interrupted. “Graeme always insisted that Edwin’s pouch be tied tightly. I assume Claire explained why?”

Already concerned, he muttered. “To restrict the blood and slow the growth.”

“What growth?”

Bruce flinched; he’d miss his son’s choirboy voice. “She talked about delaying puberty, Dani.”

“You’ll need to tie his pouch as tight as possible. Best to leave off his Catamitus ring.”

“I won’t have a proper ring until Mr. Ed’s arrives,” Daniil interjected.

With Alistair in hand, and parting his son’s little buttocks, Bruce prodded the ivory bell-head at the now-gaping anus. Daniil gasped.

“Hey, go easy on the boy-hole.”

“Trust me, Tart; when it’s this big, it’s used to stretching,” Hellene chided.

Bruce pressed on, gently yet firmly. He felt his son tense, resist, and relax. Penetration had never been so easy, young flesh parting, allowing, accepting, gliding through the dilated sphincter, possessing the sanctum.

“Like Arthur pulling out Excalibur, Dad, only you’re putting it in instead,” Daniil whispered.

Impalement inextricably, inexplicably linked to the symbolic sword, all powerful ivory taking rightful possession of a little boy. No matter that it was far from King Arthur’s castle at storm-ravaged Tintagel, a lighthouse was also inspiring. As if on cue, there was a distant rumble of thunder, a flash of lightning in the clouds.

“And you know the Abu Nawas’ poem, how?” Bruce teased, satisfied Alistair wasn’t popping out anytime soon.

“Like Other-Mum said, it’s Edwin’s favorite. He told it to me after I asked...”

Barely heard over the sea crashing onto the rocks.

“Asked what, exactly?”

“Don’t get mad, okay?” Muffled with his face buried in the daybed, Daniil muttered, “About me and you... um... having sex.”

“After you’re done talking, the tart needs a proper screwing,” Hellene interrupted.

Bruce shrugged. With ample experience, he twisted the ivory phallus, rotating as much as his wrist allowed, his hand like a compass needle swinging from East to West, and back again. Then, pumping in and out at the same time, alternating between churning and thrusting. He could feel his son submitting, his resistance flagging. Then, the inevitable; a sudden change in his bowels, grasping loosely, almost no pressure at all.

“Daddy.. Oh, oh, ohh... Ahhhh.”

“The tart needs to be sodomized, Bruce, not artificially stimulated,” Hellene snapped.

Bruce switched to levering from side to side, and back and forth. With a hand-width outside, and a hand-width within, the effect was almost instantaneous. His son grunted and groaned, pushing back enough to require restraint, a hand firmly planted on his back to keep him from squirming.

“That’s enough in that spot. Skewer the tart. Short hard jabs,” she said, schooling Bruce on the fly.

“Hey, that's not a punching bag back there!”

Bruce was awe-struck; spine-tingling excitement made every wrist movement electrifying.

“Skewer... that’s a technical term, right?”

“Fast in, fast out!” She watched Bruce’s hand. “All the way out. Make him pop!”

Fast in, fast out, drawing out succulent mucus and goose grease, making his son tremble and writhe, hot slimy juices sucking loudly; then, the distinct ‘pop’ of a catamite’s dilated anus, ecstasy unlike any other.

“Not too deep, and lots of goose grease. You’re not trying to give him an anal orgasm, Bruce; that’s later, when you shaft him.”

Pleased with their progress, Hellene returned her attention to Tuwile, now spotlessly clean after using most of the sanitized wipes. She sat by Daniil’s side, caressing his back as she leaned over to whisper in his ear.

“’This too shall pass’ through your arse,’” she teased. “Only after you learn to pleasure it with your mouth. Open wide... wider. Now, close your eyes and poke out your tongue.”

She rolled the torpedo-tip in her saved dessert sauce. As big as a toy submarine covered with cream, whisky, and honey, touching it to his tongue.

“This is Crème de Catamite. Your master wants you to lick it from his cock,” she crooned. “Taste your father’s pre-cum... lap it up.”

He licked it, little wriggly pink tongue swiping up sauce, leaving it clean and wet all over. Another dip of the tip while he licked his lips, giggling mischievously, not inebriated, overwrought with excitement. Oh, the thrill. His little heart raced into overdrive, turbocharged boy magnet coming alive.

“Now, suck the tip.,” she murmured, casting her gaze toward Bruce, methodically opening his son’s behind. “Don’t stop. Claire said you love to suck out his juice... I want to see your cheeks pulling in.”

Daniil’s iPhone chimed, announcing an incoming email. He reached for it, hand shaking, little bottom and thighs twitching sporadically, each breath erratic.

“Simon’s in Russia. ‛At a dacha with Rasputin. My soccer coach trained the Russian Olympic team.’ How weird is that?”

She glanced away again; skewering proceeding slow and steady, Daniil’s little sphincter so dilated there was only a muted slurping ‘pop’.

“Slowly, start to sheathe him,” she directed. “Pull back if he resists.” She could tell by Bruce’s hesitation. “Whenever he’s not gripping it, you push in until he sheathes it completely.”

With his iPhone tangential, Daniil multi-tasked like a preteen. Another text arrived. He read peripherally even as he suckled on an inch or two of ivory phallus. His father grimaced, not daring to ask—it would only confirm what he knew. Being certain made it worse. Instead, he followed instructions.

With Alistair nearly four inches inside his body, Daniil finally let go of his iPhone, his lips encircling Tuwile’s big tip, sucking creamy-whisky sauce with his eyes shut tight. Panicky, close to whimpering as Alistair inched farther into his rectum. Breathtaking pleasure building up, shuddering spasms, making himself relax, accept, until the shock went away.

Bruce leaned over his son, hot and bothered, and suspecting the worst. The email was Edwin’s, as expected. What he read was anything but expected:

My dearest,

Have I ever whispered in your ear, how gobblesome you are? With you across the sea, I can only dream of boy scent infiltrating my nostrils with each felicitous lick of my tongue. Proud little Willy (and your sweet cherry in particular) is the most delicious morsel of all, although I must admit I would be sorely tempted to suck (you would say chew) on your precious pouch beneath.

With such delights awaiting, it is tempting to just up and go, claim lovesickness, and be on the next flight from NYC. Will you leap into my arms so eagerly now that you’ve found a man who is much more than your father?

As you are aware, I worry about you constantly. Yes, you are becoming all you are meant to be, yet now I must share you. My envy hath no mercy. That you’re in good hands consoles me, indeed invigorates desire so intense that I dream day and night.

Send another selfie when you can. I wonder what’s in you even as I write. Is there a bulge in your neck when your chin’s up high? Perhaps you can show how manhood fits in your nether hole (aka bum). My heart palpitates at the thought of what I’ll see.

If you feel as I do, you will think only of the next time you and I are together, and of the love you can give me! For now, I will dream of how I might master you, my darling Stirling catamite.

With tender affection,

Edwin

P.S. If the plane crashes, know that I’ll die happy with your intimate selfie before me.  

With no further inward movement, Daniil was sure to notice; not right away because he was bayoneted at both ends, and Hellene rambled on about how desire and domination went hand in hand. When he opened his eyes, he saw his father’s indifferent expression, his gaze fixed on the discarded iPhone.

Hellene withdrew Tuwile. She touched Daniil’s soft cheek, shook her head in a silent warning. It went unheeded.

“Dad, don’t be mad, please?”

Bruce inhaled, exhaled slowly, resisting the urge.

“It’s just a game, okay? We play pretend boyfriends. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“It’s not a game... He’s in love with you.” Bruce gestured at the iPhone. “It couldn’t be any plainer.”

“I don’t love him, Dad,” Daniil muttered. “At least not how I love you.”

With the ivory shaft again slathered in sauce, Hellene pressed on his chin, opening his mouth. Riled, he tried to push her hand away.

“I want to talk to my dad.”

“After you’re done with Tuwile. Close your eyes and keep your mouth open as wide as possible.”

With her hand guiding Daniil’s hand, she pressed cautiously.

“You will always welcome a man’s cock into your body. Never try to fight it. This is who you are. Tilt your head back... all the way... mouth wide. If you want to take it out, open your eyes.”

She stopped pressing in, satisfied with his progress. Any farther might scare him, yet Daniil’s hand tightened purposefully around the ivory shaft.

“Oh my. You want more?”

She allowed his hand to take over, adding less than a half-inch, yet still remarkable, enough that she delved into her handbag to find her lipstick

“What will Graeme say when I tell him Master Stirling’s son sucks better than Edwin and I did?” she teased.

Never so distracted, Bruce stared in growing disbelief as Hellene marked both Daniil's lips and Tuwile’s ivory shaft.

“Now, you.” She handed the lipstick to Bruce. “Inserting to the red line is an EU tradition.”

His hands trembled as he parted his son’s buttocks, clumsily steering the lipstick around Daniil’s stretched anus. Red, like blood. Haunting, treasured memory of his son sheathing Alistair.

“Now, you shaft him. All the way in to the red line without stopping. Then, out. Slow and steady until he’s used to it.”

She shoved Daniil’s shirt under his middle.

“He’ll likely urinate. Most boys do the first time.”

oUo

“I didn’t realize he could get as loose as this,” Bruce muttered.

Two fingers inserted all the way and no resistance, none at all.  There was enough room to slide in Alistair without complaint; however, fingers were more fun, more intense, more intimate.

Daniil writhed, gasping, little hands grasping the pillow beneath him, craving more, yet unable to plead, deeper, faster, harder. His father, however, needed neither direction nor encouragement. Dominating his submissive son, twisting and probing, secretions oozing, churning buttery slime by merciless puddling; still not poking up—saving that.

“He needs to climax hard,” Hellene muttered.

With a kind of cruel pleasure, Bruce poked at his son’s pleasure node. Tiny, tender, tantalizing, a maddening rush of endorphins, straining, straining...

“Uh.”

Another poke, a deep two-fingered thrust.

“Uh!”

Again. Now, Daniil’s bare sweaty back arched up.

“Uh!”

Gasping, whiny boy pushing back.

“Uh.”

Shoving his butt against his father’s digits, ramming into his rectum.

“Uh! Uh! Uh!”

Rapid-fire two-finger thrusts. Spasms each time. Eyes clenched. Straining down.

“UH! UH! UH!”

“Faster!” Hellene rasped. “Pretty tarts need to squeal when they climax!”

Jabbing into him, fully dilated, rectum quaking, shaking. Grunting ‘uh’ with each frenzied breath.

“Finish him off before he faints,” she advised breathily.

Daniil’s father was every bit as excited. “How?”

“Shaft him; properly, of course. Hard and fast.”

With 26 years of experience, she recognized when a boy was as loose as Daniil, he would soon need a different kind of pleasure. Nine years old and already longing for the profound, intense, delightful fullness that came with colon penetration, even though he’d yet to experience it.

Bruce thought he was beyond shame and self-control. “You mean with Alistair, right?”

“He wants to be your boy-wife. It’s time he found out what it means. On his side with you behind him is best for his first time. If it hurts, he can pull away.”

Grumpy and feeling left out; she kept her eyes averted as Bruce got Daniil into position. Besides, she had her hands full keeping Tuwile in his mouth. Still a long way from where it needed to be, already training him to resist his gag reflex, breath slowly through his nose, and keep his head all the way back. His neck didn’t seem thick enough to get past his uvula.

“Don’t worry. “You’re so loose, it won’t hurt, not even a little bit.” she crooned in Daniil’s ear.

Bruce went for the House of Handley lubricant, squirting goose grease, all but emptying the dispenser, liberally slathering it over his erection.

“My friend, Simon; his dad sheathes him really quickly,” Daniil murmured. “One push and wham.”

She stroked his forehead, pushing away hair. “You really are a beautiful boy... I want you to focus as he goes in. You’ll feel a wonderful swelling sensation inside you. It means he’s become part of you. Never forget you exist for him. It’s his right to take possession whenever he desires.”

Daniil nodded, mouth-breathing, licking his lips, still tasting honey and whisky. His father settled behind him, wriggling closer. One thumb pinned his upper thigh, fingers clutching his buttock, opening his crack, positioning, merging slippery glans and anus.

Short seconds of shock, panic, and awe as his father’s erection jabbed deeper, bulging inside him, filling him up until the pressure became ecstasy and there was nowhere else left to go.

Sheathed inside Daniil’s little body, and compressed against a hidden barrier, Bruce trembled, panted, realized that his son belonged to him, not to the woman who birthed him.

“Fucking unbelievable.”

Eyes closed, totally absorbed in sinful sensations, seething hot flesh containing his maleness, possessing his son completely. Shrewdness flew out the window.

“That’s far enough to start. Now do him, good and hard,” Hellene cooed.

He paused, contemplating Daniil’s curly head, his graceful neck, his small pale shoulders, his slender back. Desperate to make love; instead, he nuzzled, kissing a perfect little ear, day-old bristles chaffing a silken cheek.

“Feels so good, so big... he’s way up inside me, Dad.”

“Yes, he is. Where he belongs,” he whispered. “I love you, Dani.”

“Ditto, Dad.”

Corny for sure, hokey beyond belief. Then, Hellene loomed above, enviously ogling their union, far from perfect.

“Peace is tranquility, harmony, becoming one with your lover,” she said quietly. “The boy lies on his side, ideally with his upper leg lifted.”

Daniil obediently lifted his leg, crooking at the knee, gradually recalling Claire’s training, the Nine Virtues, the associated positions. He placed his foot behind his father’s leg, locking them. His lower leg he pulled up to his chest, offering his boy-hole, his core, his body.

“Your lover protects you from behind, always gentle and sweet.”

“Yes, Mum. I empty my mind completely. We bond even though we can’t see each other.”

All of a sudden, Bruce was eternally grateful that he was deep inside his son’s beautiful body, buried in his core, hairy groin squashed against baby-smooth buttocks, inseparable.

“We’re bonded alright. I’m not leaving here anytime soon.”

“Better not.” Daniil squeezed on him, pulling in and up, deeper, hard and hot and exhausting.

“A catamite relaxes and absorbs his master’s thrusts.”

“I replenish his strength by exerting mine, Mum. Peace though harmony.”

Never so close, the sensation was intense, overriding everything. He squeezed for as long as he could, until his father drew back ever so slightly. An abrupt jerk to recover, push in just a little bit farther, slowly ease back again. They shuddered.

“Love you.” Bruce clasped his son’s little pelvis, restraining, gently yet firmly bringing them together.

“If he holds your hip...” she whispered.

Daniil murmured, “... he wants to go deeper. Ahhhhh.”

Gasping, quivery little trembles as his father pulled back, unhurriedly reclaimed his rectum. Gently moving, hips undulating, buffeting his little body. From that loving motion alone, she could tell Bruce had no desire for women; it was a wonder he’d married at all, and had a son. A miraculous boy; Adonis, Ganymede, and Eros combined.

“You want more?” Bruce crooned in his ear, calm, caressing curls, comforting.

Redundant! Daniil exerted pressure, deliciously, delightedly drawing his father’s erection into his rectum.

“Again, Dad... Don’t stop, okay...”

His small pelvis twitched as the swollen helmet dragged back, a moment or two before shoving through his sphincter. Angled just right, glans bulged into gland. Merged momentarily. A sharp sudden spasm, yet still wanting more.

“Please. I’ll do anything.”

“Anything?”

Fearful, she plugged his mouth with Tuwile, a fraction of an inch beyond the red line, ruddy lips locked around ivory. Dreamily sucking; if only his father’s erection filled his mouth...

Bruce whispered in his ear. “Do you like me inside you?”

Daniil nodded, not once, again and again until she removed Tuwile.

“It's better when you do it harder.” Breathless. “...Really fast!”

Bruce thrust harder, faster, until commonsense set it. He jerked away, shaking, fearful. For a few moments it was almost brutal.

“Yes, like that! Jam it in me!”

Breathless, worried that he was losing control, because he had to; however, he couldn’t stop, not now. Satisfaction demanded completion.

“You want what Simon got?”

It still bothered him. Only one time, yet he’d witnessed enough to realize that Trevor was a pumping machine, pummeling, pulverizing his submissive son. Simon’s whimpers didn’t help; neither did the loud slaps of flesh meeting.

“Yes! Please, Dad.”

He wasn’t cruel, not like that. Education slayed the primal animal, gave it morals and scruples, and self-control.

“I can’t hurt you, Dani.”

Panting little long-haired boy, scared it would end. Not with a whimper, and aching for more. He was on the verge of discovery, with ecstasy just out of reach. It had to go on, not come to an end.

“Fuck... fuck me... Please.”

Bruce grasped his son around his abdomen, clutching soft belly skin, driving in.

Daniil squealed, jerking away. He shoved his butt back, taking his father’s erection to the hilt. Suddenly, he felt light-headed. Something inside him spasmed. He strained against it, shuddering, gasping.

“Please... please... Daddy.... More!”

“His first... They all go ballistic,” Hellene snickered.

“What?”

“Don’t stop!”

With her hand on Daniil’s hip, she rammed him onto his father’s groin, savage jolts one after the other. Daniil groaned, grunted, gyrated, his face contorted.

“Now that’s a bum-cum,” Hellene giggled. “Hardly gentle and sweet, though.”

Oblivious, Bruce thrust erratically, scarcely aware he was ejaculating with his boy's pelvic muscles sucking at him, cramping around his root.

Hot, sweaty, both shivering through the aftermath. Down there was different. Sealed together, afraid to separate. Being joined was gratifying. His manly sword was sheathed in its scabbard. Daniil wriggled, relishing possession, feeling the brillo-pad of his father’s pubic hair scrubbing against his bottom.

“Will you be my boy-wife?”

“Uh huh.” Daniil giggled as his father tickled his ribs. “Will you be my man-husband?”

“Uh huh. I love you, my beautiful boy-wife.”

Daniil squeezed, hard.

“Millions of catamites through the ages, only a few thousand get betrothed,” Hellene muttered, a self-conscious intruder yet unable to get up and leave.

Bruce had more important things on his mind. He breathed deeply, slowly, never happier as he nuzzled Daniil’s head, his arm making a pillow. Even as they cuddled, ecstasy faded as it always did; not to remorse or shame; to uncertainty, concern, and protecting his son.

“You did good, Dad... I wub you,” Daniil murmured.

“I’m sorry I did it so hard. You’re okay, right??”

“Mmhmm.”

Suddenly sleepy, glad his father’s arm was locked around his shoulders, fingers tracing circles on his breast, focusing on his nipple. It tingled, pimpled, firmed. He closed his eyes. Even better. Finger and thumb tips pinching lightly, lovingly, making a hard tiny knob, a little Braille dot.

Daniil snoozed, stoned like a teenager, not from pot or honeyed whisky, on lust and dopamine, inhaling his father’s scent, sweat and musk, sweet mucus.

Slimy, itchy in front, Bruce cautiously inched away. His penis, mere vestige of erection, stretched as Daniil clamped around it. He was so gooey inside no amount of squeezing could prevent the inevitable separation. Abandoned, cast-off like last year’s sneakers, very aware of what was missing behind him, Daniil rolled onto his belly.

With Daniil’s training plug in hand, Hellene leaned to look. “Does it hurt?”

“Uh uh... I’m good... now his stuff’s in me,” he murmured tiredly.

oUo

“What happens now, Mum?”

Hellene leaned back, little finger elevated, sipping Twinings Darjeeling for elevenses. She watched him, arms folded and knees together, demure as a girl, yet his eyes were alert. Constantly roving, taking photos with his iphone, the oceanside terrace, the sea, birds pecking along the rocky foreshore.

“Your father will bed you at every opportunity.”

Daniil giggled, putting down his phone. “He already does me every night.”

Bright and alert, pretty, slender; highly desirable. She made a mental note to warn his father. He was the perfect target for a boy-peddler.

“He *does* you?” she teased.

“I’m not allowed to say the f-word. Last night cost me two bucks.”

In mid-morning sun, he was even more beautiful; in fact, radiant. She smiled vacuously, helping herself to a buttery Lancashire Eccles cake and a spoonful of heather honey.

He smirked at her; it wasn’t about the money. “Seriously, what happens now we’re betrothed?”

“Other than being...” She looked around and lowered her voice. “...fucked constantly”

He grinned. “Is there a ceremony... like a wedding or something?”

She regarded him, trying not to laugh out loud. He was charming, now twizzling a plastic teaspoon in patently faux Royal Albert, finicky Country Roses encircling fine bone china. Like his table manners, his attire was kid-casual, shabby blue gym pants with YALE down his thigh and a gray Yale-Bulldog hooded sweatshirt.

“For an Eros boy, becoming a parastatheis requires formally exchanging vows before witnesses.”

He looked at her hopefully. “Could you and Claire witness it?”

“I could at a pinch; however, your supporters will attend.” When he didn’t ask, she continued. “A House catamite has an Eros boy as his page.”

“My friend, Simon; could he do it?”

She smiled guardedly. “That and more.”

“He’s in Russia. Something to do with the principle, whatever it is?”

“Which is another reason why you’ll exchange vows with your father on Friday evening at Lord Handley’s house in London.”

“Seriously? My dad and I… on Friday?” He beamed.

“After, there’s a celebration; mostly you meet other members. Of course, Graeme offered Cunsey Castle.” She leaned in. “He’s rather enamored, I’m afraid.”

“Enameled with what?”

She gave him a playful push, something his mother would never do; she was standoffish at best.

“Before I forget, Edwin said to tell you...” She made air-quotes with one finger. “... ‘an ultra-hot babe needs a big hole, not big balls’.” She leaned in. “Small balls are more fun to play with.”

“You told him about last night, didn’t you, Mum?”

“Your first bum-cum; of course, I told him. He went on and on about your willy. He’s got a boy-crush, if you didn’t know.”

He grinned, increasingly confident in his new-found sexuality, fascinated, too.

“It’s major, Mum.”

“Lucky you. Unfortunately, it upsets your father.”

“He’ll get over it.” He shrugged coolly. “Graeme has the hots for me, too? Seriously?”

“Why wouldn’t he? You’re an ultra-hot babe. He’d be in your pants even faster than Edwin. He’s getting on in years. You could do worse for the principal,” she reflected.

A House catamite required special training for senior EU members, assuming his father was up for it. Almost reluctantly, she took his hands in hers, examining.

“You’re a lucky boy,” she added mysteriously. “Edwin prevailed. Your combination celebration and débutant party will be at Lord Handley’s House.”

“Aren't debutante parties for girls?”

“Supposedly, it’s your mother’s debut; however, it’s really yours. You're coming out in more ways than the obvious one...”

She ruminated between sips of tea. Rough edges would be smoothed quickly, table manners, elocution, body awareness, flirtation...

“Claire will teach you the basics of flirting before the party.”

“She says I flirt too much already.”

“There’s a lot a sexy little boy needs to know besides giving gamin glances. Mona-Lisa smiles, how to say ‘no’ and mean ‘yes’, half-closed eyelids; all sorts of coquetries, like slight puckers of the lips.”

Daniil gave her his best shy-yet-seductive come-hither, still immature, unpracticed except in front of a mirror.

Hellene smiled. So much to learn, all the refinements that made a catamite highly desirable, plus conversational French, German, Spanish, and Italian; Russian if he was to meet Rasputin. He’d need advanced social skills, too, wit and charm, etiquette, music and art appreciation, gymnastics...

“Where was I? Your coming out party… An attic cat fight between Graeme and Lord Handley will bother your father. He’s rather possessive.”

“Mr. Ed said something like that, too.” He watched her separate his fingers. “It’s only because Dad loves me so much.”

“Rather! Not to worry, Master Daniel.” She smiled, her voice low. “Just do exactly what Claire tells you and there won’t be a problem. Your father will get over it once he realizes sharing you makes you stronger.”

“I wish Mr. Ed was here.” Daniil sighed. “I can tell him things, stuff I can’t tell my dad.”

She lifted his chin with a single finger, meeting his gaze. Not envious, yet wishing she was him.

“You’re a beautiful gay boy with a wonderful future serving Eros; however, chewed fingernails spoil the effect,” she chided. “So do your hands. A man wants skin soft as silk, and fingers strong enough to make him squirm.”

She scrutinized his face in bright light, no obvious imperfections, a few pale freckles on his nose, dark eyebrows diminishing compelling blue-green eyes. Easy to fix with tweezers and eye shadow.

“If Dad makes me his parastatheis, will we have a real honeymoon... just us?”

She cocked an eye, gathering up iPhone, cups, and teapot, leaving the melamine biscuit plate for Daniil to carry. She stood.

“My, you’re as possessive as he is! You’ll be staying at Villa Hyacinthos on the Côte d’Azur for a week. It’s all arranged. You won't be alone with him, rather better, I expect.”

Clearly, she was holding something back. He was wondering what it was as he followed her into the Mull of Galloway. Her room was designer-pastel, pink, blue, and purple. Chintzy, yet flamboyant; his proletarian mother would love it.

Elevenses ended at the small bar-sink, teapot, cups and plates rinsed and left to drain. Then, curtains drawn, she resumed the role of catamite trainer, all-controlling as she steered him to the make-up table.

“You’re mine until lunch,” she declared. “We’ll start with a check of your boy-parts, Master Daniil. Just your pants off for now.”

Like a normal boy, he grumbled under his breath, kicking off his sneakers, shoving down his fleecy sweat pants, dragging his feet out. He straightened, calm and relaxed. She took her time looking him over, from pale wriggly toes to his lower belly—his sweatshirt covered the rest.

“You’re as smooth as a baby, aren’t you?”

She gestured at his little-boy pouch. He wavered, glancing away shyly, his face flushing slightly. She ahemed, and he quickly unfastened the little bow securing the cord. Her nod was approving, reassuring as she picked up his iPhone, held it out for a closeup.

“Graeme always told Edwin, ‘Keep your purse tied tight and your jewels will be safe.’”

He smirked. “The jewels he was talking about, kids at school call ‘cojones.’”

“You know, if your balls don’t drop, you won’t need to shave, not for five years or so.” Just saying it sent a shivery thrill racing through her.

“Claire said I should use a… a depilatory, like Simon’s father does.”

She picked up on his tone. “Men look sexy without hair, don’t they? I could talk to your father, if you want.”

He nodded gratefully, encouragingly—pubic hair separated his father and Mr. Ed.

She gestured for him to turn around. “Such a cute little bottom; no wonder your father loves to lick it, just not in the center, yet. Still, all in good time, for both of you.”

Daniil wondered how she knew when no one else did. All he could think of was Claire spied on them at GlenIolaire.

She squinted, his blue L’ Entraîneur properly entrenched, t-handle compressed, delicate flesh reddened on either side of his buttocks.

“I see you received a proper bumming this morning.”

“I only sucked him, Mum. I had bum gym with Tuwile, instead.”

“Sheathed and shafted; with a massage after, I hope?” She wasn’t teasing.

“Dad kinda worked it in slowly. I was really loose after.”

She smiled at his expression, less trauma, more disbelief. “You should be gaping at this stage. Well, let’s see your boy-hole, Master Daniel.”

He reached behind, grasped the silicone handle, levered out the conical plug and adopted the ‘present’ position Claire insisted upon, bending forward with a hand on each buttock to display his opening.

“You’re recessing nicely. Almost no inflammation.” He’d soon have the ideal boy-hole.

“Dad used lots of Merino stuff.”

“Lanolin is Claire’s thing. You know, in the old days, a catamite used sperm whale oil, warm from an oil lamp.”

She fondled his buttocks, lingering close to his crack, tempted to insert.

“Graeme would make a paste for Edwin and me to use,” she reminisced. “Grated beeswax, almond oil, witch hazel and borax powder. No itch at all.”

“One time, when mine itched, Mr. Ed used...” He stopped, too worried to say it aloud, even to her.

“Lip gel... It works wonders on sore skin, and it’s easy to hide,” she snickered. “Would you mind if I send a photo for him to drool over?”

He grinned and nodded without hesitation. “Just don’t tell Dad.”

Cheeks wide apart revealed a smooth ovoid funnel with almost no bruising. She touched tender pinkness, dipping into the slack center. Hardly imperiled by an inquisitive finger, yet instinctive flexing produced minimal pucker. His response was first-class, pleasurable and prepared. She tested the limits of iPhone focus, a close-up with intimate detail, enough light to see inside him when he opened intentionally.

After a furtive glance at the screen, she muttered. “You can send it to Edwin later.”

With the plug’s blunt tip protruding into his anus, she pressed with her thumb, reinserting L’ Entraîneur. No longer of the mind that he needed the next size up, she made certain it seated tightly.

“Timing couldn’t be better. A week from now you’ll be Royal Standard,” she muttered.

Already, his discernibly depressed opening was elastic and strong, among the most beautiful she’d seen.

She breathed deeply as she guided him onto the chair, risqué pink, with floral satin upholstery.

“Take a last look in mirror. Master Daniel is about to be transformed into a little gay boy.”

He turned and beamed up at her. “You’re not allowed to cut my hair, okay.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it. You’re the perfect playmate for Prince Johannes...”

Aware of the name, Daniil sat up, abruptly attentive.

“… Friedrich Wilhelm von Wittelsbach of Hohenlohe-Auersperg.“

“You’re kidding! He has a castle in Austria, right?”

“Two, plus a couple of villas elsewhere.”

“Mr. Ed has a photo of a castle on his laptop screen. It’s like a fortress on this precipice overlooking a valley, with the Swiss Alps in the background.”

She went on examining his head, neck and shoulders. Winter-pale complexion, dimples, boyish freckles, full red lips that any girl would die for.

“Prince Johannes’ parastatheis is Christoph; he’s adopted; queer as can be and barely eleven.“

“I saw Christoph’s photo on Mr. Ed’s computer.” Daniil smirked. “He’s tanned all over.

“When you meet Christoph at Lord Handley’s party, be very nice to him. His father’s inviting you to stay at Èze.”

She selected a styling brush and started on his hair, each curl preciously styled, and restyled, testing to get the right ‘look.’

“The next time I see you, you’ll be golden-brown all over, like Christoph.” When he glanced up, she gave him a lascivious look. “The rule on the Côte d’Azur is beautiful gay boys go bare bum when they’re in private.”

“I’m okay with it. Dad knows I go nude sometimes. I have this fort I made behind the barn, kinda out of sight, only I can see anyone coming...”

Her eyes traveled down, taking in slender thighs, winter pale yet no tan line at all. Curious, she looked up to meet his bemused gaze in the mirror.

“Um, it’s kind of the rule at Mr. Ed’s place, too... He has this solarium on his roof. He likes to look at me; you know, totally bare... both of us.”

“You like to look at him as well, don’t you?”

Daniil shrugged, doing his very best to appear nonchalant.

“Does your willy get stiff?”

“Dad says gay kids are supposed to get hard around guys.” He frowned at the mirror, clearly perplexed. After thinking about it, he added, “Why don’t I don’t get hard with you?”

“Perhaps because I’m not a guy, at least not completely,” she snickered. “Do you want to see my wee willy?”

Daniil nodded slightly, chewing his bottom lip as he looked anywhere but at the mirror, not nervous, evasive. She stepped to his right side, only an arm-length away. Instantly, reckless curiosity overwhelmed nine-year-old reticence.

With a smirk at the uncomfortable boy, Hellene hoisted her outdoorsy khaki smock with her left hand, unfastening and pushing down loose 1940s-style russet jodhpurs with her other hand, leaving frilly-lace and pink satin panties in the way.

He stared at the bump in front, too tiny to be a penis.

“When your balls get cut off, does the rest go inside, kinda like a woman’s pussy?” He couldn’t remember the proper name.

She simulated a kiss and whispered, “If you want to see it, you’ll have to take my panties down.”

He extended his hand warily. His fingers encountered warm satin, and skin. It was soft and sleek and utterly hairless, nothing like his father’s belly. He tugged, holding his breath. Another tug revealed a pale smooth pubis.

“Mr. Ed shaves off his hair, too,” he murmured, no longer guarded.

“I’ve never had hair there. Most men prefer smooth.”

A slight jerk of his hand revealed what remained. “You still have a dick.”

He inhaled, taking in the uncircumcised penis; not his first, his fourth.

“Looks more like Simon’s than mine.” He licked his lips, taking slow deep breaths.

“I look like a boy, though, don’t I?”

He nodded. “It’s bigger than mine.”

“Only a little bit. Look underneath.”

Daniil lifted the flabby penis by its foreskin. “You have the same wrinkle as I do, where I changed from a girl to a boy inside my mom; only yours is thicker.”

“It’s where the doctor took them out. I had a bilateral orchiectomy with a single mid-line incision. If you had a dog, a vet would likely neuter him while he's still a puppy. He'd get the same operation I had. It's called castration.”

He peered at taut wrinkled skin, flattened, no bulge at all.

“Did it hurt?”

“Not like it did before the operation. Claire said you play soccer. Imagine hurting a hundred times worse than being kicked there.”

"Dad said it's why I have to wear a cup for soccer."

Hellene caressed his hair, long, curly, shiny, silky soft. His delicate features, beautiful on a girl, would be wasted on a boy. Not for a catamite, though; he’d be in constant demand, even more so if...

“Why did you become a girl afterwards?” Daniil asked, awkward because he knew he was prying into something very private.

Hellene hesitated, reflecting, or trying to decide how best to answer. She took a breath.

“Some men prefer boys who pretend to be girls. After five years of serving a man who was like that, I became what he wanted.”

“But I thought Edwin’s uncle… Wasn’t Graeme your master?”

“About the time Edwin’s voice broke, he stayed at Salisbury, and went to a school near Bath. He learned to sail on the Solent. I was with Graeme, in Washington DC.”

“Last night, you said you lived there for three years.”

She nodded and fondly stroked his cheek. “I was very lucky. The most powerful man in the world would give anything to have you in his bed. Or the richest...”

Another breath, deeper.

“I’m supposed to talk to you about it. Every so often a catamite comes along who’s... well… rather strange... like I was. Once I was used to not having them, my balls, I was glad.”

“You didn’t miss them.”

Four words, and the truth was out in the open. No-longer innocent eyes watched her fingers caress his lips, full, perfectly shaped—no lipstick needed. She bopped him lightly on the tip of his nose.

"Wouldn't you?" she teased.

He looked down, embarrassed, yet with no idea why. "I guess."

“A boy losing his balls is uncommon nowadays. It wasn't always, though.”

He quivered, not a flinch, a nervous tremor simply from hearing it, the same thrill when he pushed them inside.

“A few hundred years ago, they cut them off to preserve a boy’s voice. If you were a catamite in an Arab harem, you'd have an empty purse to keep you boyish.”

He kept his head down. "I'd be like Peter Pan, huh?"

“I didn’t want to grow up, either; not like other boys,” Hellene admitted. “Edwin understood. You father will, too. He's kind of like Peter Pan, isn't he?"

When he didn't look up, she said very softly. "I think he sees the same in you. You'll probably grow out of it. Most boys do. When they grow up, they have sex with boys."

“It's not just men. Claire wants to have sex with boys,” Daniil muttered. “She won’t leave my willy alone. She does this to it to make it stiff.”

He fondled aggressively, little fingers stretching his shriveled penis to its maximum length, about the width of his hand.

She flinched at the sight, almost dropping the hair brush. He seemed to want to hurt himself, trying to yank it out. She closed her eyes, wondering, worrying. A deep breath.

“How can you tell I don’t like boys?”

He giggled, squishing the knob. “When I do this in front of my dad, his dick always gets hard.”

Then, a memory churned to the surface and all he could think about was the first time he reached into his father’s sweatpants. He was looking for Abner, a pretend mouse. It was hilarious at the time.

“Mr. Ed gets a stiff as soon as he sees my willy,” he added, full of pride. “He goes from Lil’ Bugger to Big Bugger in like seconds.”

She smirked, not at his frankness, at the names. “I’m surprised he hasn’t buggered you already?”

“He wanted my dad to be my first… Does yours still get stiff?”

“Not very often. Nothing like Edwin’s used to when he was a boy. I swear, he was constantly hard.”

Daniil stifled a giggle. “Big Bugger really sticks out. My dad’s dick juts up like mine, only not nearly as much.”

Hellene gave wary nod, replacing her clothes. She was relieved when Daniil segued from playing with his stiff little penis to discussing seals and their mating habits.

A few minutes, later she stepped back. He admired his coiffured hair in the mirror, turning his head from side to side.

“You did great, Mum, really sexy.”

“It’s easy when a boy’s as ravishing as you are.”

He leered at the mirror, beguiling boy born to manipulate, irresistible to men like his father. He met her eyes with a seductive smile, fluttering eyelashes, little tongue tantalizing lips, golden brown locks turned into a provocative halo.

“Mom will have a cow.”

“Wait until I’m done,” she teased. “When a boy wants a man to know he’s homosexual, he usually starts by making eye contact.”

“Mr. Ed says gaydar works best when I look coy.”

He gave his best-ever impression of Oliver Twist, timid, eyes wide, uplifted, utterly helpless.

“I think vulnerable suits you, but don’t overdo it,” she chided. “With your looks, the right glance, the merest interest; that’s all it takes for a man to lust over you.”

She switched to his eyebrows, a smear of 4% Lidocaine before carefully plucking with tweezers; then, teaching Daniil how to do it in the mirror.

“Better to pluck too much than too little, Master Daniel. Always arched, thick goes to thin, long and sparse,” she repeated for the fifth time, stepping back to inspect.

As Daniil poked at the virtual keyboard on his iPhone, she opened her makeup bag, moving small jars and boxes around, frowning until she finally decided.

 “Eye shadow brings out the real you,” she resumed, craning her neck to see what he’d typed.

‘I think BigB will fit in mon derrière. You?’

She couldn’t bring herself to pry as Daniil added a photo and dispatched his message with a muffled snicker.

“Mr. Ed will enjoy waking up this morning.”

“Make sure you use eye shadow sparingly,” she went on. “Just a smoky trace above, and the merest hint below is ideal.”

“I sent him my boy-hole.”

“Rather a shock when he sees that on his screen.”

“He’s seen it before; lots of times, not big like that.”

His iPhone chimed incoming text. ‘Gave me a thrill. Drill and fill?’

“I sent it to Simon, too.” He smirked and typed, ‘Chill. I got skill.’

A moment later, another chime. ‘That big from Richard? BigB is jealous.’

Digitally dexterous, Daniil typed in a blur, ‘He had help from Tuwile.’

Smirking, he looked up. “How do I know which color to use, Mum?”

“It’s partly personal preference.” She separated a flat plastic box from her array of cosmetics, a palette of brown variations. “I like this. Not for you, though; blues and grays always.”

“So eye shadow should match eye color, huh?”

“For me, skin tones draw attention. For you, blue is magnetic and enigmatic.”

He beamed, making her day. “Yup, charming and puzzling would be me.”

Amply forewarned, yet Hellene was surprised—he was charming; more endearing than puzzling, with brains to match beauty.

His iPhone chimed again, and he promptly held it up to show her. ‘Too big is not good for your colon.’

“I don’t get it. Claire says being stretched is good for me.”

“Edwin’s right. Tuwile can’t make the turn at the end of your rectum. At best, instead of loosening your internal organs, they’re displaced. Pushing too hard into your colon could rupture you.”

Not for the first time, she digressed into anatomy; how things worked inside him; why it hurt; why it felt good. Third time hearing about colon sex; he thought about just closing his eyes.

“... Too much is at stake. Training’s essential for a catamite...”

His father, Hellene, and Claire, all lectured him endlessly, not just about sex, everything. What to say; what to do; even what to think.

She demonstrated how to apply eye shadow as Daniil squinted at the mirror. He delighted in subdued charm, how his eyes became enchanting even as her exotic tints transformed him. By then, she’d segued to anal orgasms, and went on and on about how he could go from one ‘bum cum’ to another by ‘riding’ his lover in just the right way. He hadn’t done that, yet.

“Faithfulness is also easier on the man’s back. He can rest and let the boy do the work.”

“Sometimes when I lay on top of my Dad, he wants me to push back.”

“It would be different if he was older. The older masters prefer Faithfulness.” Hellene inclined her head, attentive, encouraging him to elaborate without being asked.

“Um... Faithfulness is...”

Daniil stopped abruptly. Nine Virtues, each precise in position and meaning.

“Faithfulness is being loyal to my father while I serve Eros.”

He was certain he had messed it up, yet she nodded again, still encouragingly. His mother was never as patient.

“No matter who I serve, I must be steadfast in my affection, and bound to my duty to please. By sitting above, I am full, and stay firm constantly.” He could tell she was pleased. “So when I serve Graeme, I should ride him?”

“Yes; not just up and down like you’re a girl.” She lowered her voice. “When a boy’s fucking himself, he should go wild, whatever feels good. I loved sitting on Graeme when I was a boy. Nothing’s as good as having him all the way up inside.”

Daniil brooded, wistful, distracted, dwelling on desire. His mom nagged about his daydreaming. Mr. Ed called it meditating. Impossible to forget being in the boathouse with Graeme. He contemplated ‘sitting’ on his father, and very nearly giggled.

“Faithfulness feels good, huh?”

He nodded obliquely, hoping the lesson would end soon. After lunch, they were going out on a fishing boat.

“Sit on your father next time. Once you’re used to it, do what makes you shudder,” Hellene went on. “And if it makes you whimper, even better.”

“I’m supposed to focus on making him feel good. It’s about not my pleasure.”

“Silly; men love when boys orgasm.” She laughed. “Practice makes perfect, especially for catamites.”

She added a final dark tint under his eyebrows and stepped back, waiting.

“I even look gay.” It didn’t bother Daniil, not at all.