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Book IV: Yearning
By Ganymede
After an eight-hour drive from Gorsehill Lighthouse, Bruce cautiously circled Lincoln's Inn Fields, searching for a place to park. On his first sabbatical, he’d spent a month researching, a lot of it spent at the Sir James Sloan House. No Aston Martin Vantage S Roadster back then, no gorgeous, if taciturn, nine-year-old boy strapped into the seat beside him. Now, people stared.
Soft top down, V8 engine gurgling through the crowded mishmash of institutions, both medical and London School of Economics, people streaming in and out of the largest public square in London. Absolutely, no place to park long enough to make a phone call, let alone actually get out and walk around.
Daniil perked up the second time past the Sloan House. He’d seen it before in his father’s treatise, Innovation by Design. Portland stone projecting façade, stepping up from the street to dull Georgian brick, glazed loggias, marble statues, architectural rigor with abundant invention.
“It’s Neoclassical; what’s the big deal?”
Bruce glanced sideways at his little Neo-modernist. Daniil’s sulky face confirmed spoiled brat, his beautiful young lover hidden behind the mask the of frustration.
“Other than spatial trickery, mysterious if quirky lighting, sublime verticality; abundant allusions to Masonic traditions.”
“Mr. Ed. said the best architects are Freemasons.”
Bruce didn’t like hearing that, not one little bit. Freemasonry, like religion, annoyed him, always had.
“You’re a lot like Sloan; idiosyncratic, inventive, and eccentric.”
Impossible not to smile with a compliment like that; Daniil’s smile lit up his face. However, his good mood lasted seconds before pouty bottom lip returned. It was faked, gray-blue eyes peeking meekly at his father before he rotated in his seat for a second look at Number 13.
“The real architecture’s inside, right?”
“I know how much you miss Simon. We didn’t have time to detour to Bakewell,” Bruce added.
Only an extra 17 minutes, as it turned out because of traffic slowdowns on the M6. He’d spent most of the trip trying to restore communication.
Daniil grimaced for effect. “Just so you know; my butt itches.”
“Can’t imagine why it would.”
“You spunked a pint in me this morning, before you stuck Big Boy in me.”
“Didn’t want you leaking on your leather seats, did I?”
“Ha ha.” Daniil scowled.
“Okay, out with it. Grumpy face isn’t about Simon, is it?
“If you must know, mostly I don’t want to go back, not if I have to stay with Grandma.”
“Is there a reason, besides she despises gays?”
“Because...” Daniil took a breath, not getting sarcasm, not daring to look at his father. “...I love you... more than Mom does... a lot more.”
Bruce reached across, left hand stroking his son’s lean thigh. After the long drive, both father and son needed more than a caress, but not with people and cars passing constantly, CCTV cameras hidden on every other building, watching...
“From four to six pm today is the only time available. They’re scanning the exhibits all next week for a virtual exhibit. Lord Handley arranged for a private tour so I can take photos,” he said quietly, holding back the rest for later.
“Without Mom, right,” Daniil queried, his voice turning squeaky. “Just you and me?”
Bruce didn’t expect that; or a parking spot to become free a few car lengths ahead. He swerved in, and stopped. Contemplating. Compared to his wife, he was the kind and caring parent, always considerate, never selfish unless Daniil was involved. Something had to change, and quickly.
“Not just us,” he murmured, watching the rear vision mirror.
Simon jogged up, leaving Claire standing guard at the entrance to Number 13 as people streamed from the entrance. Except for his blue-twill blazer, he looked like any British boy as he leaned over the car door, grinning at Daniil; who looked like any American boy on vacation, denim jacket with the sleeves unbuttoned, Versace textured-calf-leather fanny pack draped over his shoulder, ready to take in the sights of London.
“I like your catamite bag, Boyfriend.” Simon stepped back, cool and appraising. “Your Aston ‘V’ beats my dad’s Bentley hands down.”
oUo
Bruce composed meticulously, focusing his digital Nikon before correcting the perspective—it was involuntary. However, he was a moment too late for the perfect shot of Daniil studying the Breakfast Parlour, its shallow domed ceiling inset with convex mirrors.
“You just strolled through genius, you barbarian,” Bruce called after his son. “In the man’s own words, this is ‘a succession of those fanciful effects which constitute the poetry of architecture.’”
As if unconscious, Daniil meandered on, heading toward Simon, scrutinizing statues in the colonnaded gallery. Side by side, they were clearly best friends, although casual-coordination ended in slim-fit distressed and embroidered jeans, and Nike sneakers. Daniil was cool-guy; a lightweight hooded sweatshirt, dark blue and gray. Simon wore a soccer-ball hoodie, ‘Россия’ plastered all over.
“You ever going to tell me about Russia?” Daniil whispered.
“He was a major Freemason, the first Grand Master of the United Grand Lodge of England,” Simon declared, inching back to avoid Daniil, intense for nine.
He glanced toward the Breakfast Parlour. Claire had been explicit, they were free to roam, but no loud voices. She shrugged, interrupting her study of a rather good oil of Sloan’s two sons with the family dog; slipped her cellphone into her jacket pocket, and continued her discussion with Bruce.
“I assume his cuteness is ready for tonight,” she inquired quietly, a dominating eye on the boys; more than a whisper was too loud in public.
“What about Rasputin?” Daniil nudged Simon, still far too loud for a museum.
“Shhhh! Both of you!”
Bruce ignored Claire and Simon. He fiddled with focus, framing a column to enhance the shot, his sensuous son gazing about, overwhelmed by spatial manipulation.
“There’s a lot riding on tonight. Did you practice what we talked about before you left?” she continued, louder to get Bruce’s attention.
“What?” Bruce snapped.
“Oral plus anal...” The vulgar terms bothered her.
His mind was elsewhere. It was difficult to concentrate on anything after their first time in a bath tub since Daniil was a toddler. He stared at his son in dignified discussion with his best friend. Only a day earlier, a very soapy Daniil had been giggling uncontrollably; the high point when he informed his father, ‘It’s like fucking a seal, huh Dad?’
Now, in serious concentration, Daniil deliberated over medieval architectural fragments from the Old Palace of Westminster. In the course of a week, museum relics had become quite commonplace.
“How do you know all this Masonic stuff anyway?” Daniil muttered, still self-conscious following Simon’s dismissal.
“Usually, your sponsor teaches you,” Simon said offhandedly, not unkindly. “You’ll get a double dose because you’re a twit,” he went on.
Daniil flicked at Simon’s hoodie. “You texted me about being in Russia. All of a sudden, it’s top secret.”
“I shouldn’t have told you.”
“We’re best friends. I share stuff about Mr. Ed all the time.”
“Only because you want me to know every dirty detail.” Simon smirked. “Okay, you want my dirty details... Grigori, that’s not his real name, he’s chill, only not a bit like what you’d expect... We role play. He pretends he’s Rasputin and I’m Alexei, the Tsarevich of Russia before the Revolution.”
Both boys were unaware of Daniil’s father moving closer with his camera in hand, swapping out the perspective lens for a Nikon telephoto. Reflecting. Kneeling. Composing with another column in the way, as if the boys were lurking, or being lured.
He tuned in to their whispers...
“His dacha’s on an island near Finland,” Simon confided. “Going there in his helicopter is awesome. He gets dressed up, a real monk’s habit. My clothes are really fancy, like what the real Alexei wore.”
Bruce focused on little bulges in blue jeans. He knew for certain that one little boy’s genitals were contained in a padded pouch, everything hot and sweaty, testicles not dropping any time soon. Not one photo, five, each slightly different as he zoomed in.
He looked for another location while Simon scrutinized yet another marble bust.
“Claire said one of these is Antinous. He was a catamite like us. A Roman Emperor, Hadrian, owned him; how kickass is that?”
Not to be outdone, Daniil added, “On the way to Scotland we passed Hadrian’s Wall. She told me Hadrian met him when he was 12.”
“Kind of old for a catamite, one worth taking to bed anyway.”
“I had to read a poem about him for catamite class...
‘He
was a kitten playing with lust,, playing
With his own and with
Hadrian's, sometimes one
And sometimes two, now splitting, now
one grown.’”
“Meaning they played with their willies.”
“I think Hadrian really loved him,” Daniil went on. “After Antinous died, he made him a god, and people worshiped him.”
NOTE: For the literati, see here: Antinous by Fernando Pessoa, 1918. (links to National Library of Portugal)
“My father worships my bum,” Simon giggled, lowering his voice. “Grigori does, too, only he spanks it because it’s the symbol of Romanov oppression.”
With a nervous shrug, Daniil diverted instinctively. He stepped into a corridor, not a dead end; like a bridge over a gorge and you just knew something would happen. Without rhyme nor reason, hes topped abruptly. He felt quivery all over, awed and pensive.
He had felt the same way the first time he visited Louis Kahn’s Center of British Art with Mr. Ed and his father. For the first time in his life, imagination had become reality, everything he’d anticipated as Mr. Ed talked about Kahn’s building as parti, and the use of light. After his father went to meet the curator, they talked meaning, squaring the circle, and divine creation. Utterly awed at seven years old.
He continued on, contemplating ‘the poetry of architecture.’ Walls were layers, with space as filler, seemingly endless transitions of one plane to another, dividing space, connecting spaces. He’d never seen any building as ingenious, subtle, or complex. Wherever he looked, something caught his eye. Eccentric and idiosyncratic; yet even that was an understatement. Disturbing, shaky excitement, heart rate zooming, life-changing. He glanced behind, Simon still searching statues, his father taking a photo of his best friend.
Feeling his pouch tightening was the last thing he expected. For the first time in his life, his penis erected from experiencing architecture. Or was it his father? Or Simon, standing enraptured, leering up at a bust of an adolescent boy. He regarded his best friend, cute as can be and with so much in common, sharing so many secrets they could be Siamese twins.
“It’s too cerebral for a Limey!” he called.
Simon mocked his boyfriend, posing like a fixated buffoon with his hands on his hips, ignoring marble busts, cinerary urns, and low-relief tableaus. High-relief friezes proliferated under the domed skylight.
“The Sepulchral Chamber is down there,” Simon professed when he caught and passed Daniil.
Daniil stepped up to the balcony and gazed, incredulous, certain his eyes were glazed over.
“It’s a sarcophagus, an Egyptian pharaoh... um...” Simon looked to Claire, now in the Gallery.
“Seti I, named for the God of Chaos, Seth. New Kingdom, Nineteenth Dynasty,” Claire said. “They closed the lid around 1279 BC.”
“Well, it’s off, now,” Daniil pointed out.
Simon approached the balcony and looked over over. The massive sarcophagus, carved from a single piece of translucent alabaster, gaped emptily. Three slender metal cranes on wheels were parked between the columns facing the wall. The sarcophagus’ reassembled lid rested on blocks nearby, a glass canopy beside it.
“The casket must be somewhere else. The mummy is still inside.” Simon whispered. “It comes alive today, the 13th day of the month. That’s why Grandpa got permission for us to visit today.”
Daniil rolled his eyes. “They’re digitally scanning the Museum’s collection, Doofus.”
“Hey guys, how about both of you posing for a photo,” Bruce suggested, not on a whim, purposefully.
“Excellent idea,” Claire enthused on cue. “Both of you stand close together and look down at Seti’s sarcophagus like you’re archaeologists in the Valley of the Kings.”
“She’s so bogus,” Simon chortled.
He yanked Daniil’s arm over his shoulder, his arm encircling the smaller boy’s waist, locking them. Claire sidled nearer, staying out of the frame as Bruce squatted, composed, and focused, not on boy-bulges, on his son’s face, lit up with a smile equal to the noble wife of Francesco del Giocondo, the‘Mona Lisa’.
He stood, stepping back, zooming out and angling to include the sarcophagus below, the boys peering down from above.
“Don’t look down. Look at each other,” Claire pressed.
They turned, arms still encompassing. Their eyes engaged, affection sealed in a glance. Daniil was reserved, still uncertain, yet sensing they were far more than friends.
“Simon’s already fawning over other boys,” Claire whispered to Bruce.
“He’s all over Dani. It’s mutual, I think,” Bruce allowed, exhilaration barely restrained.
Simon’s eyes were intense, hungry, the same as his own eyes, and Edwin's, whenever Daniil was nearby. He took a breath and pressed the shutter, momentarily stopping his clammy hands from trembling. Better that competition for his son’s love came from sweet little Simon than a man. Any man except Edwin...
“Kiss him, Simon,” Claire crooned from beside him.
Their heads inched closer, not rashly, decisively. Bruce pressed the shutter again, Daniil looking up ever so slightly, reverently. Simon was equally serious. Their first kiss; not their first kiss; there was no way of knowing other than an awkward nose moment before heads tilted and lips touched innocently.
“Now a proper kiss,” Claire whispered, furtively looking around.
The BBC’s 5:00 pm news droned in the distant recesses of the ground floor. Someone, somewhere, was running a floor buffer. A Canaletto, pellucid Venice, hung on the far wall, misplaced beside the pieced-together fragments of an Ancient Greek kylix.
Bruce’s penis lurched as the two boys hugged intimately, pressing belly to belly, groin to groin, kissing wetly, taking turns sucking tongues. It was as thrilling at watching them discover each other’s bodies at Cunsey Castle, mutual fondling, playing sex games; and for a few precious moments, Simon inserted and bummed his son.
Satisfied they were safe, Claire advanced to... “Go for his willy, Simon.”
Bruce inhaled as his heart high-jumped. Simon’s left hand snaked between their fronts, clutching his son’s little bugle. Daniil pushed forward, wriggling impulsively. Bruce pressed the shutter in growing disbelief, scarcely aware of Claire standing guard duty, scanning constantly, yet still supervising.
“Pull up his sweatshirt, Master Daniel. Yours, too.”
Smirking, Daniil lifted his navy-gray sweatshirt and Simon’s soccer-hoodie, revealing their pale slender bellies. Simon erupted in giggles, tugging down Daniil’s zipper in return. A few spontaneous seconds as they merged, a flurry of rubbing bare fronts before Simon parted the front of Daniil’s jeans, exposing red lambskin and more bare skin. A lurid leer at Bruce behind the camera, and he cupped his hand, covering boy parts completely.
“Harder,” Daniil whimpered.
Simon squeezed the taut little pouch, squashing balls, turning delicate leather into a second skin around Daniil’s stubby erection, pinching the tiny knob, making him shudder.
“Don’t stop kissing him, Daniil,” Claire chided, her voice shaky.
There were footsteps on marquetry floors, a voice echoing near the front of the house.
“Ms. Handley, the staff are leaving now. Don’t forget the lights are set to go off at six pm sharp. The security office is on duty in the office if you need assistance.”
“Thank you,” Claire called. “We’ll be sure to check out when we leave. Good night.”
Claire and Bruce regarded the two boys, still hugging, little pelvises pressing, wriggling, each rubbing boy parts against the other.
“We’ve an hour,” she said, a kind of quiet excitement. “Rather photogenic, aren’t they?”
Bruce nodded slightly, anticipation racing like his heart.
“They could be stark naked, and no one would know,” she added.
“Not here...” He turned around, taking in open-planned rooms, breakfast room and gallery, with views extending as far as the library. “... upstairs, maybe.”
“Not open to the public. The Hogarth Room is out of the way.”
No matter where the idea came from, it overpowered commonsense. It took only moments before he gestured down, at the Sepulchral Chamber.
“Beside the sarcophagus would be creepy.”
She nodded, in perfect agreement.
oUo
Monumentality and mystery surrounded them, dramatic lighting from concealed spotlights, an ethereal glow from the skylight high above. Paired ponderous columns, fluted-Doric, guarded the entrance from the crypt. Surrounding, a stage set for a gloomy tomb, spooky enough to give a nine-year-old boy permanent goose-flesh.
“No mummy, see!” Simon observed gleefully. “It’s walking around.”
Daniil yawned for effect. “Mr. Ed told me Pre-Raphaelite artists used pigments made from ground-up Egyptian mummies? That's why their paintings are so creepy.”
They stood side-by-side, both clutching the fronts of their unzipped jeans; gaping at the sarcophagus. Up close, precise hieroglyphic inscriptions from the ancient Egyptian Book of Gates covered the inside and outside.
“Daniil, unfasten your pouch and let Simon take it off,” Bruce was almost hoarse with excitement.
“Catamite pouches are the last thing removed,” Claire countered sternly, making it sound like a rule carved in stone.
“You want a photo of Simon and me, Dad? Here? Naked?” Daniil murmured, looking around anxiously.
“No one’s going to see you.” She smirked at Bruce, changing her tone with alacrity. “We won’t make you. However, you have to be naked if you want to pretend you’re temple acolytes.”
“Mum, what about...” Simon muttered.
“Simon misbehaved so he has bruises on his cute little bum from being spanked,” Claire announced.
Simon glowered back.
“Egyptian priests did far more than spank their acolytes,” she added, folding her arms determinedly.
Bruce nodded, encouragingly, not of the mind that corporal punishment was ever appropriate; turning undressing into a game was genius at work, the kind of thing Edwin excelled at, and his wife could never get right.
“We’re not getting sacrificed or anything, right?” Daniil said, pretending serious.
“Seth’s acolytes must perform the sacred rituals without flaw if they wish to ride the sun boat of Ra,” Claire intoned, the authoritative high priestess. “Otherwise, they will submit to Seth, God of chaos, fire, trickery, envy, disorder, and violence.”
“Then, what happens, Mum?” Simon asked sweetly, barely avoiding a snicker.
“It will not be a pretty death. Seth rips out little boys’ willies and eats them, balls ‘n all.”
They giggled and started to undress, hurriedly kicking off sneakers, yanking down jeans, pulling off tops. Bruce composed and focused in rapid succession, moving around Daniil like a high-fashion photographer. Used to being in front of a camera, his son’s spontaneous sexuality took over, no poses needed.
Daniil was offering fleeting glimpses of blue when Simon handed his pouch to Claire, confronting Bruce with his hands on his hips. He took a deep breath and turned around, brown and purple bruises on both buttocks.
“Does it still hurt?” Bruce said, looking away quickly.
“Not like it did, I bet.” Daniil stared, feeling strange, not sympathetic, curious. “What did you do that was so bad?”
“It was because I was good, you twit,” Simon rebutted. “I was so good he couldn’t keep his hands off me.”
“It’s not about being good or bad, Master Daniel. Soon enough, you’ll learn that the highest bliss entwines emotional and physical pain,” Claire rebuked, interrupting folding the boys’ clothes.
“Is that the principle everyone keeps talking about, Mum?”
She regarded Daniil, not surprised, considering. “A catamite never discloses the principal.”
“I didn’t mean to, Mum,” he said humbly.
“To misquote Saint Teresa, who stole it, I’m sure… What ‘pain is so excessive that the sweetness caused by this intense pain is such that you never want it to end’?”
Daniil peeked at his father hopefully.
“It inspired Bernini,” Bruce hinted. “You’ll see his Ecstasy of Saint Teresa when we visit Rome.”
His son’s reaction was entirely expected. “You said he melded sensual and spiritual pleasure in an orgy.”
“Now, apply that to you and your father,” Claire resumed. “Pain mixed with pleasure?”
“After I sheathe him, when he thrusts hard, really hard.”
“At the peak; it’s the highest passion of men and boys. Ecstasy is pain and pleasure, always,” she continued.
Daniil’s slight nod was born of experience; with exquisite pain came exquisite pleasure.
“Never forget, ‘ecstasy’ means ‘standing outside oneself.’ Enough pain erases the contents of a boy’s mind and destroys his identity, if only for a while. Since the boy is no longer himself, he yields all, and can be truly possessed. The rest, Edwin and my father will explain.”
Claire took charge, positioning Simon and Daniil face-to-face in silhouetted profile, peering at hieroglyphs, kissing with alabaster as backdrop. Finally, she caught Bruce’s eye, and winked. Heart racing, he nodded back. Game on, time for some fun.
“Acolytes of Seth,” Claire began, dredging up Egyptian mythology on the fly.
“He is the Other, the duality of the One,
the darkness to Horus’ light,
the drought to Osiris’ fertility.
the chaos to Ra’s order
Praise Seth.”
A gesture to the boys and they chorused, “Praise Seth.”
“Praise Seth.” Claire intoned, almost baritone. “Your acolytes seek the Other and thus, the duality of the One. Here, before the tomb of your namesake, Seti. First One, and then the Other in sacred union.”
She smirked at Bruce, an elbow-gesture for him to step back.
“He’ll need the sanitized wipes from his bum bag, Bruce.”
“Goose grease or butter?”
“Neither.” With two fingers, she gestured for Daniil to stand before her. “Forbearance is...”
Daniil switched to pedantic, parroting her word for word. “Forbearance is tolerance and restraint in the face of provocation; patience...
“We’ll review the Nine Virtues later. The boy begins on all fours with his lover kneeling behind.”
Expecting his father would mount him, Daniil hurriedly assumed the receiver position.
“Anubis, yeah! You are so getting bummed, Bitch,” Simon snickered.
Claire frowned as she knelt beside Daniil. She pressed on his back until he lowered to his elbows, the inferior position. With extra downward pressure, he placed his head and shoulders on the floor, the submission position for boys. She parted his buttocks, exposing blue silicone. Placing a finger either side, she peeled back the flexible handle, slipping both fingers beneath to grasp the flared web. A deft jerk extracted the slick shiny core.
She smiled approvingly; size, shape, and color… “Your last flush was when?”
“Last night, Mum.” Daniil skewed his head to look back. “I rinsed this morning so I wouldn’t make a mess in the car.”
Simon knelt, ogling his friend’s little buttocks from behind. “You got big, Boyfriend. You could put Rasputin up there and not feel him.”
With wipes in hand, she gestured to Bruce to move to Daniil’s other side. “Keep using L’ Entraîneur whenever he’s not having sex. Especially after tonight. He’s nearly there.”
Temptation raged, so easy for a finger to confirm progression toward the all-essential elasticity. Instead, she used the sanitized wipes, one at at time until he was spotlessly clean, outside, and as far inside as her finger reached, trying to keep a straight face while Simon lasciviously licked his lips when he wasn’t making silly faces.
Claire regarded Bruce, speculating. “Always easier starting with another boy… You know what to do, Simon.”
Simon placed his hands on Daniil’s buttocks, pressing them wide apart. For a moment, Bruce felt apprehensive, knowing for certain what was about to happen as Simon leaned in. Another boy was going to kiss his son’s beautiful little bottom before inserting, something he’d started doing only two days earlier. He smiled, yet instant jealousy, no mere pang, a shard as rigid as his very erect penis.
However, Simon didn’t kiss; he smooched, wet puckered lips and nose pressing into Daniil’s crack. No pucker remained, not after a week of sodomy and L’ Entraîneur—Alistair and Tuwile being the icing on the cake.
Daniil jerked at the sensation, not the warm kiss on his bare bottom, a direct hit on his boy-hole. Outrageous! Invading, yet overpowering, hot, wet, spongy, slurping! He trembled, eyed clenched tight, silently begging his best friend to keep on, too ashamed to actually ask.
Suddenly, Bruce glimpsed Simon’s extended tongue, poking at Daniil’s pink indentation, slipping through the stretchy muscle, sliding in like a tiny stake shoved through his bowels. The tongue pulled back, wriggled, slippery and wet, flicking over tender flesh. Bruce’s heart pounded, disbelieving as Simon’s tongue began stabbing through the dilated outer muscle.
Simon’s face smothered between Daniil’s buttocks, just the sound of saliva slurping, his son’s muted sighs, the slap of wet slippery flesh. Then, silence; just panting.
“Ohhh, oh yeah,” Daniil whimpered. “Please, do it inside more! SO GOOD!”
Saliva dribbled from Simon’s mouth onto Daniil’s crinkled scrotum. Bruce blinked, absently, rubbing the heel of his hand into his crotch before he remembered he still held his camera in his other hand. He lifted it, pressed the shutter button, scarcely aware of what he was doing, or Claire’s knowing smirk.
Simon leaned back, smearing his mouth with the back of his hand, grinning at Claire, as much as saying ‘I knew he’d like it.’ He shifted onto his haunches, spitting saliva into his hand, slathering it over his short hard penis.
Fascinated, excited, heart hammering, Bruce watched as Simon poked his uncircumcised glans at his son’s open anus. Simon’s buttocks clenched as he pressed into succulent, spongy heat, eyes closed, mouth breathing, head back. Savoring. Foreskin slipping back, excess skin retreating down the shaft. Again, Danill whimpered, quivered, feeling his best friend’s small erection steadily sinking deeper.
With a hairless pubis jammed against little bare buttocks, there was no room between them. Still, they strained together, Daniil frenetically pushing his pelvis onto Simon’s penis, Simon grasping his hips and pulling them tight, trying to get greater penetration. Then, holding position, both trembling, absorbing heat, thriving on the contact of their lean, firm little bodies.
Claire gave the ‘all knowing eye’ to Bruce.
Simon backed, withdrawing until only his glans remained contained. His shaft seemed thicker, the veins more prominent under pinkish skin. Bruce was certain it was even harder, if that was possible. His thigh muscles tensed as he jabbed, stabbing his best friend’s behind. In, out, abrupt shaky jerks, not frantic.
“I’ve always said little boys fuck better than teenagers,” Claire snickered.
Bruce nodded, inhaling, exhaling. He could tell his son was enjoying every second. His head rested on his right forearm, little hand clenched, his other arm flailing against a stunted column supporting the sarcophagus. Claire’s hand was on his shoulder, restraining forward movement as Simon pounded against his rear.
After a handful of minutes, the pace hadn’t slowed. Without warning, Simon began thrusting faster. The rush to orgasm was underway. Seconds later, frenzied gasping, his thrusting pelvis switching from a frenzied blur to erratic pulverizing shudders. His now-reddened penis jerked free, twitching through the final throes. With his foreskin fully retracted, his bell-shaped glans was swollen, much bigger than Daniil’s tiny helmet.
With Claire’s insistent pulling and pushing, Daniil meekly raised up on his hands and shifted around until Simon was kneeling directly before him. Again, she pushed his back. He lowered from hands to elbows, instinctively aware of his subservient role.
“Prostration honors and signifies obedience to the principal,” Clare said, as much to Bruce as to his son. “You will close your eyes and extend your forearms, with your hands on the floor; and your forehead. Now, kiss the floor.”
Daniil touched his lips to the marble-slab floor, kept them there with her hand resting on his head.
“It’s a Teutonic-nobility thing,” Claire muttered as she lifted Daniil’s head. “Deference is required for the principal.”
Simon knee-walked closer, glee barely checked.
“Suck it, Bitch.” He was teasing despite his stern voice.
His eyes open, Daniil gaped at Simon’s middle. In front of his face, Simon’s penis, still wet with saliva, still erect. His scrotum was knotted, and disturbingly larger than his own.
He shook his head frantically. “No way! It’s been up my bum. It’s not hygienic; tell him, Dad.”
“Simon licked your bum to give you pleasure!” Claire was in her element. “Self-control is...”
“… Self control is doing or not doing things when faced by desire. It’s still disgusting, Mum!” Daniil caught her eye. “Desire comes in many different forms. All require controlling my emotions, thoughts, and behavior to provide pleasure.”
“Simon desires you to suck his penis.”
Simon grinned down, fingers toying with Daniil’s silky curls. “Start with a lick.”
“I b-better not get sick.”
He could deal with one lick; yet he still made a face. Strangely, the aroma wasn’t unpleasant. In fact, it almost smelled nice. He closed his eyes again, steeling himself as he leaned in, barely touching his tongue on silky shaft skin close to the base.
He drew back, gasping, wondering why he felt hot all over, wishing he’d licked the full length. The first time he’d sucked Simon’s penis it was fun. This time, he was so shaky it was impossible to focus. Worse, his heart was pounding. It didn’t taste bad—it tasted like his first time, of nothing at all, yet good
“You licked it after it was inside you… nothing to it,” Simon said.
Claire watched intently “Now, kiss it.”
Incredibly, the fat little bulb seemed to lure Daniil’s lips forward and onto the rounded tip. Kissing it was natural, not strange, an epiphany of sorts. A half inch or more penetrated past his lips, comforting like a baby sucking his thumb, reflecting, mesmerizing, closing his eyes.
“Cleaning his penis after he’s pleased you should be instinctive, Master Daniel.”
Daniil suckled, worried that he’d puke. ‘It was inside you,’ raged in his head to no avail. It felt so right.
“Pretend it’s your dad’s dick,” Simon murmured.
“Pleasure his head with your tongue, and take it inside your mouth,” she said gently.
Thundering thoughts as his tongue swiped back and forth, mouth opening, accepting, stretching his neck, quivering with a sheer shameless thrill that seemed to strengthen the longer Simon’s penis was inside his mouth. A hand, his father’s on the back of his head, guiding, cradling, encouraging, fingers brushing back curls.
Bruce’s other hand reached behind, cupping a small buttock, fingers intruding into the spit-slicked crack, gently touching his son’s anus. Wet and slick, not greasy, not loose like it was after he withdrew, not tight, either.
“Suck him in as far as you can, like you suck me, Sweetie,” Bruce whispered.
He reached under his son’s belly, using his awkward left hand to direct, repositioning knees wide apart. He lovingly fondled unprotected boy parts, a small dangling penis and shriveled scrotum. Gently bringing Daniil to full erection, reassuring, building arousal, tantalizing tiny testicles…
“This position is called ‘proskinesis,’ from the Greek, meaning to ‘kiss toward’,” Claire explained. “In Latin, ‘adoratio.’ It shows the utmost respect and adoration for your God, your principal.”
Daniil sucked harder, drawing Simon’s penis all the way inside. His upper lip was compressed against Simon’s smooth pubic, his bottom lip bumping his best friend’s scrotum, never closer.
“You’re doubly blessed because it was inside your bum,” Simon said quietly.
“Blessed, indeed,” Claire picked up.
With a sly wink at Bruce, her head jerked toward Daniil’s rear. Still fondling, Bruce leaned away. From behind, he couldn’t be certain, just a slight pinkish hue, normal for his son’s boy-hole after removing L’ Entraîneur. Perhaps hotter; he couldn’t be certain. However, he’d witnessed his son being penetrated, juvenile passion up close, within reach, urgent and impulsive.
Claire resumed. “’Blessedness is not the reward of virtue, but is virtue itself; and we do not delight in it because we conquer our passions, but because we delight in it, we are able to conquer our passions.’”
Words buzzed like bees, yet Daniil was too preoccupied to care.
“Benedito Spinoza was blessed, and enlightened; guaranteed he had a catamite,” Simon snickered.
“Edwin once told me that ‘the more clearly you understand yourself and your emotions, the more you become a lover of what is.’ Spinoza, if I’m not mistaken” Bruce added, so addled he was not at all sure he’d gotten it right.
Only one thing kept Claire from proceeding. The most intimate act bothered some boys more than others, and a few special boys not at all.
She gestured to Simon to turn around.
“I’m very proud of you, Master Daniil. Your first step was a big step; the next is easy.”
“Pleasure Simon’s butt the same way he pleasured your butt and I’ll be proud, too,” Bruce said quietly.
He clasped Daniil’s shoulders, drawing him into a hug.