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Book V: Serving
By Ganymede
The instant the front door closed, the chant started. Both men and boys united in cheer, like a Manchester soccer match,
“This old man, he was
one,
He played stick-dick
in
my bum;
With
a knick-knack paddywhack,
Give
a boy
a bone,
This
old man was
hard as stone.
Outrageous, igniting pent-up laughter. A constant interruption as the chant proceeded through obscene rhymes; ‘known, blown, sown, groan, prone, atone, and zone; all the way to nine;
This old man, he was
nine,
He played dick-whack on my spine;
With a knick-knack
paddywhack,
Give a boy
a bone,
This old man did
make me moan.
Edwin leaned in and nibbled on Daniil’s ear, the next-best thing to outright kissing. Lord Handley’s fingers poked his ribs. Giggles erupted.
“The sooner we get our cute little catamite up to the attic, the sooner we can party,” Graeme interrupted.
The remaining guests headed up the stairs—the elevator was scarcely big enough to hold two people. Nine men and as many boys traipsed up four flights. Graeme was there to greet and redirect them through a fire-rated steel door.
“Beware all who enter. Beyond this door is Neverland,” Lord Handley’s voice resounded from within. “Only free-spirited and mischievous young boys may enter.”
“What of men who have never grown up?” Graeme called from the rear.
“Only Pansy boys, fairies, pirates, and mermaids in Neverland, I’m afraid. If you’re here for the mermaids, fuck off.”
“No one here likes the fishy smell,” a boy snickered from the middle.
Edwin chuckled. “I wouldn’t mind fucking a fairy if he was as sexy as Christoph.”
“Have at him after I am done,” Prince Johannes. “I be a pirate after fresh Pansy-boy-booty!”
“Opening the door is the job of the last catamite opened.” Graeme gave a gleeful, yet gentle push to motivate Simon.
“Hump, hump, hump a dick,
Make it nice and thick.
Once it's ready,
Open steady.
Make me moan and kick.”
As if he’d said ‘Open Sesame’, the door swung open, just blackness beyond.
“To enter into Union with Eros, a catamite must bear a Face of Innocence,” Lord Handley proclaimed. “He must not see anyone or anything until I tell him otherwise.”
He fitted the molded mask to Daniil’s face, plain white papier-mâché with mirrors covering the eye holes. Satisfied, he turned, leading the way up the remaining flight of steps.
“Mr. Ed said I use it to make my Carnival mask,” Daniil whispered to his father. “For when we get to Venice.”
Wondering what he’d gotten them into, Bruce took his son’s hand, two little fingers pressed into his wrist.
Somber black walls seemed to get darker with every step, not a tunnel, into the night sky as tiny sparkling stars appeared, yet adding no light to speak of. Faint murmurs died away, excitement building with the first notes from a classical lyre, cultic Greek, an ethereal remnant from time immemorial.
Bruce tightened his grip, reassured as Daniil’s fingers found his pulse, connecting in a way they'd never known. Ascending slowly, one step at a time, synchronized with Daniil, who counted off the steps in a nervous whisper.
They stopped to remove their shoes. The music seemed very close, a few feet at most, haunting, soothing, dreamy, invigorating. Bruce peered at ghostly shapes; nothing he could be certain of. His eyes were playing tricks; it was the only explanation. Between poignant notes, bare feet shuffled, clothing rustled. An accompanying voice, melancholy like the lyre, rising and falling.
Another door opened, light spilling in. Lord Handley beckoned to Bruce. Without looking behind him, he guided Daniil to the open door. Still tightly holding hands, they entered Neverland.
What confronted Bruce was the last thing he expected. Not Chucky Cheese’s, Disneyesque, though no cartoon characters. The precious years of preteen boyhood crammed into the attic. Filling one end was a HO-scale model railroad, with trains from the era of steam. Not boring towns and marshaling yards, a fantasy world with mountains, lakes, cascading gothic villages, and hovering alien drones. Monster flat-screen lcd panels plastered the walls like an art gallery, showing boys playing soccer, rock climbing, hang gliding, sailing, surfing, video consoles, board games in racks, a polished dance floor...
Bruce stopped at a make-believe F-16 cockpit, a vast curved LCD screen surrounding it.
“What is it, Dad?” Daniil murmured.
“A boy paradise.”
Still leading his son, Bruce wandered around the room, trying to take it all in. He stopped, overwhelmed, staring at a Formula-1 race car, appropriately sized for a boy. A virtual reality headset rested on the seat. He turned and his eyes went wide.
The pièce de résistance was a miniature porticoed, stepped amphitheater, its wide terraces covered with exercise mats and bean bags, indigo-blue, and blood-red. On the semicircular stage was a horse, not from Troy, for a boy.
“Dad?”
In stunned disbelief, he muttered, “Shhhh. Later.”
For long moments, his mouth gaped. Simon leered back at him from the stage. Like every boy except Daniil, he wore loose low-slung cord-tied catamite panties, his tightly pouched genitalia dominating the pale pink front. His right hand stroked a make-believe priapic prick. Exaggerated jerky motion, utterly outrageous, not juvenile sex play, raw and sensuous. It was primal and deeply arousing.
Every man except Bruce was attired in a Greek chiton, a knee-length robe, white linen draped and tied with cords around the middle. He grinned at his son, still masked and completely unaware they were both out of place.
Lord Handley smiled, giving an impatient two-finger gesture to return to the stage even as the lights dimmed.
“Join the Gods on Mount Olympus, men and boys of the Union of Eros,” he proclaimed.
Bruce assisted his son up the stairs, now bathed in stage lighting. The effect on his son was transforming. His morning suit seemed to glow in indigo incandescence, his ivory waistcoat and cravat turned startlingly pearlescent. Brunette curls glimmered with fire; pasty New England skin became luscious. Disturbing, otherworldly lyre music flowed among scaled-down Ionic columns, while a lone soprano voice chanted softly in Hellenistic Greek.
“The Grand Master for this joyous occasion is Sir Graeme Browne,” Lord Handley started again.
As Lord Handley stepped back, Graeme took over. He cleared his throat and stood straight.
“A reminder to maintain decorum. That means restrained giggling and no jokes unless they’re obscene... Tonight, we initiate this beautiful little homo-erectus into the service of Eros.”
“Blessed are we in the service of Eros,” the boys said as one.
“His father, a true lover of boys, is hereby admitted as Master of the Union of Eros, per paternitate et per caritatem.”
“Blessed are we, Masters of the Union of Eros,” the men said together.
“We welcome the House of Stirling to the Temple of the Gods.” Graeme’s gaze stopped on Simon, pointedly intense to convey solemnity, no silliness.
“Great Mars, I am your son, Eros.” Simon almost giggled, peeking at Daniil.
Lord Handley stood beside his grandson, a stand-in for Trevor. “My loving Eros, I gift you daring and cunning.”
Graeme nodded at another boy, soft featured with wavy blond hair and angelic eyes.
His voice was clear like a bell. “Great Apollo, I am your flighty Hyacinthus.”
The man standing beside him answered, soft and lilting. “Pretty Hyacinthus, I gift you nurturing and insight.”
With a gleeful glimmer in his eye, Graeme gestured at Christoph, outrageously cute in his little pink catamite panties.
“Great Hermes, I am your dainty Crocus.”
“You got that right!” Simon snickered under his breath, still loud enough to be heard.
Prince Johannes nodded, smirking. “My delicate Crocus, I gift you eloquence and focus.”
Another two-fingered gesture from Graeme and another boy called out. He was taller than the rest, and likely pubescent with an enviable bulge in his shimmering satin panties.
“Great Hercules, I am your adventurous Hylas.” His strident voice seemed to echo through the attic.
The man beside him was large, not obese, still heavy enough to squash a young boy if he wasn’t properly positioned.
“Gentle Hylas, I gift you strength and bravery.”
“He’ll need both to get out from under,” a man snickered, drawing chuckles.
Prince Johannes gestured to a pretty Asian boy, his dark hair closely cropped. “The last time Lee was underneath, he wasn’t in a hurry to finish.”
“Unlike me, Lee gets off on being dominated, ze same as Simon,” Christoph teased.
Daniil nudged his father. He felt left out—at least, he recognized some of the voices.
Graeme continued unabated, through four lesser-known Greek Gods and their boy lovers. Finally, only Daniil and his father remained, and the most important god of all.
Daniil’s mask didn’t covered his mouth, yet his voice was an unsteady mumble. “Great Zeus, I am your cup bearer, Ganymede.”
Bruce hesitated. Claire had said there were slight yet important differences between Royal, House, and Common catamites. He took his clue from Lord Handley and Prince Johannes, yet very afraid he’d blurt out the wrong thing.
“My faithful Ganymede... I gift you... wisdom... and reason.”
oUo
Scratchy, staticky music began, the 1911 phonograph recording of Irving Berlin’s Alexander’s Ragtime Band, more march than Joplin’s rag. On cue, catamites stomped in step, knowing nothing beyond their own tradition. The song, which Berlin’s employers thought was rather droll, would’ve died except he performed it at the first Friars Folics of the New York Friars Club.
Clapping started. With a knowing smile, Graeme relinquished the role of Grand Master of Ceremonies to Edwin, his tone and demeanor deemed more appropriate to risqué roasting.
Edwin had a devilish grin as the intro-music ended.
“The stories I could tell you about my darling godson, Daniil James.” He paused for effect. “I knew he was gay the first time he first saw my penis. He peed his pants. We were at Wright’s Guggenheim at the time. Now, anyone who knows him, knows he’s always wanted to be an architect, so maybe it wasn’t my willy that got him excited… So, who is our newest addition?”
Both men and boys laughed, not a few, everyone. It went on and on, new outbursts whenever it faded to giggles. Daniil thought it unwarranted, yet reddened behind his mask. Wherever Bruce looked, high resolution images of his son filled the screens. Most were his photos taken at the Sloan House, or at GlenIolaire, a shameless boy cavorting.
“That’s him in the woods, looking up at Frank Lloyd Wright’s Fallingwater,” Edwin snickered. “Perfectly understandable in the presence of genius. Rather more fun than drying his shorts with toilet paper.”
Bruce gaped. Beside him, Daniil made the connection. He groaned, glad of his mask. He’d been masturbating at the time.
“He’s only doing what comes naturally to a catamite,” Lord Handley remarked.
“Not the come part, though,” a soprano voice scoffed.
“Now, let me to tell you about how he got his nickname,” Edwin continued.
“You’re supposed to tell us what is it first,” Simon interjected.
“I thought everyone knew.” Edwin wondered if he should. “Skippy.”
Daniil groaned again, wondering if it was possible to simply drop dead, or maybe he could pretend to faint...
“Skippy is a brand of peanut butter in the America.” Edwin regarded Bruce, hopefully. “Last November, Daniil and I made a home movie of him teaching my dog to talk. Now, Erasmus loves peanut butter. What you’re about to see is a Hollywood trick....”
Not sure what to expect, yet expecting the worst, Bruce stared at a screen on the far wall, no different than the others.
Cute little Daniil is stripped to his boxer briefs, patiently making vowels and consonants, Erasmus’ tongue slurping peanut butter remnants. Cut to Daniil on his back, Erasmus straddling him, still slurping. Cut to...
Bruce closed his eyes momentarily. Utterly impossible for him not to look. It was weird in a wonderful way, Erasmus licking there! Not that he could see his son’s penis, doggy tongue completely enveloped it.
“Skippy’s not even eight in this video,” Edwin went on. “My delightful little godson left the womb on February 17th. He had the cutest little willy, and he drooled unless he had something in his mouth—a sure sign looking back... He sent me a text a week ago.” He studied a scrap of paper. “I love sucking my dad. I can only do the tip. His dick's so long, it needs my hand to hold it up.”
“Sounds just like me,” Graeme joked. “When it gets hard, so much blood rushes in, I faint—no good in bed, unless the boy is as cute as Daniil, of course.”
“Little Skippy cried a lot. His mom said he wanted to be picked up, but what he really wanted was someone to play with his willy...”
On cue, Simon called, “Tell us about how his willy.”
Edwin held his right thumb and index finger an inch apart. “Rather tiny, isn’t it?” He smirked at Bruce. “Properly sucked, it’ll get this big.”
Thumb and index finger were amply separated, still short of three inches.
“The perfect size for a cute little catamite,” a man hooted.
“When he sucks mine, it gets bigger, too,” Bruce chuckled, getting into the spirit.
“Which is big enough to make up for dinky testiculi,” Edwin resumed.
“Tiny or none at all, what’s the difference?” someone snickered.
“Did I mention my darling’s circumcised?” Edwin went on, his tone like wind on an icy moor. “Now, there’s a story... He came with a nice long foreskin; however, his silly mother insisted on trimmed. Well, I showed his dad a photo of Gerhart Hoegner’s boy, Marten...”
Bruce hugged Daniil, remembering all too well. Marten had been eight at the time, circumcised a mere quarter of an inch from his scrotum. No little acorn; it was hot, unlike any penis he’d ever seen.
“… and I said, ‘If you’re going to do it, go all out.’” Edwin nodded at Bruce.
Christoph giggled. “With Skippy being streamlined, I get to keep mine, right?”
Graeme’s ahem resembled a throaty cough. “Arab and Jew makes two.”
“The opportunity can’t be passed up,” someone else said.
Lord Handley gave a hurried two-fingered ‘wind it up.’ Edwin promptly held up his hand for attention.
“Now, the videos on the screens. You’ll be seeing Daniil’s official deflowering, his first time with Simon, taking his first boy dick, and learning how to sixty-nine while he’s cuddling with Trevor...” He paused. “My closing remark... If you want the best blow-job ever, don’t forget the peanut butter.” He winked at Bruce, crude yet effective. “Next up... it’s horsey time with our guest Grand Master and Olympic equestrian, Prince Johannes.”
Edwin stepped from the stage, meeting Bruce’s amused gaze. Behind him, Prince Johannes waited until the applause died away.
“Master Daniil, promisingly sexual as you are; to serve Eros, your promises must become deeds. For nigh on three millennia, catamites have served the Union of Eros, serving their Masters and establishing beyond question the rightfulness of the practice. Much has been learned over the years...”
He gestured to his audience of men and boys.
“Always pursue self-control and reason. A man’s wanton lust for a boy is like allowing a stallion to control its rider. If you fall from your steed, always remount. Completing your ride has the force of law and is incumbent upon you.”
There were chuckles all round before he gestured to Graeme.
“With your Master, or in the service of Eros, you must practice the Nine Virtues.” Graeme was sonorous and didactic. “The Nine Virtues are our Lapis Philosophorum, the gift of the Gods for attaining perfection and enlightenment, and heavenly bliss; the way of Athens, Sparta, Megara, Eleia, and Boeotia.”
Gradually, the stage lights faded, disappearing entirely. Daniil sensed the difference within a few heartbeats. Then, Prince Johannes started again.
“Men will worship in your inner temple, Master Daniil. Some call it ‘Sanctum Sanctorum,’ the Holy of Holies. In the language of our founders... Edwin, if you would?”
“To hagion tōn hagiōn,” Edwin confirmed. “Your sacred place of utmost inviolability, private to all, but for the principal and the Union of Eros.”
“It is the foundation upon which a catamite serves Eros. It is your gift to your Master.”
In darkness, strong hands clasped Daniil’s arms and shoulders, restraining a willing statue. Immobile even as his heart pounded, as fingers unfastened buttons, removing his morning coat, waistcoat, cravat, shirt, and trousers. Pimpled with goose-flesh, raw excitement as undressing segued to outright fondling. He sensed breathing, warm moist kisses planted, wet slick licks dragged across bare skin. Gently stroking, caressing him all over, navel, neck, his buttocks, thighs, and feet. Even his tiny nipples firmed to imitate his throbbing boyhood. Only one part was left untouched until his pouch was stripped away.
Daniil was completely unaware that his father’s predicament matched his own. In darkness, little hands undressed Bruce, removing his sports coat, tie, and shirt. He suspected it was Simon who unfastened his belt and opened his zipper, while Christoph had the task of pushing his trousers to his feet. Then, both boys in concert pulled down his boxers and removed his trousers.
“I call upon his sponsor and mentor to assist in the mounting,” Prince Johannes announced.
Edwin and Lord Handley moved to Daniil’s side. Strong fingers kneaded his tiny scrotum, expertly tormenting his testes, tugging, tantalizing his taut tender penis until he quivered. He knew that hand. With prior experience, he concentrated on sensations, his little buttocks clenching urgently. Fingers fluttered, faster, vibrating! His little body bowed, straining into the clutching virile hand.
He was on the precipice of orgasm when the hands boosted him up. Unseen, the men positioned him, restrained him on his back. He felt very odd, a ridge under his butt, smooth under his back, bumps under his shoulder blades, his head resting on something hairy. His legs were drawn up, and his feet placed in leather stirrups, lifted up, not hanging down. Something was cinched around his chest and tightly buckled—a wide leather surcingle with shiny brass buckles and rings. It left his arms and head free to move, nothing else.
Prince Johannes loomed over him, eyes wide, taking in the vulnerable little boy. Blazing hot to equal his lust. Breathing deeply, he beckoned to Bruce, while sharing a diabolical smile with the audience.
“You have reserved the Virtue of Love for your Master. You father’s sacred act initiates Nosse Mysterium Eros, literally, ‘to know your secret Eros.’ It resides within you, the secret essence of a catamite.”
On tenterhooks, Bruce approached the dais and a Handley family heirloom. The horse was dappled, creamy and gray, with a stocky body and galloping legs. Foal-like, with exaggerated eyes and eyelashes, it was no child’s toy. It sat on horizontal rails with rounded ends, suspended on brass hangers from a solid oak beam, which in turn rested on two stumpy Doric pillars, and an oak frame.
Then, the chanting began, only boy sopranos.
“Ride a cock-horse a catamite must,
To give his man a galloping rush;
It fills his behind and it jerks before,
And he shall ride till he can no more.”
“It is ze time for ze pony,” Christoph murmured, inching closer to the front with Simon.
Still masked, Daniil trembled, not fearfully, with anticipation, unable to think beyond trying to figure out what in the Hell was going on. On the huge lcd screens:
Daniil appears in hi-definition technicolor, bound to a leather saddle, burgundy and tan with extra padding where needed for a bumpy ride. His legs are trussed like a turkey with the stirrups lifted up, feet pushing against the stirrup leathers. He rests his head and shoulders on a real-horse-hair mane, one arm hanging down, nervously fiddling with tarnished brass rondelles.
Unaware that his naked father now stood with arm’s reach, beside the horse’s long tail, Daniil flinched as small hands fondled his uplifted rump. Little fingers stroked his shriveled scrotum and smooth perineum, skillfully peeling the soft silicone handle from his crack, and tugging gently.
“Just like riding a real horse, push with your legs,” Simon whispered.
A firm tug and Daniil’s slimy L’ Entraîneur slid out with a succulent pop, spotless except for copious goose grease on the core. Simon handed it to Christoph before he peered closely at the vacated hole. Satisfied, he backed away. Christoph exchanged the plug for a silver bowl of goose grease, and took up position beside Bruce.
“Oh Eros, God of Love, your catamite awaits Your Key, as his lover awaits Your Unguent.”
Equestrian and Grand Master, Prince Johannes had the honor of inserting the first symbolic ‘Key,’ his index and middle fingers together. Edwin and Lord Handley each held one of Daniil’s slender arms, just in case. With a nod from both men, Prince Johannes rotated his fingers, a single turn, back, and out. Then, one by one, the Masters approached the dais, each inserting, turning, and removing before stepping back.
Simultaneously, Christoph knelt. He dipped his two fingers into the silver bowl, applying them to Bruce’s erection, up and down, smearing goose grease. He stood and backed away as the next boy in line took his place.
Unable to stop smirking, Simon looked from Bruce to Daniil, back and forth. Increasingly agitated as the lines grew shorter, he was hot and horny, not envious—he was way beyond that. He caught Bruce’s eye and jerked his head. Edwin inserted the final ‘Key’. His wrist rotated slowly, savoring the sensation of hot moist elasticity.
Unlike the other men, Edwin lingered, feeling Daniil’s slight contraction. Recognition? Impossible to know, yet a surge like magnetic attraction bonded them. Not loose and sour like a woman, taut and musky like a boy. Strong.
Daniil squeezed again, pulling in and up, drawing the ‘Key’ into him. He was certain this time was different, not perfunctory, gentle and devoted to his pleasure. The fingers could only belong to Mr. Ed, or his father. Not wanting to separate, yet they did. Unforgettable.
Quivering with anticipation, Bruce mounted the ‘rocking horse’, one foot on the rail, swinging his other leg up and behind the horse’s tail to straddle its dappled back. Prince Johannes steadied the phony pony, as Bruce cautiously inched closer, his erection jutting toward his son’s very exposed hole.
Prince Johannes’ voice was a whisper intended only for Bruce.
“This is his big day. A quick poke, sheathe him with a good hard jab, and then give him a bumming to remember. Anything else is an insult to a catamite.”
Using better judgment, Bruce inserted cautiously, expecting the usual involuntary tightening. Although penetration had been getting steadily easier, he didn’t anticipate Daniil’s little anus to open wide, fully accepting his glans. Snug, not tight, no nervous clenching, no squeaks or whimpers. A groan, soft, mellow; thankful as his father’s erection slid in. It filled him to overflowing, fulfilling a yearning that grew stronger every time it happened.
Ignoring the murmurs surrounding him, Bruce relished every wonderful sensation. A father barely inside his son, yet achieving sacred union the way it was supposed to be. Man and boy joined rim to rim with a delicious scorching pressure. Hearts raced as the urge built inside them. Bruce leaned, using his thighs to hold the steed. One hand gripped horse mane. His other hand grasped Daniil’s ankle, A slow steady push, sheathing in a single thrust.
He stopped, his mind resolute, giving Daniil time to adjust. He leaned, increasing his inward pressure even as he sucked his son’s soft wet tongue protruding under the mask. It was creepy, yet exhilarating; spit-bathing, lips encircling, dreamy with desire, inviting forbearance, not ferocity.
He inhaled when the kiss ended, shaking and weak.
“I love you… more than you know,” he whispered.
“Dad... Please.... Whose catamite am I? I’m yours! Fuck me like that, Dad. Fuck me!”
With encouragement like that there was neither walking nor trotting. They went straight to a canter, the rocking horse swinging back and forth, picking up momentum. Soon, controlled thrusts became unrestrained pummeling. No wonder men and boys gathered around them.
“Witnessing this is worth putting up with his mother’s insults,” Edwin confided to the men gathered around him.
“Spiteful and closed-minded. I know her type; your typical pig-headed public servant,” Graeme muttered, staring intently. “Oh my, will you look at them rut. Skippy loves a thick dick; slick, quick, with a stick at the end.”
“Quite a trick,” Edwin picked up. “I knew he’d be top notch when I endorsed him; pretty boys always are.”
“Christoph prefer to pause after the out-stroke,” Prince Johannes agreed. “Thank Zeus, his mother is not the picture. Only men and boys stay at Èze.”
“Rather good news all around, actually. She’ll be gone a lot longer than she realizes,” Lord Handley said quietly. “A week in Venezuela; another two weeks in Indonesia.”
Edwin salivated, gulping as Daniil wriggled his hips, not just realigning. As a boy, he’d enjoyed that sensation as much as any catamite, torquing a man’s erection, rearranging a boy’s inner organs, stirring lust, grinding across a juvenile prostate. Urgent and hurting, yet obscenely joyful; twisting, turning, angling, anything to heighten the impact of each shuddering thrust. He could tell Daniil enjoyed it.
“He smiles like Ganymede flying with his eagle,” he murmured, a moment before he realized he’d spoken his thoughts aloud.
“I hope she’ll be incommunicado,” Prince Johannes said distantly.
“Not as much as I do,” Edwin joked. “I’m expecting romance on the Romantische Strasse. Darn near impossible with a harpy hanging around...”
“Sulawesi’s remote, not completely out of touch. I could arrange a side trip to New Guinea if I was to meet Daniil in Rothenberg before the Venice Carnival,” Lord Handley suggested, a sly smile implying that more than sightseeing would happen.
“They’re ready to pick up the pace,” Prince Johannes interrupted.
Another two-finger gesture to the boys, interrupting giggles and whispers.
“Ride a cock horse ‘til you grow hoarse,
You’ll learn what it’s like to sit on a pike;
Small ring on your cock, a large one on his,
Your bum will sing songs and you’ll be a whiz.”
“Now, ride him with the impetus of Euros, who drew the chariot of Zeus,” Prince Johannes called, enthusiasm drawing catcalls.
“Push with your legs, Skippy,” Christoph jeered.
“As hard as you can,” Simon added. “You won’t believe how good it feels.”
On his back, with his legs scrunched, and his feet restrained somewhere above, it was all Daniil could do to exert any effort, let alone push hard. The mask didn’t help. However, soccer helped. Taking a deep breath, he pushed, his calf muscles and thighs straining to force the stirrups up, not down. The stirrup leathers restrained upward movement, yet allowed his feet to spread farther apart, and with no fear of falling.
Bruce noticed the difference, not only better access, inside his son got bigger, too. A straining muscular tunnel into his depths, sleek and slippery and sucking on his now-throbbing erection as it slid in and out. He still needed more, as did Daniil. His son pleaded, begged, demanding, his face contorted with every sharp spasm.
The frenzied pace bothered Bruce. He glanced at Edwin, seeking complicity and reassurance. His expression was ravenous, tongue hanging out, eyes dark and intense, primal lust. Their eyes met, no shame at all. They’d share Daniil, or neither would have him.
“The least you can do is fuck him like you love him. I will when it’s my turn,” Edwin snarled.
Behind him, the boys chanted,
“Ride a cock-horse into the night,
Make him pump as your kisses alight;
Take him deep and hold his endowment
Tighten your cinch, he’ll love every moment.”
“Pump me, Dad! Faster,” Daniil begged, clenching around his father’s throbbing sex, compressing as hard as he could. “I want you to love every moment.”
Picking up the pace like a jockey heading down the final straight with the finish line in sight, Bruce pumped frantically, the horse rocking wildly. His groin thumped into Daniil’s petite behind, slapping wetly as excess goose grease splattered. His buttocks clenched, arching, a flurry of fast powerful thrusts, thighs endeavoring to drive deeper and harder than ever before, quaking as his scrotum knotted, dark and wrinkled. His erection swelled, straining outward, ejaculating deep inside.
Exhausted, he slumped onto his son, still embedded, slimy, sweating, and shuddering erratically. Daniil hugged him, panting behind his mask.
“Skippy loves you, no one else,” Edwin said softly.
On Daniil’s other side, Lord Handley unfastened the cords that secured Daniil’s mask. Daniil blinked, gazing into his father’s eyes as if for the first time in his life.
“Love is always in the eyes,” Graeme declared. “His eyes and yours.”
Bruce sighed, contemplating carnal and ethereal love. Fulfilled far more than he ever imagined, he remembered Claire’s parting admonition at GlenIolaire; gentle, slow, not too deep… until he begs for it.
“I couldn’t stop myself... Did I hurt you?” he whispered.
Daniil blinked again, slowly becoming aware. Men and boys gathered around him, dappled pony, horse hair under his shoulders, a spongy saddle supporting his bottom, lifting him to receive his father’s erect penis... still inside him.
“I felt you... flowing... into me,” he breathed, peripheral vision searching for Edwin.
Edwin’s hand was close, still too far to reach out and touch. His tender smile made him glow, reassuring, sincere eyes, empathetic.
“Did you orgasm?” Bruce queried, feeling utterly inferior to his beautiful son.
“Kind of, when you first put him in...” Daniil trembled involuntarily. “Right before you went wild... at the end... monster spasms... wouldn’t stop... Really awesome...”
He swallowed, concentrating on the fading thrill, a sensation unlike any other, a delicious wet warmth sapping his energy.
“Don’t take him out... He feels so nice... I like when he twitches... makes me happy all over,” he murmured tiredly.
Graeme smiled, resuming his role as Grand Master of Ceremonies.
“The sharing of seed completes the troth of father and son. Bruce and Daniel, as Master and Catamite, your consummation has forged your love into union with Eros. Henceforth, you will belong to the Union of Eros, sharing what pleasure and joy you choose for your betterment.”
Bruce leaned down, his tongue extended. Daniil’s lips parted, eyes closing as his father’s tongue entered, heart fluttering as he suckled, allowing his tongue to be sucked into Bruce’s mouth. Back and forth, all spitty and slick, both giddy and barely aware that Bruce’s slimy penis was slowly shrinking back.
Fortunately, Simon stood ready, le bouchon in hand. Another Handley-family treasure, the silver and cabochon-turquoise stopper was ideal for a catamite of Daniil’s size, who desired to retain his man’s excretions. As soon as Bruce’s puffy glans plopped free, Simon poked the tarnished knob into the gaping hole, just a tiny bit seeping out.
Fully inserted, the stopper’s flared rim prevented a gush, just as it had 438 years earlier—the original owner, Fernán, the bastard son of Felipe González, the Count of Castile, was prone to leakage, a problem with a hawk-eyed countess. With a sly smirk, Simon gave the all-clear ‘thumb’s up.’
Only then, Graeme concluded, “Let us join in acclaiming their gift from the Gods, the first of the Nine Virtues, Love.”
Greetings and well wishes erupted from men and boys, some serious, most not.
oUo
Lord Handley as sponsor, and Edwin as companion/mentor, were of the same mind as they carefully unfastened both stirrups and surcingle and carefully conveyed Daniil’s small tired body to a bean-bag bed.
“Not too bad considering,” Edwin remarked—always better to understate, than run the risk of exaggeration.
“Rather remarkable for only a week,” Lord Handley agreed.
They placed him face-down, gently stroking his back through the enduring happiness of post-coital bliss. Seeming oblivious to Daniil’s temporarily remorseful father kneeling opposite, Graeme was as intent on instructing as he was supervising the aftermath.
“As master, you are charged with protecting your catamite in all things, and in his service to Eros in particular. You must ascertain what pleasure is sought, make certain that it is appropriate and desired, and ensure it proceeds according to the Nine Virtues.”
Having heard it before, Simon divested his catamite panties with a graceful shimmer of his hips. Naked, he crawled onto the bean bags. A rubbery dildo was embedded in his bottom, its tail like a furry ball against his buttocks. In front, a girl’s pink silicone scrunchy encircled his penis and scrotum, its cartoonish fat rabbit lewd and amusing. He crouched over Daniil’s thighs, spreading his battered buttocks apart to check seepage, just in case.
“You’re lucky I didn’t let go of your stopper. It would’ve gone way up you.”
“Because my hole was so big?”
“Humongous more like. Bet it hurt.”
“Not nearly enough,” Daniil taunted.
Simon clambered on top of him, straddling his thighs, pulling little pink buttocks apart, and playfully jabbing both his boyhood and rabbit at Daniil’s still-tender behind. They giggled together, best friends until puberty turned boys into men. After that, was anyone’s guess.
Pretending he’d climaxed, Simon flopped to the side gasping and grinning.
“You were begging for it, Skippy. ‘Daddy, go deeper... Harder, please!’”
He scooted out of range, still mock-pelvic thrusting, now with his hands on his hips, proudly showing off his pink rabbit, impossible not to notice, or laugh.
Rejuvenated, Daniil sought revenge. “What’s Simon’s nickname, Master Eric?”
Lord Handley snickered. “My horny little grandson? Why, Bunny, of course.”
Daniil grinned, already well on the way to full recovery. “Once you my dad buggers your bum, you’ll be begging too, Bunny-boy.”
With Daniil carrying on, Bruce came out of his stupor. Simon’s ‘baubled’ boy-bits immediately caught his attention.
“I like your bunny?” He sounded dazed, no longer gazing at his son’s lethargic face.
Simon rolled his eyes, his fingers fondling silicone, beleaguering his very engorged boy-toy as he gave Bruce his best ‘wanton boy’ look.
“This bunny bugs men for sex, same as Skippy will after tonight.” Accomplished teaser, he let it sink in. “I can’t get bummed enough, can I Grandpa?”
Edwin chuckled, trailing his fingers across Daniil’s lean abdomen, teasing boy nipples.
“Something tells me you won’t be the only boy getting bummed by your father tonight.”
Daniil pointed at Simon, then at his father. Bruce glared and shook his head, all in good humor.
Smirking, Simon crawled toward him, his shoulders on the exercise mat, his butt elevated. Submissive like Daniil, or pretending to be by shamelessly offering himself. Suddenly nervous, Bruce glanced at Lord Handley.
“Bruce, the tradition is that a catamite's sponsor has first dibs on him when he starts serving Eros.”
“What about the sponsor’s catamite?” Bruce muttered, unable to take his eyes from Simon.
He was well within reach, demure eyes elevated, little pink tongue circling his lips. He oozed lust, steamy, intense, enough to overcome any man’s hang-ups. Bruce glanced at Daniil. No jealousy there, curiosity spiked, accepting it was going to happen, wanton little boy fingering his Viagra-hard penis,
“I’ve been looking forward to doing Skippy ever since I saw Edwin’s photos.” Lord Handley murmured.
He caught Bruce’s eye, challenging him to ask ‘what photos.’ Far better for harmless secrets to be out in the open. A sly nod to Graeme, unassuming yet armed with a GoPro Hero camera.
Edwin coughed, spluttered. “I’ll show you later, Bruce.” He quickly added, “I needed to show all of him...”
“Well, of course you did.” Bruce kept on ogling Simon.
Calm as can be now that he knew what was coming, and Daniil was agreeable. Slow steady breathing, wondering if his erection would last long enough. Simon was handsome, not beautiful like Daniil. Same soccer-boy body. Noticeably bigger penis, uncut, and a fuller scrotum. Not nearly as cute. There would never be the frantic rush of excitement he always experienced with Daniil. Not even close.
Daniil peeked at his father, teasing, testing how far he could go. “I was naked on his bed, Dad.”
Bruce winked slyly—after what he’d just done, with what he was thinking, what else could he do.
“Best if your mom doesn’t know what you do with Mr. Ed, on his bed, or in his bed.” By that point, he couldn’t stop himself. “Or any other man.”
A watershed moment passed without comment. He released his claim to possession, and endorsed sharing; moral turpitude by most people’s reckoning, yet the very same reason why men had shared boys for millennia. As much as he loved Daniil, he wanted to make love with Simon. Not merely to have sex, or for comparison purposes—carnal union brought far more than emotional attachment and physical pleasure.
Categorically, unconditionally, Simon was willing; it was obvious in his leer. Then, his hand extended, a tiny fingertip touching the moist meatus of Bruce’s erect penis. The boy slyly smirked into Graeme’s camera, and lifted a silvery spider-thread, eyes teasing as his hand slowly lifted, his tongue ready, waiting.
“You’re bigger than my dad. It’s not a problem; I’m just saying...”
He licked the tip of his finger and inserted it in his mouth, cheeks sucking in.
Bruce gaped. How many times had Daniil done the same thing? Dozens, at least. Downright obscene when a boy was so young, that aware of his sexuality... homosexuality. Beyond suggestive! Beyond stimulating.
No question that Simon and Daniil were born to be catamites, both with unshakable need, and irrepressible desire; however, Simon was invincible-sexy, not vulnerable-sexy. It made all the difference in the world.
“At my age, mounting’s easier when a boy's freshly fucked,” Lord Handley said, his eyes shifting from the camera to Daniil’s bottom.
Prearranged by the master of ceremonies, Edwin’s photos of Daniil appeared on the adjacent screen. Next to it, GoPro-Hero provided simultaneous action, almost real life in 4K definition. Even with near-perfect lighting, composition, and focus, Edwin’s photos couldn’t do justice; no photo could.
Neither pinched, nor plump, Daniil’s compact bottom has a curvaceous divide separating firm rounded buttocks—each cheek perfectly filling his small clutching hands.
“Show me your boy treasure, Skippy...” Lord Handley says distantly.
Daniil’s elongated opening is front and center, slightly darker than the surrounding skin. Never touched except by an inquisitive finger in Edwin’s photo, now his recessed anus is a clear invitation to intrude.
Wide-eyed, mouth gaping, Bruce stared at his son’s shameless display.
“Wow! Look at your beautiful boy-hole!”
“You’ve been busy; big and recessed in a week,” Edwin chuckled.
Not to be outdone, Simon’s finger popped out of his mouth, a loud slurp of his lips and tongue, lovely. Bruce returned to reality, abrupt, chest heaving, startled by a muted thud as a jar of goose grease landed nearby. Simon’s finger hovered, waiting in front of his face. Bruce caught his wrist, bringing Simon’s fingers to his mouth. First, a kiss; a lick; then, sucking two little digits between his lips.
“A catamite’s first serving is easier if his best friend is buggered at the same time,” Graeme said, hardly decorum.
“Skippy and I could sixty-nine,” Simon suggested, peeking at Bruce.
“Up close and personal for both them and us.” Lord Handley regarded Bruce hopefully.
Uncertain, Bruce glanced at the screens on the adjacent wall.
Naked Daniil sprawls on Edwin’s king-sized bed, looking over his shoulder, embarrassed enough that his hand covers his eyes. His anus is a tiny dark dot.
Now, Daniil sprawls on fire-engine-red bean bags, smiling lasciviously at Graeme’s GoPro camera. His knees are pulled to his chest, his anus reddened and gaping.
“Of course, it’s up to you, Bruce” Lord Handley continued. “Seeing as we’re going to be on camera.”
“We’re the stars tonight, Skippy,” Simon chortled, nudging Daniil to look sideways.
On the opposite LCD screen...
A closeup of Bruce’s erect penis, his glans lodged between Daniil’s buttocks, slender legs bent at the knees, feet high-up, sticking out of padded stirrups. A momentary pause before Bruce applies pressure. Daniil’s anus stretches around the glans as it sinks into him. Snug. He groans softly, muted by the mask, Little hands grasping air, toes curling, his father’s passion driving into him, a hunger unlike any other. He groans again when his father’s erection is fully sheathed. Just dark pubic hair, excess grease, and Daniil’s pale perineum and wrinkled scrotum with barely visible miniature bumps.
“Start and end with peace... You agree, don’t you Bruce?” Lord Handley said.
Bruce jerked up his head, drooling saliva, more dripping from Simon’s fingers. He gulped, forgetting all Nine Virtues—high definition was mind-boggling.
Bruce’s face contorts with ecstasy. He’s poised to rut. His erection is shiny wet with engorged veins, his inflamed glans jammed inside Daniil’s anus. Bruce pushes, driving Daniil higher. His penis slides into his son, going the full depth with slowing. Daniil’s voice is muffled, demanding ‘harder’ and ‘faster.’
No wonder, his father’s thrusts verged on brutal after that, mercilessly pounding him against the saddle.
A little ashamed, Bruce glanced at Edwin. “Peace, I guess...”
“Trust your instincts for once, Bruce.” Edwin made it sound pathetic. “Not I guess.”
“You’ll do Bunny with your son watching, while you watch me doing Daniil,” Lord Handley added.
Edwin chuckled. “Fun all round. It’s not like Katrina will ever find out.”
Bruce picked up the jar, his thumb callously flipping off the lid. He grasped Simon’s arm, pulling him face down on a bean bag. With Simon’s little buttocks over his thigh, he confronted bunny tail. The crazy kid reached behind, fingers slipping under the fluffy ball to extract enough of the circular base for Bruce to take over.
Bruce pulled carefully, discovering a fat round knob on a stalk, rather like retrieving Tuwile from Daniil’s small bottom—his buttocks always bulged slightly before the head emerged.
“You’ll want Bunny’s bum loose and juicy to get the full effect,” Edwin said from behind a small video-camera with a red warning light.
He closed in, sliding sideways to follow Bruce’s fingers loaded with a lump of yellowish paste, pushing goose grease into Simon. Then, he zoomed out to get Daniil’s gleeful face in the frame as he gazed up at Lord Handley, still caressing his back. Dodging Graeme’s GoPro camera recording Daniil, he segued to Simon. Too many bodies, too much to look at!
“Graeme, if you film Daniil, I'll do Simon,” Edwin said. “And we stay back so we're not in each other's way.”
Graeme agreed with a nod, settling on a bean bag, focusing on Lord Handley and Daniil. He nodded several times… ‘say something.’
“You’re the perfect catamite... and so pretty... Ooh, I could eat you all up.”
As corny as it was, it sounded right. Lord Handley leaned over Daniil, turning him onto his side, dispersing kisses on his cheek and shoulder. Finally, a peek at the boy’s father, and a smile.
“The first time I saw your son on the hotel steps, I couldn’t take my eyes off him. I was worried his mother would notice.”
“I've worried nonstop for nine years,” Bruce shot back.
“He should’ve come out two years ago,” Edwin said. “Now, look at him. He’s so queer his cute little willy is all but redundant...”
Lord Handley smirked at Daniil. “Your cute little willy gave Bunny a bumming to remember though, didn’t it?”
“Mr. Ed said to push him in and wriggle from side to side. If I go back and forth he'll pop out for sure.”
Edwin was smirking as he panned to Bruce’s Viagra-charged penis, far too pig to ‘pop’ out of a boy. He zoomed in until it filled the screen, shiny with goose grease, glorious shades of red, crimson, and, purple. The cock-ring distended it, unsettling swollen dark veins, puffy bloated glans, jerking in anticipation. Any minute it would plunder another boy’s rectum.
Edwin panned to Simon’s bottom, making porn on the fly with Bruce’s greasy two-fingered ‘Key’ sliding in without resistance. He remembered being that loose, how good a man’s penis felt pumping inside him, stirring his juices, turning his insides to mush.
“Let’s show your father how skilled you are now,” Lord Handley whispered in Daniil’s ear, yet quite loud enough for Graeme to record.
Daniil giggled, nodding, playing to the camera. He pulled Lord Handley’s hand to his mouth and licked his fingers, eyes wide, tongue flicking, quivering with excitement.
“A week with your dad and you’re already his boy-wife!” Lord Handley muttered. “You really are extra special.”
“Mum taught me stuff, what tartlets do.”
He gently pushed his finger into Daniil's mouth and glanced at the camera as he thrust in and out.
“Cock-sucking reflex for sure… no hesitation, no gag at all.”
His finger went deeper to demonstrate, all the way in, pushing the boy’s tongue down, his thumb lifting the upper teeth, keeping his mouth wide open for the camera to zoom in on his finger.
“Hellene trained him, only three days.”
He fumbled with the clasp on his robe, hurrying to undress. Finally unfastened, he shoved away linen cloth, exposing himself. Daniil gaped. He was shaved all over, as hairless as a boy and not nearly as wrinkled, about like Mr. Ed, just as he expected. Something made him want to touch, feel, explore, even though it smelled stale, not musky and alive like his father’s penis. He stroked from bottom to top, little finger tips highly trained, tantalizing the elderly erection into maximum stiffness, lovingly rubbing his thumb pad over the seeping glans, wrinkles of leathery foreskin bunched up behind.
Lord Handley had to take several deep breaths. “Your daddy won’t share his bed with her after tonight, will he?”
“Uh uh. Not if I can help it.”
He rolled Daniil onto his side, crooking his lower leg and shifting his slender upper leg out of the way. Still not ideal, yet he settled behind, bringing bare skin together by spooning the much smaller boy, fingers playing with curly locks, kissing, licking the back of Daniil’s slender neck.
“You’re the most beautiful boy I’ve ever seen.” Whispering, trembling, he licked a small whorled ear. “So sexy. Sexy and shameless. Do you like being smooched as much as Simon does?”
“He told me he really likes kissing while he’s being fucked, Grandpa,” Simon snickered.
“Skippy’s waiting for you to get into position,” Graeme admonished.
Simon crawled over the bean bag, pausing midway, directing his bottom at Edwin's camera, remarkable control of his boy-hole, wide open, oozing goose grease. Then, he lay on his side, facing Daniil, staring right at his crotch. He was envious, not of being circumcised, being smaller—bigger wasn’t better for a catamite.
“Simon, get him started; willy-mouth first,” Edwin suggested.
Simon positioned his head on Daniil’s lower leg, little stiff penis and taut scrotum both within reach. He wriggled closer.
“Use my leg as a pillow.”
Getting the idea, Daniil lifted his head, his knee nudging his father’s shoulder. Grinning, he settled in, ignoring the cameras.
“Suck it, Skippy.” Simon’s voice was ragged with excitement.
Daniil closed the gap with his mouth open. Simon’s penis poked between his lips, slid past his teeth, and into the warm wet mouth, innate and mutual. Simultaneously, Simon inhaled, sucking the smaller penis to the root.
“Oh God,” Bruce murmured, a raw thrill flooding his mind, his body.
Looking over Simon’s head, his precious Daniil was within reach, tiny testicles bumping Simon’s nose, saliva and slippery boy skin all over. Then, his son started pumping his little pelvis, driving Willy into another boy’s maw. It was a game changer.
Lord Handley seemed amateurish, even clumsy, yet intent on reassuring the boy. Patient to a fault, his hand stroked slender thighs, thumb caressing a prominent hip, fingers already encroaching into the ‘danger zone.’
Suddenly, his erect penis was mere inches away, septuagenarian fingers parting Daniil’s buttocks, no pry bar needed. Completely exposed, Bruce stared, intent, fascinated, bewildered—all of Claire’s advice about sheathing a boy went out the window.
A long minute passed as Lord Handley dabbled, his plump glans teasing Daniil’s scrotum and perineum, even bumping his grandson’s pert nose, generating giggles and wriggles at both ends.
“Boys! They always monkey around at the worst possible time,” Graeme muttered, his GoPro up close and personal.
On the nearest LCD screen, the youngest cocksucker was hard at work.
Daniil’s delicate cheeks suck in. Dreamy eyes, curly dark locks in the way, backing off to catch his breath, remove strands from his mouth. A pink tongue laps soft scrotal folds, licking, little testicles dodging, doggedly erect penis stabbing at his lips trying to get back inside. Daniil gulps, his lips jam into a smooth pale pubis.
“Suck it, Skippy.”
Hearing his father’s anxious voice, Daniil’s head moves, mouth fucking himself, sucking his best friend’s cock.
Trembling, Daniil reached behind, clasped Lord Handley’s erect penis, guided it back, He felt the knob fill the depression between his buttocks, excited nerves charging his brain, deluging dopamine, the urge ramping, desire unstoppable until he had to push against it.
“You want like my willy in your boy-hole, don’t you, Skippy?”
Daniil nodded, adrenaline surging, no longer nervous, panting, twitching.
“I know you want me inside you, Skippy. I’m not like your daddy. I’ve got a lot more experience so it’ll feel different.”
Breathing heavily, Lord Handley pressed against Daniil’s bottom, beyond reassuring, yet not seeking entry, pleasuring with gentle prods and rubbing. Bruce put it down to stamina, less virile strength—the age difference a performance difference.
Then, the surprise of a lifetime. Somehow, he managed to sink his penis into Daniil with nary a whimper, boy-penetration the ancient Greek way.
“Yessssss.”
Daniil’s sigh, whimper, hiss, all mixed together as Bruce witnessed another adult penis possess his son’s slender body. Completely plugged, perfectly sheathed. Another man’s very bald groin jammed between a boy’s pale little buttocks. No resistance going in. No hesitation. No avoiding the very visible connection—Daniil’s recessed anus stretched around the base, goose grease accumulated in glistening globs.
A sound from the LCD screen interrupted Bruce’s concentration.
Little Christoph is ‘dropped’, not onto his father, another man. His father’s hands clamp under his armpits, erect penis slapping his son’s face as he lifts his boy off, shoves him down. Christoph wails and begs ‘again.’
Bruce blinked, clenched his eyes to no avail. Unbelievable that a little boy could find pleasure in it; yet his face said otherwise, beyond enjoyment, abandoned to sensations, ecstatic.
He turned away. Still, no movement, another man’s erection entirely within his own son, yet it was exciting in a way he’d never imagined. Staring. It was shockingly thick, like his erection.
“Nothing elevates the blood pressure like a close-up view,” Edwin chuckled.
“How’s it feel to see another man possessing your son?” Graeme posed.
“Strange… Not like I expected.”
“Rather like a cricket ball, Grand Master Eric’s balls.”
Round and red, and big enough to fill a man’s hand, Graeme’s observation was apropos.
“Nothing like seeing another man and your own son going at it, is there Bruce?” Edwin persisted.
Such was the companion’s role, to emphasize the act of sharing, reinforce the bonding of man and boy.
Bruce couldn’t look away; Daniil’s tiny gonads were all-consuming contrast. Massively manly, and the merest hint, of what was to come. Then, the sweet scent of pederasty hit him, nature’s boy-aphrodisiac. Inhaling raw opiate of lust. Exhaling primal desire. Nothing mattered except Daniil’s pleasure.
“Sometime soon, you’re going to see him fill Daniil’s bum with cum,” Edwin said quietly.
“Fuck him, Eric... hard; he loves it...” Bruce panted, hungry for Daniil’s corruption, not defilement, not debasement, his continued development as a catamite.
“You’re supposed to fuck me at the same time.” Simon’s boy-giggles brought him back to reality.
Bruce intended to relish that pleasure, yet the instant his throbbing penis touched Simon’s bottom, he shoved inside. Definitely looser than Daniil, way tighter than the Katrina’ vagina, a young boy’s rectum entirely containing a man’s erection, embracing seething, slushy, squeezing, shameless.
Right before his eyes, another man was sodomizing his sensuous son, buggering his beautiful boy. Thick, veiny, powerful, glistening, thrusting slowly. Suctioning semen, goose grease, and mucus, fucking Daniil.
He scarcely heard Lord Handley.
“Tonight will be a precious memory, my darling Daniel. I’m fucking you as you watch your father’s cock slide into your best friend,” Lord Handley crooned in Daniil’s ear.
Daniil nodded erratically, not reluctantly, too excited to control himself, ignoring Graeme and his GoPro, and Edwin and his video-camera hovering above them. Unable to speak with Simon’s penis in his mouth, jabbing against his cheek every time Lord Handley’s manhood possessed him. Unable to look away as his father’s erection possessed Simon.
“So good… so good… go right up me… yesss.”