The Eros Union



 Book II: Deflowering

By Ganymede

Copyright 2020



CONTAINING

Ashbourne Manor.

The Litchfield Chamber, Ashbourne Manor.

Lady Handley’s Chamber, Ashbourne Manor.

Cunsey Castle, Windermere, Cumbria.


To view:



Introduction, Legal Issues, Past is not Prologue, In appreciation, and List of Characters

Other chapters

Ashbourne Manor, Derbyshire.

 

Ashbourne Manor commanded views in every direction; Sheldon Woods to the east, orderly terraces along the River Wye, and the lush meadows of the Derbyshire Dales to the west. To the sunny south were orchards and an idyllic garden, itself a peculiar mix of Versailles-formal and English romanticism.

 “You live in a real castle with crenelations. How cool is that!”

Daniil’s awe wrought smiles all around, especially to his father. Bruce had spent the last five minutes worrying about the near-constant whispering going on behind him. His son’s furtive giggles didn’t help, erratic and bothersome.

Ashbourne Manor is out of the way, expensive to maintain, and a constant headache. However, with its provenance, we could never sell it,” Trevor chuckled, slowing down for yet another stone-arch bridge.

“Is that a Norman bridge, Mr. Handley?”

“Indeed it is, Daniel. The keystones came all the way from North Umbria, on the border with Scotland.”

“The house is mentioned in the Domesday Book, so 11th century for the foundations,” Claire remarked from the rear seat. “The tower is Norman, built in the 12th.”

She waited until they’d passed over the bridge, casually feasting her eyes on the too-pretty-for-a-boy sitting beside her. The afternoon sun glinted in his curls, reddish gold highlights leaving her speechless. No wonder his father was infatuated; her father was, too.

“The main house, that’s the stone-and-shingle building close to the river, was added in the 15th century. The east tower is the most interesting part. A canon of Litchfield Cathedral wanted a place to hide his...” She hesitated, a smile lurking. “... valuables.”

“Because of the Church’s pecuniary policies?”

Bruce religiously maintained a once-a-week coffee and buttered muffins with Edwin Browne in the Divinity faculty lounge.

 “Pecuniary policies played a part,” Trevor said, looking into the rear vision mirror for the umpteenth time.

With a smile to inflame a man’s passion, Daniil waved back. “Pec-whatever policies are?”

“Saint Augustine of Hippo was of the mind that canons should renounce private wealth and live like monks,” Trevor explained.

“Are you going to tell him about what was so valuable, or should I?” Claire snickered.

“The canon was a pederast. Do you know what that is, Daniel?”

With his father listening in the front seat, Daniil chose glib. “A pedo who’s into boys.”

“Sadly, it seems that the time-honored boy lover has been reduced to a common pedo.”

“Not every kid my age hates pedos, Mr. Handley,” Daniil muttered. “Mr. Ed, he’s kind of like my uncle; he says lots of men are into boys, not always in a bad way.”

Bruce ran his fingers through bristly hair. Yet another bothersome mention of Edwin.

“Edwin was a choirboy, in the Anglican Church, not Catholic. I think it was good for him.”

It bothered him when his wife picked on Edwin’s jokes about choirboys. It wasn’t unjustified—he’d attended St. Edmunds School as a chorister at Canterbury Cathedral. However, Edwin firmly believed he had gained from his experiences.

“One can only hope the current nonsense ends quickly,” Trevor said, again glancing into the mirror.

Claire cleared her throat. “Your Mr. Ed’s right. Pederasty is more prevalent than people want to admit. It was quite common during the 16th century. However, the canon from Litchfield was rather unusual for the time. He respected his boys.”

Trevor slowed down to turn through an imposing gate and into a tree-lined avenue.

“Sadly, the essence of boy love has been forgotten over time.”

“Which is why Ancient Greek customs are essential,” she said coolly.

oUo

Trevor closed the car door as Simon hurtled across the driveway and into his father’s arms. They hugged with the kind of impetus people have after being apart for a long while, a lot more affectionate than merely ruffling his hair. A sideways glance at Bruce and Daniil, a sly nod from Claire, and Trevor patted his son’s bottom. They kissed chastely until another sideways glance revealed Bruce was staring. A second pat, and Simon’s tongue pressed forward, swiping his father’s lips. It was a passionate kiss, timed to Simon’s sensual writhing against his father. Their kiss embarrassed Daniil; he’d barely started his French lessons. He quickly looked away.

The shameless display went on and on, man and boy embracing, lips and tongues entwined together until...

Claire ahemed, “Master Simon, a little decorum is in order.”

After that, Simon giggled through the introductions, constantly peeking at Daniil and Bruce.

 “We’ll do afternoon tea in 30 minutes, and the Ashbourne Manor tour afterwards,” Trevor declared. “The boys can play soccer until then. Righto, off you go.”

Almost a year apart in age, yet the boys would be well-matched on the soccer field. Not in the bedroom though, at least not in Bruce’s eyes. Visibly less manly, Daniil was smaller, shorter by a hand-width, and slender. Not overly athletic, not geekily studious, just bright, beautiful, and very desirable.

Trevor’s gaze shifted from his son to Daniil, appraising potential. He regarded Bruce. “Dimples and freckles must come from his mum.”

Bruce withheld comment on his son’s DNA. A spritz of faint freckles, Cupid lips, cheeks dimpling when he smiled, and curious engaging eyes; his boy was lucky like that.

Compensating for her impetuous brother, Claire drew her nephew close for a hug.

“We know Master Simon’s a Handley. He has the family cleft.”

Trevor nodded. Simon was noticeably darker haired than Daniil. Dark eyes made him a mysterious gypsy, a smoldering little lover with a lively outlook on life, as if to spite his solemn scarlet and gray school uniform. Barely a curl compared to Bruce’s Adonis.

“Dad says you just turned nine, Daniel,” Simon enquired.

Daniil nodded meekly.

“Simon’s grandfather says boys whine before nine,” Claire quipped.

Trevor looked up. “Boys shine after nine, don’t they Simon?”

Simon nudged Daniil and shook his head. “Nut jobs, both of ‘em.”

Still strangers, they were wary and reserved, not aloof. However, anyone could tell rapport was underway, constantly peeking at each other.

“Crazy about you,” Trevor said, squeezing his son’s shoulder. “Off you go, then!”

Simon and Daniil grinned and raced each other across a meticulously manicured lawn. Extending to the river terrace, the lawn ended at a scaled-down portable goal post, and a privet hedge beyond,

Trevor called, “Simon, uniform off, soccer togs on.”

Simon turned, shouting as he jogged backwards. “It’s too cold to play nude, Dad!”

“Master Simon, your kit from last season should fit Daniel,” Claire shouted after them.

“Right-o, Mum!”

“Don’t dilly dally,” she snickered. “If you’re upstairs too long, you’ll miss afternoon tea.”

The boys switched direction, running pell-mell, chasing an imaginary soccer ball. They entered the house through a glazed solarium, at one time the manor greenhouse.

Grinning at Bruce, Trevor added. “Seeing them play in the buff might be fun.”

Still a little prickly after Katrina’s morning harangue, Bruce kept his thoughts on nude boys to himself.

Claire regarded the crenellated east wing. “Sooner rather than later, I think.”

Bruce offered a smile, vague, almost obligatory. However, his thoughts on Simon were anything but vague. Hollywood handsome, yet he paled beside radiant Daniil.

“One can only hope,” Trevor intoned. “I expect they’ll be seeing a lot of each other.”

 Claire promptly frowned, drawing his attention to a prim housekeeper pushing a small serving cart across the lawn.

“Mrs. Clemens,” she called. “If it’s not a bother, we’ll take tea on the terrace, not in the garden as we planned.”

The air was redolent with the scent of apple blossom; it was almost too much.

Mrs. Clemens waved and diverted across the lawn, heading to a white table and six chairs on a stone-flagged terrace overlooking the River Wye. As soon as she was out of hearing, Trevor resumed.

“The terrace is more private. Take advantage of every opportunity, right, Bruce?”

They ambled toward the terrace, the emotional display on the driveway still thrilling Bruce. When it came to French, his son was a neophyte.

“I expect Claire told you our father adheres to the ‘Spirit of Boy Love,’” Trevor resumed, fingers making appropriate air-quotes.

“I mentioned idealized pederasty.” Claire reflected on Daniil's soccer skills.

 “The Spirit... Love, joy.... I should know them by heart...”

“There are Nine Virtues, Bruce.” She counted them off, one hand at a time. “’Love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control.’ Of course, Daniil will learn them in Latin and Greek.”

“Paul the Apostle usurped them,” Trevor picked up. “Completely out of context, appalling, really.”

“It’s word for word in Galatians 5:22; the allegory of the Fruit of the Holy Spirit.”

Trevor gestured for Bruce to take the chair opposite him and Claire, sitting down as the boys sprinted out of the house and across the lawn. Simon was in front, the team star with his arm raised, resplendent in an oversized shirt, bright red with white trim.

“They’re certainly frisky,” Claire remarked. “Your son’s rather agile.”

Lagging behind Simon, in orange and black togs, Daniil zigzagged, practicing ball control.

 “About what you’d expect for a center fielder. Good ball control, I bet,” Trevor added.

Amused, Bruce selected a fresh-baked scone from a platter, giving Daniil a long look as he raced closer, lean legs like an English thoroughbred colt. The afternoon brought tints of fiery gold to his curls, his very own breathlessly beautiful boy.

Up close there was no mistaking the double-headed-eagle logo on the front of Simon’s shirt, not an English club team shirt, the Russian National Team. A moment later, he plopped into Trevor’s lap. He scooted his son onto his knee, prepared a scone, dollops of jam and thick white cream, and handed it over. Simon licked off oozing cream, smacking his lips and grinning at Daniil.

Aware of Daniil’s envious glare, Bruce quickly loaded a scone with clotted cream and strawberry jam, ready to feed his son the same way Trevor was feeding his son, like a young lover. Between bites, Simon whispered something and Trevor hugged him from behind, smooching his son’s neck. No normal father did that! Then, Trevor’s hand clasped his son’s smooth bare thigh, and slid higher.

“He’s stunning! Keeping him virginal must be a full time job,” Trevor teased, as Daniel came up beside his father.

Lost for words, Bruce gaped, euphoria no different than when he did the same thing to Daniil, cupping little boy genitals under his soccer shorts on the way home from practice.

Simon smiled, sighing, not merely allowing, enabling, encouraging molestation by moving his legs apart. Only it wasn’t molestation, it was a loving caress, fatherly fingers compressing Simon’s scrotum, tormenting still-tiny testicles, and stroking a penis, already uplifted.

“Mr. Handley’s playing with him, Dad,” Daniil murmured, staring just like his father.

“I’m really sorry,” Trevor said, anything but apologetic. “Simon and I tend to let ourselves go. We need a little decorum reminder sometimes, don’t we Claire?”

Simon grinned, meeting Daniil’s anxious gaze. Anyone could see the tiny nipple-tip of his penis poking into his satiny-black soccer shorts.

“Why so surprised, D.J.? I told you he would.”

Protective, Bruce drew Daniil closer, one hand clasping his thigh, his other hand offering the scone. Pressed up against his side, his son was more interested in watching Trevor fondle Simon than eating.

Their unconcealed intimacy brought a smile to Claire’s face as she poured tea into delicate china cups.

“Follow the Spirit of Boy Love, Bruce, and your beautiful boy will thrive, like Simon.”

Trevor and his son were shameless, so accepting and at ease with each other that Bruce’s instinctive possessiveness faded.

“We’ve always been very close, yet we do have our difficult times; don’t we Master Simon?” Trevor said quietly.

“Only when you’re not around,” Simon whispered, persistently pushing at his father’s encroaching hand.

With a snicker, Trevor held his son’s erect penis between his index finger and thumb. Black satiny nylon sheathed it like a second skin. With nothing else to get in the way, it was especially revealing when his father’s fingers pressed down. His foreskin retracted, out of sight, not out of mind given his silly giggle.

Bruce hugged Daniil, hoping he felt the same thrill, his small tousled head close enough to breathe in silky hair, the lingering fragrance of gardenia, baby-soft cheek, nuzzling his perfect little ear. All the while, his hand rubbed up and down Daniil’s back, slowly advancing down to a pert little bottom.

“The only question is will he be on top, or under you the first time.”

Astounded Claire could be so outspoken, Bruce gulped, his face reddening, very aware of the warm, vibrant boy who squirmed against him, his own flesh and blood. Only sheer satiny cloth separated his hand from bare skin. Impossible, incredible, ridiculous to even consider, yet far worse was happening right in front of them.

He felt Daniil press back against him, relaxing, seeking pleasure. His forefinger extended, poked like an arrow into the narrow crevice, pushing nylon between rounded firm buttocks.

Unaware, Claire heard only Daniil’s sudden gasp.

“Oops. Now, I’ve embarrassed them. But it’s true, isn’t it Trevor? The sooner a man rides his boy, the better for both.”

Daniil shyly glanced at Simon; he seemed very pleased with himself. Any why not when his shorts were pushed up his thigh. His father held his exposed erection between his thumb and two fingers, repeatedly pressing down, pulling up foreskin so his pink plump helmet appeared, and disappeared.

“Go on; ask her! You promised you would if my dad played with my willy,” Simon chided.

Daniil chewed his bottom lip. “Um... Can my dad’s penis really fit inside my butt... bum?”

Simon chortled, giving Daniil a supportive thumb-up.

“You need to be very careful at your stage, Sweetie; however, joining with him isn’t impossible,” Claire said serenely.

Trevor leaned back in his chair, casual as can be, his arm still wrapped around his son’s shoulders. “That’s what I call getting it out in the open, Simon.”

“But Dad, you said I should talk about it when we changed.”

“I said you should test the waters, not pervert the poor boy.”

“For Heaven’s sake, Trevor, you can tell they’ve been intimate from how Daniel looks at him,” Claire rebuked. “They’re both obsessed.”

“Obsessed,” Bruce repeated, red-necked and disbelieving.

“Yes, obsessed.” Claire smiled knowingly at Daniil. “Anyone can see your love for Daniel transgresses parental affection, and vice versa.”

“He told me he sucked his willy this morning, Dad,” Simon interjected heatedly.

“Good God! How on earth did you control yourself, Bruce?”

Bruce exhaled. “I didn’t.”

Beside him, Daniil giggled. “Yes, you did. You made me stop at the end, right before you were going to spurt.”

Trevor regarded Bruce approvingly. “Sounds like he wanted to go all the way.”

“It wouldn’t be right, not our first time.”

“You must have very few opportunities with your wife always around?”

“Not as many as I’d like.”

“It’s the same for most men and boys. At considerable risk, they enjoy a few moments of ecstasy,” Claire said quietly.

“Unless they’re in the EU,” Trevor added cautiously. “He’s a charming boy, Bruce. Perfect, in fact.”

oUo

Trevor watched Daniil sprint after the soccer ball. Agility and ball control offset what he lacked in leg length. He had determination, too, as much or more than Simon.

“I think he’s got what it takes to be special. The question is, what do you think? What do you want for Daniel?”

“At the risk of sounding trite... I want him to be happy, truly happy.” Bruce scratched his head. “I love him... More and more every day. Maybe too much, if that’s possible.”

Claire smiled. “Poor lovesick man; you sound just like my brother before Geoffrey turned nine.”

“Sometimes, I can’t take my eyes off him. When we... um, do stuff, I always think... it probably sounds silly... he deserves someone a lot better than me.”

“Anyone can see he worships you,” Trevor said.

“As his father, you can give him what he really needs, and far better than any other man,” Claire agreed.

Bruce followed her gaze, sighing. “He’s started asking about being gay. He’s still so young... I’m sure he is. He wants to try things, only I worry I’m taking advantage of him.”

“Have you?”

“Somewhat, I suppose. Mostly, we play around. He’s always eager to do more.”

“I assume he’s still untouched where it counts?” Trevor inquired.

Bruce nodded.

“You’d like to rectify that, though?” Claire pressed.

“I try not to think about it.” Bruce sighed. “I argued with his mom about him being gay this morning. He acts out, mostly pretending; at least, it started that way. Now, it’s serious, like he’s exploring what it means...”

“It’s worrying, isn’t it, wondering if you have a homosexual son,” Claire interrupted.

“I know he is... His mom picks on him. His hair’s a big issue. His grandmother says things...”

“It sounds as if you’re thinking about getting a divorce?” Trevor interrupted.

Bruce nodded slightly. “I can’t give him up. I want to tell him how much I love him; ask him what he wants. I know what he’ll say. I don’t want to go there, not till he’s ready.”

“Trust me, he’s ready,” Claire said, her tone razor sharp. “Trevor, it’s time.”

Trevor nodded.

“If you remember what I said at Mars and Cupid, about meeting like-minded people?” she began.

Bruce reflected. “You mentioned your father has connections.”

“They’re all very successful men with two things in common. They love boys, and they believe in idealized pederasty.”

“They’re also members of a secret society,” Trevor added.

“It’s a tradition from centuries ago, to keep the spirit of Ancient Greece alive,” Claire confided. “Men and boys in union with Eros came together in London, February 10th, 1840. Officially, it was the wedding of Queen Victoria. They formed the Eros Union during the banquet.”

“Recruiting the right men is a problem. A lot of them are older. Being rich makes up for it; not that wrinkles bother Geoffrey and Simon.”

“Spoiled little catamites, especially Master Simon,” Claire joked.

Bruce wasn’t sure he heard right. “Your boys have sex with other men?”

“All Eros’ boys do. It’s crucial to bonding, but only after they’re properly trained,” Trevor explained.

“Master Simon’s got a thing for powerful men. His grandfather’s influence.”

“Rather!” Trevor chuckled. “Of course, the EU’s not just for rich and powerful men. There are also important intellectuals to keep them on their toes, men like yourself...”

“It’s all good fun, then?” Bruce posed, not sarcastically, cynically.

“There are no guarantees, in life, or in love.” Trevor hesitated, glancing at Claire. “Simon’s experiences have benefited him, in one way or another.”

“The question is are you ready to take the first step, Bruce?”

“Anything involving Dani, I need to think about.”

oUo

Shadows stretched across the lawn when they gathered before dinner in the 17th-century drawing room, overlooking the river. Deep in thought, Bruce wandered from one gilded-frame painting to another, all by acclaimed pastoral artists. He stopped before a spectacular Constable’ landscape over the fireplace, oozing envy. It was better than any of Constable’s works in the Yale Center for British Art.

“It’s a big step, but not that big a decision, Bruce,” Trevor taunted, filling three crystal wine glasses on the sideboard.

“I should flip a coin?”

Claire selected a magazine from an antique leather rack. “Stop worrying. He’s nine, he’ll shine.”

Laughing preceded two boys in opulent Versace tracksuits. Simon Handley, in black Medusa shirt and scandalous gold-floral Barocco sweatpants, flopped onto an unlikely Chippendale green-floral damask couch.

“Geoff is so jel. D.J. sent him a selfie,” Simon chortled.

Bruce turned, gaping, pensive tossed out the French doors. His son was... unbelievable mind-boggling, amazing, astonishing... What would Katrina say if she knew her precious son was dressed like Liberace Junior?

“I expect he’s personally acquainted with dozens by now,” Trevor replied. “Bit different without, eh?”

“Oh my days, Dad! Wish mine was like his.”

“Bollocks to that!” he chuckled. “No shower?”

“Already did, after sports. Anyway, it’s Doctor Who time.”

Confused, Daniil wandered over, unaware that his father was staring at him. Simon picked up the TV remote and patted the seat next to him. Self-conscious, and not because his hair was still wet from his shower, Daniil plopped down next to his new best friend, already switching cable channels with preteen dexterity.

“The Doctor’s a time lord, a genius,” Simon expounded.

Claire looked up from Country Life. Versace made Daniil look vibrant, brazen; everyday Medusa pants, resplendent gold-floral Barocco top. She took a breath, feasting her eyes on the stunning nine-year-old boy.

“The doctor was on the telly when I was your age,” she said distractedly—she had to say something. “He regenerates every few years, so the actors are constantly changing.”

Simon stopped on BBC One HD. “Poo, not on yet! My favorite Doctor was queer in real life.” He elbowed Daniil, scrumptiously gay. “Hot as an Oxford don, wasn’t he Dad?”

“My father’s influence is ever-present, even here, Bruce,” Trevor chuckled. “We decided while you two were upstairs. Aunt Claire’s going to be Daniel’s governess.”

“She’s the best teacher you’ll ever have,” Simon declared, nudging Daniil.

With wineglass in hand, Trevor crossed to the sideboard, a ponderous dark-walnut artefact from the Victorian era decorated with a silver-and-red-damask runner, and silver-framed photos, all but two of men and boys. One photo drew Bruce’s attention. He sipped a Bordeaux cabernet-blend and leaned closer to study it; the alternative was to stare at his son.

“Bit of a shock seeing him dressed up, what?” Trevor whispered, jerking his head toward the couch.

“Incredible,” Bruce murmured. “Both of them.”

His honest opinion, Simon still paled beside Daniil.

“That’s me at ten, and my father,” Trevor said, toasting the photo. “We were at Canterbury for Christmas weekend, celebrating with his best friend. They were at Eton at the same time. The other boy is his nephew.”

“I know. Edwin Browne has the same photo in his library.”

“Young Edwin fagged for the captain of St. Edmund’s First Eleven. Lousy team, but still one lucky sod!”

Bruce nodded, trying to remember names. Edwin said his uncle was a muckety-muck in the Foreign Service, a Queen’s-Birthday knight. The older boy’s name was Roger something.

“He always speaks of St. Edmunds fondly.”

 “I’m not surprised. Little Eddie earned his nickname.” Clair’s jollity surprised him.

“Edwin has a nickname?” Bruce queried.

With a peek at the boys, she lowered her voice. “Gobble. If any boy was passionate for prick, he was. Of course, his uncle kept him quite busy until he transitioned to younger boys.”

He gulped. “Edwin or his uncle?”

“Both, actually,” Trevor said, turning to look at the two boys, now wrestling on the couch. “Keep your bottoms on, boys. Aunt Claire told Clemens to serve dinner in here.”

Claire put her magazine aside. “I thought snacks were best. Never a good idea for a boy to fill up beforehand, is it Master Simon?”

She tossed a pillow at the boys as Bruce glanced away. Did she mean what he thought she did? Why else would she worry about how much they ate?

“If you’re not too tired, you can have ice-cream afterwards,” she teased.

What began as an inkling became stronger as Bruce watched the juvenile melee on the couch. Awareness spiked, remembering Daniil and Edwin, too many hints and clues to be otherwise. Mental images of impressionable Daniil, confronting his awakening sexuality; Edwin confiding, reassuring. They had plenty of opportunity with soccer training, video games, watching movies. There was usually lot of tickling and cuddling in front of the television...

Simon slapped Daniil’s rump, upping the ante. Daniil slapped back. Simon grabbed his groin. Gleefully, Daniil retaliated. Much to Bruce’s amusement, it seemed nothing was off limits.

He looked at the photo again. There were times when he’d suspected nothing was off limits with Edwin.  Any number of shy giggles, his son abruptly turning away, being hot and bothered for no reason at all, dragging Edwin to his bedroom to show off his latest drawings.  

Once the idea took hold, there was no escaping. What he’d witnessed over the last year or two went way beyond playing. Daniil cavorted with Edwin the same way he romped with Simon.  Flirting, or worse...

“Decent bloke, isn’t he?” Trevor posed.

Bruce exhaled. He nodded obliquely. It was no secret that Daniil liked Edwin a lot. Perhaps that was why the thought of sharing him with Edwin wasn’t unpleasant. It was farfetched though; Edwin would never take advantage of their friendship like that. But what if he did? Far worse things could happen to a boy.

“Rather an interesting weekend, that was,” Trevor went on regardless. “We had a room at The White Stag, one big bed for the four of us. My first time with another man, all very naughty...”

Somehow, Bruce conveyed the impression of listening even as he focused on raucous wrestling; Simon’s bare belly when Daniil yanked up his Versace shirt, a glimpse of Daniil’s little buttocks when Simon yanked down his pants. Suddenly, Daniil flipped Simon onto his front, his right hand hidden under the writhing boy.

Simon shrieked with laughter, bucking up and tossing Daniil aside. He straddled, victorious, looming over the smaller boy. It sent a powerful thrill through Bruce; a burgeoning desire to do the same thing with his son, if he was honest with himself.

“Why’s there a ring on your thing?” Daniil blurted breathlessly; his gaze centered on Simon’s crotch.

“You’re a silly sod like my dad. So people like you will ask that!”

“Seriously?”

Simon glanced at his father. “Um, Dad? Cat’s out of the bag over here.”

“Tell him the same thing I told you.”

“’What's out comes in; what's in comes out.’”

Daniil groaned, an emphatic roll of his eyes. “You’re so helpful, not.”

“As good a time as any to tell him,” Claire said quietly. “Just the basics, Master Simon.”

Simon settled on his haunches over Daniil’s thighs. He took a breath. “It’s my dad’s. I wear his Catamitus ring to show I’m his catamite. He put it on me after he deflowered me.”

Daniil frowned. “Huh?”

“Your first time getting bummed, you’re deflowered. How come a flower, no idea.”

He gulped, figuring it out from jokes he’d heard at school. “Serious, he did you? Seriously?”

“It wasn’t serious. Mostly, it was funny; at the time, anyway,” Simon giggled.

“What happened?”

“He stuffed his great big dick up my bum, what else! Just about drowned me with spunk. It was my birthday, too. Some present, huh?”

“Silly sod; I’ll get you for that later,” Trevor laughed.

“Let him see your ring, Master Simon,” Claire suggested.

Simon pulled down the front of his pants, keeping his hand out of the way so Daniil could see. A twisted gold ring encircled his erect penis close to his pubis. It was tight, restricting movement and making blood vessels more prominent. Slightly darker and noticeably swollen, his boyhood might’ve belonged on an older boy.

“It’s a Mobius ring. It means a man and a boy are united.”

“It’s a little more complicated than ‘united’,” Claire interjected.

“Dad said I’m not allowed to talk about that until he’s one of us,” Simon rebuked. “I wear mine all the time, except when I’m... I leave if at home when we have sports at school. My plug, too.”

“What plug?”

 “It can wait until after dinner. Right now, pants up,” she interrupted.

Simon grinned, jerking up Versace kid-pants only seconds before Mrs. Clemens rolled in a silver cart loaded with platters of snacks, drinks, and gold-edged plates with Medusa motifs.


The Litchfield Chamber, Ashbourne Manor.



The Litchfield Chamber occupied the top floor of the east tower, fortified with narrow slit windows and stepped crenellations crowning the battlements. Within, the doorways had rounded arches with chevron moldings, coffered ceilings were smoke-stained, and slate-slabs covered the floor.

“It’s Norman, not quite original, as close as possible. Rather stark, I’m afraid. The regulations, you know,” Trevor said, stepping aside for the full effect.

“Who cares if you’re sleeping in a real castle.” Daniil’s enthusiasm guaranteed smiles.

While Simon stood on tiptoes to peek out a window, Daniil and Bruce wandered about, looking at respectable tapestries decorating gray ashlar stone walls, and dusty specimens of African game, Zebra, massive Cape Buffalo, Springbok, Impala, and Blue Wildebeest.

Standing before a plain oak-plank sideboard, Trevor was a maudlin observer, not about to intervene as father and son disputed the ethics of taxidermy, even from a century earlier. With a parting remark about being custodians of the environment, righteous Daniil headed off to a shield with a colorful coat of arms, flanking Medieval swords, and boy-sized armor.

 “I can’t think of a more romantic place for a boy’s first time,” Trevor whispered to Bruce. He gestured to his right. “I personally know six boys who’d agree.”

Confused, yet amused, Bruce stepped back to look at silver frames above the sideboard. They were all the same size, all with a label: ‘Simon Christopher Handley,’ ‘Geoffrey Adrian Handley,’ ‘Anthony Paul Handley, and three other names. Safe behind glass was a lacy shirt for each of them, a very un-boy-like negligee with pearls, not buttons. Yet, every shirt was stained, spots, smudges, and splotches on spiraling white floral and filigree.

Bruce was pondering yellowish splotches when Trevor handed him a glass.

“Courtesy of Jean-Paul Laurent. You’ll enjoy meeting him; an impresario. He has a delightful chateau and vineyard in Charente. To Napoléon, and fellow pederasts.”

Bruce raised his glass, clinked lightly, and savored amber cognac. He nodded toward the frames.

Trevor smiled gratuitously. “Trophies for me; mementos for them. Hopefully, you’ll frame Daniel’s, too.”

He guided Bruce away from the frames before he could ask.

Daniil stood before an enormous bed, his hands on his hips; intent, as if trying to make up his mind.

“Radical bed, huh Dad?”

“Ah, the bed,” Trevor picked up. “That’s Claire’s doing; a retro-Victorian monstrosity she saw at Sotheby’s. She bought it for up here. Lucky it came apart. Quite comfy, though.”

“Plenty of room for us boys to wriggle about,” Simon giggled, watching Daniil from across the room.

Daniil had never seen a bed like it. ‘Liberace’ chic in creamy silver, radiating flamboyant femininity. Luxuriant flowers, lush decorative leaves, and fanciful draped garlands made for visual excess. At each corner was a superfluous helical post topped with a colonnaded cone, and a big, frivolous ‘egg’.

“They look like... um, you know, like stiff weenies,” he pointed out very awkwardly.

“Rather phallic, aren’t they?” Trevor said.

“What’s phallic mean, Mr. Handley?”

“Anything that looks like a weenie, my boy.” He chuckled, mostly admiring Daniel’s bottom from behind.

It was gorgeous, delightfully small, his compact buttocks divided by the seam in his pants. All it would take was a slight tug on the elasticized waist to reveal pale soft skin, thumbs pressing into the crevice, revealing a perfect little pucker...

He caught Bruce’s eye, and crudely winked before returning his gaze to Daniil, not lost on his father.

“Nothing comes close to a virginal boy, except a well-trained catamite,” he said quietly.

Bruce was silently grateful that Daniil was turned away at the time. The look on Trevor’s face was positively ravenous.

“The good news is there’s plenty of room on Claire’s ‘monstrosity' for all of us,” Trevor went on. “Of course, that’s why she bought it. She’s rather an up-close voyeur.”

Bruce peeked at Simon, homosexuality running rampant, wondering if his son would end up the same way, worrying about Katrina and her catholicized mother.

“Might be best if nothing happened tonight,” Bruce murmured guiltily.

“Then again, it might best if it did. Some opportunities come along only once in a lifetime,” Trevor chided.

Bruce sighed inwardly. On a whim, he’d agreed to stay overnight, mostly because he relished Daniil and Simon’s growing friendship. Now, he regretted his hasty decision. There'd be no sharing a hotel room with Daniil, just the two of them, taking that next big step alone...

“My father believes the only way for a boy to start is with his best mate beside him. Immoral support and all that,” Trevor espoused.

“Makes sense, I suppose.”

“Simon’s been through it already.”

‘Been through it’ was worrying.  In fact, outright scary! After Bruce deflowered his son, other things would happen.  When they finally went to sleep it would be on the ‘monstrosity’, and not alone.

“Nothing like you’d expect, if you didn’t know better. No tears, in fact giggles and whimpers after a couple of minutes,” Trevor added.

Mind churning, Bruce savored cognac, inhaled, and sustained self-reproach, all the while relishing the prospect of possessing his son in that way. It was all very confusing. Staring at the bed didn’t help

Both bed head and foot were padded with pale-gold-hued satin, not gaudy, opulent. The bench seat at the end, also creamy-silver, rested on extravagant curly fronds, two at each end. Plushily padded with the same satin and considerably lower than the bed...

“God only knows what it’s for,” Bruce muttered under his breath.

“Simon lost his virginity on it, so did his brother,” Trevor chuckled. “The evidence...” He gestured at the silver frames, white-lace blouses and name-plaques.

Bruce twitched, his head jerking sideways. Surely not! However, intuition said otherwise—the splotches were semen, and what came from inside a boy.

“Trevor, we should get started. Master Simon has an appointment in London tomorrow,” Claire interrupted.

“Claire can be very authoritarian when she’s Mistress of Ceremonies,” Trevor teased.

She looked heavenward. “Bruce can call Katrina and convince her of the change in plans. I’ll get the boys ready to play.”

“Right oh!

With a knowing smirk at Simon, she added, “You’ll go first so he’s not nervous; then, I’ll flush him. It’s a mite intimidating if he hasn’t had one before.”

Simon traipsed after her, through a small arched doorway to the spiral stairs.

“If I haven’t had what before?”

Daniil looked back at his father, sipping cognac and already on his cellphone.

“It’s me, Kate. Dani says hi.” Bruce waited for the obligatory ‘Daniil.’ “Congratulations; from both of us...”

“Come on, Boyfriend,” Simon called. “She makes it sound gross. Honestly, being flushed isn’t half bad.”

Barefoot and edgy, Daniil padded after him, back down the stone steps he’d just come up, keeping close to the curved wall.

“Catamites must be ready at all times, Daniel. Cleanliness is key, inside and out,” Claire lectured, waiting impatiently at the floor below. “Spotless requires what, Master Simon?”

Simon returned a bored sigh. “Always wipe properly. Then use a baby wipe front and back, Aunt Claire.”

Daniil peeked into a dark musty room, a faint glimmer in the center.

“Why don’t we turn on the lights?”

Simon took his hand, leading him forward. “You can’t let her see you beforehand. Only after it’s done...”

“After what’s done?”

“Your deflowering, of course,” Claire sniggered, taking Daniil’s other hand. “Grandpa wouldn’t let me see Trevor until he gaped, or Geoffrey and Simon.”

“It’s open season after you’re opened,” Simon cackled. “She sees everything. Everything!”

“First, we take off your top, Master Daniel.”

She tickled Daniil’s ribs, raising his Versace top as he stood before her, peering into the gloom. He was certain a big bathtub was right behind her.

“Such a good boy,” she purred, caressing his warm soft front. “You’re not going to carry on like Master Simon, are you? He was so embarrassed his first time.”

She held his waist, so narrow her fingertips touched the tiny bumps of his spine, her thumbs either side of his navel, stroking firm belly muscle. Gradually exciting, reassuring, stripping away inhibition, stimulating desire and need, arousing his penis without even touching it.

“Now, you do the rest, and I’ll get your pants off.”

She tugged on his pants legs, his small bottom and hips offering no resistance at all. While he trembled and wriggled to get his top over his head, she yanked down boxers. Leaving his pants and boxers tangled around his ankles, she shamelessly grazed his tender boyhood. Already firm and lifting higher, it sprang to erection. Even the slightest touch made him jerk back slightly, already nervous. It didn’t stop her from fondling outright, a slight increase in pressure, her fingers gliding gently, discovering by touch what she couldn’t see in the darkness.

“My oh my, you do get stiff, don’t you?” she crooned.

Unable to speak, Daniil quivered. He sensed Simon beside him, so close he could feel his breath on his face as he finished removing his top. He dropped it on the floor with Simon’s clothes, over £1,000 of Versace. Nervous, his arms wrapped around his middle, each breath demanding, utterly unable to concentrate.

“I always get a stiffy when I flush,” Simon sniggered, now undressed, and clearly used to being naked.

“I lose mine as soon as I start peeing.”

“Dopey bugger! I’m not talking about using the can. If it’s warm, flushing’s cool.”

“You’re crazy. No one flushes the toilet with warm water.”

Claire smothered her laugh. “Master Simon, stop being silly and tell him.”

“You flush your bum so you don’t get poo on his willy; that flush!”

“Don’t make it sound disgusting,” she objected. “Master Simon always empties his rectum before he makes love, and so will you. It’s what catamites do.”

Simon pivoted, straddling the side of the bath tub. He leaned to turn on a tap.

“Usually, I poop in the morning so all I get at night is a rinse.”

“Walk him through it, Master Simon.”

Daniil raised a nervous hand. “Why do you always call him Master Simon?”

“Because he’s a catamite, of course.  You’ll be Master Daniel after tonight.”

“Not to the man who deflowers you,” Simon added. No explanation; instead he gave Daniil a knowing look. “So, first I pull out my plug...”

Discombobulated, Daniil repeated, “What plug?”

“Wait a sec!” Simon grumped. “Wonton... It’s shaped like my brother; he’s a pain to get in. He’s a big boy, Dad says; nearly as big as a Chinaman.”

Daniil felt her hands moving around, left hand cupping his right buttock, her other hand in front, two fingers and thumb holding his now-rigid penis. He tensed, gradually realizing her hand wasn’t moving.

“I didn’t expect you’d be this tight,” she mused, barely touching skin—it felt oh-so-delicate, like a baby boy.

Daniil was not at all sure what Simon was doing, yet certain he was now leaning forward and reaching behind him, underneath, like he was rubbing his butt. Whatever he was doing, it made gurgling sounds, and he sighed immediately after each one.

“You know the rule. You’re not to play with it unless you’re told to, Master Simon,” Claire chided.

“I’m not, Mum! Wonton comes out easier if I move it around for a while.”

“What’s he doing, Ms. Handley?” Daniil asked awkwardly.

“He’s taking out his training plug.” She sounded a little exasperated. “Master Simon!”

“I’m relaxing my sphincter muscle... Then, I squeeze down... Uhhh... Oooh, it’s big.”

“What is?”

“He’s just being silly.” Claire tweaked Daniil’s penis to get his attention. “You want your father to put his penis inside your bottom, don’t you?”

He nodded.

“Now, what comes out of there?”

Daniil wrinkled his nose. “Yuck.”

“It can get messy. Your job is to flush it out so you’re all clean.”

She stroked gently, very aware there was almost no skin movement over the solid inner core of Daniil’s penis. It was curved, not straight, and tapered. Fantasizing over a perfect mouthful, same as Simon’s, only smaller. She could tell he was more sensitive there, his buttocks pinching as her thumb cautiously stroked his plump little helmet.

“You are a very lucky boy,” she whispered, fighting envy every step. “Jews and Muslims never do it like this.”

“I’m circumcised; so what?”

“The doctor left all your inner skin. It makes you not just unusual, very special, especially to someone with the golden touch...”

Daniil peeped as something wet brushed his arm. “Now, what’s Simon doing?”

“He’s waving his plug around. Ignore him and he’ll stop being silly.”

The smell was strange, not unpleasant, almost sweet. Daniil inhaled, concentrating on a musky aroma he couldn’t place. It made him feel quite light-headed, and he trembled. Claire’s tickling didn’t help.

“Don’t stick your plug in his face, Master Simon,” Claire remonstrated.

Daniil reached into darkness, wary fingers touching something warm, almost hot. He took it tentatively, holding it between his first finger and thumb. Now, it felt squishy. Then, the unthinkable, an unsettling feeling, still uncertain—it was big and warm, alive.

“It’s slimy,” he murmured.

“It’s been inside his body; of course, it’s slippery.”

He jerked his hand away, a bump as it plopped into the bath tub. Then, the sound of water splashing in the tub.

“We need to hurry. Fill up as soon as it’s warm enough, Master Simon,” Claire said.

Curiosity sparked, Daniil asked, “Fill what up?”

“My rectum, Stupid.”

“Most enemas have a bag attached to a tube,” Claire interrupted. “Master Simon’s tube attaches straight to the tap. A quick rinse to freshen him up, and then, I’ll flush you.”

‘Rinse,’ ‘flush’? It still didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense.

Claire eased back, sitting on the side of the bath tub. A playful tug on his inflexible sex organ and Daniil had no choice but to move with her. He straddled her legs, worrying about her reaching behind him.

“I only just showered, Ms. Handley,” he muttered.

“Master Simon always has a nice slow wank to take his mind off it,” she crooned in his ear. “Just relax, darling boy. Auntie Claire knows what little boys like.”

She gently rubbed his penis like his father did when they bathed together. Slowly up and down, slightly squeezing near the little helmet, tickling tender skin, making him quiver all over.

“She’s great at masturbating, even better than Dad,” Simon piped up.

Knees wide apart and feeling very exposed, Daniil stared into darkness. He shifted uneasily as she fondled his unprotected scrotum, wrinkled skin barely making a bump, a very small bump. Her little finger searched, still tickling gently with a kind of motherly affection.

“I love immature testicles. They’re so cute and tiny.”

She nudged his thighs farther apart, pinching delicate skin, scarcely feeling gonads. They were much smaller than Simon’s, and higher, nothing to brag about.

“There’s another little boy, he’s tiny underneath, just like you. His grandfather lives in Austria, a delightful little village on Lake Halstatt. You’ll meet him when you go to Zurich.”

She pressed on, her forefinger now following Daniil’s raphe along his perineum into the warm moist gap between his buttocks, a fingertip teasing the crinkly lip of his anus.

“Oh my, it’s so tight!” she tittered, giddy with excitement. “I doubt he’s put his manhood inside you. You can tell me if he has.”

“She wants to know if your dad’s bummed you already,” Simon explained.

Trembling, Daniil awkwardly jerked his head, long curls brushing her face.

“Perhaps he’s put his finger in your bum?” she inquired hopefully.

Embarrassed, increasingly nervous, he kept his mouth shut. It didn’t help that the sound of running water had suddenly stopped. Next to him...

Simon inhaled, “Ahhhh. So good.”

“Ms. Handley, now what’s he doing?”

“He’s filling his rectum with warm water. Just his rectum.”

Simon sighed. “Don’t want it going into my colon, that’s for sure. It gets really messy.”

“I don’t understand...”

“There’s no need to worry, Daniel. Simon liked it once he learned how to do it properly, and so will you. There’s nothing to be ashamed about,” Claire went on. “It just takes a few times to get used to.”

She prodded at the little pucker. It nibbled on her fingertip, regardless of Daniil’s panicky quiver. She smiled at her next thought, barely able to stand the tingle between her thighs, moist and hot, unabashed hunger for little boys.

“A little bit inside feels nice, Daniel, even closed up like yours.”

“When Dad fingers my bum, he says I’m really tight.”

“Well, you are. He needs to do it more often; all the way in so you loosen up.”

Abruptly, Simon murmured something and groaned.

“You’ll likely get a workout, tonight. Hold it in to be sure,” Claire said resolutely.

A moment later, Simon counted down from one hundred, scarcely heard while water splashed into the bathtub. He reached behind Daniil and turned off the tap.

“Honey, I need to be absolutely certain about this,” she urged, wavering with her finger poised to penetrate farther. “Do you really want your father to deflower you?”

Daniil tensed; everything was happening much too fast.

“I don’t want it to hurt.”

“Mostly it feels weird,” Simon objected, sounding breathless. “It doesn’t really hurt. Maybe at first, if he isn’t careful... or if he goes in too far.”

“It’ll be over before you know it. Be a dear, Master Simon; squirt some lotion on my finger, will you?”

Daniil stared into the darkness, hearing the unmistakable squelch of hand lotion squeezed from a bottle. When her index finger touched again, it was cooler, soothing and slippery against his tender orifice. She tickled gently, and he squeezed back, instinctively inviting, not resisting, another good sign. Her clipped-to-the-cuticle fingernail scratched his now-aroused itch.

Daniil J. Stirling gasped.

“The younger a gay boy starts doing this, the better,” she whispered. “This tells me you like it.”

She flipped at his stiff little penis. In the dark, unprotected, overwrought; Daniil couldn’t avoid whimpering.

“Sometimes, little boys fall in love with their fathers. Be truthful, Daniel; are you one of those boys?” she pressed.

He nodded, biting his bottom lip, unable to say it.

“Do you want your father to love you, really love you?”

He shivered, gooseflesh all over his chest and arms, nodding urgently.

“Poor thing, you’re getting cold, aren’t you? He needs a cuddle, Master Simon.”

Daniil felt his new best-friend-forever huddle closer, an arm hugging his shoulders, a warm bare body against his. Without warning, she increased the pressure enough that his anus yielded. Part of him accepted, the rest of him seemed to rush out to greet her. With a deft twist of her wrist, her finger penetrated to the second joint.

He jerked, disbelieving, yet he could feel her finger slide in, thickness reaching his sphincter, demanding access to his rectum. He squirmed, leaning forward, arching his back, pressure growing, flowing into him, Not painful, strange; giggly pleasure lurking among clenching spasms. Unbelievable!

“Master Simon, make sure to tell Daddy both he and Daniel’s father need to be very careful,” Claire said distantly. “He’ll probably want to get his penis in all the way, the same as Daddy did with you, only you had weeks to get ready.”

“You want to lose your virginity, D.J., you need to relax; I mean really relax” Simon giggled.

As soon as the words left his mouth, he clenched as the first bowel spasms started.

“What’s wrong with him, Ms. Handley?”

“He’s cramping. You will, too. The muscles inside get excited, it’s what enemas do.”

“Does it hurt?”

“A little at first. Master Simon and his brother flush every night so they’re used to it. You will, too.” She probed carefully, barely space for her finger. “You’re way too tight for more than the head to go in... Simon?”

“I got it. He goes in far enough to plant his seed, that’s all.”

She grasped Daniil’s small hand, her other hand still underneath him, switching between index finger, middle finger, and ring finger; gently, expertly initiating the process.

“Daniel, I need you to tell me the truth. Anyone can see you love your dad; however, becoming his lover, that’s a huge step. It’s something I can help with, only you have to want it more than anything else.”

“I already told you. I want to...” Daniil clutched her hand. “Don’t tell him, okay? Mommy doesn’t love him, not like I do. I want him to love me properly, how you said at the statue. Only I don’t know how.”

“You don’t need to know everything right away. Putting his penis inside you is mostly up to him!”

“Your first few times, anyway. All you do is offer it up.” Simon inhaled sharply. “Blimey, that was quick.”

“Time you sat on the loo, Master Simon. Off you go.”

Simon waddled into darkness as she took hold of Daniil’s penis, her first finger and thumb now focusing on the bulbous little glans, pinching, rolling, playfully molesting.

“What Simon means is you relax and he’ll do the rest. But you don’t just lie there, Daniel. You offer yourself; and you concentrate on relaxing,” she explained.

Daniil squirmed, unable to resist the sudden, powerful surge of delight.

“Offer myself how?

“Let him know you want him in your bum. Once he’s in, he’ll take over. I’ll get you started tonight, Sweetie; however, the rest only happens when you’re properly prepared.”

By then, Simon was sitting down, sighing. Daniil’s thoughts were elsewhere, ignoring everything except her twiddling finger and thumb, and the sensation inside him. Every tiny movement of her fingers made him twitch uncontrollably.

“Bet you’ll like it when this goes up your bum,” Simon suddenly sniggered from Daniil’s side, rubbing a warm wet rubber hose on his thigh.

Preposterous, really.

oUo

Bruce sat on the bench seat at the foot of the bed, cellphone in hand. He was ready to scream after ten long minutes listening to his wife going on and on about her new job, what an honor it was to be selected, her challenging responsibilities. Then, she started on her plan for restructuring Underwriting to increase profits by 15 percent; like he cared!

Every minute or so, he glanced up, rubbing a crick from his neck, yawning, stretching, muttering inanities to his wife about how she deserved her success. He watched Trevor arrange flowers around the bed, two-handled shiny-silver urns of fresh-picked white roses, most still in bud. The scent filled the chamber; amorous, quixotic, surreal.

Absently, he stroked smooth satin fabric; arousing, sleek and soft as Daniil’s small bottom, pushing his finger into plush padding, imagining his erect penis venturing into his son’s narrow crevice...

He glanced up to find Trevor watching him as his wife rambled on, describing the nighttime view of Greenwich, across the river. It sounded as if she’d already checked out of the Orchid Hotel. He cupped his hand over the cellphone.

“You were kidding, right, about me doing Dani on this?”

Trevor returned a smile, sly, suggestive, provocative. “Deflowering is one time only. It’s a big event in his life, yours too, Bruce. Sending him off in style is important.”

He stepped back, moving around the bed with his hands making a frame like a movie director.  He relocated a light on a stand, and adjusted the height of another.

“I’m fine with style. It’s flood lights and video cameras that bother me,” Bruce grumbled.

“We’ll be using your cellphone; it’s more authentic. I think for the entry scene, romantic lighting with shadow for background. Remind me to move this light to the other side before you start the penetration...”

Bruce gestured to his cellphone, lifted his finger from the microphone, and tried to muster enthusiasm.

“It’s very exciting, Kate. Both Dani and I are very proud of you.... Sorry, Daniil.”

He still sounded perfunctory, yet she went on about finding a ninth-floor two-bedroom, two-bathroom ‘waterside’ flat in the London Docklands. He met Trevor’s amused eyes, his finger again covering the microphone.

“She’d have a fit if she knew what was in store for Dani.” He patted the couch, disturbingly sleek, smooth like his son’s little buttocks.

“Her precious boy will get bummed, and worse, whether she likes it or not,” Trevor said quietly. “He might as well start here tonight, with you, what?”

 “It’s just a tad ostentatious for D.J.,” Bruce joked, looking around. “He wants to be an architect. Louis Kahn is king, that sort of thing.”

 “My father did me kneeling over a snazzy zebra-skin pouffe in my mother’s bedroom.”

“I want Dani’s first time to be romantic, something he’ll always remember.”

Trevor chuckled. “My advice, save romantic for his second and third times. Once he’s loose and relaxed, and the pressure’s off, he’ll enjoy it more.”

Bruce nodded, barely tolerating Katrina’s zeal. She went on about the gourmet kitchen, perfect for her entertaining, always about her. He distanced himself by habit, watching Trevor adjust lighting levels, holding the phone away from his ear, microphone sealed with his finger. Sometimes it seemed she had almost no interest in Daniil, even less in him.

“I deflowered Geoffrey where you’re sitting. He wanted to see so he was face up. He whimpered through most of it,” Trevor resumed after placing a GoPro camera beside the bed.

“Because it hurt?”

“For some boys, no matter how much preparation, it’s still a shock. Simon lay over a bolster; uncomfortable, yet he giggled from beginning to end. The important thing is he wanted it, really wanted it.”

Again, Bruce lifted his finger to commiserate with Katrina. She had a fetish for gourmet ranges, although she seldom cooked. Six burners and two ovens. It was electric, not gas... on and on.

“Geoff’s next time, he’ll always remember,” Trevor reminisced. “We were outside in the garden. It was late, a million stars overhead; he was the center of the universe.”

“I’d like that for Dani. Really special.”

Bruce’s smile turned to a grimace when Katrina mentioned ‘a bargain at £980,000.’ He waited a few moments to calm down, and lifted his finger from the microphone.

“We can’t use the Trust, Kate. The covenants restrict it to education only.” He took a breath, thinking ‘now or never’.

He glanced at Trevor who nodded encouragingly.

“Trevor’s here with me. He’s come up with something worth thinking about.”

 He switched to speaker mode and handed his cellphone to Trevor.

“Hi Katrina! Congratulations! I’m glad the Board picked you. I told them you’re the very best person for the job.”

“Thank you, Trevor. I’m overjoyed to be on the team. This thing with Claire... Isn’t nine too old to need a fulltime nanny? After school care would only be part time. Unless Bruce is traveling...”

Trevor rolled his eyes. “Daniel’s a very bright boy; however, most schools won’t accept him this late in the school year.”

“Actually, there’s a public school in Greenwich that can take him, starting on Monday.”

“Katrina, he should be in one of England’s best public schools.”

“Daniil’s not ready for boarding school. His teacher said he doesn’t fit in with other boys because... well, he’s very shy.”

“Plenty of top-notch day schools near London. As for shy, he’s already best friends with my son, Simon. He plays a mean game of soccer, too.”

“The same boy who sleeps in our bed and begs his father to shampoo his hair?” Katrina’s nervous giggle didn’t go unnoticed.

“Kate, he doesn’t want a nanny,” Bruce interrupted. “What he needs is a governess.”

“There’s a difference?”

Bruce snapped. “Claire’s agreed to be Dani’s governess. That’s £8,000 a month, plus expenses if we travel.”

“You’re out of your mind, Bruce.” Katrina was so overwrought she nearly ignored ‘Dani.’ “Greenwich Primary and a part-time nanny will cost as much... for a year! If *Daniil* has to go to a public school, £20,000 a year. Thirty thousand will cover his fees and a nanny. With summer, forty at most.”

He closed his eyes and took three slow breaths.

“You want him speaking Swahili, Kate? Claire Handley speaks French, German, and Italian, and she has a masters’ degree. She’s knowledgeable and talented. He’ll learn more from her than any school teacher, public or otherwise, plus the Trust can pay for it. The clincher for me, Dani-boy likes her a lot.”

He used his son’s pet name to annoy her.

“Well, if *your* Trust pays, it’s out of my hands.”

Trevor hesitated, resting his fist on his forehead.

“My advice is find out if Claire’s right for him by spending time together. Bruce mentioned visiting the estate in Scotland, which got me thinking. Claire could run them up in the Range Rover this weekend. With so much to do, you need both them out of the way.”

Trevor gave Bruce the victory sign as Katrina effused appreciation, mostly pertaining to succeeding in her new job.

“Here’s Bruce. And congratulations again; it’s a huge step for everyone.”

He handed back the cellphone, leaned down, and mischievously caressed sensuous satin upholstery while Bruce said picked up where he left off.

“I think it’s a great solution, Kate. From what I’ve seen already, we couldn’t do better.”

“I need to think it through, Bruce,” Katrina said coldly. “Taking on a governess is a lot of money for a little convenience.”

“The Trust will pay her,” Bruce finally got in.

“The alternative is you’re a little inconvenienced running him to and from school.” Even colder, artless, in fact.

“I also have a career, Kate. Have a think about it and we’ll talk tomorrow. Bye.”

Bruce ended the call, never so dismayed.

“You need to get in the right frame mind, Bruce,” Trevor resumed as if Katrina had readily agreed.

“I’m not sure...”

“I’ve done four deflowerings, including my own sons. My father’s responsible for seven.”

“He’s nine, Trevor, and barely at that.”

“Bruce, a boy in the Eros Union gets as much sex as he wants. There’s also a principal involved.”

Trevor folded his arms, patiently waiting for Bruce is say something.

“If he’s gay, he doesn’t just enjoy sex with men, he needs it,” he added after a while, worried he’d said too much, or not enough.

“Some principle. Daniil doesn’t need it, not yet.”

“He’s already sucked you, hasn’t he?”

Commonsense screamed ‘deny’, yet it was obvious he already knew. Bruce rubbed his forehead and pondered how much to reveal.

“One time. It was in his mouth for a few seconds this morning, that’s all.” He could tell it wasn’t enough. “He’s been kissing it for a while, months I suppose.”

“He’ll suck mine tonight, and I met him only a few hours ago.”

Bruce gulped awkwardly, telling himself one time with another man wouldn’t be the end of the world.

“He’ll swallow every drop once he’s tried it; and he’ll be eager. He’s gay as he can be. Without his mother looking over his shoulder, he’ll want to do everything as soon as you give him a chance.”

Self-conscious, Bruce tried to shrug it off.

“I’m right, aren’t I?” Trevor pressed. “He’s already into it, isn’t he? More than kissing your cock?”

Bruce’s slight nod wasn’t been enough. “We play, okay? A lot, maybe too much.”

“No such thing as too much play. He’s the same as Simon, two tartlets born to be catamites.”

Trevor squatted before the sideboard, opened a spotty oak door, and looked inside. He moved things in the cupboard, humming God Save the Queen. He looked up abruptly.

“I assume play includes poking around in his bum. How did he take it?”

“Okay.” Again, it wasn’t enough, not even close. “I think he liked it. He didn’t want me to stop.”

“Like I said, he’s gay. You have a preference for lube?  My father’s a Vaseline fan. Simon prefers water-based, his brother’s influence I expect. Claire’s the traditionalist in the family.”

Bruce gaped, lost for words.

“I think he’s better off with Vaseline for his first few times,” Trevor resumed. “No worries about making a mess, or it drying out before you fill him with semen.”

“It’s never been an issue.”

 “It will be soon enough.” He chuckled. “Take your time going in tonight. Patience is key. Let him know how much you love him. You exist solely for his enjoyment.”

“I do.”

“You want him to remember his first time as the best thing that ever happened to him.”

“Such high expectations,” Bruce sighed. “I ‘ll try to meet them.”

“After a month, you won’t believe what he’s capable of; constantly horny and craving cock. You’ll be glad he’s serving the Eros Union, to put it mildly.”

“Tempting as nonstop sex sounds, I’m not sure I want that for him. Not until...”

Bruce stopped abruptly as Simon pranced into the chamber and posed before his entranced father. He was the picture of perversion, grinning and nearly naked, just minuscule black-and-gold floral panties, Versace style. The draw-string waist hovered a hand-breadth above his groin, clingy satin revealing a prominent little ridge pointing to his bellybutton.

Simon twirled again, reveling in his lurid sexuality. “Rinsed and ready to rut, Dad.”

Trevor regarded his gleeful son before tossing a bolster to him, pink with white floral embroidery, dozens of pearls, each surrounded by six petals, forming flowers in clusters.

As enticing as Simon was, Daniil stole Trevor’s breath as he dawdled at the doorway, fiddling with the hem of his lacy shirt.

Trevor stood, a moment of silent awe. “Oh my! He’s perfect!”

He gave an approving nod to Bruce, a smile at Daniil, a knowing smirk at his son.

“You’ll be a fabulous Giton at Trimalchio’s Banquet.”

“Huh?” Daniil glanced at his father, who shrugged.

With a tub of Vaseline in one hand, and two antique contrivances in his other hand, Trevor wasn’t about to explain. He held out his hand.

“Both sized for nine; Le Démarreur for thine; Le Dominateur for mine.”

As any boy would, Daniil was curious about Le Démarreur—it’s function was not at all obvious. In fact, Le Démarreur reminded him of the spiral-horn antelope at the Franklin Park Zoo, albeit with a rabbit figurine on the thick end.

“It’s an antique pleasure-plug used to prepare eunuchs. It was owned by a Grand Imperial Sire from the Qing Dynasty,” Trevor explained.

Bruce stared at pronounced tapering flutes executed in smooth glossy jade-green ceramic, afraid to ask, afraid to think beyond what was safe.

“Qing was the last imperial dynasty, Dani,” he blurted.

Trevor glanced at Simon. “Well, tell him about the bunny.”

“The rabbit is Tu Shen.” Simon smirked pointing at兔神. “He’s the god of homosexuals. It screws in so it feels nicer than the one I’m going to use.”

His Le Dominateur had dangling black leather straps and brass rings. It resembled a horse bridle; however, instead of a metallic bit, a shiny black ‘thing’ poked out.

Daniil quickly averted his gaze—the ‘thing’ was a man’s erect penis, a big one, bigger than his father

 However, Bruce gawked at his son. He was never happier, or prouder. No virgin ever looked so desirable, or so nervous.

“Don’t laugh,” Daniil finally murmured, all but pleading.

 “You’re stunning; absolutely exquisite.”

Daniil offered a demure shrug, glancing down, everything ‘boy’ covered, yet obvious.

“I look like a girl, Dad.”

Awed, Bruce gulped, inhaled. “You look like a catamite... Ready for your minute of fame, my beautiful boy?”

Daniil grinned. “I’m all clean, Dad.”

Beyond shame, his gaze wandered, the bed, bizarre bouquets of white roses, tripods with spotlights and reflectors. He stopped on six silvery frames on the wall displaying floral-lace shirts like his. He smiled at his father.

“I guess all the flowers are because I’m being deflowered, huh Dad?”

Bruce stared, his heart racing to match unspeakable desire. Daniil’s shirt reached below his crotch, barely. Long-sleeved and buttoned-up, it veiled his torso and arms, affording shadowy glimpses of bare skin behind white lacy flowers and netting.

Lust raged, years of yearning unfettered, out of control. It didn’t seem possible that a nine-year-old boy could be so alluring—everything about him was arousing. His son was sensual, and sexy, and starry-eyed...

“Only if you want... Is that what you want? To be deflowered?”

It caught in his throat, old-fashioned and prudish after years in puritanical New England, and marriage to a prude. Now, suddenly, his life was flipped upside down, and shockingly perverted. Daniil stepped closer, his flimsy shirt enhancing his small lean body, accentuating the significance of obscured private parts.

“Claire said I have to want you to put your penis inside me. I’m okay with it, Dad. More than okay.”

Abruptly, Trevor shook his head, a quick two-fingered gesture to Simon to stay silent.

“It’s more than okay with me, Dani. There’s nothing I want to do more... do that to you...”

“It’s called bumming, Dad.”

Pondering weeks of father-son courting, awkward step by step, becoming increasingly familiar, and sexual. Now, he was so close to his offspring it was unsettling, discovering himself, yet denying the truth of it until recently.

“All I want is for you to be happy, really happy,” Bruce whispered.

Daniil considered it. “Mommy doesn’t make you happy, does she? Not like I do when we play.”

Bruce stood slowly, taking a step closer, realizing his dream had come true. Finally, it was put up or shut up, no time like the present. Katrina spouted endless inanities; walk the walk, talk the talk... Sometimes, he hated hearing her speak.

“You’re crying.”

“I’m happy, Dad; that’s all.”

“I want you to be happy, Dani-boy. I love you so much.”

He glanced at Trevor, certain he sounded like a pedophile about to abuse his own flesh and blood.

“We going to do it on the bed, huh Dad?”

It was only what Bruce hoped to hear from his son, yet it scared the hell out of him. “What do you want to do on the bed?”

“Suck Richard.” Daniil giggled.

Trevor clapped his hands. “Sucking dick is a snack. What’s for dinner?”

It was spontaneous, enough that it might’ve been prearranged, along with peanut-gallery giggles from Simon.

Cute little Daniil looked wickedly at his father. “You deflower me. Then, I suck Dick again... Then, you bum me again.”

“What if I want to suck you?” Bruce was the stern patriarch, trying not to laugh.

“You take a number, Mr. Stirling. I’ve got first dibs on his willy,” Simon snickered.



 

Lady Handley’s Chamber, Ashbourne Manor.

 

Fluttering eyelids, extended REM switched off, a small hand brushing errant locks, a finger toying with brunette curls, instinct in control, yet putting off waking up. Still lazy, potent with libertine dreams, little penis painfully stiff, snoozing boy with his foot slowly extending into cooler regions—he quickly pulled back. He rolled onto his front, exhaling, inhaling, scarcely aware he was in bed by himself, and.

“Time to wake up, Master Daniel.”

Claire’s bright good-morning voice made him burrow into his pillow.

“You are a sleepyhead, aren’t you?”

Finally, he turned toward her. He yawned, mouth wide-open, eyes clenched tight against sunlight blazing through French doors. Postponing the inevitable as long as possible, impossible to fake sleep while she was hovering beside him.

“It you don’t wake up immediately, I’ll yank the eiderdown off.” She smiled at the thought.

Daniil sighed and opened his eyes, took his first glimpse of pink-rose wallpaper, gray sconces, a trompe l'oeil coffered ceiling with plaster cherubs.

“Where am I?”

“My mother’s bedroom; officially it’s Lady Handley’s Chamber. Your father carried you down, early this morning, actually. You were wearing your birthday suit at the time.”

“You saw me... naked?”

She shrugged nonchalantly.

“Where’s my dad?”

“He’s in the Morning Room, waiting for you to come down for breakfast.”

“Mr. Handley?”

“He’s off to London with Simon, and then he’ll meet your mum.” She gave him a full-of-fun frown. “After last night, you may call him Trevor.”

“Because I’m deflowered?”

“That, and you’re now an unoffical member of the Eros Union.”

Daniil smiled. “Do I call you Claire, now?”

“You may refer to me as Claire. As your governess, you will call me ‘Mum’. It’s the proper form of ‘madam.’

“It’s ‘ma’am’ where I come from.”

“From now on, you’ll not use your American idioms; and definitely do not call me ‘Ms.’ or ‘Miss.’ I, of course, will call you Master Daniel when in public, or if you require disciplining.”

Daniil blinked a few times, looking around, recognizing nothing except his fancy white-lace shirt draped over an armchair, no big wet patch that he could see. Now, it simply looked starchy.

Of course, it was soiled; part of being deflowered meant his father filled his bottom with semen. He’d never forget wiping up the slimy goo, more trickling out, like thick white drool, according to Simon. He had a closeup view, constantly giggling.

“I assume you’re a little sore, Master Daniel?” Claire teased.

Suddenly, he was very aware of the ache behind, inside. He gaped at her, unprepared for residual discomfort, lingering numbness, greatly increased awareness. It was weird sensation, not violation, veneration.

“Itchy, mostly,” he murmured uncertainly—it was hard to describe. “Kind of hot, too.”

That’s normal, especially after your first time.”

He still worried. “It feels different... bigger.”

It will until you’re opened up. Things need to get stretched and rearranged.”

Now, he was even less certain. He started to reach back. “Is something inside me.”

Your training plug, L’ Entraîneur.”

L’ Entraîneur,” he repeated, not quite right, near enough. What Simon calls his ‘Wonton’, right?”

“The best training plugs are made in China.” She winked. “He’s also wanton about it. You will be, too”

Daniil smiled shyly. “Dad put mine in after...” He couldn’t say the rest, not to a woman.

“I’ll check it later. We need to get on the road. It’s a long drive, and I want to make a stop on the way.”

“Should I take it out before we leave?”

“Why?” She smirked, not nastily, mischievously. “You’ll get used to it in a day or two. Then, you’ll forget it’s there.”

“It feels so big. I mean really big.”

“It’s the same size as Wonton.”

Daniil grinned, not about to tell her his training plug already had a name. ‘Big Boy’ was young-adolescent-sized, as big as Simon’s older brother.

“Your father’s rather thick, especially for a small boy like you; however, you have to start somewhere.”

She watched him process, eyes unfocused, concentrating on unfamiliar sensitivities. Even breathing was different, not difficult, more intense.

No longer virgin, and with a great deal to learn, there was no time like the present to start teaching him.

A training plug isn't like the other plugs you’ll use; which are?”

Le Démarreur and Le Dominateur, Mum.”

Already impressed, , she continued. “The Beginner does what?”

Le Démarreur expands my body to accept a man’s penis. If it hurts me while he’s in control, he’ll be more careful when he’s not in control.”

“And The Master?”

He frowned, wishing he’d paid more attention to Trevor.

“A man uses Le Dominateur to control my body and mind. Not my spirit, though, because he loves me.”

Daniil’s parroting annoyed her less than his Connecticut Yankee’ accent butchering French. However, a few weeks in the south of France would make all the difference, and give him an all-over tan.

L’ Entraîneur also prevents your body from tightening after he withdraws his penis.”

“Simon said my hole will get larger.”

“A catamite’s body must please his man. If he’s too tight, it hurts as his penis penetrates, so his hole must expand.”

“So my hole gets bigger, right?”

“Not too big. Anemones are not starfish. Your plug will correct that, inside and outside.”

“Simon said I won’t poop the same because of it.” Her equivocal shrug bothered him.

“The important thing is his penis will go in easier, much easier.”

She took his hand, just in case, and reached for the eiderdown, tugging down until she exposed Daniil's slender chest, tiny nipples inflamed. She admired his taut little belly, pale silky-soft skin with pink blotches, love bites no worse than her nephews had after losing their virginity.

“Do you remember what happened after he deflowered you?”

He smiled shyly, that memory leading the rest. “He put a ring on my weenie, Mum.”

She lifted the eiderdown away, revealing him from head to toe. A gold ring encircled his stubby erection at the base. The ring was tight, ideal for restraining boyhood.

“Putting his ring on your willy is symbolic of possession. It’s also the first step in being betrothed. If you say the right words, it bonds you together like husband and wife,” she resumed, a positive nod.

“But he’s married to Mom.”

“Well, if your mother didn’t know; would you like to be his boy-wife?”

“Maybe... I guess... If I was, what would it mean?”

She leaned closer, oblivious to nudity, inhaling the enduring scent of pederasty as Daniil touched his throbbing penis. It was swollen crimson with bulging blue veins, a junior version of his father’s engorged stake.

“All in good time. His wedding ring will do until he gets a real Catamitus ring for you,” she explained.

“I told him we should tell Mom he lost it at Catsworth.”

He looked up meekly, acquiescent, sincere. She looked into angelic blue eyes, no longer innocent. Already practicing ‘deceitful.’ It was a good thing; too much was at stake.

“You’re a fine little fibber, aren’t you?” she taunted. “Lie on your tummy.”

He grinned and rolled over. “Are you going to spank me, Mum?”

“I ought to. Actually, I need to see if you’re leaking before you get dressed.”

Noting no protrusion, she parted his rubbery buttocks, one hand per cheek, thumbs pressing into the divide. Curious, he cranked his head to see behind.

“After seeing the mess on your shirt, I’m surprised you’re not leaking,” she teased. “He must’ve filled you up, certainly more than Trevor does with Simon.”

“Are you going to take it out?”

“I’ll check it after you get in the car. Now you’re a catamite, your sphincter muscle needs constant exercise.”

She wobbled the bright-blue silicone ‘handle’. It was ergonomically curved, fitting into his crack and tucked under his perineum. With briefs on, even a tight Speedo, it would be invisible.

“It fits very nicely. It doesn’t bother you?”

“Uh uh. He feels funny, but; like when I breath, he kind of pulls in.”

“I assume ‘he’ means he has a name?”

“Um, yeah... Big Boy.”

“That’s appropriate with your little willy.”

“It’s a hamburger.” Daniil frowned. “Big Boy’s a restaurant chain where my grandfather lives”.

“Maybe so. Did you know your Big Boy is as long as Master Geoffrey’s penis.”

He scowled at being caught out.

“It’s thicker, of course,” she went on, “L’ Entraîneur has to be snug to work. Try to push him out.”

Daniil’s buttocks tensed, clenched, relaxed. He tried again, straining down.

“He feels like he’s stuck, Mum.”

“That’s good. We certainly don’t want him popping out in public,” she teased.

Playfully, she slapped his bottom, dragged him off the bed, and pointed him toward the en suite bathroom.

“Go pee! And brush your teeth. I’ll leave your travel clothes on the bed.”

oUo

At the foot of the stairs, Claire turned right, leading an awkward Daniil past the drawing room, a muted memory with the heavy brocade curtains drawn. She paused at a still-darkened room, its doorway unlike any other, with a plaque, ‘The Library of Antinous.’

“Sir James Sloan; no way,” Daniil murmured, peeking into classical eclecticism.

Two stories of hallowed books in a temple-like setting, antiquities galore, a domed skylight with colored glass, antiquarian green-velvet couches, a massive oak table from HMS Darlington.

“You continue to impress, Master Daniel” she said, ratcheting her approval a notch as she led him away.

“My dad’s a Sloan devotee.”

“Well, so was this architect, and a Freemason to boot. The Library was a private commission for a Grand Master of the Antients Grand Lodge. Both of them were Uranians, too. Oh, the stories those walls could tell.”

“Like what?”

“My grandfather was raised to the sublime degree of a Master Mason in there.”

Daniil looked over his shoulder, almost bumping into her. “My friend, Mr. Ed, is a Mason.”

“Master Mason brings a man to the precipice of his being. My great-grandfather looked back on his life, and decided he’d missed what was most important. He joined the Union of Eros and moved forward a wiser man.” She lowered her voice. “My grandfather was his catamite.”

“Like Simon and his father,” Daniil mused. “And me and my father.”

“Three generations of Handleys have served Eros. I watched my brother lose his virginity on that table.”

She nodded through the doorway, a final fond look, and moved on. She stopped just outside the Morning Room. It was cheerful, a fire blazing, the curtains open, sunlight streaming through French doors, a table set for four, a vase of red roses, and Daniil’s father.

She leaned to whisper. “Your daddy deserves a special hug after last night, don’t you think?”

Daniil grinned up at her and tiptoed across walnut-and-maple parquet. Bruce glanced up from his cellphone as he pivoted, barefoot, lithe, and gorgeously graceful. Right in front of him, his nine-year-old son showing off like never before. Extrovert junior with instinctive body awareness, sexual kinesis honed by long hours of soccer practice.

“Catamite casual; cool, huh Dad?”

Daniil projected poise as he gave his father ‘the look,’ curious and seductive. Bruce almost knocked over his coffee cup putting down his cellphone. The change was astonishing, unexpected, instantly inciting arousal. Middle-aged libido sprang to life. He was scarcely aware of Claire standing behind Daniil, both smirking.

“By any chance did you bring Master Daniel some sneakers, Bruce?”

Suddenly, Bruce noticed small feet in red ankle socks.

“Hiking boots will be uncomfortable in the car all day,” she added.

“Rather...”

Lost for words, it was all Bruce could do to divert his gaze from his son’s angelic face, his long curls like a shimmering halo.

‘Catamite casual’ was a shock: faded skater-skinny-fit jeans rolled up at the ankle, with holes in the knees and rips in the rear, white blemishes like splashes of semen on the thighs, and a little bulge that grabbed his gaze like an emergency beacon.

“They’re Simon’s,” Claire said distantly. “He’s barely worn them and already they’re a wee bit tight on his tummy.”

Unable to think, or thank her; because his eyes had moved up from Daniil’s crotch, feasting on an unlikely UV-protected stretchy beach shirt with wind-surfing graphics—it was so tight he could see his son’s bellybutton and pinprick nipples.

With eyes only for his father, Daniil stepped closer, ignoring the pressing itch, the fullness behind.

“Do I get a good morning hug, Dad?”

Bruce beckoned, both hands out, inviting his son into his embrace. He clasped the narrow waist, thumbs pressing into firm belly muscle. Under warm skintight polyester, his son felt like a slippery seal, sleek and slender, and very alive.

“Such a nice flat tummy,” he murmured, a fingertip seeking an indented navel....

Daniil breathed slowly, deeply, needing his father more than ever before; his little fingers massaging broad shoulders. Different now, different forever...

Equally afflicted, Bruce playfully smacked Daniil’s small bottom, summoning up memories, the precious treasure they’d shared.

“After last night, the best you can do is play bongo on his bum?” Claire taunted.

He tightened his grasp, separating buttocks under denim, fingertips barely poking into the crevice.

“My hiney’s off limits, Dad,” Daniil murmured.

“Does it hurt?”

“Master Daniel is still getting used to not being a virgin,” Claire said distantly.

“Is he still... he’s plugged, isn’t he?”

A neutral nod from Daniil mortified Bruce. Just the thought of hurting his son was reason to panic. He jerked his hands away.

“Big Boy doesn’t hurt that bad, Dad.”

He smiled at the name, relieved and revived. He reached, and clasped juvenile-crotch. Everything male; it was far from a handful, yet more than ample. Still shame lingered as he fondled his son through faded blue denim. He could feel a stubby projection, inflexible, warm, very alive.

“Not too hard, okay Dad? Willy’s a bit sore.”

“Willy? Why... oh, right.”

Blushing, Bruce glimpsed Claire’s acknowledging nod. About then, everything lost significance except the hot hardness under his hand, the small veiled chest jammed against his face, nuzzling, inhaling his son’s aphrodisiac-scent. Familiar, reassuring, arousing primal desires, absorbing vibrant energy, certain he could hear Daniil’s heartbeat. He reached between them and stroked across bumpy ribs, slight pectoral muscle, miniature nipples...

“The beach shirt is a gift... from me,” Claire said hesitantly. “It’s supposed to be tight.”

“Very sexy. It makes him look...,” Bruce muttered.

Usually erudite, suddenly unable to find the words, he held Daniil at arm’s length. Such gorgeous blue eyes. Utterly overwhelmed, and infatuated—he’d kissed, licked, and sucked on Daniil’s abdomen into the early hours of the morning. Now, sheer synthetic separated them. Not like medieval armor, it incited desire, hope, speculation.

He almost said ‘delectable.’ It was insufficient; ‘delicious’ and ‘mouth-watering’ no better... He was still searching when Mrs. Clemens popped her head around the corner.

“Good morning Master Daniel. Don’t you look chic this morning?”

Not unfamiliar with awestruck staff, Claire glanced at Daniil, a sly wink to tease him.

“A full English breakfast for him, too, Mum?”

“I don’t want him getting chubby, Mrs. Clemens. He’ll have the same as Simon. One egg lightly scrambled with gruyere, and a smoked kipper to put a shine in his hair.”

“Yes, Mum. About the gift; should I bring it in now?”

Claire nodded. “A package came for Master Daniel, yesterday. I had Mrs. Clemens open it to get out the creases.”

Bruce’s head jerked sideways as Mrs. Clemens stepped into the room bearing a small leather jacket, magnetic-magenta melding to burnished-old-burgundy, with a detachable silver-fox-fur collar and shiny gold zippers.

“You’re going to look really hot in this,” she declared, holding it up for all to see.

Across the chest, decorative leather scrollwork culminated in an ornate emblem, right of center. Bruce frowned as he fixated on the floralized ‘D’, the jacket unquestionably custom-made for his son, and very expensive.

Apprehensive, timid, sucking his bottom lip as he approached, Daniil stroked goatskin leather. “It’s so soft. It is really for me?”

“My guess is you have a secret admirer. Master Simon’s quite envious,” Claire teased. She winked at Bruce, and leaned closer, her voice low. “Someone loves him, I’d say.”

Bruce nodded, convinced, yet not ready to say ‘Edwin’ aloud.

“You can try it on later,” she said, firmly guiding Daniil to a chair. “Right now, we need to get on the road. You can start with a ripe banana and yogurt to settle your tummy.”

Daniil looked up. “I wish I knew who sent it. It’s the nicest jacket I’ve ever owned.”

Claire waited until Mrs. Clemens was back in her kitchen. “You’ll have lots of nice clothes, soon. Men give gifts to boys when they love them. It’s a tradition from Ancient Greece.”

He hesitated. “Maybe Mr. Ed sent it. He knows magenta’s my favorite color, that and Prussian blue.”

oUo

Bruce opened the rear hatch to place his messenger bag and Claire’s red Emirates travel bag next to her Louis Vuitton duffle bag. Their overnight bags were third-rate, a week old from Walmart. Daniil’s school backpack, less than a year old, was ready for the trashcan. A sideways glance at Ashbourne Manor incited more envy; all told, it quite dispiriting.

Hearing gravel crunch underfoot, he turned, barely avoiding gaping as Daniil strolled up to the silver-metallic Range Rover, and peered through the drivers’ window. Inside was well-appointed, Rolls-Royce luxury compared to his father’s tawdry Jeep Grand Cherokee, hail dings all over.

“It’s supercharged, Dad. Mr. Ed would be so jealous.”

“Catamites get to ride in snazzy cars,” Claire snickered as she came up behind him.

He smirked, looking over his shoulder. “Another of the many advantages, huh; like wearing a bum plug and an awesome jacket?”

She turned him to face her, primly inspecting her charge.

“A well-behaved catamite lives the good life. That’s the principal’s doing.”

He regarded her, his attire anything but bargain-basement. “What principle, Mum?”

She smiled slightly, far too soon for confidence.

“Some catamites are born lucky. If they meet the right man, with willingness and enough effort they will go a long way; that principle, the principle of success in life.”

“We’re going to work on it now you’re my governess, huh?”

He was shrewd and intellectually gifted, with a delightful combination of timidity and coolness. The big plus, exceptionally good looking, meant drawing attention would present problems. She postponed that lecture and unzipped his new leather jacket, revealing a lean abdomen, enhanced by clingy tight polyester.

“You’ll be hot in the car with this on,” she explained, slipping the jacket from his arms.

Bruce looked on, entranced; approvingly, too, although he wasn’t sure why—her take-charge approach, perhaps. She was self-assured, not overly domineering like his wife.

“Mrs. Clemens was right when she said you’d be hot in it.”

“I’m hot without it; admit it, Dad,” Daniil teased.

“You are hot in or out of clothes, Dani Boy, blazing hot.”

He grinned back as Claire placed her hand on his shoulder, steering him to the passenger door as Bruce closed the hatch.

“Can I ride shotgun, Dad?”

“Master Daniel will be sitting with his governess until he’s learned self-control,” she said haughtily.

Bruce turned to wink at Daniil as soon he settled into the driver’s seat. “It’ll be safer until I get used to driving on the wrong side.”

Soft dark leather seduced him as he contemplated English indulgence. He started the engine, a V8 lurking behind a quiet purr, checked off what was what on the dashboard, and studied the GPS display.

“Bruce, the M6 will be faster than the M1,” Claire said from behind him. “We’ll stretch our legs in the Lakes District.” She glanced at Daniil. “There’s a super garden in Windermere.”

“Can we stop in Bakewell for a tart?” he giggled.

“Ah, finally the tart of all tarts has returned,” she snickered. “It’s hardly worth visiting Cunsey Castle without a tart.”

oUo

They were miles beyond Bakewell, stopped at the intersection leading to the little village of Ashford-in-the-Water, when Bruce, already fed up with roundabouts, skewed his head to look back at Daniil.

“You doing okay back there, Dani Boy?”

Daniil shrugged, having had his fill of picturesque stone walls and grazing sheep.

“You’re sore at me, or sore behind?” Bruce pressed.

It had to happen sooner or later; however, maybe he should’ve waited. Now, he couldn’t stop thinking about it, a huge step for his son, and him, too; in fact, life-changing.

“I’m not sore at you, Dad.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“It’s not that bad.”

“You deflowered him,” Claire said shortly. “It’s a lot for a boy to think about.”

“You want to talk about it, Dani?”

Daniil made him wait. “I guess. Not now.”

He gave a passing glance to the parish church, monotonous Norman. Then, his peripheral vision caught Claire unzipping her Louis Vuitton handbag and reaching inside...

“Schoolwork already,” he griped when he saw his iPad being withdrawn.

“You have a great deal to learn in a very short time, Master Daniel.” Her tone was emphatic. “Bruce, I took the liberty of downloading the videos from your cellphone to his iPad before I deleted them.”

Unable to hide his concern., Bruce muttered, “Um, what videos, Claire?”

She snickered. “The how-you-deflowered-your-son videos.”

“Videos?” Daniil whispered, panic arriving in a nine-year-old heartbeat.

She went on regardless. “They’re in an encrypted folder, hidden in a file called ‘game cheats.’”

“So like a Veracrypt file?” Daniil caught his father’s eye in the rear vision mirror. “Mr. Ed has it on his computer for photos of....”

Sensing trouble ahead, Claire interrupted, “... This is the same. The password is ‘L J P F K G F G C’.”

“That’s easy to remember,” Bruce quipped, of the mind she was joking.

The alternative was too distressing to even consider, everything important recorded, alpha to omega, including closeups of after. He exhaled, tightening his grip on the steering wheel.

“Every time you look at your videos, you’ll reflect on the Spirit,” she continued, a silent sigh of relief.

She handed the iPad to a now-frantic Daniil. After guiding his very-reluctant index finger to click on a file, easily missed among miscellaneous game-titles, she rattled off nine essential qualities. Only after he’d entered each letter did files appear in the folder; D001, D002....

“The Ancients understood the Spirit begins with love, but what is love?” she queried, now holding his hand.

“You want me to say what I think, or use Wikipedia, Mum?”

“You better not say ‘mum’ when your mom’s around,” Bruce interrupted.

Daniil groaned. “It’s the same as ‘ma’am’, Dad.”

Claire flinched at his tone, certain there were serious problems at home.

“How about you tell me what love is, and you can use Wikipedia for when you write your one-page essay on the first of the nine qualities.”

“Governesses give homework assignments, too?”

“Oh my, you are going to be a handful, aren’t you?” she laughed. “I’m waiting.”

Daniil delayed, searching for the right words. Finally, he launched into it as if he’d prepared for a speech in class.

“A while back, Mr. Ed told me love is the feeling you have for a special person in your life, a really good feeling.”

However, Mr. Ed had said more, a lot more. He took a deep breath.

“He said sometimes love gets so strong you want the person to be part of you.”

Now worried, he tilted his head, trying to see around the driver’s seat. His father stared straight ahead—maybe he hadn’t heard after all. He lowered his voice, just in case.

“Like with me and my dad; we love each other like normal in public, plus a whole lot more in private.”

Almost word for word what Mr. Ed said. Now, as then, he took a breath at the end. No longer confused, or frightened, yet he still hunched his shoulders, wondering, certain he’d said too much. There was no response from the front seat until...

“We talked about keeping it private, remember?”

Another busy roundabout coming up prevented Bruce from turning in his seat.

“Bruce, nothing is private in the Eros Union. Let’s look at the first video, Daniel, and you tell me when you see love,” Claire proposed.

Embarrassment arrived in a blast as a lorry raced past, horn blaring.

“Do you have to watch it, Mum?”

She gave him a querulous frown, moved his finger to ‘D001’, and made him tap the screen. No introduction, just technicolor 4K video at 30 frames per second. Trevor’s lighting helped, the scene like a Hollywood stage set.

Daniil stands on the couch, barefoot and bewildered, embarrassed, his slim abdomen shadowy, yet discernible behind white floral lace. He smiles nervously as his father steps closer, reaches out, caresses his cheek, his forehead, brushing errant curly locks behind his ear. He blinks, sensing the significance of his impending unveiling, watching his father’s other hand unfastening pearl-buttons, parting his shirt in front to expose skin, pale and perfect, a shallow vale from neck to navel. Radiant, captivating boy, grinning at his dad…

The camera zoomed in, wavering slightly before jerking back.

“That’s distracting,” Claire said.

“Simon was holding Dad’s cellphone. Then, his dad took over,” Daniil murmured.

“What a gorgeous little penis,” she admired. “Definitely one of the nicest I’ve seen.”

Daniil cringed as his father’s right hand entered the video, all but filling the screen. Strangely, there was no raw thrill like the night before. Just his heart fluttering, and wishing he was somewhere else.

Bruce twiddles his son’s straining erection, shamelessly stimulating muted sighs. The short shaft tapers noticeably, curving out and up from a substantial base, almost no bulge beneath, not like Simon, now lurking in the background. Adult fingers expertly manipulate, squishing the plump tiny glans. Daniil’s sighs turn to whimpers, the pleasure so intense his hips draw back, jerk forward, instinctively humping.

Daniil’s face reddened instantly. He pulled the iPad closer, his head down, shielding the screen until Claire glowered and shook her head, no words needed.

Nine-year-old angst, self-conscious, humiliated, trying to avoid looking at the screen, yet unable to stop himself even though it wasn’t arousing, not in the slightest.

“It’s embarrassing, really embarrassing. Do we have to?” he mumbled.

“Having sex is a wonderful thing, you silly boy. The sooner you get used to me seeing you, the better.”

Bruce fondles long curls, drawing his son’s head closer as he also leans in. They are nearly the same height, eyes engaging, exchanging unspoken thoughts until emotion overwhelms them. The kiss, when it comes, is shockingly passionate. Bruce clasps his offspring, forcefully taking control, divesting innocence. Daniil’s shirt falls away. Lips and tongues touch, part briefly, merge; impossible to see where they begin and end.

Desperate, Daniil grabbed for his iPad. “You can’t see this part!”

“For heaven’s sake!” Claire jerked it back. “I know what happens when a man and a boy love each other.”

Bruce glanced into the rear vision mirror, just a glimpse of Daniil squirming uncomfortably, sending his thoughts in every direction. Their future was at stake. Wondering what Edwin would think; what he should say to reassure his son everything was alright.

“Sit still,” she snapped. “I know how much you love your father. He loves you, too; the same way.”

Bruce exhaled. There really was no other way. “Dani, calm down, Sweetie; she’s right.”

“Being in love with a man is nothing to be ashamed about, is it Bruce?”

Daniil trembles, desperately clutching at his father, completely naked, abandoned to nine-year-old ecstasy. Without warning, his head tilts back, his eyes closed tight. Bruce slowly, deliberately licks, passionately tracing his son’s slender neck, pausing with his tongue touching Daniil’s chin.

“Oh my!” Claire gaped. “Master Simon and his father never kiss like that?”

Licking again and again, until Daniil’s neck is wet with saliva and he trembles erratically. His father scoops him up, and they embrace urgently, slender arms and legs writhing, large hands molesting, taking control as they kiss and hug, ignoring Simon’s background giggles.

Daniil closed his eyes the instant the video ended. At the time, seeing Trevor holding his dad’s cellphone, moving it around like he was taking a selfie, hadn’t meant anything, just having fun. Seeing it on his iPad screen changed everything. She saw him naked, erect, his father groping him, kissing him.

“You were supposed to tell me if there was love. Was there?” Claire pressed.

Daniil scowled and stared out the window. Stone barns, stone walls, pigs in a yard, brown and white Ayrshire cows grazing on the greenest grass he’d ever seen.

“Dani, tell her what you told me last night.”

“Dad, shut up about it, okay?”

Bruce ahemed loudly. “If you’re embarrassed, the best thing is to talk about it.”

“I don’t want to talk about it, okay?”

Claire changed direction. “I saw a beautiful little boy being undressed by a man. Can you tell me what else happened?”

Daniil’s long-suffering sigh ended as a groan. “He played with my penis. Then, we hugged...”

“The kissing was super sexy,” Claire interrupted. “That was when I noticed how you looked at each other. You were so happy you had tears in your eyes.”

“Since when does crying mean love.” Daniil made a bored face at her, anything but admit she was right.

“I seem to remember I had a few tears, too,” Bruce added, his voice cracking unexpectedly.

“So, we’re both crybabies.” Daniil grumbled to himself. “You told me to never tell anyone. Now, you want me to tell her how much I like you playing with Willy.”

“As important as that is, something far more important happened at the end of the video,” she put forward.

How else could she get to the crux? It was the one thing that changed two minutes of video from porn to art, from child molestation to out-and-out love.

Lips pursed, Daniil glared back, pretending he was angry. “He licked me.” He had to say more; it was too funny not to. “Dad likes to pretend I’m an ice cream.”

Full of pride, Bruce beamed. “I give you puppy licks because I love you, Dani-boy.”

“Duh!” Daniil gave Claire his ‘I told you so’ look.

“The important thing is why do you let him lick you,” she said quietly.

“Because!” He pushed out his bottom lip. “Why do I have to talk about it? Dad, help me out here.”

“First, I’m your governess, which means I must know everything about you to teach you what you need to know.”

Daniel shrugged, rolling his eyes for emphasis, very aware that his mother would’ve snapped, then and there.

“Second,” she continued, “you’re a catamite, which means you must trust me completely if you’re going to truly benefit.”

Even as Daniil shrugged it off again, this time with boyish bravado; Claire took a breath, thinking how best to deal with a frisky nine-year-old.

“Keep it up and you’ll get a spanking.”

“Keep what up...” He nearly giggled, thinking ‘my weenie’—his mother would ground him for a week. “... Mum?”

“I think it’s time Master Daniel took off his jeans,” she said tranquilly.

Responding to a powerful surge of excitement, Bruce risked a glance over his shoulder. He caught Claire’s eye, a marginal wink, a hint of a smile, all part of building rapport. Reassured it was all about bonding with Daniil; he snapped his fingers.

“Pants down, Dani. Now, not tomorrow.”

Daniil scowled, still mostly in play; exhaled, and complied. He started in slow motion, unfastening the metal button and zipper, lifting his butt off the seat, and shoving skinny-skater jeans halfway down his thighs. Then, he peeked sideways. She gestured, a curt finger-flick. He pushed his jeans past his knees and looked down, skimpy, slinky, silver-metallic, soft as sheer silk...

“How sweet! You’re still wearing your deflowering panties,” she teased. “Luckily, I packed a pair of Master Simon’s, and a Versace outfit. You can wear it tomorrow, if you want. Men will look at you, even in stuffy Scotland.”

Bruce gulped, resisting the temptation to look over his shoulder.

“Sexy clothes are standard for catamites. Not that you need any help in the ‘sexy’ department,” she added approvingly.

She made him wait, silently admiring a small, yet well-defined boy-bump. She gave another finger-flick, less abrupt, more encouraging. The matching draw-string, neatly tied in a bow several inches below his navel, came apart when he tugged on the ends. He lifted up again, easily slipping off his loose, very-short panties.

She smiled, relishing his discomfiture. No wonder he was sulky, his first time exposing his limp penis to her on demand. Surprisingly, it was much shorter than Simon’s. Erect, the size difference was less noticeable.

“Finally, I get to see Willy while he’s taking a nap,” she teased. “I was beginning to think he never went down.”

“If you stopped talking about Willy, he wouldn’t be so embarrassed,” Daniil shot back.

Even shriveled, prepubescent boyhood was delightful, a tiny lavender-hued helmet-head, a short plump shaft, almost entirely pink inner skin.

“So smooth and sleek. I’ve only seen one like it.” She leaned closer. “It’s very stylish. A Jew or a Muslim will find it especially appealing,” she teased.

“My wife accused me of disfiguring him. If she knew it was Edwin’s idea...”

Daniil stopped pretend-sulking. “What does Mr. Ed have to do with it?”

“Your mom and I wanted you circumcised. Most American boys are.”

“She wanted boring; you wanted sporty. You won, for once.”

“Actually, I thought you should look like me, that is until Edwin showed me a photo of a German boy about your age.”

“Marten’s circumcision just missed his balls, Dad,” Daniil interjected.

Surprised, Bruce groped for a reason except the obvious one; and he certainly didn’t want to go there.

“The only Marten I know just turned 18,” Claire said, trying to sound offhand. “His father had him circumcised when he was eight to prepare him. Rather tight; too tight, I think, but the principal required it.”

“What principle?” Daniil asked a little nervously.

Claire hesitated, so long that Bruce picked up.

“Edwin’s main point was it should enhance sensitivity.

He’d made sense at the time; hygiene required exposing the glans, yet far more important was preserving skin with nerve concentration, thereby maximizing male pleasure.

“In Master Marten’s case, I’d have to say his father was more interested in mysticism.”

Bored and bothered, Daniil picked up his iPad to check his email, anything but sit through them discussing his penis.

“They live in Bavaria,” Claire went on.

“Really? Rothenburg ob der Tauber is Edwin’s favorite place to vacation,” Bruce said cautiously.

Daniil looked up. “He said you should take me there this Spring. He’ll fly over and join us for a few days before he goes on to Venice. How cool would that be?”

Claire touched her lips, pondering possibilities. Gerhart Hoegner was an old-school disciplinarian, a stickler for submissive catamites, properly trained in the Spirit, not S&M crap.

“They’re adopting a little Bulgarian boy,” she mused. “I bet he’ll be the same way.”

Still thoughtful, she returned her attention to Daniil, now using a browser.

“Rothenburg’s on the Romantische Strasse, Dad. It’s 220 miles long. If we had a car, we could drive it and stay at guest houses. Mom would be so envious.”

She envied his technological expertise, nimble fingers flying over icons and virtual keyboard as he searched for images on the Romantic Road.

“There’s like a bazillion places to see, Dad. Castles all over. Baroque churches out the wazoo.”

Suddenly, he sat forward, wriggling.

“Itchy or sore?” Claire inquired.

Daniil nodded distractedly, dexterous fingers exploring quaint medieval villages, fortified, cobblestone streets, modernity absent.

“There’s two kinds of sore.” She waited until he looked up. “One is Eros backwards; it’s a nice kind of sore, more like an itch. It comes from your sphincter muscle being stretched beyond its limits. The other sore is when the muscle tears. It hurts like the dickens.”

Daniil leaned to whisper. “Last night, when he put it in, he was worried he hurt me. It did for a while. Then, it was okay.”

“So it’s stretched, exactly as it should be.” She lowered her voice, too. “Right now, how does it feel?”

“I can’t really tell, Mum. My body keeps trying to push Big Boy out,” he murmured.

“I better take a peek at my favorite tart, make sure everything’s okay. Knees up as far as you can get them.”

Obedient by nature, Daniil scooted forward as far as his seatbelt allowed, leaned back, and pulled up his knees. Claire managed to get his jeans past his knees, silver-sheen panties, too. Only then, she cautiously poked her ringer at his training plug. It was snug.

“It’s uncomfortable, Mum.”

“I want you to try to draw it farther into you... No, not like that. When your buttocks pinch in, you’re squeezing on it. Pull from up inside your tummy... More... Again... Harder... You want the handle to flex.”

“I’m trying, Mum.”

Claire grasped his nearest knee, forcing back his hips, exposing his buttocks, and the curved blue-silicone ‘T’ handle lodged in his crack.

“Pull up again, as hard as you can.” The handle flexed, deforming very slightly. “Again, and hold it for as long as possible.”

Daniil grimaced, concentrating. Definite inward motion, drawing the handle hard against, and between his buttocks for 20 long seconds. He gasped even as the pressure faded.

“Do it again,” she declared with mock severity. “You need to practice 24-7.”

“Why?”

She considered what to say as he inhaled, sucking in his belly, eyes closed to slits.

“Pulling a man’s penis inside is how you show you love him.”

He nodded, still distracted, yet committing detail and sensation to memory.

“It feels funny, Mum.”

Claire inserted a fingertip under the handle. “Now, push out, you little tart.”

She lifted the flange enough to pinch the flexible stem between her index finger and thumb. She tugged, and with a steady pressure withdrew the handle enough to hook it between her index and middle fingers.

“OW!”

“Stop being a baby tart!” She pulled again, wriggling the handle even as he giggled. “Push down. There we go.”

Claire held it where he could see. Gingerly pinching the handle between his thumb and finger, Daniil examined shiny-wet blue silicone, little globules of mucus.

“I didn’t realize Big Boy was this big.” He couldn’t take his eyes off it. “It was inside me all this time. Seriously?”

She nodded, fascinated by his reaction.

He jerked his hand, making it oscillate. “Really wobbly, isn’t it?”

She noted his easy acceptance. He’d soon be past caring, feeling empty without it.

She lowered her head to look under his thighs. Slight inflammation of the insides of his buttocks, some residual dilation, noticeable reddening surrounding his anus, minor bruising expected from a boy’s first time with Le Démarreur.

“How does your bum feel with it out?” she asked, hiding her smile as she delved inside her handbag for tissues and her box of wipes.

“I guess, okay... It’s not itching as much.”

“It’ll be sore for a day or two. The sooner you yield the better. With luck, you won’t need the next-size-up plug,” she ventured, gently wiping the area with a medicated wipe.

Bruce gulped, not about to comment.



Cunsey Castle, Windermere, Cumbria.

A long gravel drive, descending gradually, winding among ancient proud English oaks, a manicured lawn on the right, a glorious English garden presently featuring purple alliums, bales of straw laid out for mulching dahlias and chrysanthemums.

“As you can see, Cunsey Castle is hardly a castle, though a small part of the main house is 15th century.” Claire expounded as the stately gray-stone house came into view.

“It’s Georgian, symmetry even when it doesn’t work,” Daniil concluded conceitedly.

“Classical rules pertain to most things of importance, Master Daniel.”

Self-conscious, Daniil leaned forward, one hand resting on his father’s left arm. He felt the biceps flex as his father steered, warm and comforting. Maybe that was why he liked being underneath him so much. His father’s weight pressed onto him, not pinned, secure, and he could gaze up at the man who dominated him, possessed him completely.

“It is rather droll, isn’t it?” Claire relented. “However, the boathouse folly is positively charming. Graeme mostly uses it as his painting studio. There’s a splendid view.”

Glimpses of Lake Windermere drew Daniil’s gaze, almost no attention to Claire going on about Cunsey Castle’s current owner. Mostly, he thought about what happened during the night, silently worshiping his father.

“He was seventy when he retired from the Circus. Now, he paints, rather good at it. The last time I visited, he was tutoring a boy from Keswick. Imagine driving an hour each way, every other day.”

Bruce stopped opposite a wisteria-entwined porch—there was no grand entry to speak of.

“A budding art student?”

“Budding? I suppose you could say that.” She opened her door and beckoned to Daniil. “Let’s go meet Graeme. I think you’ll like him.”

Daniil obediently scooted across and followed her out with his jacket in hand. He stood in awe of a formal garden stretching to the lake shore.

“Put on your jacket before you catch a chill,” Claire directed.

He put it on, mindlessly obedient.

“It makes you look sexy, like a hot little model,” she said with a smirk.

He rolled his eyes, distantly aware of the plug snugly embedded between his buttocks. Standing in the sun, stretching his legs, taking a deep breath as he looked around; suddenly, he relished the sensation, tightening the muscles in his lower abdomen, pulling up the same way he’d practiced in the car. It was even more enjoyable when he arched back. Something inside went tight when it pushed up. For a few moments, he felt like he needed to pee.

“He was really in the spy business, Ma’am... Mum?”

Yet another surprise; it brought forth a smile. “You’ll have to ask him.”

Daniil followed her gaze, spotting an elderly man, plodding across the grass, an Irish setter trotting obediently alongside.

“What should I call him, Mum?”

“Well, don’t butter him up with ‘Sir’. To be honest, he’s very much like someone else you know; I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” she replied mysteriously, a wink at Bruce before she turned back.

“We’re a bit early, Graeme,” she called. “Almost no traffic through Manchester.”

“With a boy along for the ride, it always pays to come early and often, Claire.” The old man brandished a walking stick.

Certain the man was ogling him, Daniil waved back, grinning when the man returned a smile. He followed Claire across gravel, thinking there was something familiar about him; his dark woolen coat and red bow-tie, perhaps.

“What a nice way to start the day,” the old man declared, meeting them halfway.

“Graeme, this is Dr. Bruce Stirling and his son, Master Daniel...” Claire began.

Daniil noted intelligent eyes, crinkly with white hairy eyebrows, and wrinkled skin. The man’s expression was jovial, young-at-heart humor lurking despite his age. He sized Daniil up with a mischievous wink. That was enough. He boldly stuck out his hand. The man had parchment-palsied hands, yet his grip was relentless.

“I’m very pleased to meet you. Mum wouldn’t say what I should call you, just not Sir.”

“I’d rather be Graeme, dear boy; or Master Browne until you know me better. And you, my darling, will be Master Daniel.”

It sounded entirely appropriate, though strange, coming from a 70-year-old man, However, Daniil’s intuition was strong.

“I’m cool with that... Graeme.”

“Be very careful, Master Daniel. Graeme might carry you off the same as he did with Edwin when he was your age,” Claire snickered.

“Get thee to a convent, woman,” Graeme growled. “I have a charming boy before me, and you have to spoil it. If truth be told, the fair sex is like rancid butter, greasy enough, but likely to make you sick.”

Finally, he smiled, releasing Daniil’s hand and taking his father’s hand.

“It’s a pleasure,” Bruce said, shaking firmly. “I take it you’re Edwin’s uncle.”

“The one and only. I had the great honor of knowing him when he was worth knowing; long before he studied the Bible,” Graeme chuckled.

He turned to a flustered Daniil, rambunctious Irish setter all but knocking him over.

“Down boy! Such a sweet Ganymede; of course, you want to lick him all over; as do I!”

Daniil giggled, ruffling the dog’s floppy ears while dodging a wildly flogging tail, very aware he was being ogled by a man as old as his grandfather.

“Edwin warned me he’s an exceptionally beautiful boy. I wonder, Dr. Stirling... A special favor for an old pederast...”

With no response forthcoming, Graeme turned to Daniil, no shame, open admiration, even licking his lips.

“Would you mind unzipping?”

“My pants?”

“Silly boy. Your jacket. Always savor, never gorge.”

Daniil gulped, caught Claire’s sly wink, and a knowing nod from his father. Slowly, he drew down the zipper from midway up his chest to below his navel. Apprehensive, he looked up.

“Oh my! Such a nice tight shirt. It’s like seeing him in the flesh!” Graeme exclaimed. “A perfect little body is always enchanting. Too many fat cats in the EU nowadays.”

“For Jove’s sake, Graeme,” Claire said, exasperated. “Feast your eyes all you want; he’s too sore for you.”

“Eros sore, or the other?” He nodded encouragingly at Daniil.

“Mostly, it’s itchy.”

“Better friction burn than a split, my boy. Learning to ride, and be ridden, is rather like falling off a horse, always back up for more.” He turned to Claire. “You’ll stay through the weekend, I hope?”

Claire looked down her nose. “I wish we could. After a bite of lunch and a quick tour of the Browne Museum, we must be on our way.”

Graeme nodded thoughtfully. “Any more on the principal?”

“I’ve not had the time,” Claire said. “He has a lot to learn. The principal will come later.”

Daniil observed his father’s sudden interest. “Claire has me working on the principle of success in life, Dad; being willing and working hard.”

“There’s more to the principal than that,” she added, glancing at Graeme.

“The principal is crucial, always will be!” Graeme shook his head.

“I don’t disagree. Premature principal or patient preparation, that’s the question.”

“Women; absolutely no appreciation of boys of all!” He held out his hand to Daniil. “Walk with me, darling boy, unzipped if you will so I can feast my eyes on your tummy.”

Daniil grinned, glanced at his father, and took the proffered hand. They strolled, hand in hand, down the drive, heading toward a tall box-hedge with a yapping Irish setter.

Bruce exchanged looks with Claire. “That went rather well.”

Claire snickered. “My advice; don’t let Daniel out of your sight.”

“I must say, I’m glad you picked a nice tight shirt for him to wear.”

She scowled and picked up the pace—beyond the hedge there were all kinds of hiding places.

“You do know the female of most species is inferior by nature, don’t you?” Graeme rambled on, still scrutinizing. “Poor Claire is jealous as she can be.”

Long hair and delicate features with mannerisms to match...His few freckles helped; they made him look outdoorsy, even mischievous. And dimpled cheeks, positively puckish. Pretty boy, though not to a fault...

“A boy like you can have any man he wants. Any man! As many men as he wants.”

Daniil glanced behind, not at all sure he should say it. “I don’t want *any* man.”

“You deserve the best of the best, handsome, rich, powerful. It’s the raison d'être for a pretty catamite like you.” Graeme smiled. “Then again, I suppose it’s different when you're in love with your father.”

Daniil hesitated. “You mean like Cupid and Mars?”

“Claire took you to see the Catsworth statue, Whore and War, the pretty boy-wife and his mighty master. I’d love to have been there. I bet you had an erection, too. Edwin’s little penis was so hard I was sure it would snap off.”

“After I was deflowered, Claire asked me if I wanted to be my dad’s boy-wife...” Fading to silence, certain he’d gone too far.

Graeme stopped abruptly, still holding Daniil’s small hand, his thumb insinuating, gently rubbing the soft palm, eyes focused on tight polyester, windsurfing graphics, tiny nipples and indented navel.

“Of course, you want that, now.” He applauded, slapping his free hand on his thigh. “Being your father’s parastatheis, his ‘boy-wife’ as Claire calls it, is nonpareil.”

“Huh?”

“’Nonpareil’ means unequaled. In Ancient Crete, ‘parastatheis’ was ‘stander beside.’ It means you’re the only important person in his life.”

Daniil grinned up at him, what Mr. Ed called ‘thrilled to bits,’ instant déjà vu.

Parastatheis is a great honor for a boy; however, and I say this honestly, other things are also very important. The principal, primarily. For some catamites, it means the exclusion of everything else.”

“Why does the principle have to be exclusive?”

“You’re already one of the élite. The principal provides boundless opportunity.” Graeme tightened his grip. “Most boys make do with friends. Only a few boys are lucky to have relatives as lovers. A true catamite, like you, everything you touch will turn to gold. And you’ll still love your father.”

“You’re Edwin’s uncle. He said he loved you like a father,” Daniil confided.

“And I loved him as a son.” Graeme glanced around.

“Did you... you know... do things together?”

“Better he slept with his uncle than a family friend, or a complete stranger, which is seldom a good thing.”

Daniil nodded wisely; stranger-danger was ever-present at his middle-school.

Graeme gestured at tallish stalks of blue flowers. “Beautiful, aren’t they? Delphiniums can be temperamental, yet they’re worth the extra effort. Rather stuck-up though, aren’t they?”

Daniil pursed his lips, looking around, absorbing, reflecting, aware of the hand still holding his, the thumb rubbing into his palm, warming and reassuring.

“Personally, I think Hollyhocks are nicer, delightfully charming, in fact,” Graeme went on, redirecting his gaze. “And peonies, when they bloom, are so stunning and fragrant that nothing else matters. Which flower are you, I wonder?”

Daniil pointed at easily missed yellow flowers, petals tinged with a reddish trefoil.

 Graeme laughed. “Ah, Hemerocallis. Did you know this variety of Day lily is called 'Graces of Ganymede'?”

Daniil grinned. “Mr Ed... Dr. Browne grows them in his garden.”

“He saw them here when he wasn’t much older than you, my dear Catamitus. I still remember telling Edwin about Zeus abducting his Ganymede, the most beautiful of boys. He was curious and captivating, just like you.”

Another boyish grin, more teasing than gleeful. “He told me a poem, too.”

Graeme cleared his throat, the generous sweeping gesture of the consummate actor...

“How, in the morning brightness,

You all around shine at me,

Springtime, Beloved!

With thousand-fold love-bliss

The holy feeling Of your eternal warmth

Presses itself upon my heart,

Unending beauty!”

Enough Goethe, Graeme!” Claire warned as she caught up. “Remember what I said about him having his way with you, Master Daniel?”

Graeme clapped Daniil on the shoulder, drawing him close, sniffing curly locks.

“Up! Up it surges.

Bow down to yearning love.

To me! To me!

In your lap, my hand,

Upwards!

Embracing, embraced!

Upwards to thy bosom,

All-loving Father!”

Claire frowned as Daniil erupted in giggles—apparently, nine years old was not too young to appreciate 18th-century innuendo.

“If you’re going to perform in front of the boy, you could at least get it right, you old pederast.”

“He’s more interested in lunch than suggestive poetry, my dear.” Graeme confronted a somewhat confused Daniil. “Our gorgeous Ganymede will choose; a cooked lunch indoors, or an old-fashioned British picnic in the garden?”

“Picnic, please.”

“A bit chilly for al fresco, yet a splendid choice if we sit with Hylas. I’ll have a basket brought down, along with my camera and sketchbook. You will pose for me, won’t you, Master Daniel?”

oUo

Hidden in a secluded corner of the garden not far from the boathouse, a gap in the hedge revealed a circular wall. Within, the sun filled a grassy court, and Hylas, a boy enraptured, forever apprehended in bronze.

Claire took Daniil aside.

“Heracles took Hylas in as an infant after he killed his father. He raised him as his son. It’s not well known; Hylas was also his lover.”

Daniil studied the statue, blinking as more pieces fell into place. “Hylas was Hercules’ catamite?”

She smiled. “Picture the mighty Hercules smitten by a pretty little boy like you. The lesson, Master Daniel, is the Ancient Greeks judged not by gender, by the results of love. Always remember that.”

She lifted his chin, meeting his steady gaze. He nodded purposefully.

“Now, memorize the inscription before lunch: ‘We are not the first mortals to see beauty in what is beautiful...’ Theocritus, circa 300 BC.”

Only then, cold roast chicken, egg-and-cress sandwiches, ham-wrapped asparagus, petite pies and pasties, and a bottle of decent Chablis appeared from an old-fashioned wicker picnic basket. Graeme indulgently snapped photos of Daniil, whether nibbling a cheesy pasty, imbibing Chablis, or in a frolicking frenzy with the Irish setter.

“He’s seldom this extroverted,” Bruce observed as boy and dog tussled over a tennis ball. “His mother’s wound pretty tight. He’s always on a tight leash when she’s home.”

“And to think he had a sore bum this morning,” Claire murmured, fascinated.

Boundless, vociferous energy, rolling with the furry Irish setter, giggling unashamedly, mock-growling, nice tight polyester shirt yanked up to reveal a swathe of pale boy-belly.

“It’s good for him to let off steam,” Bruce said purposefully.

Still, he glanced sideways. Graeme, remarkably spry, lay flat on the grass composing yet another photo, looking up at Daniil hugging the setter.

“It’s good for them,” Claire agreed. “And you, too. Liberate the Spirit and the rest will follow.”

Bruce looked away. “’The more freedom, the stronger a boy’s spirit.’ Is that part of the principle, too?”

“You gain when you’re willing to risk. The more you risk, the more you gain,” she said. “How much will you risk to open Pandora’s box?”

“Everything?” He sighed. “He’s... he’s beautiful. Precious. I don’t know what I’d do without him.”

“A better question is what will you do with him. Catamites are born to flirt, Bruce; every one of them,” she added. “ A few of them even live with the principal.”

oUo

Frolicking ended when she brought forth fresh-baked Victoria sponge cake, Devonshire cream and strawberries, four fanciful Royal Albert plates, a cake knife, and silver forks.

Claire passed Daniil the first plate and a fork. “A catamite always has the smallest slice.”

“The rule is there to keep you skinny and ready,” Graeme quipped.

“Ready for what, Sir?”

“Whatever comes along, dear boy. A little sip of Crème de Fraise won’t hurt his waistline, will it Claire?” Graeme held up a bright red bottle.

“Really, Graeme! He’s already had a glass of wine.”

“It’s delicious, my dear boy, strawberry, fruity and sweet, just like you.” He poured an inch into Daniil’s empty wine glass, even more over his slice of sponge cake.

Daniil grinned like a teenager.

“You’ll get him sozzled.”

“Rather. No more than enough to keep him warm while he poses.”

Bruce watched his limber son, sitting opposite on a tartan blanket, knees folded with his feet on his thighs, grass stains on his new jeans, red sneakers with laces undone.

Claire queried Bruce with a casual side-glance. “Padmasana... Lotus Pose is a meditation position.”

“He does yoga with Edwin,” Bruce explained, yet another topic that his wife kept bringing up.

His son seemed older than nine, wiser, more worldly. He sniffed his wine glass, absorbing aroma before tentatively touching his tongue to the glass. Then, he blinked and made a face as he savored his first sip.

Graeme enthusiastically dug a fork into Devonshire cream, and scooped up a mound. Claire looked heavenward as he mixed it into Daniil’s glass, making a pink slushie.

Bruce took a sleepy breath in the midday sun, and yawned, his thoughts shifting, unable to stop himself churning over the past; his wife furious that Edwin brought his homemade bourbon balls for a Christmas treat.

“Dani, promise you won’t tell your mother, not ever.”

“My lips are sealed, Dad.” His son smirked, not defiantly, consciously. “The same as the other stuff we do.”

“Oh my, another little plotter, just like Edwin,” Graeme chortled. “He’d make me do it again and again before he promised to keep his mouth shut.”

Daniil tasted and smacked his lips. “Do what?”

“Oh my, and he’s curious too. A little of this, a little of that.”

He giggled, sampling sponge cake doused with liqueur and deviously watching the old man. “Did you bum him a lot?”

“No such thing as a lot with a catamite,” Graeme chuckled.

“If you bummed him a lot, then he must’ve liked it.”

Claire ahemed. “Your son is officially flirting, Bruce.”

“Never met a catamite who didn’t flirt,” Graeme sputtered. “Assuming it’s done gently and carefully, you’ll like it a lot after you’re opened.”

Already flushed from frolicking, Daniil reddened in a moment. His father took a breath and continued his cloud study. Far to the west a dark band was forming.

“The best things in life start with a sip and end with a guzzle,” Claire teased.

Daniil grinned and gulped a small amount of Crème de Fraise with Devonshire cream. A second slurp drained his wine glass.

“It’s not half-bad, Dad.” Then, he burped.

Unaware of Claire’s ‘I warned you’ look, he watched his father, so deep in thought he might’ve dozed off. He only did that when something bothered him, something important.

“He wants a second glass. Should I pander to our pretty Catamitus, Bruce?” Graeme said distantly.

Bruce merely gestured, miming a glass being filled to the rim. As Graeme refilled and added more cream, he forked a strawberry, his hand poised, still undecided. Far worse things could happen...

He looked around, ivy climbing over a colonnade fragment, sun casting strong shadows on the wall, an octagonal fishpond like a grotto remnant, yellow day lilies in abundance... He couldn’t think of a more perfect place for his beautiful son.

“Dani, Honey, you look really hot in your shirt.”

“I’m always hot, Dad.”

“I don’t think you’ll be cold if you stay in the sun.”

Another big bite of cake, savoring liqueur, tilting his head, not sure he heard right. “Dad?”

Bruce looked around. They were far from curious eyes. Desire in control, beyond stopping.

“Why don’t you take your shirt off... so Graeme can see your tummy?”

Graeme beamed—it was far more than he hoped for. He was perfectly content with his sly closeups of Daniil’s bare midriff when his shirt pulled up. Anything else was like cream in a sponge cake.

Claire’s hand covered her face, her eyes wide and bright with mirth. She nodded support, perhaps a little too eagerly.

“Let’s do it by the colonnade,” Graeme muttered, quickly clambering up.

He pulled Daniil to his feet, gazing down on brunette-gold curls in wild disarray. Bruce held his breath, his gaze fixed on Daniil as he walked among day lilies, hand-in-hand with a man old enough to be his grandfather.

“Is this how Zeus kidnapped Ganymede?” he said quietly.

“Rather similar, I expect,” Claire whispered. “He towers over your son, doesn’t he?”

“Like Mars with Cupid.” Bruce breathed deeply, his heart accelerating. “It’s strange...”

“You didn’t realize seeing him with a much older man would be so thrilling.”

No longer conflicted, Bruce nodded breathlessly, swallowing what seemed like endless saliva. Yards away, Daniil reclined on a sunlit Ionic fragment, white marble volutes encrusted in lichen. Still in his colorful shirt, he looked sideways at the camera, pensive, then eyes downward, seeming saddened.

“Very slowly take it off,” Graeme said, his voice hoarse with excitement. “Stretch as you do. Yes, like that. If you lift your arm, your ribs will stand out.”

Daniil flexed his arm, showing miniature biceps.

“Oh! How nice. Now, imagine you’re a fabulous fashion model undressing… Now, act sexy...”

Bruce hesitated, feeling strange. “Pretend you’re still with Trevor and Simon...”

They’d been naked, both men, both boys; however, the previous night was irrelevant. Nothing mattered to Daniil as he followed his own inclination. He languidly peeled off his skin-tight shirt. He heard Graeme say something about not looking at the camera. He saw Claire staring fixedly. He stretched, dangling the shirt, sensing eyes, his father’s, his elderly photographer, intent on capturing every possible angle.

“Every pose, every expression… awesome,” Claire murmured.

“He’s a little awkward. A few more times bare, it’ll be very natural,” Graeme said from behind his camera.

“Indoors and outdoors, I presume.”

“There’s enough sun to start on his tan. And if he gets sun burn, a little butter will fix him right up,” Graeme muttered.

Finally, he stopped moving around Daniil and stepped back, smiling. He turned slowly, meekly.

“He’s divine, absolutely ideal... I wonder if... Would it be too much to ask... I’d love to paint him, life-sized. Here, as Hylas, alone in his secret hiding place.”

Daniil caught his father’s eye, a slight shrug with a frown to match, all very strange.

Claire clapped her hands. “Your gorgeous Ganymede as the ’Charming Hylas, whose hair hung down in curls.’ What a wonderful idea, Graeme!”

“What a wonderful memory you have, Claire; Theocritus no less! Of course, I’ll paint from photos or you’ll be here for a week.” Graeme checked his enthusiasm and regarded Bruce. “Um... He’d have to be nude for what I have in mind. Would that be a problem?”

No one else was nearby, yet Bruce looked around deliberately, heart racing before he paused on Daniil. He seemed completely unperturbed, not overly eager, yet interested. Perhaps being nude wouldn’t be as stressful as he thought.

“As long as his mother never sees it.”

Claire prodded for confirmation. “A life-size nude of your beautiful son; why would she have a problem with that?”

“Mom gets angry if I don’t wear a shirt,” Daniil muttered, bare to the waist.

Not surprised, she prodded again. “Then, your father can hang it on his library wall.”

“If I had a library, which I don’t. I have a corner in her study,” Bruce interrupted. “If Dani agrees, it’s okay by me with one condition. No one else knows, especially his mother.”

Daniil regarded him, vulnerable, anxious, and still not eager, yet becoming increasingly interested the longer he thought about it; especially with Claire and Graeme watching him hopefully.

“Being nude means I’ll be undressed... in front of you all,” he murmured.

“Your father and I have already seen you naked,” Claire said quietly.

Daniil smiled shyly, a peek at Graeme, who was smiling right at him.

“I’ve seen hundreds of willies over the years. What’s one more?”

With everything else, ‘hundreds’ was enough to ignite Bruce’s desire. Lust demanded sustenance, unquenchable yearning for his offspring, stark naked, sexually aroused, shamelessly exhibiting himself.

“I’d never force you, but when you’re all grown up, you’ll have something to remember today,” Bruce suggested, still wary.

“Promise you won’t show anyone else, Dad?”

“I promise. You will let Edwin see it though, right?”

Daniil rolled his eyes.

Undressing continued at the same unhurried pace, again directed by Graeme, only now with Daniil sitting on the Ionic capital. Bruce peeked at bare skin, salivating as he picked up discarded sneakers and ankle socks, and folded his son’s skinny-skater jeans and shirt.

“Finally, he’s down to his catamite panties,” Claire teased.

Daniil pretended to be bashful in front of the camera, holding his hand in front of his crotch, peeking at Graeme while he picked at the cords on his silvery short pants, somehow turning a neat little bow into a knot.

“You need me to help with that?” Bruce muttered, stepping closer.

He gazed down, ignoring his son’s anxious head shake, captivated by tousled curls and bony shoulders, pale skin pimpled with goose-flesh, an obvious bulge in satiny cloth.

“You should divest him, Bruce,” Claire said encouragingly.

“Better if he does it himself while his father watches,” Graeme said. “Slowly, I need time to frame each shot.”

Supervising his son in the bathtub was never so thrilling. Being close to him was always exhilarating; merely touching his son’s silky warm skin made him tremble. A caress of his cheek, stroking a baby-soft forehead, brushing away recalcitrant curls, contemplating cerulean eyes...

Claire was transfixed, surely one of the most erotic things she’d witnessed; a vulnerable beautiful boy, exposing his little parts, radiant in the sun’s warmth.

Bruce stepped back, held out his hand, and waited respectfully, yet staring down as his son deftly unfastened the cord. It was a magic moment, unforgettable.

“Take your time,” Graeme muttered. “A little more sideways so I can see you’re a boy.”

“Rather obvious when it’s sticking out like a little Billy-goat horn,” Claire muttered.

The camera clicked, and again.

Then, silence. Daniil shimmied. Loose silvery panties slipped unaided down his legs, coltish and hairless, ending at his ankles. He pinched cloth with his toes, and like an elegant stork, lifted his foot to his hand.

With a smirk at his father, he handed over catamite panties and confronted the camera, a defiant Peter Pan with his hands on his hips, circumcised penis proudly erect, blatantly displayed to his entranced audience.

“Quite the faunlet, isn’t he?” Claire remarked.

“Rather startling, actually. I wasn't thinking of a Marten-style Hylas... Couldn’t be better. Hasidic, but not.” Graeme chuckled, inching closer to his model.

He repositioned the now-naked boy, classically framed between columns, moving around, muttering to himself as he pressed the shutter button. Then, he perched him, faun-like on the white marble capital, pensive like a boy lost in thought, reclining beside the octagonal fishpond; always coy and sensuous, and emphasizing his natural state.

Seeking a more dynamic pose, Graeme positioned his Hylas springing from among the day lilies. Immediately, he noticed awkward movement; then, a glimpse of blue between small pinched buttocks.

“He’s just been pricked, hasn’t he?”

Claire nodded.

“Poor thing; no wonder he’s sore with a plug jammed up his bum. Master Simon would be stiff as a board by now.”

“The principal’s imperative, Graeme,” she said quietly.

He gave an imperious glance in Bruce’s direction. “He’s smaller than most boys. I expect you to be gentle until he’s used to...”

“I’ll make sure he’s careful,” she interrupted.

Graeme stooped among day lilies; he focused his camera. “Easy to paint a larger willy, Bruce?”

“Give me authentic over artificial, any day,” Bruce replied, trying to control his burgeoning lust.

Every few seconds, Daniil peeked in his direction, quivering with a kind of ‘come hither’ look guaranteed to make a man’s adrenaline surge.

After a few more photos, Graeme looked up and shook his head.

“Damn, there’s rain on the way. Claire, you and Bruce pack up here, and meet us at the Castle. Ganymede and I will detour to the Boat House so he can see how his painting will look like when it’s finished.”

He took Daniil’s hand, directing him toward an overgrown path, already reciting.

My darling boy,

Ah, upon your breast I lie, languish,

And your blossoms, your grass press upon my heart.

You cool the burning Thirst of my bosom.’

 

“Personally, I think ‘grass’ means ‘arse.’ You’ll remember me for bastardizing Goethe’s Ganymed, if nothing else.”

“What’s bastardizing?” Daniel giggled, wriggling his bottom as he strolled past his father.

She shook her head slightly as Bruce started forward to intercept, Daniil’s clothes and shoes in hand.

“He’ll at least need his shoes,” he grumbled.

“Leaves and grass, perhaps a little mud; I’m sure he’ll do fine just like he is.”

“He’s stark naked. What if someone sees him?”

“It’s not London, Bruce. Graeme isn’t a dirty old man perving at a little boy. He’s an esthete, a connoisseur. Daniil’s being naked is something he’ll always treasure.”

“Easy for you to say.”

Claire touched his arm. “As youth learns from age, age is celebrated with youth. Consummation is mutual, never one-sided.”

Bruce sputtered at ‘consummation. “But....”

“Consent comes eagerly after sustained attention, Bruce. A few minutes flirting with Graeme will be good for him, and you, too. He’s also the consummate teacher,” she added.

oUo

The Boat House was a folly from an era of architectural silliness, oversized river-stone walls topped with a chalet-style shingle roof and thick green lichen. A Victorian Gothic arch more suited to a parish church confronted idyllic Lake Windermere. Within, two boats, a sailboat with its mast laid down and an old-fashioned wooden motorboat, and dozens of fly-fishing rods, waders, vests, and baskets.

Curious, Daniil scrambled up steep stone stairs to discover Graeme’s painting studio above. It was spooky and romantic, potent with the aroma of turpentine, with cobwebbed clerestory lights and a grimy balcony window with far reaching views of the lake. He wandered from easel to easel, and peering at painting upon painting stacked against the walls.

“Why is everything so dusty?”

Still wheezing from the stairs, Graeme cleared his throat. “My staff are not allowed up here.”

“Why are there so many boys in your paintings?”

“The same reason my staff don’t come up here.

“Because they’re naked?” Daniil turned, flaunting juvenile nudity as he pretended to stretch.

Too much dust; he sneezed, even that with dramatic flair.

“Why else would I paint them?”

Graeme regarded Daniil with the highly trained eye of a pederast; amused, entranced. A truly heavenly boy, surely the equal of Zeus’ Ganymede.

“’…the lover of beautiful has a desire, what is it that he desire?’ Surely, Diotima is of the same mind as I; a naked boy epitomizes perfection.”

Utterly confused, yet smirking to hide it, Daniil pointed at an unframed canvas on a paint-splattered wooden easel, the subject obviously painted in that very spot, looking toward the balcony. An older boy stood in the doorway. A smaller boy knelt, an acolyte paying homage, one hand holding the extended penis, gazing up with endearing eyes, and a slightly protruding tongue.

“The finest art begins with contemplation of order and meaning,” Graeme said quietly. “Then, spontaneity and creativity. First, satisfy the soul; then, give interest to the mind.”

Daniil reflected. Mr. Ed said to focus on what the eye didn’t see, at least not right away.

“Order comes from the Golden Section,” he murmured, now staring relentlessly.

It was there, plain as day. The proportion of the frame, a diagonal that defined the older boy’s erection, a perpendicular that positioned the younger boy’s arm, another, the angle of his eyes... A sly peek sideways showed the old man was following his gaze intently.

“He was certain you’d see it,” Graeme mused, as pleased as he could be. “You really are truly exceptional.”

Long charged seconds, heartbeat increasing, painfully erect and wanting to look away, Daniil shifted uncomfortably.

“Exceptional in so many ways. Not the least that you’re homosexual at such a young age.”

“How can you tell?”

“When a boy looks at other males and his diddle is too hard to widdle.”

Now, Daniil dared not look down. Instead, he focused on the canvas, on meaning. On the balcony rail was a stubby white candle in an old-fashioned pewter candle holder.

“Um, why is the candle there?”

“It’s clearly daytime, so not for light. It must have some other meaning.”

Graeme smiled obscurely, always fascinated at how quickly a boy’s penis responded. Mere seconds for Daniil; it was most reassuring. First, boys, then men, then their sons —it assured generations in service of Eros.

“Light is a Freemason symbol,” he went on. “It represents illumination, truth and knowledge. Master Simon is on the first stair to enlightenment. His brother is at the threshold. The doorway and what lies beyond, that symbolizes the noesis that is Freemasonry.”

At a loss for words, Daniil blurted, “His brother has a big one.”

“Compared to Simon, he’s big. However, he’s not that big for just turned thirteen. If you look closely, you can see a few little hairs.”

Daniil leaned, peered, and smiled. “Is Simon going to suck his willy?”

“Rather!” Graeme pushed his lips into an ‘o’, eyes wide, mocking surprise. “In fact, he did it several times while I painted them. He was a very naughty boy that day.”

It worked like a charm.

Daniil giggled self-consciously. “Simon sucks better than I do, really super.”

“What you and Master Simon do is a secret,” Graeme warned, his tone severe for good reason. “It’s okay to tell certain men, though. I know Claire told you how to recognize them.”

“From how they look at me,” Daniil mumbled.

“Yes; however, the men I’m thinking of are very special. They wear these.”

He reached, extending his wrist, pointing at Daniil, intentionally drawing his attention to his index finger, the finger that initially aroused a boy’s hidden pleasure.

Daniil smiled, anxiety slowly fading, yet he quickly averted his gaze, back to a palette, brushes, and flat-bladed knives, oil paint like thick smears of grease.

Graeme raised his hand, pressing two fingers against Daniil’s smooth forehead, presenting a gold mobius ring with tiny inscribed letters.

“Tell me, dearest, do you know what is it?”

“A Catamitus Ring. The Nine Virtues in Greek are on one side; in Latin on the other.”

Suddenly, both his manner and tone became guarded, barely a whisper, yet far more passed between old man and skittish boy.

‘The Union of Eros bonds men like me and boys like you. We share the Spirit, Master Daniel.”

“I only just joined, Sir. Last night. I’m not even initiated yet.”

“I know. You have much to learn, little catamite.” Graeme gestured at the painting. “When I painted them, Master Simon was still learning to suck cock. The skill is essential.”

Daniil nodded nervously.

“Nay, quintessential. My old Latin professor would say it’s the sine qua non of boy love! You’re already studying Latin, I hope?”

Captivated by the lively old man, he managed a slight shake of his head.

“Claire will fix that! It’s the language of boy love. Actually, Greek is, but it’s too darn hard, and no one uses it nowadays.”

Sine qua non means indispensable, but what’s quintessential, Sir... Master Browne?”

“Quintessence is the fifth essence, the aether the ancient gods breathed; it fills the universe. Archetypal, of the beginning.”

Daniil nodded as words filled his mind, unaware of goose-flesh pimpling his arms and thighs.

“You’re a beautiful little homosexual.” Graeme lowered his voice. “Boys like you make the best catamites by far.”

Daniil grinned, self-esteem burgeoning.

“Oh, that I was forty years younger,” Graeme said wistfully. “There is no higher love than between a man and a boy, as I’m sure you know.”

He looked Daniil over, androgynous child with long curling hair and Cupid lips. Coltish soccer legs, smooth like his forearms, all desirable.

“True love begins when a boy takes his man in his mouth,” he whispered.

Daniil gulped saliva and nodded again, utterly bewitched by elderly eyes, penetrating, domineering, commanding.

“Being bummed is the culmination,” Graeme resumed. “The sooner you perfect both beginning and ending, the better. Training is key; and lots of practice, my dear.”

He leered at Daniil, scarcely believing his good fortune. He could tell from how the boy looked back; subservient, sweet, not-quite-innocent, eager to please, and wanting to be better at whatever he did.

“Most boys learn to suck by having it done to them by another boy, and then reciprocating. Your little willy is an easy mouthful for Master Simon, as his is for you. You’re equals, more or less. It’s very different for a catamite.”

“Because he has sex with men.” Daniil decided to break the ‘cardinal’ rule. “My dad sucks mine all the time when my mom’s not around.” He hesitated. “When I try to suck his the same way, I can’t.”

“You can fit a man’s penis in your mouth, the head at least, which is enough to start. However, a man’s penis is so large that it blocks your throat. It will feel like you’re choking.”

“Usually, I end up, well, not throwing up, but almost.”

“You must take it inside you very carefully, and slowly so you get used to it. Baby steps always, but first you must want his penis in your mouth.”

“You sound like Mr. Ed. He always says to do things in baby steps.”

Graeme smiled fondly. “Edwin and I have trained many boys over the years; still, at my age, it might be better if Claire is your go-to person. However, I’d love to show you how nice it can feel.”

Then, he waited for Daniil, clearly anxious, glancing around the studio, doing his best to ignore the demanding protuberance below his belly. Finally, he smiled shyly. And nodded!

Grasping the easel, Graeme lowered himself to his knees before taking Daniil’s soft hand and drawing him near, so close he could see the tiny slit in the boy’s crimson helmet.

“It’s a pity I left the butter in the picnic hamper. I’ve only seen one willy as tight as yours,” he murmured, taking quick breaths. “I still remember my first taste,” he whispered, salivating. “Master Marten’s was always so clean and fresh on the tip.”

He licked his lips, consumed by desire, the tiny glans a tender, appetizing morsel. Below, taut shiny-pink skin stretched all the way to the hairless base, a small wrinkled scrotum tucked beneath.

Brashly, Daniil reached, touching thinning white hair, drawing the man’s head into his groin. A muted sigh, warm wet lips enclosing, absorbing his stiff short shaft. All of it went into Graeme’s mouth, lips and nose burrowing into his pubis. Then, sucking, vacuuming the life from his loins. He trembled, savoring being devoured, the old man pulling everything in, even his baby-balls.

He gasped; the sheer intensity of boyhood possessed by a man was something to treasured forever. It lasted a minute, perhaps longer before the man reluctantly released his genitals, dripping saliva.

“You’re a very sweet boy,” Graeme whispered.

A single finger stroked the tingling hard shaft, the underside from base to tiny swollen helmet, a fingernail gently scratching in the miniature groove underneath. So tender! Then, gripping the plump little ball between fingertip and thumb pad, Graeme rolled and squeezed almost cruelly.

“When Edwin was your age, I used to twiddle his diddle like this. It’s better with butter, much faster.”

“Ohhhh... Ahhhh.... Ahhhh!”

Daniil arched, gasping, belly and thigh muscles straining prematurely. His penis jerked spontaneously as if reciprocating for throbbing, impulsive clenching of his buttocks. He groaned in ecstasy and slumped back, quivering as spasms continued erratically.

“Your first orgasm, was it?” Graeme teased, sniffing his finger and thumb.

Yet another head shake, lost for words, aware of an ache deep inside, worse than the glowing sensation on the end of his penis.

“I get the feeling all the time, now. Only my dad’s never done it like *that*.”

“He will, soon enough. Perhaps, next time, you won’t get to the finish line so quickly. Still, you tasted delicious; unforgettable, in fact.”

Still trembling, Daniil barely heard. His throbbing penis strained upwards, the spit-slicked tip glowing red like Rudolph’s nose, minuscule seepage in the miniature slit.

“If I’m not mistaken, your father will suck your penis as often as time permits. You should offer to suck his several times a day. Remember, baby steps, and always listen to advice. Every time a little bit more and you’ll soon get the hang of it.”

Awkwardly, Graeme clambered to his feet, rearranging his trousers, brushing off dust. He licked his lips, still wet, sucked in his cheeks, savoring vibrant boy-flavor before he smiled.

“I have another painting of Master Simon and Geoffrey somewhere. Shall we find it?”

He sorted through a stack of stretched canvases as Daniil wandered, peeking at his still-wet erection, studying other boys, all naked, mostly innocent poses in rustic settings. When he finally turned around, the man was staring.

Sheepishly, he sucked on his bottom lip. “I’m sorry I was quick. I couldn’t stop myself.”

Still, Graeme smiled approvingly and beckoned Daniil closer.

“The best way to learn self-control is by masturbating. Claire will train you to last. Now, this is one of my more imaginative works.”

He stood aside. Daniil gorged on pastoral fantasy, a rustic glade, a splash of sunlight on gnarly oak trunks and twisting vines, a mossy rock ledge, a carpet of red, orange, and yellow leaves. Two boys pressed front to rear, lean and bare, leather armor and weapons discarded.

“Two centuries ago, I’d be an acclaimed artist, Nowadays, they’d put me in Her Majesty’s prison.”

Daniil squinted, stepping closer. “Is he really bumming Simon?”

“Artistic license, dear boy; although they’ve practiced enough to be experts.”

“Graeme, Master Daniel forgot his clothes,” Claire called from the bottom of the stairs. “I’ll leave them down here.”

“Right oh! I’m just showing him some of my recent work.”

Her iPhone beeped an incoming text message from her father, marked ‘urgent’.

I want to meet him ASAP. Katrina convinced her mother to keep him until June.’

She tensed at the possibility of losing the EU’s newest member, even temporarily. She poked at her digital keyboard, making three mistakes before sending, ‘Beginning?’

The response was nearly instantaneous. ‘Stirling Junior flies back next week.’

She checked her annoyance before responding.

“Don’t dilly dally up there, Graeme,” she called. “That’s storm’s getting closer.”

oUo

Finally, back on the A6, a mostly two-lane road through the rolling hills of rural England, fields and scattered small farms. There was little to see through rain-splattered windows, and wipers going back and forth like a metronome. Daniil snuggled up with his father on the back seat of the Range Rover, his leather jacket covering him. Warm, secure, and loved; he sighed as a large hand tugged up his shirt. Fingers far stronger than his, drifted across bare skin, investigating his navel, pushing insistently higher in search of hot tender places.

“No tickling, Dad. Self-control, remember?”

Bruce diverted from armpit to nipple, his thumbnail lightly scratching the tiny nub. Daniil concentrated on the familiar pleasure, his eyes nearly closed. Tingling there, tensing elsewhere, feeling strange as his sphincter contracted, pulling in on his plug. Doing it deliberately, practicing like Claire said. Sensations surged, turning giggly and curling his toes inside red sneakers. Repeating, not pushing, not squeezing, exerting inward pressure until the T-handle resisted ingress.

Her mind still in a whir, Claire glanced in the rear vision mirror.

“Silly bugger’s driving much too close.”

She caught Bruce’s eye—she needed to deal with her father’s bad news, now, rather than later. Still, the thought of telling him... She exhaled, wondering how best to segue to his wife’s plan for his son to stay with his grandmother; it changed everything.

“He knows what he’s talking about,” she muttered, mostly thinking about her father’s last text message. ‘Patience is a virtue even if we don’t always practice it. That said, the principal is crucial!’

“Pardon?”

“Master Daniel needs to increase his self-control. Graeme mentioned it before we left; it’s crucial to the Eros Union!” She glanced in the mirror again. “Now, the village idiot is trying to pass. He’s driving a Fiat 600, and there’s a hill coming up.”

Bruce glanced down, unable to resist brushing curls from his son’s forehead. Claire drove like Daniil’s grandmother, his wife’s mother, always criticizing other drivers, only at a faster pace. Lethal on the freeway; she went out of her way not to spoil Daniil; no redeeming features at all.

“What about self-control?” he reminded her.

“The Ninth Virtue, Bruce. The Spirit of Boy Love?” She glanced in the mirror to make sure she had his attention.

However, Bruce was elsewhere; utterly absorbed, fondling a little ear and silky curls. The fingers of his other hand ventured south, circling his son’s whorled navel, closing on the target. Only skinny-skater jeans stood in the way.

“You’re getting close to the danger zone, Dad,” Daniil murmured sleepily.

Not a warning, sucking in his tummy in encouragement as his father pressed on, slipping an intrusive finger under the waist of his jeans. Only when the fingertip touched the tender tip of his erection did he inflate his belly, trying not to giggle; long seconds until the invading fingers escaped.

“’Danger zone’ would be what, Master Daniel?” Claire interrupted, not at all sure she’d heard right.

“It’s what Mr. Ed calls my private places, Mum.”

At Claire’s snicker, Bruce lifted his eyes and tried to explain. “At the time, Edwin and I were talking about his mom. She doesn’t like me wrestling with him. The danger zone is off limits when she’s home.”

“Well, now you live by the Nine Virtues. No worrying about danger zones. Everything is up for grabs.”

After two glasses of Chablis, he blinked drowsily.“Everything... Yes!”

“You know he’s got zero self-control, right?” Daniil, muttered. His tone didn’t help.

Claire reacted immediately. “Master Daniel, define self-control.”

Sullenly sulky, Daniil sat up. “Yes, Mum. Self-control is my ability to regulate my emotions, thoughts, and behavior when faced by desire.”

And desire is?” Claire appended.

Desire is the temptation and impulse to satisfy my lust, Mum.”

Claire nodded approvingly. “And the best way for a catamite to learn self-control is?”

He faltered, peeking at his father. “Um... Master Browne said by masturbating, Mum.”

And not peaking. All boys play with their willies; however, a catamite achieves the ultimate joy from pleasing a man, never from pleasuring himself. It’s two hours to Glasgow, Master Daniel...”

Claire beeped the horn at a car passing too close.

You’re to rub it nonstop and not climax.”

No way. Two hours without getting the feeling...”

Did I hear a sigh? I hope not. Poor little Willy will be sore for days if you can’t use the lube in your bum bag.”

Graeme’s welcoming gift was Versace-gorgeous, a textured-calf-leather belt-bag, a British ‘bum bag;’ ‘fanny pack’ in American parlance. It was extravagant, utter indulgence with a vibrant Le Pop Classique motif and gold-tone Medusa hardware, ideal for holding all kind of catamite necessities.

Yes, Mum.” His tone was as surly as his face.

You’ll need to do better than that or you’ll be red raw by Glasgow.”

Yes, Mum,” he said brightly.

You’ve got two to choose from. Browne’s boy-butter, or Handley’s goose grease.”

Daniil unzipped the bag. No petroleum jelly, no coconut oil, just a small plastic tub of butter and a squishy silicone ball with an applicator nozzle.

Better push your jeans down, Dani,” Bruce instructed, worried how much his son’s jeans had cost.

Daniil unfastened the button and zipper, lifted up, and tugged down his jeans and panties.

Go easy on the goose grease,” Claire said. “It’s very slippery. Much better than butter, even though Edwin swears by it, especially for masturbating.”

Daniil gulped, stealing a peek at his father. “Yes, Ma'am... Mum.”

Push your jeans all the way down. Don’t want them getting stained, do we?”

He shoved jeans and panties down to his ankles. “Should I take them off, Mum?”

Better not. Too many bobbies on the motorway.”

He squeezed a small creamy blob on his first two fingers, smearing with his thumb. He grumped something and slathered more goose grease over his still-erect penis. He looked up to find his father smirking.

I have to jerk off all the way to Glasgow. She didn't say you get to watch.”

My catamite should want me to watch.”

Daniil pretend-scowled until Bruce took a breath, took a chance, more fascinated than a father should be, and excited.

I wanna watch, okay. Seeing you all bare stirs my you-know, y'know, down there, like you-know...”

Kids at my school so do not talk like that.” Daniil grinned, staring down. “Are you stiff now?”

Feel and find out.”

Daniil elbowed back, sudden, sharp, impertinent. Bruce let out a primal grunt, and grabbed for boy-dick; just normal father and son play as Daniil grasped his thumb.

Mom warned me about you,” he whispered, bending it back, giggling. “Child molester, that’s what you are.”

Enlivened, Bruce wrestled his still-seat-belted son onto his side, pinned him with his back jammed against the seat back, one leg pulled up, one leg outstretched. Instantly, a little tongue poked out of ‘zombie’ face before it buried into Bruce's belly.

You better be masturbating, Master Daniel,” Claire sniped.

With his right arm restrained, Daniil had only one choice. Two fingers braced the thumb of his left hand, grasping stiffness, inelegantly sliding over taut skin, from plump little helmet to pudgy pubis.

He leaned close to his father and whispered, “Feels different than coco-oil.”

Concentrate on rubbing your thumb on the tip. Your other fingers should be feeling your balls,” Claire said distantly. “Slow and steady wins the race.”

Now, shamelessly engrossed in his son’s intimate act, Bruce took one deep breath after another. Up, down, his son’s wrist gyrating, eyes already dreamy, unfocused except for an awareness of something wonderful slowly building inside him.

Daniil stroked steady, immersed in blissful sensations, his slick small hand, already accustomed, if not overly skilled. Coconut oil, butter, now goose grease; they were oily and slippery, yet different. Coconut oil made him quiver with delight, but that was because...

“Bruce, Master Daniel must also learn how to control the rest of his body.”

Bruce jolted back to reality. “Pardon?”

She shook her head. A catamite’s rectum and anus require training for adult penetration. His colon, too, when his lover is as large as you.

“Oh, right. What about... what should I do... I mean um...”

“To start, you might want to take out his plug.”

He reached behind Daniil’s small buttocks, searching for the T-handle. Making sure he followed Trevor’s directions, he lifted the upper flange and pulled carefully. After a slight backward movement, it stopped. Out far enough to pinch the stem, he tightened his grip and gave a deft pull.

Daniil jerked, making a face as he inched back. Bruce tugged. He could feel Daniil’s sphincter resisting.

“Relax,” he whispered.

“I’m trying to. I think it’s jammed, Mum.”

“Don’t yank it out, Bruce. If movement’s restricted wobble it about for a while.”

Bruce wobbled the slippery silicone plug. He could feel it loosening, sliding easily until it squelched. He wobbled it again, and Daniil twitched, averting his eyes. Another wobble and Daniil wriggled, clearly enjoying it.

“Feels nice, huh?” Bruce whispered.

Daniil nodded. Bruce pulled gently, pushed in, pulled back a little harder. For a few moments, Daniil’s small body resisted egress. Bruce pushed and pulled, working the thickest part of the plug into his son’s sphincter. It departed his rectum in a rush, along with a squelchy pop.

“Jerk out Big Boy, why don’t you?” Daniil pretend-squealed, one hand rubbing his buttocks to prove he’d been injured, more shame and surprise than smarting.

Stop fussing. Big Boys the five-inch version, your average adolescent,” Claire chided, watching the mirror.

“Did you know your cute little butt is full of slimy stuff?” Bruce added mockingly.

“The slimy stuff is your cum!”

Trying hard not to laugh, Bruce examined the training plug while holding it gingerly between his thumb and first finger. Not for the first time, he inhaled his son’s musky scent. The smell was redolent, heady, thrilling unlike any other. Up close, it was slippery and hot as can be.

He’d barely noticed the shape when he inserted it during the night. In daylight, it was unsettling at best. Ergonomic and sleek, an eccentric ellipse in cross section, not even close to be being round; it stood to reason L’ Entraîneur did more than mere training.

Keep masturbating,” Bruce coached.

“Goose grease feels really slippery, Dad.”

He stroked his son’s already-tired wrist. “I wish I was playing with Willy.”

“Me too, Dad.”

Claire smiled at Daniil’s faraway tone. Melancholy, wistful, thoughtful, too; the way boys got when they were ready. If ever there was a time to step up his preparation, this was it. A few days ahead of schedule, yet time was of the essence.

“Deflowering was only the first stage,” she said quietly.

Bruce hesitated. “What's the next stage?”

“Yielding; you need to open him, make him loose so you fit properly.”

All part of a boy’s journey; it had to be done right, gently and carefully under supervision. Too much was at stake not to.

“How loose do I have to be, Mum?”

“I really need to concentrate on driving, Master Daniel,” she said.

Bruce took a breath; certain his face was crimson. “Logically, you need to be loose enough so Richard fits inside without hurting you.”

Daniil mimicked holding his father’s erection, his left hand held out, fingers and opposing thumb not close to touching.

He gaped at his hand. “If that’s going in my ‘hole’, it has to be huge.”

“After you train your body to stretch, it won’t be a problem,” Claire said.

“So it if stretches, how big?”

“Your boy-hole will be like Master Simon’s. Nothing to worry about.”

Daniil smiled shyly, peeking at his father. Licking his lips, nervous and excited. As big as Simon’s, he could handle.

“Of course, it’ll be bigger right after your father pulls out,” Claire went on. “I remember one morning after Simon’s father withdrew, Poor thing, it was like looking into his mouth.”

“He’s so loose, I could do it tonight” Bruce teased, wriggling his finger between his son’s slippery little buttocks.

Daniil giggled and shoved his father’s hand away.

“What's after Yielding, Mum?”

“What yields outside, must yearn within,” she said, skirting the issue.

“Does it have a name, Mum?”

So much for skirting. “Yearning can take a few days or as long as a month,” she said simply, hoping it would end there.

Suspicion aroused, Bruce inquired, “Yearning for what, exactly?”

If you must know, you enlarge his rectum and intensify the sensation until he craves penetration.” When no one spoke, she took a breath. “First; his hole needs to yield easier.”

“It already feels loose, Mum.”

“A few hours with your father’s finger and it’ll be a lot looser,” she added.

Bruce sputtered. “Do it on the back seat while you drive, no way!”

“You’d prefer I pull over and watch?” Claire snickered. “Master Daniel doesn’t mind masturbating with an audience.”

Daniil grimaced, not disagreeing. He rubbed slowly, cuddling close to his father with his cheek pressed against coarse denim.

“Despite what you think, deflowering him was not making love to him, Bruce. He needs to be properly penetrated so he has a chance at orgasm,” she said firmly.

“Why does it have to happen the day after he lost his virginity?”

She tightened her grip on the steering wheel. “The sooner the better.”

Bruce exhaled—she was right, of course.

She continued. “His plug is shaped for a sexually active boy.”

She glanced up at the rear vision mirror, catching his eye, the plug still in his left hand.

“Anatomically, L’ Entraîneur elongates the surrounding muscles,” she explained. “It works best if it’s inserted while he’s still gaping.”

Bruce nodded, examining the still-warm plug. The oval stem was thin, yet wide where it passed through his son’s anus; easy to figure out what got elongated.

“Lengthwise, there’s a lot more potential for elasticity, so penetration is easier,” she continued. “The flanges and web stimulate his anus. The pleasurable sensations are sufficient to ensure repetition. There may be a buildup phase, perhaps even a surging sensation, but an anal orgasm? Good luck.”

His face burned with embarrassment.

“When it’s properly inserted, the core extends beyond his sphincter,” she continued. “Over time, it’ll expand his rectum...”

The core was four inches (10 cm) of flexible cone-shaped blue silicone, over an inch wide. No wonder it was difficult to pull out.

“… Pressuring his prostate is especially pleasurable. Done right it induces orgasmic spasms, longer and far more intense than his regular climax. He might also release semen when he’s capable. With training, he’ll have two or three bum cums in the same session. I’ve seen Simon have four; of course, he was totally exhausted....”

As important as it was, Bruce tuned out, his gaze still fixed on Daniil’s Entraîneur. Properly inserted, the curved core would press up between his anus and testicles. Trevor had said something about a training plug applying pressure on his prostate gland, enhanced every time he squirmed in his seat.

“He gets nice feelings from his plug, doesn’t he?” He hesitated. “That’s why you had him pulling up from inside earlier.”

It bothered him as much as Daniil’s uncertain smile.

Claire coughed; end of discussion. It was probably a good thing; equally distressing was Daniil’s playful groping, a little right hand cupping his bulge, fingers squirming, squeezing his glans.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he whispered.

“I’m making you feel good,” Daniil whispered back.

Teasingly rolling the swollen helmet between his thumb and fingers, adding a pinch on the tip because his father’s penis was already drooling—its slimy excretion leaked through his jeans. It fascinated him.

“You’re supposed to be masturbating,” Bruce murmured, somehow managing to look away. “Using a plug all the time, is it really necessary, Claire?”

“Even after he yields easily, you should still dilate him before sex. Constant exercise is preferable to jamming in an adult-sized dildo; unless you want him to have a big gaping hole and anal fissures.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“You can always goose him.” She waited—not a sound from the back seat. “Goose means to prod from behind; stir into action, or loosen.” She let the suggestion hang.

“So... um... I just push my finger in and out.” Not the first time he’d fingered his son, yet he still worried.

“It feels nicer if you work it up and down and around, Dad.”

Daniil’s furtive whisper did nothing to stem his libido. Desire offset shame, zero confidence, and almost no experience.

He began with his right forefinger crooked and slathered with goose grease. At first glance, he seemed skillful; mostly, he was lucky. Daniil was sufficiently relaxed that he easily insinuated a slimy fingertip into his anus. After being stretched for 14 hours with the plug, he penetrated beyond the first joint on his first attempt to wriggle into the taut tube.

“Without his plug, it would difficult to open him up without some initial discomfort,” Claire said remotely.

Incredible, really; deliciously tight and oh-so-hot, no different than what he felt the first time in the shower, only now Daniil whimpered softly, anxiously, hungry for deeper penetration.

Claire smiled—every boy made the same whiny sound.

“Stay in the pleasure path, Bruce.”

“What path?”

“Geez, Dad! Between the pucker and portal. Didn’t you listen to Trevor last night?”

Bruce swallowed saliva. “What portal?”

“You’re supposed to know this stuff, not me.”

“His prostate can wait until he’s properly open.” Claire sounded strange, almost as if she could feel his burgeoning joy, impending pleasure of possessing his boy simply by inserting a finger.

Bruce calmly set about his task, eliminating what remained of Daniil’s pucker merely by moving his finger up and down, pulling, pushing, circling, always pleasuring. Flesh and innards came alive, tiny tightening spasms, so slippery nothing could stop his surging finger from investigating, teasing, his satisfaction so intense it seemed wrong.

“Getting any looser?” Claire inquired.

“Rather. A bit loosey goosey, in fact.”

“He’s probably ready for the catamite salute, two fingers together.”

“Stole it from the cub scouts, did you?”

“Nowadays, British cub scouts use three fingers,” Claire said tiredly. “Put on some of the Lidocaine cream. It’ll take off the edge.”

Bruce reluctantly relocated his son’s hand to a less distracting position. He found an unused tube in Daniil’s bum bag, unscrewed the cap, pierced the seal, and squeezed white cream over his index and middle fingers.

“Go in to the second joint. Anything more is overkill for his first time,” Claire advised.

Daniil inhaled sharply, momentarily trying to escape as two of his father’s fingers pressed into his anus, elongating the rim. An unsettling awareness as the added thickness penetrated, stretching, stretching...

“Stay there!” He was certain something would split inside him.

“You know what to do, Master Daniel. Deep breath; relax; concentrate.”

oUo

About an hour after Bruce took over driving, they reached Loch Lomond, glorious views until the sun set behind craggy hills. The rugged Highlands closed in, more spooky than romantic in the dark, faint scattered remnants of castles and fortified farms, tiny villages barely visible in the dark. Finally, they stopped at Glencoe to switch drivers again, and refuel.

Traffic on the A82 slowed for Ballachulish Bridge, under construction. Claire took advantage to check progress on the car’s GPS—their destination still one and a half hours away. Mist and rain for half of the way, awful traffic with two accidents outside Glasgow.

Daniil woke up when they drove onto the Corran-Ardgour ferry, his first ferry ever.

Yawning, stretching, wriggling in his seat, finally muttering, “Doesn’t feel right, Dad.”

Claire smirked, watching Bruce in the rear vision mirror, too embarrassed to explain.

You need to be looser, Master Daniel. I had him put your plug in sideways while you were asleep. You’ll be glad tomorrow.

Daniil grumbled and sulked all the way to Sunart.

They crossed the bridge over the Strontian River, and promptly turned left, following the darkened lake, mile after mile through the desolate Highlands.

We in the middle of nowhere, yet?”

Nearly,” she announced, relief with a yawn. “Bruce, I think your catamite needs another goosing to teach him some manners.”

Ouch! You could’ve warned me, Dad.”

Although they’d entered Scotland hours earlier, for a lark, she turned on the radio and pushed the CD button. Scotland the Brave blasted triumphant; advanced amplifier, digital signal processing, speakers all over the Range Rover.

lba an Àigh, cherished by those of Gaelic heritage, tourists, and Yank pedophiles,” she laughed, turning up the volume and singing along.

“’...Now feel the blood a-leaping,

High as the spirits of the old Highland men.’

 

I expect they were chasing a cute wee laddie over the moors,” she added.

Bruce tickled his son. “The wee laddie would be you, running to get away from me.”

That makes you a pedo, Dad!” Daniil shoved his jacket away, his free-hand grabbing for the offending fingers.

“How’s the goosing going back there?” Claire interrupted; her eyes were glued to the twisting, turning road.

On the left, the headlights gave glimpses of thistles among walls of river stone, a steep hill with straggly trees, and rickety wooden fences; on the right, a low moss-covered wall and the ever-widening Loch Sunart.

Daniil squirmed, mock-glaring at his father. “I’m trying to sleep, Mum.” Then, to his father with his voice barely a whisper. “I can barely feel your fingers up my bum.”

Bruce smirked. “Mr. Loosey Goosey will need a diaper after I’m done, Claire.”

With two fingers gliding in and out with nary a murmur, sliding in a third finger was possible, and tempting. He resisted the impulse and rotated his wrist, back and forth until both fingers were rarely snug at the second joint, hardly constrained at all. Daniil wriggled back, beyond trembling. Silly-putty-boy, his bowel turned spongy soft, gooey loose, fingers relentlessly sliding in and out, suctioning mucus, Lidocaine, and goose grease.

Lost in delirious pleasure, Bruce and Daniil didn’t notice the car slowing down at a gap in the black-iron fence, now on both sides of the narrow pot-holed road. She turned between stone pillars with conical tops, a quaint stone house on one side, decorative trees on the other.

“Are you still awake, Master Tart?”

Bruce hugged him. “That tart would be my horny little son back here.” 

“He might want to get dressed,” Claire snickered. “Either this is your gatehouse, or we’re hopelessly lost.”

 






END of BOOK II.

You’ve just waded through Book II, so you must be enjoying The Eros Union.

If you want to read Book III...

before you grease up, please support NIFTY.

 

Let’s be honest; hold up the number of fingers corresponding to the number of orgasms you had while reading Book II.

How much is a good cum worth? One dollar? You’re cheap; however; you’re in peak form, which means you likely had four of them—one for each chapter, unless you binge-read. Hopefully, you were intellectually stimulated as well, so let’s double it. Send Nifty $8, and a thank you. Now, if you have $5 cums...



If the above doesn’t work for you, what will? Do I need to send the ENFORCER? She’s a 500-pound ex-sumo wrestler with barbed wire wrapped on her hands. She also smells—like the five-day-old swordfish carcass I sailed past last month.

If threats and cajoling don’t work, please SUPPORT NIFTY for me. Yes, I’m pleading.

Take a minute and go to https://www.nifty.org/nifty/prolific.html#ganymede How many of my stories have you read? I’ll be the first to agree that some of them are not very good. However, I get nothing for writing them, and I do think they are getting better over time... Maybe you think they aren’t worth reading; however, if you think they are, you can show your appreciation by supporting Nifty.

By the way, that swordfish carcass really stank. Trust me, you do not want the ENFORCER to visit.