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The Eros Union

 Book III: Yielding

By Ganymede

GLENIOLAIRE CASTLE, ACHARACLE, LOCHABER.

As Claire negotiated a narrow road threading through the woods, father and son leaned forward to peer through the windscreen. Ahead, was a moonlit silhouette against the night sky, creepy towers and chimneys all over, clusters of scintillating specks like fireflies, obscured by drifting mist and eerie evergreens.

“They don’t need to decorate for Halloween, Dad,” Daniil murmured, tired, unsettled, uncomfortable, too.

Bruce nodded vaguely, still smelling his fingers, not at all what he expected from *there*, certainly nothing like his wife’s pussy, which repulsed him. He relished the scent of forbidden love, musky, exhilarating, tempting. Lingering thoughts, mostly reflecting; how could he not? It had gone on far too long, yet he still felt an overpowering urge to finish what he’d started.

He tousled long curly hair. “Everything’s okay, right?” he whispered, still nervous.

The transformation bothered him, from small and puckered to what Claire called ‘open.’ ‘Open’ meant gaping; no guilt, though; just overwhelming pride in readying his son’s small body for copulation.

“It’s weird, Dad. I can’t feel Big Boy,” Daniil whispered back, willing to bet they’d just crossed over a bridge.

“Too sore?”

“It’s like my plug’s really loose.” He yawned, open-mouthed. “Tired mostly.”

The road made a final sweeping bend as it approached the house. A main building with five gloomy dark-stone stories with conical-roofed towers, and an adjoining mini-castle of two stories, both with corbelled walls, crenellations...

Daniil all but left his seat, leaning to see past his father.

“I think you turned in the wrong drive, Mum.”

Bruce was not about to point out he’d seen signs on the fence by the gatehouse; ‘Home of Uachdar Iolaire’, whatever that was, and ‘Sunart Fishing Lodge’. Instead, he crossed his fingers, both hands.

Daniil peered through the windscreen. “This is Mom’s miserable little lodge in the middle of nowhere?”

They passed another building off to the right; stables and a coach house.

“I expect your uncle thought ‘Sunart Fishing Lodge’ would attract more fishermen than GlenIolaire Castle.”

“It’s not a real castle, Mum.” Smart as a whip, and perceptive to a fault. “Real castles are compact so they can defend them, not strung out all over the place.”

The house overlooked an expansive dark lawn and the moon-lit lake beyond. A few dim lights revealed a gravel-paved courtyard, and a walled garden adjoining the house.

“About a dozen times bigger than I expected.” Bruce still couldn’t believe it.

“About like my butt hole,” Daniil muttered, squirming as he settled back into his seat.

Instinct in control, already practicing again, exercising, testing his muscles with the plug. It was an ever-present spongy wedge, almost enjoyable.

“You’re sure you’re okay?”

“It better be worth it, Dad.” He swiveled in his seat to see a marble statue emerge from the mist.

Claire chuckled. “Trust me, you’ll be glad in the morning.” She slowed to a crawl. “No matter how many times you do it, being bummed is the most special thing you and your father can do. You can’t make a baby. Instead, you join and become one.”

“The Principle of Unity.”

Her impression of Daniil's intellect bumped up another notch. She’d only mentioned it one time after leaving Cunsey Castle, and that was to answer his question.

“Some people say the principal is your sine qua non. The essential thing.”

“Mr. Ed said when a man and a boy are in love, unity is when they become each other. Only not like a movie where they swap bodies.” Daniil stopped, a slight sideways peek at his suddenly inquisitive father. “I asked him after you told me about butt sex.”

Uncomfortable with Claire-all-ears, Bruce muttered, “As I remember it, you asked me after hearing some older boys.” He hesitated. “I thought we had an agreement. If you have questions about sex you come to me first.”

“What if I can’t talk to you?”

“Enough!” Claire interrupted, exasperated. “The important thing is your desire to serve Eros. The principal culminates your service. Alpha and omega.”

She parked, headlights illuminating rose bushes in need of a gardener. She turned, noting Daniil’s meek smile, sleepy and sensuous with his father’s arm around his shoulders, keeping him close for as long as possible. No question about their love—it was ever-present and growing stronger.

“Now, as to why a man’s penis must go in your bottom?” she posed. “Think of your rectum as a womb. When your father leaves part of himself behind, he makes you his, just as he made you as a baby.”

“Mr. Ed says we become eternal when Dad’s semen goes in me.”

Stunned, Bruce closed his eyes, remembering bits and pieces of Edwin’s obscure and outlandish theories from graduate school, not word for word, very close.

“To become one with you, I have to possess you completely. And you have to accept me completely to become one with me. In a sense, we become each other.”

“That’s kind of what he said, Dad.”

“How the eternal thing works, I have no idea. We’ll have to ask him.”

He fell silent—when he and Edwin had the conversation, at least one of them was inebriated.

Claire took a breath, pondering options. “Bruce, by any chance did you call ahead?”

“Oh fuck! Oops. You didn’t hear that, Dani.”

A mellow giggle and a nervous wriggle, still trying his best to adjust to the feeling behind. It was constant, pervasive, insane, nothing like when it first went in.

“Did you fart?”

Bruce cuffed his offspring, mostly playful fondling. “I wasn’t planning on visiting the family estate, Claire; not until Kate settled in, assuming she got the job, of course.”

“Well, we’re here, now. Let’s hope they have two rooms available.” Claire winked at Daniil.

Daniil yawned again, unfastened his seatbelt, and opened his car door.

“We inherited a castle in the middle of nowhere. Way to go, Dad.”

A small dimly-lit cochere extended from the house, the steps partially blocked by rose cuttings. It was hardly propitious.

“Maybe we won’t have to sleep in the stables,” Claire remarked. “It is rather secluded.”

Daniil pointed. “Except for that!”

A large tour bus occupied a parking area confronting the woods.

He stumbled out of the car, yawning, picking up his jacket and bum-bag from the seat. “With my blankie and straw, it won’t be so bad, Mum.”

“Until the rats nibble on your toes.”

He groaned, handed his bum-bag to Claire, and lifted up his arms to his father.

“Carry me,” he slurred, eyelids droopy.

“At least across the threshold, if not to the bedroom, Bruce,” Claire teased.

oUo

A minute after pressing Claire pressed the buzzer, a middle-aged woman flung open the door, jolly-plump in a chef’s white coat.

She almost curtseyed. “Feasgar math, mo dheòir.” (Good evening, my dears.)

Before Bruce could introduce himself, Claire stepped around him, following the woman into the reception foyer.

“Hello, Mum. I hate to bother you. We had a mix-up and forgot to book. Would you possibly have two rooms for tonight?”

“Rather late.” Haughty Highland brogue, yet she smiled at Daniil, his head snuggled on his father’s shoulder, blinking sleepily. “Poor wee barra, ‘avin’ a bosie with ‘is daddy.”

“We’ve come a long way today.” Claire held out her hands apologetically. “Awful traffic around Glasgow.”

The woman tapped her lips. “We’ve a boos up from London, for tha weekend. Everythin’s taken, includin’ tha cots.” She shuddered, all in good spirit. “Four tae a room. Luchd-turais blas. Mar locust!” (Blasted tourists. Like locusts.)

“Ma’am, I’m sorry I didn’t call earlier,” Bruce began. “My son and I are...”

“One room would be fine, Mum? Claire interrupted, giving Bruce a dark look.

Daniil lifted his head, bottom lip forward, sad sorrowful eyes. In a faint murmur, “Please, Mrs. McIntyre? I’ll sleep on the floor,”

Surprised, the woman glanced away as if her name was on a plaque behind her. Then, a sideways look at Daniil.

“Well, laddie, and anno do ye know ma name?”

He tendered a sleepy smile after he figured out what she said.

“From the Internet, Mum. You make the best Toad in the Hole in all of Scotland.”

“Aye, I do indeed, and with onion sauce.” She gave a motherly cluck. “What might your name be, eh?”

“Daniil, Mum.”

“Oh Danny Boy, eh. Bonnie he is, und a gentleman.” She turned to Claire. “We’re fu’ up, Missus...”

“Handley; Claire Handley.” Claire ignored Bruce’s sudden throat clearing. “Perhaps a stall in the stables and a horse blanket or two?”

Mrs. McIntyre nudged Daniil. “Ye’ll be Boy-Jesus, asleep in ‘is manger.”

“No rats, right?” Daniil demanded, his father buffing his head, curls in wild disarray.

She chuckled. “We do ‘ave tha Laird’s temporary chamber. Rather small it is, noot like Iolaire; boot convenient fer tha goot, and hidden away. Not tonight though. In need of a spruce up, it is; boot tha new owner’s not showed. With tha tour boos, I told tha maid tae change tha sheets, joost in case.”

“Why can’t we have that?” Claire suggested, a sly look at Bruce and Daniil, his eyes now closed, likely pretending.

“A right mess, ‘is chum left; a real Harry Hoofter. Y’know, ‘e expected tha lot; ‘ouse and all, when tha Laird passed.”

“I take it he was some kind of nurse, because of the gout?” Claire inquired pointedly.

Mrs. McIntyre cocked an eye at Daniil. “Yer wee laddie’s asleep... Queer kaffir, tha poofter type; y’know ‘e wanted ‘is car ‘e did, what tha Laird bought fae Yule, noot fer ‘im. Course, ‘e got naught boot ‘is air ticket back tae Kenya.” She hesitated. “If’n fer ‘im, Sir Alistair would still be ‘ere.”

“How did he die?”

Bruce’s query met an uncomfortable silence.

“Ah'm no buftie hater, Missus. Me un brutha, Lyle’s tha way; ‘e likes to play tha woman; boot, Tuwile was a clatty basturt.” She lowered her voice. “Thae’s things upstairs ye don’t want tha bairn seein’.”

Bruce and Claire exchanged glances.

“Thae’s a mirror over tha bed,” she added quietly.

“He won’t know if he’s asleep,” Claire offered with a hopeful nod at Daniil.

“Thae’s a painting of Prince Albert wot come from when tha Laird moved o’er ‘ere. e’s goot no troosers.”

Claire gave a stoic shrug. “Well, he has seen his father naked before.”

“Ye kin see ‘is tadger, Missus. Thae’s a ring through it.”

“Then, we’ll keep the lights off,” Bruce said.

“Please yerselfs. Aye warned ye. While aye fetch fresh robes, yeez best run upstairs and ‘ave a bite.”

Mrs. McIntyre pointed up the stairs; the usual hotel names applied without rhyme nor reason; Mary Queen of Scots Morning Room, Bonnie Prince Charlie Billiard Room, Loch Sunart Drawing Room, and the Highland Dining Room...

“... Tha cloakroom’s through thae, if ye need it.” She gestured behind her.

Claire glanced at Daniil, eyes closed, a hint of a smile.

“Tha Laird’s chamber, too, right and through tha door tae ‘is private gallery.” A quiet snicker, not well-intentioned. “Tha dining room’s open. With tha crowd, seating’s every hour ‘til ten. With luck, thae’s still some Toad left fer tha laddie.”

Claire waited until she left. “He should use the cloakroom before dinner; a quick rinse should be ample.”

Bruce smiled down at his curly-headed son. “Let tha poor bairn sleep a while.”

oUo

Up the stairs, was unexpectedly decadent, creamy vaulted ceilings, green-and-white heraldic carpet with shabby Persian rugs, and walnut paneling among swirly cream walls not unlike marble. Add an abundance of hunting trophies, antler-artifacts, collectible art, and countless finicky etchings of Scottish terrain in thin black frames, and stuffed fauna in display cabinets—mostly salmon, pheasant, and grouse. A model of an Aberdeen clipper, Stirling Company’s Highland Lass, occupied pride of place at the head of the stairs.

“You can stop pretending to be asleep,” Bruce chided, pretending to stagger with Daniil while looking over his shoulder at the billiard room.

Still snuggled on his father’s shoulder, Daniil cracked an eye. “Worked but.”

“Crafty little catamite, aren’t you?” Claire whispered.

However, her thoughts were elsewhere. A quick bite, a glass of wine, and downstairs to the Laird’s private chamber to undertake the official ‘Yielding.’

Daniil peeked at a massive Highland bull’s head above a substantial wood-burning fireplace.

“He’s like you, Dad; really horny.”

Startled, Bruce looked up from somber paintings of Scottish heroes. More ferocious than a lightning-crazed Texas Longhorn; ivory-white, upward-curved horns and long black hair; it was nightmare material for sure.

He turned away quickly, confronting elegantly carved doors to the Highland Dining Room. Further down the hall, comfortable couches, book cases, an escritoire with a Chippendale armchair, and camelback claw-and-ball sofas with tartan upholstery.

Claire stopped before a credible painting of a Welsh Springer Spaniel flushing a pheasant, all but ignoring an elderly couple scrutinizing the adjacent lackluster watercolor. It hung above a lambskin-rawhide lampshade, oiled to translucency. Retired busy bodies, school teachers most likely, determined to see every grand house in Britain before they departed the National Health Service.

The man waited patiently as his wife rambled on, faux-academic debating whether the artist took liberties depicting Loch Lomond. She turned, a wizened white-haired pretend-dowager, like the Queen Mum in pale blue stately apparel, oversized silver brooch, and multiple strands of faux pearls; no matching hat.

“They weren’t on the bus, Harold.” Chilly voice, undaunted by Claire’s self-assured stance, she went on. “He’s much too big to be carried; God knows what his father’s thinking?”

“He’s rather good-looking, though, Marjorie.”

At that very moment, Bruce playfully clutched deflowered boy-bum, getting a giggle, a wriggle, and a syrupy kiss on the side of his neck before he dumped his son on his feet and kept walking.

Daniil hurried to catch up, tugging at his father’s sleeve. “Carry me, Slave!”

Bruce tousled his head. “No, Omnipotent One.”

“Americans!” It was hardly an art scholar’s whisper. “Harold, they’re going to dinner. We should’ve eaten when I said.”

“I’m sure there’ll be plenty left for us, Dear. If not, we can snack on shortbread biscuits.”

“I bought them for afternoon tea. They’re too good for snacking.”

Daniil caught his father’s hand and yanked; certain the woman was talking about them. “She’s horrible to him, like Grandma is to you, Dad.”

Bruce grimaced, glancing back. She stared at Daniil in particular, lips moving in a whisper, a sneer in the making. With an unsettling déjà vu, he followed Claire through the doorway, willing to bet the woman had whispered ‘look at the hair on the little faggot.’

The Highlands Dining Room was a fanciful affair, lavish wood paneling, red-brocade curtains and purple covers on the chairs, ubiquitous deer heads three to a wall.

While Daniil and Claire examined a menu, Bruce took in spindly walnut serving tables, collectible china, and gilt-framed oil paintings of Scottish landscapes. A gilded hot-air balloon with electric candles hovered above the vast table. It sat 22, every other seat occupied by tourists domestic and foreign, even Chinese. A corner niche, inside a cylindrical tower, had windows all around, and a table for four still littered with leftovers.

“They have a fireplace in the dining room,” Daniil murmured in awe. “And a piano.”

“Harmonium, or reed organ, actually,” Claire corrected. “You pump the bellows with the foot pedals.”

“You learned that at Oxford, Mum?”

“My paternal grandmother had one. When I was your age, she taught me to play.”

She directed Daniil into the adjoining niche with two tables that sat two apiece.

“We could put them together, Mum?” he said hopefully.

She smiled, lowering her voice. “If I had a son, I’d want him to be exactly like you.”

“Sorry, I’m the only one available.”

“No little brothers?”

He shook his head. “Mom said she didn’t want any more after me.”

Likely tubal ligation—she was hardly surprised. With women like Katrina Koklov, career always came first. Stopping after conceiving the perfect boy; it made her quite angry.

“What a pity we can’t clone you! The world would be a far better place with lots and lots of Master Daniels.”

He grinned as expected. The rest of what she was thinking she held back as Bruce came over to join them.

“Rather crowded,” he grumbled.

“It might be faster if we eat in the room. Master Daniel and I will take a tray downstairs if you fetch the bags.”

oUo

Claire closed the door with her foot, and followed Daniil through the ‘Laird’s new gallery.’ Clearly something was amiss—the wall paneling was faded where paintings had hung until recently. She deposited the tray on a card table, and looked around. It was what she expected from an elderly Scottish knight with a live-in ‘kaffir.’ A sitting ‘room’ in the adjoining niche, a separate chamber for the bed, everything in dark mahogany and subdued shades of red, hardly ostentatious, a far cry from Graeme Browne’s glitzy bedroom.

Reddish Persian rugs gave an exotic air; and the muddy-red walls had character, if a little off-putting with a heavy cornice awkwardly close to the ceiling. The mandatory white-marble fireplace was stocked with kindling and logs. Adjacent, a well-placed bay window was ideal for a lazy afternoon, the Laird reading in one of the comfortable armchairs, or partaking breakfast after a hectic night with his live-in Kenyan lover.

She smiled at the thought of Daniil and his father, both naked, lolling on the thick sheepskin rug before a blazing fire, cuddling as they cooked marshmallows, or whatever it was that Americans did.

Then, another escritoire drew her attention. It was larger than downstairs, used often with scattered pens, papers, and numerous drawers and cupboards. She tried several—only the smallest one unlocked, directly below a center panel with a geometric inlay of mother-of-pearl.

She circumambulated a red loveseat settee already decorated with three folded bathrobes and Daniil’s leather jacket tossed aside. Barely a glance at a series of framed Victorian etchings before she stepped into the Laird’s ‘bed’ chamber.

Daniil stood reverently before a leftover from the Victorian age. He seemed nervous, shifting feet, considering dark-walnut helical columns, dark-walnut entablature, a mattress so high it needed a footstool, and red-satin curtains on a track.

“It’s called a canopied bed, Master Daniel.”

The same muddy-red walls with wood-paneled bookcase inserts. She perused titles, mostly the usual Greco-Roman classics, the rest unexpected if she hadn’t heard about Alistair Stirling from Mrs. McIntyre. Wilde, Tennyson, and the few Americans who dared to write about forbidden love. Unless she was mistaken, there were a few first editions.

She turned away, a quick glance at Daniil still by the bed. Only then she realized someone had placed a white sheet over a painting covering most of the wall. She lifted a corner to peek at Prince Albert, without trousers.

“Um, where’s the mirror, Mum?” he muttered, glancing sideways. “What Mrs. McIntyre was going on about?”

She craned her head, looking up at the painting. The Queen’s Consort had little to offer for consortium. A dark pubic pelt, a piddly prick despite rumor to the contrary, and a Prince Albert ring—now, that did make her smile. Finally, she noticed Daniil frowning at her.

“The mirror, Mum?”

“Under the canopy; where else would it be?”

She stepped away from the painting, fascinated as sprightly Daniil bounced onto the newly made bed, looking up at himself, writhing while sprawled on his back. Relishing his vibrance and vigor, she sighed longingly.

“Why would Sir Alistair put a mirror over his bed, Mum? No one gets dressed in bed.”

“If you were undressed, you could look up and see your willy,” she teased.

He smirked as the idea took hold.

“When you and your father make love...”

She stepped closer, lifting her gaze, a glimpse of the mirror under the canopy, Daniil spread-eagled in reflection. And to think there would only ever be one of him...

“I can watch him do me,” Daniil finished, still smirking.

She all but stopped breathing, her excitement somehow restrained. Then, she winked right at him. She could tell; even with his youthful uncertainty, watching himself having sex would be highly infectious, life-changing at his age.

“Would you like that; for him to make love to you properly?”

“You said in the car, it’s what happens, Mum; so we can become one.”

“It’s still a big step for a boy.”

“A bigger step than being deflowered?”

“Really being loved by a man; oh yes. You’ll be like Master Simon afterwards.”

He nodded, thoughtful yet accepting, even hopeful.

“He’ll open you up all the way, tonight I expect. Once you’re properly open, your body adapts,” she added, deliberately tactful. “That’s Yielding.”

“Yielding is more than just my bum-hole gets bigger, huh Mum?”

“The rest can be stressful; however, once things inside change, it feels much better...” She winked at him. “Most little boys need help getting there.”

Daniil regarded her, uncertain, a mishmash of desire and lingering innocence. So much he didn’t know; so much to learn. She was self-assured, and sympathetic; unlike his mother, almost never reaching out when he needed support.

“Will you help me, Mum?” he murmured.

“Silly boy, of course I will. There’s nothing I’d like more. However, if you want me to coach...” She lowered her voice. “I’ll have to be there.”

He chewed his bottom lip, not shy, compliant. “Simon said you’ll watch us. I thought he was kidding, Mum.”

“Your soccer coach does more than just watch, doesn’t he?”

After he nodded, she still made him wait. Confident of his reaction, she continually, carefully choosing her words, casually, so as not to upset him.

“Your father wants to love you properly, Master Daniel. Most fathers don’t love their sons that way, so you’re a very lucky boy.”

She paused again, ogling his slim small body. He was almost too tiny, yet her father’s counsel persisted; ‘Patience is a virtue even if we don’t always practice it...’

“If everything goes as it should... In a week, it’ll be like you’re married,” she confided.

“Simon said it hurt more the second time, Mum.” Now, he sounded worried.

“Opening you with his penis is different than using his fingers.”

He smiled nervously, smart enough to be timid. “Because it’s bigger.”

“And it takes a long time if it’s done properly. Maybe several times.”

She delayed, not deliberately, afraid to confront her own hunger, longing for a boy of her own. She inhaled, resisting until she had to say something, anything.

“It should be natural... no goose grease... I know you’ll do fine, especially with me right beside you.”

He wavered; she could see it his eyes, his nervous peeks at the mirror, at her, at the sheet covering the painting on the wall.

“Simon said you still...” He paused, reluctant to say it—Simon had been very explicit. “... assist him... um, when his dad does stuff.”

She laughed. “Master Simon says lots of things, doesn’t he? Mostly ‘harder’ or ‘faster’ according to his father.”

Daniil didn’t get it.

Fixing him with a pretend glare, she said sternly, “Simon says, roll onto your back.”

“I’m already on my back, Mum.”

“Simon says pull your knees to your shoulders and hold them there.”

She made a zany face that got him giggling, so he complied. It was only in play, yet the position clearly had meaning, likely gained only the night before. Shameless, sensuous, he looked back at her from between his thighs, a promiscuous little catamite eager to be mounted.

“You need to get undressed so I can get you ready. You’ve had a long day so we’ll start right after dinner.” She snapped her fingers twice. “Now.”

Daniil grinned, scrambled off the bed, and pranced about, teasingly stripping off his taut beach-shirt. He flung it towards Claire. From jeans on up, he was a junior dynamo, shimmying his narrow waist and chest. She admired bare abdomen, slender and tapering to his hips. His skinny skater jeans provided a modicum of decency until deft little fingers unfastened the metal button. He danced toward Claire, mock pelvic-thrusting, hands locked behind his head.

“A little Chippendiddy with a gorgeous bare tummy,” she murmured.

Whatever a Chippendiddy was, he had no idea; still, he greeted her with teasing blue eyes, not angelic, wanton. She pointed at his middle, finger flicking, her tone severe.

“Naked, Master Daniel, now!”

He arched even more, stretching, revealing taut muscles, ribs, nipples, navel, playfully offering himself.

“Mr. Ed says I’m sexy in just jeans.“

“A lot of men are of the mind there’s nothing sexier than a boy in just jeans, especially if he’s as good looking as you.”

“Dad says I’m sexy with nothing on.”

She smirked at the ambiguous invitation, reaching for his zipper. A quick tug, a hip wriggle, and his jeans slid down. Now, she ogled silvery catamite pants, a tiny bulge...

“You’ve got a beautiful body,” she mused. “Don’t waste it on people who can’t appreciate perfection.”

She caught the ends of the neatly tied bow, letting his giggly gyrations pull the cord open. He stepped back, wriggling, pirouetting like a boy ballet dancer, inept frolicking compared to Simon’s seductive dancing.

Silvery panties and faded blue jeans slithered down Daniil’s legs and stopped at his ankles, entangling his feet. He grinned, turning about slowly, hands now on his hips, flaunting nakedness.

“What a beautiful wee willy.” She licked her lips.

He pretend-pole-danced. His brief performance was in dire need of choreography, still highly arousing with his little limp boyhood wantonly displayed. Midway through a waddling circle, she glimpsed blue, a mere hint of something between his buttocks.

“You’ve done this before, haven’t you Master Daniel?”

“Yes Mum. I get sexy all the time for my dad.”

“Tomorrow, we’ll work on taking off your pants and dancing to excite. By the time we’re done, you’ll drove him wild, showing your private parts,” Claire said, hiding her delight that he was so far along.

He followed her into the sitting area, skipping around her, his penis flipping with every bounce. Properly seated, his plug didn’t bother him, not one bit; yet another sign he was ready for more. It was a huge step in a single day...

He was still jiving as Claire wrapped him in a bathrobe. With his bum bag in hand, she bustled him into the bathroom, giggling and carrying on about being ‘naked as a jaybird,’ his bathrobe flapping, boyhood in plain view.

oUo

“This, Master Daniel, is called a ‘douche.’ Women use them to irrigate their vaginas before and after sex. It works for little boys’ bums, too. Now, while I get it ready, I want you to take out your plug.”

Daniil was more interested in rubber duckies—a collection of them decorated a ledge above the huge cast-iron bathtub. There was even a duck like the one in Mr. Ed’s bathroom, an original Ganine from 1946. Still bobbing bright yellow, it’d been a splendid target for his blue dive bomber when it plopped out of its hiding place.

“So me and Dad really own everything here?” He pointed at the duck. “Even that?”

“Yes. Please try to pay attention. I want you to feel around inside your bum.”

“Yes, Mum.”

She gestured impatiently for him to continue his assigned task. With his plug withdrawn, he squatted with his knees wide apart, one finger inserted, exercising the very-dilated muscle. No uncomfortable itch, a tickling sensation just ahead of his fingertip, an awareness of how far he could go inside before he twitched.

“Don’t stop until I tell you.”

“Yes, mum.”

Poking through a sleek, slippery canal, contentedly tight, he still wanted more. Spontaneously, his left hand sought his half-erect penis.

“It’s rude to masturbate while I’m talking, Master Daniel.”

“I’m washing Willy like you said, Mum.”

“You’re masturbating,” Claire snickered.

“I should stop, Mum?”

“Not if you pay attention. Anyway, with your tiny balls there won't be a mess to clean up, will there?”

She teased him playfully, not like his mother, who was constantly looking for faults, or ways to embarrass him.

He grinned. “There will be when I start puberty.”

“That’s years from now, Master Daniel, and then it’ll only be a droplet or two. Your father, on the other hand, can fill your rectum until it dribbles out of you.”

“He usually leaves his mess on my tummy, Mum.”

After hearing that, Claire barely concealed a smirk. She fitted the flexible tube to the now-filled bulb and handed it to Daniil; red and black, professional compared to douche kits from the chemist. It even had a sealing flange when fully inserted.

“You can freshen up; rinse out, or suck up his mess with it.”

“It’s warm, Mum.” He tested the bulb, ejecting a thin stream, a little more than 98^oF.

“A douche is not a water pistol, Master Daniel! Always squeeze the bulb gently.”

He squeezed again, pressing with his thumb, careful pulses, ejecting thin streams of water like a little shower.

She nodded approvingly. “You can also make do if you need a proper flush and your enema kit isn’t available.”

“Yes, Mum. Do I sit on you lap, again?”

“Not when you just need a rinse. Stop giggling! It’s not that funny, plus you’re all soapy!”

She desperately wanted to ‘redo’ his first flush, only far more invasive. It was another step in making him dependent, a chance to inveigle a place in his life and smother him with unrequited desire.

“Stand up, carefully. These old tubs can be dangerous.”

She held his arm as he stood up in the bath, white foamy water running down utterly hairless legs, so slender she couldn’t resist running her other hand from knee to hip. Pretending to steady him while tormenting herself, smooth and slippery as an eel, barely resisting the urge fondle his immature genitals. And as for grinding her fist into her vagina, it was impossible—it would mean letting go of him or not stroking his sleek, soft skin.

“I’ll help you douche the first time.” She inhaled, heart clamoring. “Bend over with your legs apart. Yes, like that.”

She placed the bulb in his right hand, closing his fingers, not squeezing.

“Now, we want some soap on the nozzle so it’s slippery.”

Only then, with the tip covered with soap and his left hand in hers, she guided his hand behind. Already familiar with the process, little fingers instinctively parted his buttocks, exposing the target. He giggled as she directed the nozzle to his anus. He jerked spontaneously, easily inserting it with the help of his other hand, pushing in clumsily, too far, too quickly.

“It feels nicer if you ease it in,” she said, using her stern governess voice as she drew his hand back. “It goes in to where your bowel opens up, the end of your sphincter muscle. Remember, you don’t want it in too far.”

“Should I squeeze, Mum?”

“If you want, but do it slowly. Master Simon always gets used to it first. The more relaxed you are, the better it works.”

Still holding him steady, she finally indulged her vice, no venial sin. His penis was a delicate morsel with a bluish tiny helmet, the rest pinkish until the skin texture changed. It was perfect; being circumcised made it different, exaggerated and exposed—she closed her eyes, responding to a visceral surge. It was all she could do not to lean in and kiss.

“I could eat you, all of you,” she murmured, licking her lips, almost afraid to look up.

He rolled his eyes like a worldly preteen.

“Should I squeeze it now, Mum?”

“Just a tiny little bit.”

She peeked up as his fingers closed on the bulb. Lovable languorous eyes, lips apart, dreamy boy as she caressed his thigh, silently daring herself to touch his plump perfect helmet with her tongue.

“That’s enough. It feels nice, doesn’t it?”

He nodded as her hand flowed around lithe coltish thigh, cupping his firm little buttock, fingers investigating, slightly encroaching in the crevice. Nothing felt like nine-year-old boy-butt, warm, muscly, flexing instinctively. Just holding him made her feel alive.

“Remember how Master Simon played with the tube last night?”

She took over, teaching him to rotate the bulb, levering the nozzle, inserting, withdrawing, making him more aware of the sensations hidden inside his body.

“It loosens him up inside, plus it gets him in the mood,” she whispered.

She pushed his hand, quickly inserting the nozzle, withdrawing slowly, fast in, slow out, again and again.

He giggled nervously. “It feels like Simon’s bumming me, Mum.”

From the first time she saw them together, she had hoped it would happen, even prayed for it; yet she still trembled, cramping involuntarily.

“Did you like it?”

“We only did it for a minute. His dad wanted him back.”

“If you go all the way in and out, it’ll feel nice and help to enlarge your hole.”

She pulled on his hand, withdrawing until the nozzle appeared in his anus. Then, a sudden inward push, continuous pressure until the flange forced into him. He gasped, lurching, shuddering.

“Did Master Simon do you hard like that?” she whispered, still pushing his hand even though the bulb was too big to go deeper.

He nodded anxiously, wondering why was he trembling.

“You want to be bigger for your daddy, don’t you?” she murmured. “Nice and big so his penis goes in easily.”

He nodded again. Only a moment before she gently squeezed his fingers on the bulb. Daniil tensed, responding to tiny tightening spasms, his pleasure building with every awkward breath, enjoying the sensation, warming, filling, very reassuring.

“Look at your poor floppy willy.”

“Simon says that’s what happens to straight boys when they get bummed. Gay boys are almost always hard.”

“Maybe if you should do it for a while,” she said distantly, her voice crackling, relishing excitement tinged with power.

She took her hand away. Daniil pushed it all the way in.

“Now, push back on it as hard as you can.”

He squirmed, little pelvis wriggling side to side, unable to stop spontaneous, erratic trembles.

“Now, it really feels like Simon’s willy.”

“Next time, you can put your willy in him, if you want?” she whispered, not expecting an answer.

With her fingers covered with soap, she reached down, fondling his hot loose scrotum, so little inside the skin it seemed redundant. Her other hand closed on his hand, squeezing the bulb. He quivered as the rest of the water squirted into his rectum, warm yet unsettling.

“Give it a minute and the full feeling will go away.”

She manipulated tiny, tiny eggs clinging under his penis, silken skin in loose silky folds. He sighed, relaxing, a faint smile appearing, scarcely aware that she was withdrawing the nozzle. Increasingly tense, exerting greater control as the thrill grew inside her.

“Now, you do it, Master Daniel. Rinse, refill, and repeat.”

She continued fondling as he went through the steps. There was an increase in pressure when he pushed in the tube.

“I feel like I need to go, Mum.”

“Not yet. Hold it in for as long as you can.”

Without being told, he squeezed the bulb, sending pulses of warm water into his rectum.

“It’s empty again, Mum,” he murmured. “Should I take it out?”

“Not yet.” She was certain her panties were soaked. “Master Simon’s willy always gets stiff when I play his balls.”

No shame at all, yet her emotions ran the gamut as she tugged on his immature testicles, feeling tiny coiling tubes under delicate skin, grasping his scrotum in her fist, clenching carefully. Unguarded, Daniil promptly gulped.

“Be careful with my jelly beans.” Breathless, giggly, powerless to stop her; he trembled, drawing back. “That’s what Mr. Ed calls them... Don’t tell Dad I said that, okay?”

She leaned and kissed his bare belly, again carefully manipulating little-boy gonads, testicles escaping between her fingers. Not too hard, just right, enough discomfort that pleasure vacillated. He submitted willingly, not pulling back again, not even a fraction of an inch.

“I promise. I won’t say a thing about you and Mr. Ed unless you bring it up,” she whispered, so close to his bellybutton she could lick it. “You have nice little jelly beanies.”

She rolled each little testicle between her thumb and index finger, still increasing the pressure, controlling his pleasure, dominating while tormenting, teaching him to accept whatever she did. No question he enjoyed it; clenched buttocks, breathy gasps, intermittent quivers. His little penis stayed limp through all of it.

“You must tell me what happened with Edwin, everything; not now, later. Deal?”

He nodded, reduced to tantalized nerves and a flood of prepubescent dopamine, so laidback he’d agree to anything. She gave his droopy penis a playful parting flip, found the soap, and resumed soaping, front and rear, and giggly armpits until he was ready to use the toilet.

oUo

Bruce kept an eye on the crackling fire as he perused the Laird’s Chamber, kindling blazing, warmth spreading out. Their farmhouse in Connecticut was older and New-England quaint, yet far less romantic—surely helped by not having his wife complaining about being cold. He closed his eyes, reminiscing. Only a week before, she’d nearly discovered them toasting marshmallows in front of the fireplace, Daniil lounging in his favorite onesie pajamas—dazzling yellow with black tiger-stripes. Minutes earlier, he’d double-dog-dared his son to open the zipper and smear gooey-pink marshmallow over his penis. Then, he’d licked it all off.

A closeup inspection of Victorian etchings revealed a common theme of Ancient Greek gods, zero goddesses. That certainly didn’t help his emotional state. He sighed, his desire for Daniil no longer controllable. Now, he was lonely if they were apart for even a few scant minutes. Inevitable, demanding, relentless hunger until he gorged on boy-flesh again. And a minute later, ruthless craving was back—it seemed nothing could keep his penis from erecting.

He moved on to the escritoire, nibbling a bread roll from Claire’s dinner tray. There was a similar desk in the office of the Rare Books curator. Chinese-style Chippendale circa 1790, hand-carved dark mahogany with a broken-arch pediment, a green-leather writing table under the slanted top, a miniature bookcase behind multi-pane glass doors. It had the same curious decorative mother-of-pearl panel, likely hiding a secret compartment, widespread in stately estates.

On a whim, he pulled open the drawer below and slid his hand into the grime of ages. With his fingers fully extended upward, he pressed the latch. A definitive click and the decorative panel popped open—hard to believe it was that simple. The desk in the curator’s office concealed a rare, and very valuable copy of Vitruvius’ De architectura, with woodcut illustrations, published in Venice in 1511.

He held his breath as he opened the panel. Sir Alistair’s escritoire concealed a leather sporran and a falling-to-pieces wooden box. He put the sporran aside and opened the box. Inside were bundles of letters and a small, well-worn, stain-spotted, cloth-bound diary engraved ‘A. S.’

The sporran was old, semi-dress style, dark-brown thistle-embossed leather with a pewter Clan Stirling insignia and semicircular cantle. Hopeful, Bruce opened the clasp. Inside was a penis-shaped horn with zebra-hair tail and two ivory didoes, yellowed with age.

“Hardly the family jewels,” he muttered. Still, he hadn’t expected much.

He took Alistair’s diary with him back to the fireplace, settled into an armchair in dire need of reupholstery, and flicked through the pages. The entries were erratic, pedantic, and rather eccentric. He was so engrossed he didn’t hear the door open, or close.

When he looked up, Daniil stood before the fireplace, hair damp and straggly, glowing bare and beautiful, his bathrobe crumpled on the hearth.

“I’m all clean again, Dad.”

“Outside, I can see. Do I need to check inside?”

His son turned around slowly, deliberately delaying. Already distracted by Uncle Alistair’s diary; Bruce swallowed saliva, feasting his eyes on his stark-naked boy.

Daniil made a face at Claire. “I had to rinse four times to make her happy.”

“He needs to practice holding the water in until he can’t. Other than that, he’s quite capable of doing his own dirty work from now on,” she teased.

Each hand on a buttock, parting himself. There was no mistaking the tell-tale blue handle of L’ Entraîneur, ergonomically curved to fit a small bottom.

“We put Big Boy back in so I’m ready for later,” Daniil volunteered, another sideways peek at Claire.

“What makes a boy ready besides being clean?” she prompted, busy taking foil off dinner plates and setting out cutlery.

Grinning gleefully, and toasting his butt. “Um, being stretched.”

“Being properly stretched is important because?” Claire pressed.

Making him say it made him aware, if not responsible.

“If we use saliva instead of goose grease, I’ll feel it more, Mum. Can I eat by the fire, Mum?”

“You may, if you’re careful.” She handed him a plate, cutlery, and a glass of milk.

“Toad in the hole, awesome.”

She carried over a plate, cutlery, and a glass of Chenin Blanc, the cheap stuff from South Africa, placing them on a coffee table between the armchairs.

“I checked him in the bath. He’s nicely dilated. There won’t be a better opportunity.”

Bruce looked up from the diary. “Opportunity... for what?”

“It’s best if it’s natural. Do it as soon as possible and it won’t be a problem.” She watched for his reaction. “He needs to know what it’s like, Bruce. Just you and him; nothing else. No lidocaine, no artificial lube.”

“No goose grease?”

“Especially that. He’ll need extra stretching beforehand,” she whispered.

“But why?”

“It’s a tradition for a catamite. Making love with just him and his man, nothing else.”

“So soon... I won’t hurt him,” Bruce whispered.

“You won’t if you’re patient. I’ll suction him afterwards, and load him up with Lidocaine. He won’t be sore in the morning, plus it’ll take the edge off you when you do it again.”

Bruce peeked at Daniil, already at work on his plate. Two pork sausages baked in Yorkshire pudding, onion gravy, and soggy carrots on the side.

“The world famous Toad-in-the-hole, I take it?” he muttered, anything to avoid the elephant in the room.

“Not exactly a Scottish delicacy,” Claire confided. “My first impression, I think your estate needs a major make-over in the dining room. The whole place, actually. It’s really pretty tatty.”

Bruce nodded thoughtfully. “Depends on the clientele, doesn’t it? Tour buses up from London, and nine-year-old boys, it’ll do just fine... The same for the Toad, too.”

“We passed half a dozen cheap bed-and breakfasts by the lake. Not many guest houses offer Highland gourmet. With better service, you’d attract more discriminating clientele...”

Claire ran out of steam. After a moment, she retrieved a small blue pill from her pocket, placing it on the side of his plate.

Bruce shook his head. “I doubt I’ll need Viagra, not with Sexy Boy over there.”

“Most boys need at least three bummings to yield.”

“What about a really good one?”

She turned on her heel. “Three minimum to be properly opened up. The sooner you trust me, the better.”

“Aye trust ye, Missus Handley,” Bruce said, mocking Scottish to her back.

She chuckled, walking on. “My father would say you get what you inspect; not what you expect.”

“Going incognito, eh? Always a good idea to check the lay of the land before attacking.”

Unable to resist, he gave a sideways glance at Daniil, sitting by the fire, smirking as he excavated a sausage, fork skewering it close to one end, holding it up.

“Toad willy out of the hole, Dad.”

Bruce chuckled, disbelieving as his son popped the unforked end into his wide-open mouth, not eating, shamelessly going in and out, and sucking. The look on his face was at best disturbing, beyond teasing, a boy relishing his sexuality.

He caught Claire’s eye, not sure if she disapproved until she mouthed the words, ‘Born to suck cock’; not like Kate and her hateful mother.

A flick of her eyes toward Daniil, a slight smile. “Are you going to eat it, or suck it?”

Barely nine years old and he grinned back. He pushed in more sausage, stopping when the fork touched his lips.

“When he’s goofing off, it’s better to ignore him, Claire,” Bruce said, not about to scold a boy having fun.

He sampled pudding; spongy soft and cheesy. “Not bad, actually. Tell me, what would a real Scottish laird eat for dinner? Don’t say haggis or tripe.”

“Friday he’d have fish ‘n chips, and mushy peas, like the rest of Britain,” Claire joked.

He hesitated, his son still sucking, blue eyes lifted up to watch his father’s reaction as he pushed the sausage into his mouth again, then, all the way out.

Claire snorted. “If you’re practicing for your father, Master Daniel, you’ll need a salami.”

Bruce sputtered. “How about a hundred years ago? The Laird’s dinner?”

“Sheep’s head broth like at Mom’s hotel, Dad,” Daniil giggled, inspecting his sausage, his lips making a classic ‘o’ before reinserting.

Bruce held his breath, imagining his thick hard erection sliding into his son’s hot wet mouth, both desperate to see how much could fit in. And with Claire watching, envious, yet amused, fascinated, too.

Somehow, he gestured ‘more.’ “Now, a dinner menu for our discriminating clientele.”

Without any hesitation, Claire rattled off Cock-a-Leekie Soup to start. A main course of Rumbled Smoked Salmon and Cauliflower with Cheese and Whisky. For dessert, Whisky and Chocolate Crunch, and ending with a whisky-sherry blend.

oUo

Curled up and comfortable on his father’s lap, Daniil vacillated between snoozy and sexy. Secure, warm, loved, in front of the fire; no annoying mother, no tiger-onesie needed. His father’s hand caressed his bare belly, strong fingers surprisingly gentle, slowly encroaching, tantalizingly close to his pubis where his proud little penis waited. It was, of course fully erect. With his father’s wedding ring gripping the base, tiny veins were so swollen it was almost painful.

Bruce sipped Chenin Blanc and turned a diary page, delicate and precise script from the cursive era, very difficult to read. A single finger tickled Daniil’s bellybutton, absorbed by his uncle’s reminiscing, and insights of Europe in the early 70s; the Cold War, pre-EU politics, gay bars in Berlin, teenage hustlers in Madrid, attending fabulous parties during the Venice Carnival...

“Alistair was in Venice when Visconti made Death in Venice,” he announced to no one in particular. “He says he was at a party at a palazzo on the Grand Canal... ‘I flirted rather poorly with Dirk Bogarde. He is rumored to be as gay as a goose, but apparently not.’”

“Uncle Alistair was gay, huh Dad?”

He ahemed, nodded, and continued to read aloud.

“’I wasn’t the only man there who fawned over beautiful Björn, the perfect Tadzio.’”

Ensconced in the other armchair, Claire looked up from Daniil’s iPad. “ Björn was definitely overt. Much better looking than the boy who inspired Thomas Mann.”

“What does ‘overt’ mean, Mum?”

“Overt in this case means sexually explicit, like you right now, showing off your willy,” she teased. “Björn was a good choice for the part, yet hardly the perfect Tadzio!”

Bruce smiled down at Daniil, and pointed, lips forming, ‘Perfect is you.’

“Perfect is the gorgeous Tadio,” she went on. “You’ll meet Taddy when you attend Conte Morosini’s Ascension celebration in May. Life in Venice; it’s for men and boys only; there’s no other party like it. Some of the masks are outrageous.”

Bruce flicked back through the diary. “Alistair mentions a Palazzo Morosini on the Grand Canal. Here it is. ‘The dungeon is as spooky as anything I have seen.’”

“The boys dress like Tadzio,” she went on regardless. “I’ll order a striped-linen sailor suit for Daniil when I’m done with his day-to-day outfits.”

“No way am I wearing a sailor suit, Mum.”

“It’ll have an open collar and pretty lacings,” she teased. “Plus a red bow-tie and a blue jacket with gold buttons. You’ll be absolutely stunning when you come down the stairs.”

“I’d rather go naked.”

Daniil drew up a leg, his knee bumping his father’s big bulge, cuddling closer until his own groin pressed into his father’s thigh. From behind, his little squished scrotum made Claire shiver. Father and son had touched each other constantly since dinner ended, like they were still hungry.

“You’ll have to cover your bits with your hands if I don’t finish ordering.”

Outfitting Daniil in appropriate attire was her self-assigned responsibility. She held up the iPad, displaying an ensemble suggestion for Spring, a daffodil-yellow hooded sweatshirt with a black cK jacket and jeans. With yellow sneakers, it was erotic with flair.

“Awesome.” Daniil slyly relocated his father’s spare hand to his bottom.

“I agree, except your mom would kill me,” Bruce muttered, heart-fluttering excitement as his fingers felt a warm curved silicone handle.

“She doesn’t like logos on my clothes, Mum,” Daniil explained.

Now, he contracted instinctively, pulling the plug deeper, holding it there with the handle taut between his buttocks, his father’s fingers picking at the tip near his scrotum.

“Appearance is crucial for a catamite,” Claire countered. “The trick is labeling you, without advertising.”

“Mum, it looks like the ‘cK’ logo is saying I ‘suck cock.’”

“I doubt it matters if you're a bottom,” she snickered. “I hope you’re exercising with Big Boy like I said.”

Daniil drew in the plug again, tightening his buttocks around it, concentrating on sending a signal. When keeping the plug immobile didn’t work, he poked at his father’s arm.

She regarded him with a contemptuous eyebrow elevated. “And are you a cock sucker, Master Daniel?”

It took a moment to realize she was teasing. He grinned. “I was last night, wasn’t I Dad?”

“Next question, as Master Simon says; was there yummy cummy in your tummy afterwards?”

He smirked back, brazenly for a nine-year-old. “After he sucked me, I wanted to do him, Mum, only he wanted to put it somewhere else.”

On the verge of laughter, yet somehow, she managed to shrug nonchalantly. Watching him like a hawk, now clearly fiddling with the front of his father’s jeans, fascinated whether he’d actually open the zipper in front of her. Lots of nagging questions, like how far he’d go, wanting to pursue if he’d sucked his father’s penis before ‘last night.’ It was obvious he’d been kissing it for a while, perhaps months.

Frustrated, she resumed searching for clothes, occasionally peeking at father and son—something was definitely going on between them as Daniil squirmed about, repositioning himself.

He’d need swim shorts for the south of France. Banana-print yelled ‘erection’, not much flair otherwise, and far too long in the leg. Chic little whales and zebras were for normal boys. She settled on Euro-style short shorts—his penis would stick out in front and side-on. She chose ice-blue with a tricolor rainbow on the rear to emphasize his pert little bottom, £69. A beach shirt, also ice-blue, no rainbow, cost £45.

She found swim shorts to match his wind-surfer shirt, £46—the boy model also had hair down his back, not as curly as Daniil’s, and even less of a bulge. Only then, she risked a quick glance sideways.

'Oh my god! he's really going to do it.'

She gulped, and gulped again as Bruce leaned back. Daniil tugged, jerked, working on the front of his father's jeans. Boxers, he pulled down a few inches before leaning closer, his tongue extended even as she hurriedly diverted her gaze to the iPad.

“Bruce, we need to talk about showing him off.” She glanced up. “Oh, sorry.”

Startled, Bruce did the natural thing, pushing Daniil’s tousled head away from his very exposed middle. His saliva-coated erection slapped his son’s cheek. It skidded over his nose, leaving a wet trail. Undeterred, Daniil latched on after a momentary absence, mouth gaping as he swallowed the plump purplish head.

“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” Claire went on, back to staring at the iPad as if nothing had happened.

Peeking sideways, she was a silent witness to Daniil pleasuring his father’s penis without moving his head. She could almost feel his tongue, slippery, hot and oh-so alive, massaging, slurping. His cheeks sucking in had to mean he was suctioning juice from the source, and ingesting. Dark wire-like pubic hair cushioned his cheek. His small hand cupped his father’s huge wrinkled scrotum. They were Cupid and Mars, the boy of love and the man of war.

“Bruce,” she began again, her voice tense and afraid she’d stutter, eyes averted. “Most boys at Daniil’s age don’t present well...” A sudden shameless shiver. “... There's not a lot to show down there.”

Finally, Bruce glanced in her direction, his frown so distracting she turned away.

“Um, if you want, I can easily fix it.”

Not getting a response, she risked looking once again. She hadn’t realized just how big the patriarch was compared to the progeny. Bruce’s penis was curved like his son's, and wide at the base—it would take some getting used to. Suddenly envy raised its head; her beautiful slender Daniil wasn’t simply sucking cock. Instead, he paid homage to the man he loved, not actively or aggressively, nurturing it, oblivious to everything except pleasuring his father.

“He’s quite skillful, considering he's not moving his head,” she murmured. “He said he did it properly for the first time yesterday morning.”

“Not this far in,” Bruce whispered, lovingly fondling curls. “He’s learning as he goes.”

Daniil’s expression was blissful, beatific, glowing radiant with each kiss, lick, or giggly slurp. This was the other side of virtuous boy love—the Ancient Greeks called it ‘carnal’. She shivered. Every thought, every action dedicated to the Spirit, whether a boy’s serene acceptance or his thrilling quiver as his little body responded to primal yearning...

Her vagina, already moist, demanded more than pressing her thighs together. She closed her eyes, tempted beyond self-control—how easy it would be to postpone online shopping and check out the videos on Daniil’s iPad; in particular, the official record of his deflowering. She still hadn’t seen it.

For a few moments, logic and reason fought lust, and won—her responsibility was irrepressible.

“As I was saying, showing off is important, Bruce. If you want, he can wear a pouch around his penis and balls. Some men prefer a silicone band.”

He didn’t look up. “Which is better?”

“The pouch.” She glanced at Daniel. “I’ll explain why later. Either way, his crotch will be more noticeable.”

A deep regulated breath, exerting ego over id as she imagined the result. Her beautiful boy already looked like a catamite, even more desirable than Simon. He’d be hotter, too, with everything always on show... Of course, there’d be a waiting list.

“You want your boyhood to stand out, Dani?” Bruce whispered.

More contented than he’d ever imagined, Daniil nodded, still suctioning, swallowing every precious droplet of his father’s slimy excretion, scarcely aware of its bland taste, or his father tugging at the handle of L’ Entraîneur, twisting, wobbling. It made him feel strange, shaky, alive.

oUo

“God knows what his mother will say. Five hundred pounds for a kid’s dinner jacket!”

Any way Bruce considered it, Katrina would say it was pretentious. It wasn’t as pretentious as the other jacket, Rococo-inspired paisley--£495 bought tasteful satin-gold silk flecked with tiny white fleur de lis.

However, it wasn’t his wife who made him keep fiddling with L’ Entraîneur. It was loose, moving around with only a slight pressure. Easy to withdraw it back to the flared core, no greasy mess, nothing but mucus. Just flecks came out, but it was sweet-smelling and slippery. By then, nothing could stop him from pulling against his son’s weakened sphincter muscle, pushing it back; back and forth, a little more coming out each time, until...

“You’re not s’posed to take it out until we do it, Dad,” Daniil whispered.

“I want to use my fingers for a while.”

Slyly, Bruce reached toward the coffee table, placing the hot plug on his plate. Cushioned on leftover pudding, it was much, much bigger than a barely touched sausage.

“Last chance to say no, Bruce.”

Claire held up Daniil’s iPad in case he needed convincing. This ensemble required a Hermes silk scarf, Daniil’s favorite dark blue, decorated with gold Medusa heads. It was £55, without a clasp.

“If he knots it, we can save £49.” More flippant than grumpy, which was entirely understandable with soft lips suckling on the end of his penis, his finger barely intruding into his son’s mushy anus.

“He can use his Catamitus ring when he’s wearing his pouch,” she qualified. “Which reminds me, he’ll need a necklace for the ring, too, gold curb-link is what all the boys wear.”

“Am I buying any normal clothes for him?”

“He isn’t *normal*, Bruce. He hasn’t been since you deflowered him. What’s more; he’s about to take a big step into a very different world. His appearance is crucial.”

“I can’t believe we’re having this conversation. Kate will be furious. Seven thousand bucks...”

“Don’t tell her,” Claire said tiredly. “It’s not a lot. Trevor paid twice that for Simon’s outfits. If you’re worried, use my credit card. You can pay me back from your profits.”

“It’ll take forever”

He inhaled as Daniil’s hot mouth separated from his glans with a sloppy slurp. A momentary respite, before he resumed suctioning, not his penis, his scrotum.

“You’ll take that to the bank in a day with the right clientele, Bruce.”

Bruce sighed as his son sucked his right testicle between his lips. Then, with his mouth wide, Daniil pulled it against his teeth, massaging with his tongue. Instinctive, untrained, nervous as can be, even a bit clumsy, yet his father seemed not to care.

Bruce was busy finding his son’s sensitive spot, up inside him. It was behind his balls, near his bladder, a tiny nub. He was certain he was in the right spot when Daniil spasmed. He risked a glance and held his breath, disbelieving that seeing his son straining down could boggle the mind as much as the sensation.

As Daniil eased away, still sucking and drawing skin taut, Bruce bit his tongue, holding back encouragement.

“We can only hope,” he muttered, guiltily dragging his finger from its hot hiding place.

Rather say ‘hope’ than say he didn’t believe clearing £5,000 in a day was likely, or even remotely possible.

Aware of Claire’s now steady gaze, he shamelessly fondled soft little ears, absently entwining his fingers and manhood in silky hair until Daniil shook his head. Claire snickered distantly as his son abruptly switched right for left, performing the same delicious torture, both ignoring the oozing erection again entangled in curly locks.

“When you start with so little, there’s always room for improvement,” Claire said softly.

“Improvements cost money. A great deal of money. Millions of pounds most likely.”

Without warning, his son lifted away, wriggling, repositioning until his face was directly in front of him, leaning in the last few inches and barely brushing lips.

“Please don’t be in a bad mood, Dad,” Daniil murmured.

He gazed into his father’s eyes, not brooding, pensive in a comforting way. Suddenly, the agitated boy needed more than a peck, little clutching fingers behind his father’s neck, holding them together. A soft wet tongue pressed against Bruce’s lips, urgently trying to insert itself. Bruce relented, allowing his son’s tongue to swipe over his teeth. If he wasn’t fully erect, that would’ve done it.

“Maybe we should do this elsewhere?” he whispered.

“Now, while she’s busy,” Daniil whispered back.

With so much at stake, Bruce had no hesitation leaving Claire to finalize two separate orders for ‘catamite clothes.’ Groaning in jest from 28 extra kilos clinging to his chest and shoulders, he staggered up from the armchair. With Daniil’s legs securely wrapped around his middle, he headed for the canopy bed.

He stopped at the bedside, not ready to let go of the naked youngster, one hand cupping boy butt, fingers digging into the gap, no L’ Entraîneur blocking the way. His middle finger probed into soft loose flesh. No resistance, just slippery and hot and very inviting.

His son quivered, relaxing, readying, taking deep slow breaths, eyes closed to mere slits as he pressed on, and in. So much had changed from the previous night. Now, the sleek slick tube was loose on his digit, comfortably embracing. Then, the lithe little body tightened, not erratic spasms, deliberate pulses, different than in the hotel bathroom, more determined, stronger. He grinned down, relishing, every delicious moment, contemplating his next move.

“Bruce,” Claire called. “He’ll need sneakers, too. Emporio Armani do really nice ones in white leather and mesh.”

“He has enough clothes for now, Claire.”

Undaunted, she went on. “I’d like him to have an Armani print T-shirt. They have an eagle in black stripes. It’s very sexy.”

“Rather symbolic.” Bruce exhaled. “How much?”

“For both; just over £300.”

“His mom will kill me.”

Daniil pretend-frowned at him. “I’m not worth being killed for?”

Bruce grinned evilly. “Add ‘em to the list, Claire... You did say £5,000 a day, right?”

“I know ways to make a great deal money,” Claire called. “You could sell what’s his face to a Saudi prince.”

Daniil tried not to smirk. Not only had he ‘won,’ he was about to be ‘goosed’, one finger churning inside as deep as it could go, anything but invasion. However, without warning, he was lowered onto the bed, face up, slim legs pushed apart until he drew up his knees.

“Dad, um... can you, um... you know... get naked as well?”

Oh, to record that sweet mellow voice, naturally nervous, muted by boyish yearning, shaky with the raw thrill of what lay ahead.

With aplomb, Bruce nudged off his shoes, watching his son’s obvious interest, no shame, concentration, remembering every little detail. He unbuttoned his shirt, stripped it off, tossed it aside, flexed his arm muscles, a bare-chested God of War making zombie faces—sometimes, it took zombies to amuse a nine-year-old gay boy.

After Daniil stopped giggling, he played to his son’s intense stare, unfastening his belt, button, and zipper, and shoving down his jeans. He stood, arms by his sides, awaiting inspection. A silent scrutiny of his black satiny boxers left his erection not only bulging, a dark spot identified the meatus beneath.

“I want to take them off,” Daniil demanded.

Obediently, Bruce clambered onto the bed, shedding his jeans on the way. Daniil scooted back, naked and grinning, showing off, teasing and tugging at black boxers, erupting in giggles when the plump crimson glans poked beyond the waistband. Between them, they hurriedly pulled off the boxers, both giggling, not as best friends, as lovers.

“Puppy kiss first!”

Excited boy mesmerized by sheer size and the glistening droplet at the eye, oozing ‘slicky stuff’ because of him, wanting more, a lot more, everything!

His father leaned in and smooched his cheek, another kiss, wetter, on his forehead, his nose, his other cheek, both licking their lips for what came next. The silent countdown ended at three—mutual tongue sucking.

“Better than going out for a milkshake?” Bruce teased, brushing misbehaving hair from his son’s eyes.

Daniil covered up, making his idiot-face, left hand protecting his very stiff penis, right hand ready to grab grownup genitals.

“Dog fight, Dad!”

Mock-growling, he pounced, playfully pummeling his father’s bare flesh. Tossed aside and flipped onto his back again, wrestling bare and shameless. All-powerful Mars was in total control; he easily subdued Cupid with a few playful butt slaps. Bruce jerked up his leg, all the way to his shoulder, pinned him on the bed. He touched the exposed anus with a fingertip, circling. Elastic, still a few tiny ripples, tender, delicate. He lifted his fingers to his lips, emptying his mouth. Back again, slippery and soothing, fingers sliding in saliva.

“Go in more this time,” Daniil demanded.

Having practiced exerting muscle control all day in the car, taking his father’s forefinger into him was a’ cake walk.’

After a few moments, Bruce withdrew, aligned both index and middle fingers, drooled copious spit, and reinserted. Unexpected, yet he still breached the portal. He pushed in carefully, steadily, intending not to force a wider entry, letting it happen gradually. Surprised how quickly his fingers reentered, he tried to hold steady only to realize that Daniil was wriggling his rump insistently.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to hurt you.”

Two fingers slick with saliva were inside the wriggling, twitching young catamite, torquing as the tips breached Daniil’s resilient sphincter, going steadily deeper, knuckles bottoming out.

“Doesn’t hurt,” Daniil muttered.

Then, he whimpered, not from pain. Already-dilated muscles responded to slow, deliberate penetration. The sensation was still Lidocaine-dulled, yet intense.

“Remember what I said about relaxing, Master Daniel,” Claire said distantly.

Relaxing didn’t seem possible, not with two fingers stuffed inside him, knuckles jammed into his buttocks. It was like a wedge stuck in a crevice, yet he did everything Claire had told him; focus, breathe, control, relax. Something yielded. Sucking in air, heart hammering, slender arms and legs embracing, straining to merge with his father.

‘Gently, Bruce. Even after Big Boy, he still needs time to get used to it.”

He could feel ‘it,’ amazing, mind-blowing, not a tearing sensation like his first time, enlarging, unrelenting.

“Daaaa-d, oh. Ohhhh, oh, ohhh. Oh!“

He gasped, disbelieving, the pressure switching from discomfort to something infinitely better. There was a hole behind, reaching up into him. Really tender. Nice. Breathless.

“Remember what I said about relaxing and accepting.” She sounded worried.

“Feels so big... What if I poop, Dad?”

“You’re not going to poop, Dani.” Teasing; pausing torment. “I’ll stop if you say.”

“No! Don’t... don’t stop.” Twitching as fingers touched that place inside his rectum.

Gucci-classic pumps off, Claire tiptoed across the bedchamber and stood on a crumpled sheet, a barefoot ‘museum’ attendant gazing up at Pre-Raphaelite obscenity.

“My cock will feel as big as this, maybe even bigger, Sweetie,” Bruce muttered, his fingers scissoring, stretching, adding more saliva.

She turned from explicit art, drawn to father and son like a moth to a candle. Daniil lay on the bed; his now-naked father crouched above him, one hand fondling, the other hand delving between slender thighs, hiked up with little buttocks wantonly parted. She stepped closer.

 “I came in to show you this.” She held up Daniil’s iPad. “An email from Edwin popped up on the screen while I was checking the orders. I read it before I realized it was for Master Daniel...”

She read, heart fluttering, never so aware, or thrilled by words.

 “Soft pink of rose,

Oh what he knows,

Of pleasure so sweet do whine.

To covet the tightness of thine,

That wondrous hole in the rear,

No virgin boy now, my dear.”

Silence followed Claire’s haunting voice. Her cadence, tone, every utterance—the effect was mystical, introspective.

Bruce recoiled at the implication. “Edwin sent that to Dani?”

“I think it’s rather sweet, actually.”

“Even Lord Byron would not savor as sweetly,” Bruce said cynically. “It seems Mr. Ed has gone beyond writing dirty ditties on restroom walls.”

“Dad, stop being silly. He sends me dirty poems all the time.” Daniil cleared his throat and wiped his saliva-slicked lips.

“Wee Willie Wanker runs through the house,

Upstairs and downstairs in his father’s gown,

Rubbing at his willy, finger in the round,

His folks are in their bed. He’s silent as a mouse.”

Claire stopped at the end of the bed, tempted to use the iPad clasped in her hand, a few photographs for her father and brother. Simon, too, so he knew what his best friend was up to while he was with his Rasputin.

“Bruce, he needs to be much looser this time. How Simon was after Trevor finished.”

Bruce was sure he’d never forget looking into Simon’s rectum, a dark and undulating tunnel with white at the end. The reddened rim had gaped, not quite a circle. At first glance, it had to be painful, yet Simon kept showing it off, and giggling.

“I’m working on it,” he muttered, selfishly relishing the thought of Daniil looking like that.

“Really loose, Bruce,” she stressed.

“Dad, you’re supposed to use Le Démarreur to make me loose.”

She stifled a laugh—the ideal age with the right frame of mind, a perfect catamite in the making.

“Better fetch it before he turns nasty, Claire,” Bruce joked.

“I forgot to pack it. Not to fret. He won’t be as loose as he could be,” she said snippily.

A kind of guilty glee overwhelmed Bruce as he looked over his shoulder. “I found Alistair’s... He stored his things in the desk.”

Claire sighed aloud—some men were stupid, others just slow. “What things, Bruce?” she inquired sweetly.

“His sex toys. He got them when he was in Africa, I expect. They’re in the sporran”

oUo

Claire returned with the sporran over her shoulder and a glass of wine in each hand. At first glance, Bruce and Daniil were kissing. She blinked and tiptoed closer. Not kissing or cuddling; the last thing she expected.

Bruce straddled his panting son, slender arms and legs shamelessly writhing, pawing, clutching shoulders, neck, anything within reach. Unaware of her quiet approach, Daniil turned his head, clearly offering. His father leaned in, tongue extending, licking his ear, wet and hot and making him quiver. Sucking on his ear lobe, long and hard with adult fingers tangled in his curls, restraining. Then, licking his cheek, doing everything possible to pleasure his compliant boy lover.

“Daddy, daddy, ohhhh. Ohhh. Oh yeah.” Gasping, frenzied, hugging in return.

Stunned, Claire gazed at the mismatched pair. Never had she witnessed such emotion, such passion. A few steps to put the wine glasses on the night stand, the sporran, too. She opened it to pluck out the smallest dildo, a carved ivory phallus.

“Your very own boy toy, and as thick as a your daddy’s,” she muttered to herself.

It had strings on the blunt end, two prominent ridges on the round end, one from a bulging glans, the other, the foreskin rolled back. Carefully incised in four lines wrapping around the shaft... she read it again to be sure.

‘Without a fright

He gripped it tight

His face shone bright

The whole of the night.’

With a kind of wild desperation, Daniil offered his neck, his father pushing long hair aside and hungrily sucking tender skin, leaving love bites where they couldn’t be seen. Subservient boy and assertive man, both beyond stopping, little fingers like baby eagle claws, little feet drumming, twitching, toes curling up.

Way beyond making out.

“You’re squashing him, Bruce,” Claire declared, growing envy barely in check.

Instead, Bruce grasped skinny wrists, pushing back arms to bury his maw in a boyish armpit. He sucked and licked, and moved on, slobbering across his son’s smooth hairless chest. Daniil groaned and squirmed, playfully nipping on the nearest broad shoulder.

“If you’re not going to stop, he needs to be on top of you,” she added forcefully.

“He won’t hurt me, Mum. We do this all the time at home.”

Daniil thrashed about, so excited that his penis was throbbing; instinctively thrusting up, anything to get his father’s groin pressed against it.

Contrite, she backed off. “I don’t mean to be bossy. I don’t want you to hurt him by accident.”

Bruce still rolled away as if he’d been slapped, his crimson erection bobbing, veins distended, leaving a slimy trail on Daniil’s taut belly. They ogled each other, one pretending exhaustion, the other crouching, heart racing, ready to pounce any moment.

“Puppy wants lick time, too!”

Bruce smirked. “I’m not done licking the puppy.”

“Dog fight! Grrrr.”

Between envious and amused, Claire focused on Daniil’s erection, taut pink skin, insignificant scrotum crinkled up beneath. Banshee squealing as he pounced, flopping full-length onto his father. In an instant, he was grinding little-boy genitalia into grownup body, somehow accommodating the thick hard penis under his belly.

Bruce embraced his offspring, one arm wrapped securely around his back, his other hand clutching a compact bottom, channeling juvenile prodding into something less frantic, slower, more powerful. Repositioning slender legs outside his, both hands on boy-butt, fingers spreading the cheeks wide apart.

“Spit, lots of spit,” Claire whispered from his side. “You want him as wet as possible.”

He nodded, bringing up his hand, drooling over his fingers, reaching down again. He rubbed in the crack, seeking slackness, the gap in the center, two fingertips pressing into the soft indentation. Daniil groaned, eagerly lifting his buttocks, aligning their groins, small jammed against large.

“I love you,” Bruce whispered in his son’s ear.

Already, Daniil’s middle was moving back and forth, side to side. Mostly back and forth; he was clearly no stranger to stimulation back there, or in front. It was messy; his father’s oozing erection reached way past his bellybutton, slick slime spreading all over his chest.

Her envy intensified the longer they humped, man and boy bonding intimately at the drop of a hat, ignoring her as if they’d done it so often they had nothing to hide.

“Oh my God!”

It escaped before she could stop Daniil raising his haunches to align their crotches. No longer humping, he reached behind to grasp his father’s erection. Relocated, it extended beyond his buttocks, the bulbous helmet excreting droplet after droplet. Bruce pushed his hand away only to lovingly smear his slippery excretion on his son’s cheeks.

“Rub him in my hole, Daddy.”

“There’s no rush, Dani-boy,” Bruce murmured, devoted to anointing his offspring, concentrating and taking his time.

He glanced up, man and boy reflected overhead, too dim to see much under the canopy. After catching her eye, he jerked his head up—a dozen mood lights encircled the underside of the canopy.

“Do what he says, Bruce,” she snapped.

Her look of approval offset her snarky tone. No matter how much she wanted to watch them, she was too jealous, blinking, wiping tears. No tears for Simon and Trevor. Not as much jealousy either.

“I’ll get there,” Bruce muttered, his voice fervent, yet faltering.

British men were covert, never natural or poignant; resilience held back emotion. She’d always thought Americans were the same or worse, not now.

Two switches were craftily built into the wood columns at the pillow-end of the bed. She leaned, flicked, not at all happy when the lights didn’t come on. She was about to say something disparaging about rundown castles, when, slowly, a yellowish glow appeared. It was a game changer.

Light and shadow created a stage set for a perverted passion play, everything revealed. A man crucified, his acolyte crooning, squirming against his erection, shameless, radiant. It left her speechless.

Daniil giggled. “I’m ready for Dick, Dad.”

With spit drying out, and a few scarce droplets of preseminal fluid, consecrating their love simply was not going to happen, not with a barely deflowered boy, not with their size difference, not without lubrication.

With Bruce’s index finger partially inserted in Daniil’s little bottom, he began wriggling it, preparing for deeper penetration. She had to do something. Her mind in a whirl, she reached for the ivory dildo, holding it out almost aggressively.

“Alistair’s *thing* goes in first, Bruce.”

Bruce gave her the same look he gave his wife when she intervened between him and his son, long-suffering patience verging on hostility.

Claire tried to be sensitive, taking control, and advantage. “Those seeking union with Eros always use Le Démarreur to prepare.”

“I was joking about sticking an African relic in his butt! Who knows where it’s been?”

Daniil writhed, pressing against his father’s finger, hoping it would go deeper. “I bet Uncle Alistair used it, Dad.”

“If he did, it’ll be a family tradition.” Mostly joking, yet the idea did have appeal.

“That would be a good thing. The Eros Union believes in tradition,” Claire said coldly.

He grinned at his father. “We can call it Alistair Démarreur.”

Bruce smothered a laugh. What would his wife would say—her traditions extended to eating fish on Fridays? What would Edwin say—tradition was his raison d'être? Or Trevor, whose son used an ancient Chinese dildo?

Already teasing, circling the portal every few seconds, probing inside ever so gently, increasingly sticky until he re-slicked his finger. Slippery made the hole feel flexible, soft, still not nearly big enough.

“What is vital in making love, Master Daniel.”

Daniil stopped squirming, looking over his shoulder. “That it brings joy to both of us, Mum. Joy is the virtue that flows from love.”

She despised parroting when thinking was crucial, yet let it slide as she caressed Daniil’s little bottom, soft and gentle to drive home her point.

“As small as you are, his penis will hurt you...” Lovingly, she brushed his back, caressing curls. “Without joy, you’ll always remember the pain, never the love.”

She regarded Bruce, as calm as can be.

“I get it, Claire.” Grumpy, yet apologetic, he accepted her advice, and the ivory phallus.

He emptied his mouth of saliva, spreading it on the bulbous end, smooth and polished.

“Alistair has had frequent use by the look of it.”

“Trust me, Bruce. Old-fashioned ivory does a better job than made-in-China junk,” Claire rebuked.

He held it gingerly, his hand avoiding the shaft, only his forefinger and thumb enclosing. Reaching down, aware of Daniil’s breath on his chest, slowly bringing it closer in the overhead mirror, everything upside down.

Daniil’s desire raged. Suddenly, he wanted Alistair Démarreur inside him, yet he was nervous, his fingers clasping his father’s shoulders, his buttocks clenching.

“Relax, Dani.” Soft, reassuring tone.

Snail’s pace, sensing his son was afraid; only his second time with something this big. Finding the spot, carefully trying the tip, crooning...

“I love you. Try to let it in.”

“Alistair, Dad... Just do it, okay.”

“Slowly, Bruce. It’s so thick, he’ll be hurt,” Claire murmured. “Concentrate on how it feels, Master Daniel. Be sure tell him.”

Leaning closer, reddened rim stretching, slender boy twitching, resistance was instinctive.

“Relax. You’re gripping too tightly.”

Daniil dared not answer back, not when he was so close to being skewered. Suddenly, there was no more pressure, just his father’s finger resting against tenderness.

“A catamite gives freely what his man finds most valuable...” she droned on.

“Yes, Mum.” Too confused to remember the rest, waiting for the inevitable sharp pain to return.

His buttocks clenched instinctively at a loving caress, warm fingers not ivory, sensing his father’s gentle love, not hunger, coming closer to accepting.

“... He offers what is desired and esteemed.” Claire took his wrist, drawing one hand downward. “With both hands. I know you’re eager; however, you must be patient.”

Bruce looked at the overhead mirror. With Daniil’s hands clasping his buttocks, lust was unstoppable. His son’s anus was a puffy reddened ridge depressed into his crack, a dusky patch surrounding it. Claire saw it, too.

“It’ll be bigger after tonight. And darker, definitely darker.”

“It’ll go away, though; right?”

She shrugged, not denying, dismissing—there were more pressing issues than shades of brown.

Bruce sighed, his gaze focused on tender flesh shiny with saliva, scarcely aware of Daniil’s fingers entwined with his, both father and son separating plump little buttocks, Claire guiding the ivory shaft back to the anemone-anus.

“Don’t tighten up, Sweetie,” she crooned. “Relax... Let Alistair go in.”

Again, the rounded tip burrowed into Daniil’s anus. He inhaled sharply, held his breath, slowly exhaled even as Bruce’s hand replaced Claire’s.

“Gently rub around it. You want to coax it open.” Claire’s voice trembled, her hand back on Bruce’s hand, guiding his movement. “Go up and down. Don’t push in!”

“I’m not pushing in! Using spit instead of goose grease is crazy.”

“He needs to feel it give way to qualify as his official Yielding. It’s a tradition, an important one,” Claire said curtly. “Keep rubbing gently. Lots of spit. When you feel him loosening, start to push in... very gently!”

“Easy for you to say.” Bruce grinned. “Scoot up a bit, Babe.”

Daniil wriggled higher, bringing his knees against his father’s flanks and lifting his bottom. Almost immediately, he noticed the difference. The ivory tip was no longer just rubbing outside; it was bulging into his hole. His back bowed, his chest pressing down, trembling as his father suckled on his neck and shoulder. Snuggling on the couch in front of the TV was never so nice.

“Relax, Sweetie. Focus on the feeling like she said?”

He nodded, doing everything he could to concentrate on the sensation of something expanding, growing inside him. Only Claire’s voice penetrated.

“Mind over muscle. How far do you want Alistair inside you?”

“All the way, Mum,” he muttered; brave, or foolhardy. “He feels so big.”

Inhaling, hold his breath as the pressure intensified. Certain it was as big as his father’s penis. Gasping, impulsively clutching the sheet, wanting it over.

She nudged Bruce for saliva, taking a deep breath, watching the rim, taut as a stretched rubber band, tender flesh at breaking point, almost ready for it to pass through...

It was time to speak up.

“Once it’s in his rectum there’s not much feeling... except for his special place,” she whispered. “Pay attention to how he reacts.”

The ivory dildo was digging in; juvenile sphincter grasping, involuntary spasms restricting ingress. On the brink of penetration, she touched Daniil’s flank.

“Relax. Pretend it’s your father’s penis going into you. Don’t push back until I tell you.”

“Yes, Mum.”

She leaned in, ready to distract him, the same as she’d sidetracked her nephews at their critical moments.

“Tell me the Nine Virtues again, Master Daniel.”

Preoccupied, he started slowly. “’Love, joy, peace...”

“Peace is tranquility, when you empty your mind completely. Peace is also harmony, when you become one with your lover.”

She glanced down, hoping the rim wouldn’t tear. It was painfully tight as the ivory shaft started to enter.

“All you know is what you feel. Close your eyes and focus on it, just that. Feel your body stretching...”

“I feel it, Mum.” He gulped, queer truth finally inescapable. “Alistair’s going into me...”

“Twist it slightly as you push, Bruce. Try to move it around more,” she whispered. “It’ll help him relax. After peace comes?”

“Forbearance... Owwww....” Breathless, shaky boy. “Goodness. Ow! Mum?”

She touched Bruce’s hand and shook her head slightly.

“When he tightens up, go in and out, very gently. It’ll break down his resistance. Always focus on his pleasure. Never on yours.”

Bruce nodded.

“What is forbearance, Master Daniel?”

Daniil tensed, momentarily clenching his teeth, not from pain, from pressure, an intense awareness of something special happening deep inside. He quivered, panting, scarcely aware someone was rubbing his back and shoulders.

“Forbearance, Mum, is...”

Not forgetting, he was too caught up in the sensation, slow back and forth, surely going a little deeper each time. Possessing him. Opening him up. All leading up to... Yielding.

“... going without, when I want something... being patient.”

“Forbearance no longer. It’s inside, you,” she whispered, risking a quick glance.

A few inches inside and a hand-width remaining; however, the hardest part was over. Slowly, surely, little by little, the rest would disappear. He just needed time to get used to it.

“Side to side, Bruce. Not always in and out... More saliva, you’re pumping dry. See how he’s beginning to respond?”

“He’s twitching. That’s good, right?”

She nodded. “Wriggling his hips means you’re close to where it needs to be.”

Gently stroking Daniil’s bare back from his tailbone to the nape of his neck, kneading little vertebrae-bumps; she leaned close to Daniil, fondling curly locks.

“Not much longer and he’ll loosen your bottom properly...”

Daniil jerked erratically, his pelvis lurching as his father wobbled the ivory phallus.

“My boy-hole will be a lot bigger after this, huh Mum?”

“Your boy-hole will be more elastic; that’s essential for a catamite.”

He gasped, trying to hold steady, focusing on feelings as the ivory shaft slowly sank into him. Then, out; and another twitching shudder when it wobbled again.

Being goosed with a finger didn’t come close to this. Mind-blowing for a gay boy.

“You said I’ll be darker there, too,” he murmured.

She hadn’t realized he’d been listening. “A week in the French Riviera, you’ll be tanned all over. You’ll barely see it.”

Bruce ahemed. “Ah, Claire, ‘I'd best lie down for a spell,’ as my Granny used to say.”

His voice joggled her mind to what a more pressing issue.

“Now what?

“I’m about to make a mess on him... not on him!”

“Oh, right. Well, take it out and put yours in.”

Bruce wobbled the shaft one last time. Daniil shuddered, gasped, disbelieving that anything could feel like *that*.

Then, withdrawal, slowly easing back, inch by inch, realizing his son’s little body was trying to grasp it and keep in inside. The shaft was hot, surprisingly slippery. Suddenly, he reached the rim, like a point of no return, the widest part. A groan as Daniil’s body expelled it.

“Passing a stool this thick would hurt like the dickens,” Bruce muttered.

“Better an ivory relic than spoil it for Richard,” Claire quipped. “Lots of spit, Bruce.”

Of course, he didn’t need her telling him, or crouching down to inspect his son’s furrow. He could feel his son’s anus gaping as he slathered saliva, rubbing his fingers around the dilated rim. Testing elasticity by hooking his digit, pulling side to side. There was no resistance at all.

Then, taking a breath, he began, fully aware that Claire would witness the most intimate joining of man and boy.

“I love you, Dani.”

Just a whisper as he gently fitted his slimy glans in its slimy hollow, delicate hot flesh enfolding his helmet. He paused, scarcely resisting the temptation to jab. The experience of a lifetime felt little different to Daniil’s sweet lips suctioning his preseminal fluid, hot, juicy, welcoming. However, this was infinitely more exciting, and romantic.

Lifting his hand to stroke his son’s soft cheek, he whispered again. “I love you, Dani.”

“Rub you back.”

Their whispers were lost in a flurry of face kisses, fingers entangled among curls, father and son moistening lips, noses nuzzling, inhaling the lavender scent of Daniil’s tousled head, freshly washed boy giggly and warm and encouraging. Of course, it slipped out.

“Puppy kiss,” Daniil murmured, unperturbed.

Bruce contorted, meeting delicate wet lips, sucking on that squirmy little tongue. Then, aligning man and boy pelves, one hand reaching down to position helmet and hole.

“Offer your boy-hole by lifting up slightly,” Claire instructed.

She all but swooned, guiding Daniil in proper presentation. Straddling his father with his pelvis raised, slender thighs spread wide, buttocks parted; slippery glans placed in the succulent gap, oozy woozy muddling, rubbing around and around the offered ‘boy-hole’, trying to enter. She placed a steadying hand on Bruce’s leg.

“We want him to get used to it going in, before going within,” Claire warned.

“Forbearance, right?” Bruce muttered, impossible not to smile about ‘going within.’

“A catamite must accept a man’s penis inside him without any pushing. The sooner he starts practicing the better.”

Somehow, Bruce nodded. He clutched his son’s thigh, pausing, tensing muscles under his erection, trying to excrete whatever he could—a few meager droplets would help ease the way.

Perched above him, Daniil trembled, little rump tensing, relaxing. His father’s penis was bulging into him, stretching him, becoming one with him. No other feeling came close. Back and forth, soothing, stretching, satisfying...

Distantly, Claire said something about pushing in. It felt like a prod, abrupt and forceful, enough that he gasped, not enough for a whimper. A moment later, a gradual building pressure. The realization of what was happening arrived in a rush, twitching all over, fingers grasping his father’s arms. Concentrate on the feeling, accepting it like she said. However, he was aching back there, not really hurting, like his buttocks were being forced apart by Alistair.

“Try wriggling on it. That’s what Simon does to get his dad in his boy-hole,” Claire suggested.”

“Wriggle how, Mum?”

One hand either side of his rump, her thumbs digging into his crack, demonstrating how to rotate his pelvis around his father’s swollen erection. With his boy-hole stretched thin, it seemed further progress was impeded, if not impossible.

“When a man’s as big as your father, it takes time, and practice,” she said.

A dab of goose grease would be a game changer.

Without being told, Bruce retained pressure against his son’s little body. Lightly pressing in was enough, any more was overkill. With nowhere to go but in, his shaft slowly slid in.

“Go in and out; no more than a half inch. You’re still breaching him, not bumming him.”

“Yes, Mum.”

A man could never be happier than to be within that taut tube, yet beyond was infinitely better. A juicy flesh-melting furnace absorbed him, contained him, controlling his every thought.

“You’re so hot,” Bruce murmured.

Deep breaths, feeling his son calm down from inside, head drooping on his chest, nearly limp. No tears, no upsetting ‘Owww’. Nothing better than a slow loving penetration.

Daniil inhaled, exhaled, captivated, eyes closed, expecting numbing discomfort the same as the night before. Instead, unstoppable pressure, increasing, receding, a very different sensation taking over. Manhood taking over. Dominating. Carefully back and forth, loosening the ‘boy-hole’, and ever-so-cautiously dipping into the rectum.

“I’m not going to last much longer,” Bruce warned.

“Keep going in and out.”

Whatever resistance remained; it was fast disappearing. On every withdrawal, Bruce’s copious excretion glistened on his engorged shaft, sucking softly, a hint of what would come later that night.

“You’ll be a hungry little homo when this is over,” Claire muttered, caught up in the moment.

She leaned in close to enjoy the musky-sweet scent from Daniil’s rump, deep restorative breaths, some with her nose so close to his bottom she had trouble avoiding little fingers still parting cheeks. That close to Bruce’s erection, she realized the end was imminent. Already clenching, erratic jerky thrusts, stopping completely, the shaft veins visibly swollen, surely doing everything he could to hold back the inevitable explosion.

She watched, amazed, as Bruce pushed in again, squirming to get in the last little bit. A groan as he struggled to pull back—his erection was so thick at the base it might’ve been jammed. In again, this time with a primal grunt, still no reciprocal whimper.

For a few moments, father and son simply gazed at each other, surely in mute disbelief. Man and boy were joined as one, a timeless ritual like Mars and Cupid. Their bonding complete, they sealed with kisses, licks, and sucking tongues mixed up with murmuring.

“Love you.”

“I love you.”

“Love you more.”

“I love you, Dani-boy.”

It seemed trivial for such an important event.

She crouched, leaning over Daniil’s back, a witness to his official ‘Yielding,’ coarse pubic hair crushed against baby-soft cheeks, not enough room between them to slip in her finger. As Yieldings went, so far it was ‘super’, first class.

She almost missed Daniel’s whisper. “Puppy lick, daddy.”

Bruce’s right hand clasped his son’s hip, preventing wriggles, separating them just enough to stop any stimulation. However, he couldn’t stop Daniil licking, little tongue swabbing his bristly chin, swiping cheeks, love-biting his neck.

Stemming the rise was impossible, like trying to stop a randy Highland bull, or his manhood from flexing deep within. A frenzied gasp from Daniil matched his startled expression, cheeks and neck turning red, lips covered in spit, little tongue still licking.

Claire smirked unseen, relishing flecks of sweat on Bruce’s flanks, a pinkish sheen all over his flushed little lover.

“Stay in till you’re completely done, Bruce,” she said suddenly. “Don’t make a mess on the bed.”

She sounded callous, especially with the onset of ejaculation only seconds away. In a heart-stopping surge, a few powerful thrusts drove in the stake until it could go no farther. Suddenly, father and son were again pressed tightly together, adult balls contracted into a wrinkled tennis ball.

Then, an abrupt jerk from Bruce’s loins instigated a spasm deep within Daniil. Barely, nine years old and his body went rigid, straining down, instinctively clamping around his father’s massive male member.

“Pull him deeper,” Claire directed tranquilly, envy evaporating.

Even as she bent to check, Bruce gave another jerk, another spasm from Daniil, and a whimper.

“Cumming,” Bruce gasped.

Abruptly, he came back to life, wild with uncontrollable thrusts, pulverizing, deep, life-giving.

“Uh. Uh. Uhhh. Ahhh. Daddy...” Squealing, squirming little catamite, certain semen was spurting into his bowel, yet not feeling anything except he was loved.

“Every last drop in him,” Claire demanded.

Two more thrusts, lifting his son up from the bed, his face contorted, still desperately pounding to get it all out. Even when Bruce collapsed onto the bed, his penis was still pulsing.

“I love you so much,” he murmured.

Being so close to Daniil was the best thing ever; shivering, yet hot as can be; panting and gasping, tightly grasping him, and afraid to let go.

Next to them, Claire sat up, wiping a hand over her brow, smelling her fingers, blinking, sniffling—she was always emotional when she watched her brother and nephews, just not as much.

“Was that as good as you expected, Master Daniel?”

“Wheeeeee---oooooooo good!”

She chuckled. “That good? I think you’re almost ready for stage three.”

“Simon was at stage four after a month, Mum.”

“You will be too, likely sooner. Now, you’re deflowered and yielding, we need to get you properly impaled. Five quid says you’ll crave it, the same as he does.”

“I don’t have five pounds! Mom won’t give me pocket money, and even if she did, I wouldn’t waste it on bets.”

A fond look behind served to hide her smile.

Bruce’s sex was still planted between Daniil’s small pale buttocks. She pressed with her thumb, parting pale small cheeks, exposing the shaft, grownup, hairy, thick, dark. Possession was about halfway, no longer rigid, not limp either.

“There’s a little redness, nothing to worry about, considering.” She looked again to make sure. “I’ll show you how to massage it with lanolin.”

“Simon said Yearning is when you have bum cums,” Daniil proclaimed to his father.

Yearning was that and more, a lot more.

“What then?” Bruce demanded, quite reasonably he thought.

Daniil’s excitement was such that she wouldn’t complicate the moment beyond, “Serving the Union of Eros.”

Envy barely checked, she headed to the bathroom to fetch a wash cloth and the rest. She diverted to pick up her iPhone, a knowing smile as she texted her father: ‘Great Yielding. Yearning in three days, maybe less.’

Bruce leaned down, still embedded, brushing away curls, smooching a little whorled ear, licking, flicking, bathing with saliva, soothing.

“You’re okay, right?”

“I guess. I feel kinda icky.”

“Your bum’s full of cum.”

“Simon said it won’t hurt me.”

“You’re my spunky monkey.”

Daniil giggled, already in recovery mode, exerting inner muscles to pull on his father’s still-stiff penis. Like Simon said, it felt nice afterwards, glowing and tingly up inside.

“Pull out slowly, Bruce,” Claire instructed from beside the bed, essentials in hand.

She had Daniil’s douche ready to go, thoroughly cleansed with anti-bacterial soap and hot water. As Bruce’s glans popped out, she slicked the tube with her saliva, compressed the bulb, and inserted. Daniil was so dilated, the tube penetrated fully without so much as a momentary pause.

“Now, squeeze on it,” she muttered.

Daniil’s buttocks clenched, grasping the tube, pulling the flexible flange against his anus. She trembled, her hand shaking as she released the bulb, slowly. The sound of suction escaping the flange brought a smile as she eased back the tube. A louder squelchy ‘suck’ as she withdrew the tip. All the way out, it was impossible to tell if it worked; however, there was semen clinging to the hemispherical tip, and streaking the tube.

She put the douche aside, curtailing excitement, playing the role of concerned governess to cover herself.

“No blood, thank goodness. Remember, you must be in control, Bruce. It’s about pleasing him, always.”

Contrite, Bruce gulped. “Yes, Mum.”

Daniil turned to look at her, giggly and awkward because she’d been there throughout...

“It feels really big back there, Mum. Way bigger than Alistair.”

Claire frowned, envy back with a vengeance. No hesitation as she parted his buttocks. His anus gaped back at her; more funnel than tunnel, it surprised even her. Reddened around the hole, yet not overly large, not tiny either. She peered closer, expecting to see semen still inside him; almost none. Now, that was reassuring.

Not wasting time, she looked around. “Where did you leave Le Démarreur?”

It was on the floor, with Bruce’s hurriedly removed clothes. After placing a bath towel over the sheet, she opened a fresh jar of Pride of Orkney, Pure graylag Goose Fat.

“Only the best for my catamites.” With two fingers, she scooped out an oleaginous lump.

Hurriedly, she applied a thick coating to the ivory shaft, slippery and smooth except for the carefully carved ripples near the head.

“People eat this, Mum,” Daniil said, tousled head craned to read the jar’s label.

His father smirked. “What is fat on a goose makes a cat mighty loose.”

Claire stifled a laugh. Prudently, she passed the ivory phallus to Bruce and turned her attention to its destination. Again, thumbs pressing in to Daniil’s crack, she exposed his nether opening.

“My, what a beautiful boy-hole. Not too large, in fact perfect.” She rubbed gently, mostly testing rim elasticity. “Very stretchy though.”

“Isn’t that how it’s supposed to be?” Bruce muttered self-consciously.

“Dad, stretchy is good.”

“At this stage, he couldn’t be any better. He’s nice and loose; that’s crucial, Bruce. Still, a dab of Lidocaine won’t hurt.”

She locked eyes with him as she squeezed out a white dollop from a tube, swiftly massaging it into Daniil’s anus.

“What are you waiting for?”

“You mean I have to put it again? I’m not sure I can do it again.”

She regarded him with the stoic patience of a governess. Realizing, he nodded, part of him hoping he was wrong, the rest praying he was right.

His left hand steadied Daniil’s bottom, maintaining exposure while he endeavored to position the greasy ivory shaft. Unable to see what he was doing, she took over. Centered over the target, the shaft not quite perpendicular, she applied pressure on the blunt end. The rounded head pushed in, not through. Daniil shuddered, squirming to get away. She increased the pressure even as his anus resisted momentarily. Stretched far beyond normal size, it yielded quickly, fast enough to bring a smile to her face.

“I think someone’s getting used to being penetrated.”

“I invited it in like you said, Mum.”

Claire patted his bare bottom, gesturing for his father to take over. Nearly fully inserted, Bruce wasn’t reluctant about holding it, just insecure and afraid of hurting his son.

“Bruce, now he’s relaxed, practice finding his special place while I get ready for bed.”

She stood, keeping the douche bulb out of sight, slyly watching his tentative back-and-forth movement. He was awkward and uncertain; however, that would soon change, as would the vaguely bewildered look on Daniil’s face.

“I won’t be long. You did take the pill, right?” she taunted over her shoulder.

oUo

Claire hurriedly undressed, barely folding jeans and vest, white satiny blouse and Côte d’Azur bandeau before posing for a moment in front of the mirror. Except for brunette hair in a bun and tits, a gangly boy looked back at her. Fit from soccer, narrow waist, petite breasts, lean thighs, red Tomboy boxer briefs with tiny faux buttons in front and white trim to emphasize the presence of absence.

Her boxer briefs off, envy took over. Camel-toe exposed, not a single hair on her pubis since she started puberty; she considered herself. A silently wish that she was as smooth as nine-year-old Daniil—he was flawless. She inhaled, dreamily stroking, pretending her finger was his small stiff penis pressing between her labia, sliding higher until her fingertip tormented her clitoris, then down the furrow again.

Her eyes closed as she wandered through a long day, waking up Daniil, the drive to Cunsey Castle, posing for the camera in the garden, being fingered in the car by his father, discovering the ancestral home was anything but a tatty fishing lodge. And the high point, the start of Daniil’s *Yielding* was the best she’d seen, his little bottom widespread, his little anus gaping, plugged with Alistair; and then, by his father.

“Oh my, such passion after only two days!” she giggled, finally sitting on the stool.

Legs wide apart, she prodded with the tip of the douche tube, pretending it was Daniil’s tiny helmet rubbing against her clitoris. Her juices, already flowing, churned to a slippery goo, pressing the tube deeper into her vagina, never used by a man.

“Yes, Daniil, my dear darling kitty-cat... Do my pussy.”

It was tight, hungry, tingling as the skinny tube inched in, inhaling, imagining... whispering.

“You’re lucky. Your father’s cock is so big it barely fits in your bum...”

Breathless, jabbing the douche, driving the tip deeper, harder, not hurting, not a gentle sweet pleasure either, the visceral exigency of boy-sized Mars mounting his Cupid.

“... It went in your beautiful bum, just like I said it would. It didn’t hurt, did it? Well, perhaps a little bit at first.”

It was corny enough that she cackled, mock-groaning like a cheap triple-X video. Smirking with beautiful little Daniil foremost in her mind, she jabbed faster, harder, eyes clenched shut, grinding the flexible seal of the douche against her mons, labia flattened.

“Fuck me, my gorgeous sexy boy.” Shaky muttering, her vaginal juices flowing, horny as can be.

A minute, maybe two, passed in a one-handed flurry. With no need to worry with father and son in bed together, she slowed to deliberate deep strokes, pushing it right up inside her, legs twitching each time, toes curling on cold white marble.

“Geoffrey won’t play with me when his father’s around...”

Sadly true, and cause for frustration on her part. Still, her swollen clitoris quivered, demanding more, gasping, edging herself, tormenting herself with memories.

“Of course, when he does, he’s nice and hard; really good if he tries to please me.”

Sighing, slender thigh muscles tensing, desperation overpowering. Her mind whirled, fantasizing, Daniil straddling her, driving his erection into her. Not too big, just right for a little boy. So close. So close.

“He’s a lot bigger than you; you’ll really have to work at pleasing my pussy.”

Imagining Daniil’s little curved penis going in and out with boyish jabs, hard and shiny, the exposed glans like a cherry perched on the end, the short shaft turning scarlet, tiny veins swelling. Circumcised tightly had to feel sexier, sleeker, and better, if only because it looked different. It was funny how quickly she’d come to love other than the garden variety.

“I love you so much... Yes, more than Simon... and you’re cuter.”

She gasped as her shuddering peak approached, now urgently thrusting the douche, fingers strumming her slimy clitoris. Gritting her teeth so she wouldn’t cry, she jammed the tip against her cervix and squeezed the bulb with both hands. Lukewarm semen squirted into her vagina.

“You better be a baby boy...”

She groaned and squeezed the bulb again, squashing it flat to get all of it out.

“I love you, my beautiful Dani-boy.”

Breathless, yet she giggled abruptly, pressing her thighs tightly together so none escaped.

“When was my last period anyway?”

oUo

Claire returned to the bedchamber attired in her favorite pajamas. Anyone could see she was bare underneath, perky small breasts peeking over the low neckline.

She expected to see Daniil still speared on ivory, highly stimulated, if not orgasmic. He was certainly impaled; she could tell from his awkward movements. What she didn’t expect was him kneeling behind his father, who was on all fours. Visibly perplexed, he muttered something as she approached unseen.

“Master Daniel?”

Daniil turned abruptly, jerking back his hand. She was attired feline, not in glossy-black skintight latex, a black-velour button-front onesie with fuzzy-fur trim. Exaggerating each slinky movement, swooshing precise and graceful, yet poised to pounce.

He stared at velour tugging into her crotch. “Hey, Dad; there’s a pussy in our room.”

She sidled closer, swishing her pelvis and shoulders. “Meowwww.”

His eyes sparkled gleefully. He played the same way when he wore his tiger onesie. “Here Kitty, Kitty, Kitty.”

Faking annoyance, yet relishing his sweet voice. “I’m Catwoman!”

He was close to erupting in giggles—his mother was never this much fun. “Sylvester P. Pussycat, maybe.”

“Meowwww. You’d have to put some white on my tummy.”

Prancing feline, provoking all kinds of fleeting thoughts, all headed in the same direction—it was like having a stuffed toy come alive. He smirked.

“Your onesie is really tight on your boobs.”

“Master Daniel!” Shifting to stern pussy-voice, no nonsense frown, cat-stepping closer. “Meowww. What are you doing?”

Still smirking, thriving on playfulness, nine-year-old imagination running wild.

“Daddy wants to know how it feels, Mum.”

“Meowww. How what feels...” She arched a teasing eyebrow. “Meowww... exactly?”

Shyly, Daniil raised his hand.

“Oh my! Meowww.”

Claire faked a twitching cat-nose, sniffing the ivory phallus now clutched in his hand.

“Master Daniel... Meow... your plug’s come out.”

Finally, Daniil erupted in giggles. “This is the other one, Mum. We tied mine in, see?”

He turned for her to see a cord wrapping his waist. It secured blunt-ended ivory protruding between his buttocks. Emphatically elegant and purring, she eased onto the bed.

“He kept saying ‘nearly there.’ Now, I know why,” Bruce grumbled, his voice muffled in the sheet.

“It’s like searching for a mole in his hole, Mum. It keeps moving around.”

Playfully, she pawed at Daniil’s bottom, her fingers deftly grasping ivory, flicking her wrist as she poked around. His little tousled head twitched—he was definitely tender; however, it was in too deep, not where it needed to be.

She withdrew enough to make a difference. “It’s not rocket science, Bruce.”

Bruce grimaced back at her, annoyed more by her tone than her take-charge manner. She wobbled the end without much resistance, yet with one hand resting on his buttock, restraining just in case. Daniil’s tiny twitches made her smile—the best catamites were highly sensitive.

“Let’s see how loose you really are,” she muttered, applying pressure in alternate directions

“Ow!” A gasp and Daniil’s slender body spontaneously shuddered. “Mum!”

She pressed down in the same spot, and he surged forward, face down, arms extended. She followed him onto the bed, levering the ivory shaft towards his tailbone. The knob-end squashed the gland near his bladder. He grunted, suddenly frantic, his bald little pubis punching into the mattress.

“Feels nice, doesn’t it?” Cool, calculating, relishing her power to make him squirm.

“Mum... Ah... Ow...Oooh... M-Mum, don’t.... Please... Ahhh.”

She stopped abruptly, hand steady, minimal pressure, just enough to remind him. Waiting until he regained his breath, settled down.

“Pain and pleasure go hand in hand, especially for a catamite. Never forget it, Master Daniel.”

He looked over his shoulder, humbled and humiliated, chewing his bottom lip, and blinking nervously. What had been fun and relaxing with his father, had become anything but. For a few incredible heartbeats, he’d been on the verge of... he had no idea what to call it... exploding? It didn’t come close. She’d reached into his core.

He wriggled like a fish on a spear, unaware of his raw sensuality, little pelvis seeking the incredible bursting pressure, never to be the same boy again.

“When you start to get that feeling again, I want you to strain down on it,” Claire said calmly. “Whatever you do, don’t stop ‘til I tell you.”

He nodded obediently.

“One good bum cum, and a gay boy will always want more,” she snickered, turning to Bruce. “As soon as you’re past his sphincter, aim for his willy. It never fails, no matter which position.”

She pulled out the glistening, greasy ivory shaft. Long and thin with an exaggerated cherry-head; it was ideal for a little boy-bum. She put it aside.

“We’ll pick up with Joy. Your father will need to cooperate by laying on his back. You lay down on top of him, only face up this time.”

Right before her eyes, they got into position with no shame at all. Daniil even put his legs outside his father’s thighs—it was too good to be true, especially when Bruce drew up his knees, forcing Daniil’s thighs wide apart.

It was amusing to see father and son like that, man and boy completely exposed, similar, yet so different. With no interest at all in manhood, she stared unfettered. No hiding her interest; nothing came close to prepubescent boyhood and a gaping boy-hole. It was shiny with goose grease, crimson inside.

Irritated, Bruce reached down, his right hand fiddling with his son’s penis, left hand lovingly caressing his lean smooth abdomen, his Viagra-erection bumping shriveled up balls.

“You’ve done it this way already,” she teased.

“We watch TV like this when Mom’s working late.” Daniil skewed his head to see his father. “Don’t we Dad?”

Bruce nodded, glans already placed in his son’s slippery furrow, sliding back and forth, teasing, opening him just a little bit more.

Claire looped a coil of hair in her fingers, absently, anxiously twisting. The thrill was back with a vengeance, stronger, making her shiver. It was itchy inside her vagina. And hot. Unable to look away as the swollen knob probed, depressed the pucker, and slowly sank in. Momentarily stuck when the inner muscle clamped down, Daniil inhaled, eyes closed, focusing, lips apart, teeth not clenched, mouth breathing, little hands making frustrated fists, waiting.

She wondered if every time would be the same.

“Relax... Relax... Richard feels so big, doesn’t he... He won’t hurt you. Try to remember the feeling for next time,” she crooned.

With the glans gone from sight, Daniil wriggled against it. Another persistent inch ensconced, the sensation disturbing, not distressing, addling. More penetrated with his father’s hands clasping his hips, pushing him onto it. Unable to stop the inevitable, and about to burst, he arched, lifting his back and bottom, his ankles scraping the bed. Claire poked at his tummy and he sank back, and down. Down with a groan, and a gasp at the end when there was no more left to go in.

Still grasping his hips, Bruce pulled him closer, hugging, muttering ‘it’s okay,’ watching his son get used to being fully skewered. Confused until the unsettling realization...

“It’s in me, Dad... all the way,” Daniil whispered.

Bruce nodded, quelling the urge for as long as he could stand.

“This way brings Joy to both man and boy. Just remember, your role is to please the other,” Claire murmured.

He could feel his son twitch, tiny tightening spasms, tentatively trying to draw his erection deeper, testing how hard a nine-year-old boy could squeeze. Each teasing squeeze left him wanting more; trembling after four or five. After a dozen, Bruce couldn’t hold back. His first upward thrust induced a whimper; his second, Daniil grunted. Then, it was ‘off to the races.’

THE LAIRD’S CHAMBER, GLENIOLAIRE CASTLE.

Daniil J. Stirling stirred, disturbing the eiderdown, shiny satin squares like little boys’ bottoms stitched together, plump with goose down. Eyes still veiled, little nordic-nose slightly flaring with each sluggish breath, snuggling into a matching pillow strewn with long curly locks. His small hand tugged at a sheet, gold satin edging blue darker than Prussian navy.

Beside the canopy bed, Claire surveilled, her fantasy overwhelming prudence as she guardedly lifted the sheet. He was still unclothed, startlingly pale, charmingly slender. She inhaled as she leaned closer, imbibing the ‘odor of odious love’ as her father jokingly called it. The mingled scents of man and boy; sweat, musk, and mucus, it aroused her like no other smell. Deep slow breaths, entranced by boyish perfection. She dared to touch a glabrescent forearm, nor even baby down.

Daniil stirred again, eyelids flickering through a remnant of a dream.

“Like watching a little prince waking up,” she mused aloud.

So much had changed overnight; watching father and son couple, not once or twice. Sodomy, if not yet proficient, already went well beyond the basics. Sexy little Daniil was everything her father had hoped for, and more.

Unable to resist, she raised the eiderdown—it seemed no heavier than lifting a veil. She feasted her eyes while he slept, his breath-taking abdomen, soft nipples, curvaceous ribs, smooth silken belly with tapering muscles, lingering on his indented navel. A quick peek behind, and she backed away, bare feet making no sound all, leaving him to dream for a few more minutes.

She settled into an armchair in the circular ‘turret’, as Daniil called it; absorbed in The Complete Poems of Lord Alfred Douglas, specifically, Bosie’s ‘Two Loves.’ Soon, she read aloud, captivated by every word.

“...And as I stood and marvelled, lo!

Across The garden came a youth;

one hand he raised To shield him from the sun,

his wind-tossed hair Was twined with flowers,

and in his hand he bore

A purple bunch of bursting grapes, his eyes

Were clear as crystal, naked all was he,”

“Mum?”

She looked up. Daniil stood before her, late morning sun splashing across his bare little body. He was ready for a morning pee, little boy-balls bunched up, not-quite-bursting lavender-tipped willy, not nearly as purple as his father’s fat plum. She licked her lips; he’d taste sweet, nothing like a grape.

“Good morning. My perfect prince, or my little tart; which will he be this morn?” she said quietly.

She paused to let the words sink in, however, his interest was beyond the window, drawn by the plaintive wail of lonely bagpipes; the Skye Boat Song, commemorating Bonnie Prince Charlie.

“Mum, where’s my dad?”

A little moody was expected; no catamite liked being abandoned by his master while he slept.

“He went to see the Laird’s old chamber; the small castle you saw on the way in. Now, he’s taking the morning tour through the garden with Lyle, Mrs. McIntyre’s brother.”

He shrugged and stepped to the open window beside her, ignoring the morning chill and inhaling the fresh scents of the Highlands as he scanned for a tour group. From behind, she glimpsed the curved blue-silicone handle, the core ensconced between compact round cheeks, lingering redness extending onto the insides of his buttocks.

“It feels different after Yielding, doesn’t it, Master Daniel?”

He responded with a shrug, a flick of his head. His bottom pulled in, contracting slightly, instinct taking over what was previously intentional. Tighten, relax, absorbing. Feeding the awakened urge that came with surrender, turning to face her. Still erect, his penis had a ruddy glow in the sun. She couldn’t take her eyes off it. His shriveled scrotum made her feel quite giddy. She smiled, resting her hand on Daniil’s lean thigh.

“You must never be ashamed of what you do with men, especially your father. Incest unifies, Master Daniel. You will never be closer than when he’s inside you.”

“Do we have to talk about it?”

“Your father and I talked about you while you slept. You and I will talk about it, openly, with nothing held back. I expect you to tell me whenever the need arises... Is that clear?”

Daniil gnawed on his bottom lip, evading her gaze.

“I can’t… It’s embarrassing.”

“Poor thing. You feel the need right now, don’t you?” She smiled fondly. “Yearning for your man is perfectly normal.”

“I can’t help it...Is it like this all the time?”

“You’re more aware of your boy-hole, aren’t you? Simon was the same after his father bummed him a few times. Just by looking at you, I can tell you know what I’m talking about.”

“I can still feel him, Mum.” He hesitated. “When I woke up and he wasn’t here I felt really sad, like there’s nothing to live for anymore.”

“Falling in love with a man is a big step for a boy... Last night, what you and your father did was very special.”

He regarded her quizzically, head tilted. He might’ve been a little old man, or a boy too young to appreciate what set him apart.

“Is his baby stuff still inside me?” he murmured, still self-conscious.

“Some of it from last night, plus all of this morning’s, I expect. Does it bother you?”

He looked down, not dejected, diffident. “Not any more, Mum. I know I can’t have a baby; I still like having it in me.”

“Now he’s possessed your body, you’ll want to do it a lot; which is why you’ll be examined every morning and night.”

He thought ‘possessed’ a strange description, yet apt. He belonged to his father, now more than ever.

“I’m okay, Mum, really.”

She smiled gratuitously. “Being bummed is nice when it’s hard and deep; however, you’re young enough to be damaged if it goes on for too long. From now on, I’ll inspect your boy-hole to make sure you’re okay.”

She gestured, not impatiently, leaving him no choice. He turned away, bending over with his hands on his buttocks. She plucked out the plug, streaked with slime. After a cursory look, she held it aside, and leaned closer.

“You’re coming along very nicely. Just a little messy.”

“Semen can’t hurt me. It’s what he made me with.”

“Aren’t you the tart?” she teased.

He shrugged it off.

“Well, you are. You might as well get used to the idea, Master Daniel.”

“Is it bigger, Mum?”

She rubbed his crevice, settling her thumb over his now-recessed boy-hole. “After last night, I’m surprised it still closes,” she teased. “How many times was his penis inside you last night?”

“Three, Mum.”

“I left when you were starting with Goodness. What do you know of that virtue?” she prompted.

“Goodness is the sixth Virtue. The boy lies on top, face up or down,” Daniil said shyly. “Then, we did Joy, which is me sitting in his lap, facing him.”

“A Virtue is more than a position,” she snapped.

“We did Joy for a really long while. I like it the most.”

“After Joy, came Peace.”

He smiled, still shy, still sleepy. “I was on my side... I kept falling asleep, Mum.”

“Peace is about joining in harmony; it’s always gentle and sweet. Your lover protects you from behind. You bond with him even though you can’t see each other properly.”

With a deft push, she reinserted L’ Entraîneur. The flange socketed, distending and depressing Daniil’s no-longer-tiny anus, the flexible silicone handle settling deeply into his crack.

“The sooner you master the Nine Virtues, the better,” she went on. “Remember what I said about Peace? Your upper leg should be draped over his thigh to...”

“To offer my boy-hole, Mum,” he finished.

“A catamite always enables his access! Your lower leg is tucked tightly into your front for the same reason. You relax as you absorb his thrust, and replenish his strength by exerting yours. Peace though harmony. If he holds your hip...”

“... he wants to go deeper. I’m not to resist, no matter what, Mum.”

“Your father’s penis is long enough to turn into your colon. He would’ve sheathed you properly this morning while you were asleep; however, it takes some getting used to. We’ll practice with Le Dominateur this afternoon.”

She patted his little bare bottom, seduced by baby-soft skin. He was blessed by Eros, no doubt about it.

“Should I assume Master Daniel enjoyed having his father’s penis in here?”

He nodded, still bashful. “I just wish I hadn’t gotten so sleepy at the end.”

She giggled girlishly and kneaded firm muscle beneath, connecting her way.

“A catamite also enjoys having his man’s penis in his mouth.”

Her expression, more than intonation, made a question. He offered another nervous nod.

“While you’re still learning, you must always say what you are thinking, nothing held back. Do you understand?”

He nodded again before he caught her eye, clearly expecting more.

“Yes, Mum.” Inhaling and awkward, hoping she wouldn’t get mad at him. “I want to suck him. I love sucking him, his dick... but...”

“Go on. Spit it out. Better, pretend you’re alone with Master Simon.”

“I want his dick in my mouth more than anything... well, almost anything.”

“Much better. Most gay boys love sucking cock, even more than being sucked.”

“Yes, Mum. What if I’m not very good at it?”

“Then, you practice. After we finish here, you’re to find your father. Show him you love him, and his cock; and bring me the proof... before you eat lunch.”

“You mean in a jar, Mum?” He caught her smile. “On my handkerchief?”

“You chose. Right now, we'll read a poem and talk about ’the love that dare not speak its name.'”

She tapped the adjacent armchair, and watched him sit, Lotus position again, his feet on his thighs, arms straight with his palms on his knees.

He looked up. “Mr. Ed says to sit padmasana when I want to concentrate, Mum.”

He still hadn’t noticed a new Stirling-tartan wool blanket draped over her armrest. She draped it around him and handed over a china bowl.

“Mrs. McIntyre brought you some grapes since you missed brekky.” She smiled as he scrunched his nose. “Your father wants you to stay nice and slender.”

“I bet he had eggs and bacon!”

She returned a cold look and continued to read ‘Two Loves’ aloud, very aware his eyes were now focused, no longer roving.

“’...Red were his lips

as red wine-spilith that dyes

A marble floor, his brow chalcedony.

And he came near me, with his lips uncurled

And kind, and caught my hand and kissed my mouth...’”

oUo

“Explain why your love dares not speak its name,” Claire intoned.

“Nowadays, being a homosexual boy is to be relished and cherished; yet always conceal it from people who would hurt you.”

“Very good. Do not forget it.”

“Being gay is normal, Mum. That’s what Mr. Ed says. It’s nothing to be ashamed about, only I must keep my mouth shut about what I do.”

She touched his arm, meeting his eyes. “You’re a beautiful boy, and very smart. Your father is lucky to have you.”

“I’m lucky to have him, too, Mum.”

Then, lifting her hand to caress his cheek, she said, “Did you enjoy the poem, Master Daniel?”?”

Daniil brushed back curls, revealing his furrowed brow. His soft voice was heart-rending. “I want my dad to be happy, never sad.”

She regarded him, the moment poignant, to be treasured. It was past time to terminate the morning’s lecture.

“How about another dirty ditty?” she teased, anything to break through the gloom.

“Jack be nimble, Jack be quick

Jack sat on his daddy’s prick.

Daddy was glad his Jack was slick.”

Daniel grinned. “Now do one about a willy, Mum.”

“What a horny little catamite you are. Remember what I said last night about catamites wearing pouches to show off?” She snickered. “Let’s see if yours fits.”

Utterly shameless, Daniil stood up, inching closer, curious as she delved into her Louis Vuitton handbag. She retrieved what appeared to be a red-leather coin purse. It was small and delicate, like a little boy’s scrotum, with leather stitching and cords at the open end. He waited before her, obedient with his arms by his sides. She plopped the miniscule lambskin pouch over his genitals and pulled the cords tight.

He poked at a slightly more prominent bump. “It stands out more, Mum.”

“Little boys look sexy with pouches. It also indicates your status. You’re a House catamite,” she said dismissively, drawing his attention to a dangling medallion.

“Like a house dwarf?” he teased.

“You’re hardly Dobby, Master Daniel,” she grumbled under her breath. “Your father is your master, so you wear your House insignia, Stirling-Iolaire.”

Perplexed, he fingered the medallion, about the size of a quarter.

She tied off the cords. “Clan Stirling’s crest is the hart's head on the coronet. Your Uncle Alistair added the outspread eagle wings for Iolaire. It was custom made by a silversmith near Loch Ness, so don’t lose it.”

“I won’t.” He poked at his boy-bulge, now a little red ball. “Where did it come from, Mum?”

“Your father was lucky to find the pendant at the castle shop. As for the pouch, Trevor had it made for Simon. It’s too tight with the padding; however, it’s perfect for you; you’ll look sexy and be hot.”

“I’m already hot.”

She looked up, ignoring his smirk; a loud sigh before gesturing to the built-in display cabinets.

“Don’t worry, the rest of you will cool down fast enough.”

He took a few steps toward the cabinets, drawn to a selection of flintlock pistols and sabers behind glass. A boy-sized kilt lay on the glass top.

“Now you’re in your family’s ancestral castle, your father wants you to wear the right attire...”

Frowning, Daniil picked up the kilt, Stirling tartan in bright red, blue, green, yellow, white, and black; it was colorful compared to most clans. The small sporran was rabbit fur, with three leather tassels, and sterling silver cantles.

“The castle store didn’t have a jacket and waistcoat in your size,” she went on. “Luckily, Mrs. McIntyre found you a Ghillie shirt and waistcoat.”

She could tell Daniil wasn’t impressed, not by the loose linen shirt, the blue waistcoat, or long white socks with tartan-wrapped garters.

“This is bull crap.” He stopped mumbling when he realized Claire was glaring at him.

“Most Scottish boys don’t wear underpants under their kilts; however, it’s up to you.”

She gave an approving nod as he picked up the kilt. Naked, he was beautiful beyond words. Even clothed, he was special, well worth showing off.

“Just don’t let anyone see your pouch, or your plug.” She glanced twice at her Panthère de Cartier. “It’s just past noon. Be back here at one o’clock or we’ll miss lunch.”

oUo

Daniil set out to find his father, retracing his steps of the night before. He turned right at the reception area to discover a vaulted hall, a grand spiral staircase inside a massive turret, and a greenhouse full of exotic orchids, Green Mist, Golden Beauty... He dawdled at a captivating goldfish pond with chubby marble cherubs, naked, and sometimes winged.

Putti penises were the current source of fascination when he heard footsteps on the stone-slab floor. He turned to see the snooty woman from the previous night. Now in a drab pantsuit, her hair styled like Princess Anne and a hat to match, she dragged her obstinate husband through the greenhouse.

“That’s him, Harold; all tarted up like a little laird.” Supercilious, fearless, she went on. “His parents must think they own the place.”

Her husband was more interested in Rothschildiana Pink orchids.

He looked up. “Goodness gracious, Marjorie! Lighten up. I think he’s rather dashing.”

“Only a scout master would say ‘dashing’,” she snapped.

Daniil headed the other way, out the door into sunshine and crisp air. He circled left, around the castle, gazing up at towering walls of red Dumfriesshire sandstone, bull-faced rubble coursed with ashlar, cannon water spouts protruding below corbelled crenelated walls, and bartizans. He stopped to gaze at woods and rolling hills, and a spectacular view of Loch Sunart, two craggy islands, even a sailboat at anchor.

He skirted lawn chairs, stopping before Iolaire, the storybook mini-castle on the western end. He grinned up at the ponderous corner turret, blue and white St Andrew's Cross fluttering. Below it, a smaller flag had the same tartan pattern as his kilt, the Stirling family crest—and motto—'Gang Forward’.

“Clan Stirling! Gang Forward!” he shouted gleefully, again hearing bagpipes in the distance.

“Stop carrying on like a little poof!”

He turned, spotting the grumpy lady leaving the greenhouse. She stared right at him, disdainful, even belligerent.

Aiming a brazen smirk at her, he called, “Booger oof.” His best imitation ever.

‘Bugger off’ was Mr. Ed’s favorite expression, expressly forbidden if his mother was in the vicinity. It had any number of meanings depending on the situation; so it was no surprise when the woman promptly beckoned to her weary husband.

Daniil spun with flair, his kilt flinging up to reveal slender pale thighs. With a skip in his step, he marched defiantly across the lawn, ignoring a small painted sign.

“Can’t you read? Keep off the grass!” she ranted behind him.

Pretending to be oblivious, he leaned over a crenelated garden wall, hiking up his kilt to show he was bare underneath. A glance behind revealed the woman still pointing at him, plainly lecturing her husband.

With no sign of his father in the gravel forecourt, he diverted right, following the gravel road toward bagpipes and some old stone buildings peeking among trees, the source of The Green Hills of Tyrol. The skip in his step quickly became a jubilant spring.

THE COACH HOUSE, GLENIOLAIRE CASTLE.

The stables and coach house were nearly as long and wide as the house, one story, not five, with high slate-tiled gables. The walls were stone, monotonous-gray trimmed with Dumfriesshire-red. Reddish-brown doors paid respect to the main house, and a much smaller budget.

Daniil strolled through the first open door he came to. His mouth dropped open. Cars were packed in like sardines, in offsetting oblique rows. He dawdled down the line, a skylight providing ample light to read placards on Jaguar history. On the left, a pre-war SS 100 that had raced in Germany before the war; on the right, an alloy XK 120-C, retired from Le Mans, 1952; then, an immaculate XK140 SE roadster in British racing green; an ivory-white XK150 3.8 S. He lingered longer at a red E-type Series 1; then, a white Series 2 coupe, and a green Series 3 V-12 roadster.

Despite more roadsters lurking in the gloomy depths of the coach house, he turned, trying to decide which car he’d ‘take.’ Was there really a choice? The red E-Type was a classic, the same as Mr. Ed’s.

Looking right at it, he couldn’t avoid murmuring, “Boy-magnet.”

How could he not remember that turn of phrase? Mr. Ed had ‘kidnapped’ him to see The Boy Who Would be King. His mother was not amused as he dropped into the sculpted brown-leather passenger seat. However, his father grinned at him as Mr. Ed leaned over to adjust his racing harness. He even ignored the playful hug when Mr. Ed had finished strapping him in. Then, the whine of twin-overhead-camshafts, triple Weber carburetors sucking, the throaty gurgle of 265 British horses.

He’d ridden in Mr. Ed’s E-Type before, never doing zero to sixty in 6.4 seconds. Foot down on the gas pedal, endlessly changing gears, double de-clutching on the downshifts; it was awesome with the top down. Cold wind in his hair, almost deafening noise, Beachboys blaring; no wonder he’d gotten an erection. Of course, Mr. Ed had noticed.

Daniil absently rubbed his crotch through his kilt, a hard hot jumbled-up bump. Shaky and excited, yet strangely, he hadn’t felt arousal coming on back then; or now; not until he saw the long fire-engine red hood, polished wire wheels... Then, he remembered the rest.

“Boy magnet for sure,” he giggled.

Mr. Ed had teased him about Willy being hard; then, he squeezed it just in play. Nothing wrong with that, just a kid having fun with his godfather, telling him boner jokes, teaching him his first dirty ditty.

Daniil whispered it again even as he ogled the red E-Type, remembering, smirking, wondering what his father would think. During lunch at Burger King, Mr. Ed had talked about cars that excited young boys, adamant that red Jaguar sports cars were passé. Nowadays, boys liked Ferraris and Aston Martins, not Teslas; they were fast and quiet, not raucous gut-churning fun.

Not far away, the lone piper began again, Scottish Great Highland bagpipes rendering the rousing Scotland the Brave. Daniil kneaded impulsively, knuckles jammed against his erection, massaging tiny testicles to intensify pleasure. The pouch wasn’t uncomfortable, yet touching it made him catch his breath. Every sensation focused on his boy-bump, reassuring, tantalizing. Increasing the pressure made him shudder, not unlike when his father’s penis shoved against the ‘core’ buried inside him.

“My, what a cute Scottish laddie; dressed up in his kilt,” Bruce said from a few feet behind him.

Daniil pivoted, grinning. “You snuck up on me, you bugger!”

No hesitation, just boundless affection as Bruce pulled him in for a fatherly hug.

“I missed my cuddle this morning. Someone was still sleeping.”

“Whose fault would that be? You kept me awake until midnight!”

He smooched his son’s head, nuzzling curls as he slyly glanced around. Standing in the middle of the coach house, there was no privacy at all, certainly not under the skylight.

Daniil pressed into his father’s groin. “Puppy hug and I’ll forgive you this time.”

He bounced up as his father clutched his hips, simultaneously springing and lifting. Nine years of practice made it effortless. Slender arms locked around his father’s neck, lithe thighs clamped around his father’s middle, snorting after-shave.

“Horny little wretch, I should bum you right now,” Bruce whispered, voice raspy, telling himself he was just ‘playing around.’

Daniil pretended snotty spoiled brat. “Well, you’re out of luck. It’s worn out after three times last night, and again this morning.”

“What will it take for a quickie right now?”

He furrowed his brow to offset an impending giggle. Mr. Ed carried on the same way, always joking or teasing, never his mother.

“Well,” he pondered, “if you insist... A thousand quid.”

“Ten times that isn’t enough, not for your beautiful bum.”

“In cash. I don’t take... what’s Mr. Ed call them, from Monopoly? IOUs?”

Chuckling, Bruce grasped boy-butt, absorbed boy-smells, youthful aura, vibrant glee, wriggling perpetual energy. Whim or whimsy, he slipped a hand under the tartan-wool kilt, grasping bare boy-butt.

Daniil was ready. He relaxed his grip, sagging safely as his father’s arms picked up the difference. Snoozy, sensuous boy, his eyes closed to slits, burrowing his nose into neck and shoulder as adult fingers explored, tugging on L’ Entraîneur. He tightened, drawing in, concentrating on now-familiar sensations. It was distracting, yet he was already deliberately wriggling against his father, fully aware of what he wanted to do.

On cue, Bruce levered back on the handle, repositioning the silicone cob, thick, flexible, demanding anatomical adjustment within.

“She said we could take out Big Boy whenever you want.”

“Not now, Dani-boy... Just enjoy.”

His son trembled as he leaned in, heart palpitating, his penis swelling, thickening, mentally preparing to pull out the plug and possess him again, properly.

“You’re gorgeous, really... I love you,” he murmured. “I’m keeping you here forever; you’re never going back to your mom.”

Daniil whimpered, tears wetting his cheeks as guilt settled in. Sooner or later, he had to tell. It didn’t help that his father was getting all lovey-dovey. Then, the absolute-worst thing happened.

“Promise you’ll always be my boy; no one else’s?”

“Daddy... Please... Don’t....” Trying not to snivel, swallowing, blaming himself.

“What’s wrong, Dani-boy?

“Daddy, promise you won’t be mad? It just happened.”

Suddenly, anxious, Bruce looked around. No one in sight. Perhaps someone was standing in the shadowy rear of the coach house, where gray sheets covered another half dozen sports cars.

He took a breath; tried to stay calm. “What just happened? Did someone bother you?”

“Not now, okay.” Daniil delayed until he realized he was only making it worse. “Remember the day before my birthday?”

“Hard to forget. Edwin took you to see LEGO 2.”

“Dad, it was The Kid Who Would Be King. About Excalibur; he wanted to get me ready for here.”

“And a good thing he did, too.”

Bruce felt his son tense, tousled head skewing to look back at the cars.

“Your favorite’s the red E-Type, isn’t it? I can’t imagine why.”

“Dad, stop it! Let me finish, okay?”

Bruce grasped at the only explanation, although it hadn’t been in the realm of possibility at the time.

“Did something happen with Mr. Ed?”

After a long moment, Daniil nodded, just once.

“What exactly?”

“He played with Willy.” There; it was out!

He sucked in his bottom lip, fear gnawing as he waited for his father to say something; anything; even anger was better than nothing.

“Better Edwin than your grandfather, I suppose.”

About to cry, Daniil still punched his shoulder.

“I mean it, Dani.”

Taking only moments to think, Bruce decided it wouldn’t be awful. In fact, the idea was curiously agreeable. Having sex with a man like Professor Browne was far from the worst thing that could happen to a young gay boy.

“I realize how much you love Mr. Ed.”

“It’s different from how I love you, Dad.” Just a murmur, a sniffle, very afraid he’d ruined everything.

“I know. I love you the same way.”

“More than you love Mom?”

“She’s not even close, a million miles away.”

It was the truth! Still, it wasn’t enough.

“If you must know, I was worried the whole time you were with him. Watching you leave in that car...”

“Mr. Ed calls it his boy-magnet.”

“It must be; after seeing you get in... You were really...” Bruce couldn’t bring himself to say his son’s penis was hard. “... excited.”

Little erections were commonplace whenever they rough-housed. However, seeing his son become aroused by another man, who was merely putting on his seatbelt, had worried him at the time. Katrina was more worried about them pulling away from the curb with a loud tire squeal. It was ‘incredibly juvenile.’

“Your mom and I fought until he dropped you off.”

“About me being in his car?”

He took the easy path. “That, and more.”

He inhaled, one hand massaging his son’s back, untrained shiatsu on little vertebrae; kneading, soothing, stretching, reducing stress. It was all about the flow of Qi.

“Did you enjoy him playing with Willy?”

He didn’t intend to just blurt it out, yet it worried him more than the actual touching.

“I guess it was okay. It’s much nicer when you do it.” Daniil cuddled closer, smooching his father’s neck. “You always give me the jerks.”

No shame remaining after a few months. Daniil was no stranger to little-boy orgasms, demanding one even if it was always bone dry. Giggling and wriggling as the feeling surged from his loins, getting stiffer, twitching, shuddering until he could barely breathe. Then, pulses, a staccato inside, arching his back as his penis began jerking. There were always three or four ‘clicks’ before it ended.

Again, Bruce’s fingers fondled Daniil’s butt, exploring just how tight the plug had seated itself. A finger became a pry bar, separating the handle enough to take hold, wedging it out little by little.

“I think it’s stuck again.”

“Just pull him out, Dad.”

“You know once Big boy comes out, something else will replace him. If that’s what you want... If it is, we need to go back to the room.”

A tousled head shake said otherwise. However, Bruce still plucked out the plug and placed it in his jacket pocket.

“What then?”

Daniil leaned in and whispered, “Puppy kiss first.”

He leaned in, closing the gap before Bruce could stop him, eager little tongue already poking out. He licked his father’s chin, his lips, his cheeks, tongue darting in and out to spread saliva all over. Only then, frenzied kissing, wet, hot, slippery.

He grinned shamelessly at his dad. “How was that? Good?”

Bruce hugged him, his right forefinger inserted far enough to take his son’s temperature, slavish devotion to his hallowed still-slippery boy-hole.

“I love you. Kiss me again like that and I’ll make a mess on your kilt.”

“Uh uh.”

Daniil squirmed, his signal he was ready to be put down. As soon as his feet hit the concrete, he grabbed his father’s hand and tugged him towards the rear of the coach house.

Bruce followed, wondering what had gotten into his son. “After puppy kiss comes what?”

Daniil kept pulling, almost dragging his father among the cloth-covered cars. He stopped abruptly, grinning, breathless, gazing up at the man who made him, who always took care of him, and who loved him, really loved him.

“Mr. Ed taught me a dirty ditty, Daddy.” Smirking—he was going to do it properly, exactly like the poem.

“Suck, suck, suck a dick

Gently up and down.

Merrily, verily, quite contrarily

Careful not to drown.”

Bruce managed not to smile. “You know what that last line means, right?”

Daniil nodded slowly, up and down several times so there was no mistake.

“You’re sure? It might be a bit much for you.”

Another head nod, just once. It didn’t seem possible, ready to swallow only two days after he sucked it for the first time.

“You really want to do that?”

It was a big step up from licking his glans.

However, Daniil was going about it right before his eyes, looking up to make sure, adoring eyes barely visible in the gloom. Reaching out, deft little fingers already busy; lots of practice undressing his father, but mostly yanking down gym pants while they wrestled. It was far more difficult to open his zipper while standing up.

Bruce stepped closer, backing his son up against a cloth-covered roadster. Only then, he guided him down, onto his knees like an altar boy taking communion. He steadied him with his hands on his shoulders, waiting until his zipper was open, the gap widened, boxers pushed down in front, erect penis extracted. Only then, he cupped the back of Daniil’s head. Instinct said to draw him closer. Instead, his son pressed forward, stopping only when his face brushed against cloth.

“Take your time. Only do what you want, Baby,” he whispered.

With his back against the car door, Daniil flicked his succulent tongue over the exposed helmet, tasting manhood and sending desire surging. His tender lips wide apart, his mouth settled over the knob. Taking it between his lips, suckling, not really sucking.

In a moment, everything changed. Playful teasing became sucking up his father’s juices. Little heart pounding, frantic, trembling, face burning hot, hands shaking, allowing it to go just a little bit deeper.

Bruce groaned, fingers entwining in dark locks, clutching, longing to thrust in, yet knowing better. Trust was key. Self-control, always; pleasure Daniil, not himself.

“I love you.” Unable to say more; impossible to say it too often, especially now.

It was sacred, a primal ritual that bonded men and boys from time immemorial.

He groaned, flexing, certain he was excreting on his son’s palate, on his tongue. Years of frustration vanishing, discovering the joy that drove men to madness.

“Suck it, Dani-baby.”

Daniil peeked up. It was inside his mouth, now; wet, hot, and huge. It was so big he was unable to stop his teeth scraping slightly whenever his head moved. Sucking it was all he could think about. Already hard, became harder, aching hard.

He lifted off abruptly, crooning, mashing his face against adult cock, slobbering spit on the shaft, smearing slipperiness on his cheeks, chin, and nose. Inhaling, frantic, unable to get enough. Back to his mouth, savoring a sacrosanct tiny dribble, squeezing, sucking, satisfying.

“Oh my! Suck it, Baby. Yeah, you like it. You’re the best boy ever.”

Bruce trembled, gazing down at his son’s pretty face, pupils dilated to black liquid, little mouth stretched wide, delicate lips enclosing no more than an inch of his manhood, suctioning his preseminal fluid. Never a sight like that, never!

“Keep doing that, you’ll make Daddy cum in a minute or two.”

Tightening muscles, not shoving deeper despite how much he wanted to, excreting his slippery juice. Murmuring love, eyes closed in fulfillment, everything he’d dreamed about, every delirious moment committed to memory.

“Sorry ta bother ye, Mr. Handley. If yer still interested in seein’ tha Aston Martin...”

Startled out of their wits, father and son sprang apart, turning simultaneously. A man confronted them, aloof yet transfixed, standing under the skylight. A few steps closer...

“Blimey! Thae’s a sight fer sore eyes...”

The man was short and stocky, more brawn than stout, fiery-red curls under a regimental cap with the insignia and badge of the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders. A cherubic smile slowly formed as he looked from man down to boy.

“Is that a wee Highland laddie I see doon thae?”

He chuckled, still stepping closer, a daunting figure in tartan kilt, black vest and coat, a ponderous sporran of black leather and horsehair, and bagpipes slung from his shoulder—Great Highland bagpipes, black bag, ebony pipes with silver ornamentation, dangling satiny tassels.

“Wael fook me; ‘e’s sucking yer bell end, and doin’ a bloody fine job.”

Bruce moved a hand to cover his crotch, wasted given his guilty crimson blush.

“Lyle, um, this isn’t... it’s not what you think.”

Yet another step closer, Lyle began clucking his tongue, inspecting Daniil who was still kneeling, head stretched back, spitty lips, slime on his cheeks.

“Aye, ‘e’s joost takin’ a gander at ‘is daddy’s goose. Tha Aston can wait. I’ll be back when yer doon.”

“What Aston?” Daniil peeped, and apparently, no shame at all.

“Laird Alistair’s Vantage. Tha car what yer leanin’ against,” Lyle chuckled.

Daniil scrambled up, grinning, giving his father’s erection a playful flip when he thought the man couldn’t see. Bruce pulled him back, one hand on his shoulder, keeping him in place while he struggled to decency.

“This is Mrs. McIntyre’s son, Lyle. Lyle, my son, Daniel.”

Lyle grinned, squeezing a ‘toot’ from his bagpipes. “A pleasure, Master Handley, and a fine wee cocksucker ‘e is, too. Sorry tae interrupt.”

“Can I see it, Mr. McIntyre?

“If yer want, Laddie.”

Daniil grinned; still no shame despite wiping the back his hand over his face as he stepped to the front of the car, hauling up linen until it came free. He dragged back the cover, exposing the driver’s side from headlights to back wheel.

“M-o-t-h-e-r-f-u-c-k-e-r!” Awe came with recognition.

“Don’t let your mother hear you say that!” Bruce admonished, not for the first time.

However, ‘motherfucker’ was entirely fitting for a boy seduced by Aston Martin’s 2013 Vantage, low, svelte, metallic navy blue, which was also his favorite color. Inside, was gray...

“And it’s got an ‘S’ on the seat, Dad.”

Still embarrassed and worrying about being discovered, Bruce was less than enthusiastic. “That’s worth using bad words?”

“The Vantage S is like the next best car ever made. Can we keep it, please?”

Lyle laughed, shaking his head. “Not this one. No reason a wee laddie cain’ pretend, though.”

He opened the driver’s door and stepped back for Daniil to ease down and into a cow-leather seat, dark-gray with red French-stitching. Leaning way back with his arms outstretched, Daniil’s fingertips just reached the thick leather-wrapped steering wheel. The speedometer went all the way to 220 mph.

“Almost as cool as the E-type, huh?” Bruce teased.

Instantly dreaming about his dad at the wheel, driving to Rothenburg ob der Tauber, father and son posing at the Plönlein, stopping at the same Medieval-style hotel he’d seen on the Internet, his dad bumming him all night. Meeting Mr. Ed for breakfast on the terrace, red geraniums in boxes along the balcony...

“Way cooler...”

“You’ll be able to reach the pedals in about six years.”

Lyle winked at Bruce and leaned over the door sill, ignition dead-center in the burled walnut console. The V8 cranked, gauges and warning lights flicking, tachometer jumping, settling down. The smooth mechanical whir and throaty exhaust burble fed into Daniil’s fantasy. It shifted into top gear, wind streaming in his air, remembering what had happened in Mr. Ed’s E-Type. For the first time in his life, another man had held his private parts, not quite as gently as his father did, no more than a playful squeeze through his jeans until he’d grinned back.

He looked up at his father. “I’m driving the Romantische Strasse. Cool, huh Dad?”

Pretending he was coming in fast for a corner, braking and doing what Mr. Ed called heel-and-toe shifting. Only one problem—it was seven-speed select-shift—aka automated manual.

“Why can’t we go for a drive Dad?”

Lyle snorted. “Because, Laddie, it belongs tae tha new Laird Stirling, an’ ‘is son.”

“Um, that would be my dad and me,” Daniil giggled. “So we can drive it! Awesome!” Whooping and giving his dad the biggest grin ever.

“Boot mae sister said...” Lyle glanced at Bruce, and murmured, “Yers ain’ Handleys?”

“I’m sorry. I should’ve told you sooner. Claire Handley’s my son’s governess.”

“Fook me!” He stepped back, face reddening. “And yer Laird Bruce?”

Bruce nodded and stuck out his hand.

oUo

“It’s noot registered, so best go doon tae tha gate hoose and back tae be safe,” Lyle cautioned.

“We might take a look at it while we’re there,” Bruce said.

“Aye, make ye a fine shop fer GlenIolaire. Keep tha bloody tourists from comin’ oop ‘ere jus’ tae buy a bootle of Uachdar Iolaire.”

Daniil stopped fiddling with knobs on the console. “What’s that, Mr. McIntyre?”

“Laird Alistair’s Uachdar Iolaire, Master Daniel. Scotland’s finest liqueur; tha usual villains but with cream from tha Highlands, heather honey, and GlenIolaire single-malt, which ain’ tha best in tha Highlands, boot more’n ample.”

Lyle gestured through the trees. The blue and white St Andrew's Cross fluttered high above Iolaire’s oversized turret.

“I was ‘ere when ‘e first made it oop thae. While it cooked, ‘e taught me how to suck cock.” He turned his gaze on young Daniil. “Tha laddie's goin' aboot it tha wrong way.”

“What’s the right way, Sir?”

“With a man, a bairn yer size is gulpin’ a caber. Best suck tha pith-helmet an’ roob tha troonk. If yer up fer swallerin’ more than tha knob, let yer spittle roon doon tha side. Ye want it slippery as a bloody salmon, aye? Then, ye go doon, slow an’ careful.”

“Uncle Alistair taught you that?”

“Aye, at 13, an’ thae best part; tae swaller ‘is spoonk.”

“What’s spoonk?” Daniil realized as the words left his mouth, giggling and pretending embarrassment.

Lyle chuckled. “Paid tha bills, it did, ‘til tha bugger, Tuwile come along. ‘e weren’t much fer cream ‘cept what he put in Laird Alistair’s bum.”

He caught Bruce’s grimace, certain he was putting his ‘cream’ in Daniil’s ‘bum.’

“Speakin’ of cream, thae’s plenty tae sip in tha gate hoose. Best way tae practice fer yer daddy’s spoonk.”

Hearing it aloud, and from another man, Bruce blushed, clumsily tousling long curls.

“Best aye stay up ‘ere fer a while, aye reckon...” Lyle grinned, a fond look at Daniil. “Make yer daddy give ye a swig of Uachdar Iolaire ‘fore ‘e ‘as fun with yer bootie.”

He stepped back as Bruce shifted from park, took his foot off the brake, and lightly pressed the adjacent pedal. With only a few dozen of 420 British thoroughbreds unleashed, the roadster flung gravel. Daniil clutched his armrest and the side of his seat.

THE GATE HOUSE, GLENIOLAIRE CASTLE.

Gravel ended at a pitted bitumen tarmac, a short straight into an ‘S’ halfway down the hill; then, downshifting and tapping the big Brembo brakes, through a still-misty glade of birch and aspen, rocketing across a postcard-pretty stone-arch bridge in Glen Iolaire. Next up, another ‘S’, and a straight... V8 growling, sixty already, backing off for another bend up ahead. Trees flying past, glimpses of meadow. Earsplitting excitement fading as the tachometer plummeted, face freezing, beaming boy in stunned disbelief, slowly reviving.

“Why’d you slow down, dad?”

Then, he saw the wrought-iron gates through the mist, shiny cobblestones, the gatehouse lodge on the right. They pulled to the side, space for a couple of cars before a stack of old wooden whisky barrels,

“Does it pass the boy-magnet test?” Bruce inquired as he shifted to park.

“Oh yeah! Major boy-magnet.”

“That’s good, because you’re a man magnet, especially dressed like you are.”

Daniil smirked. “Catamites are supposed to look sexy, Dad.”

“About the mother-f thing?” Bruce tousled wind-swept hair. “It’s okay to say the f-word when it’s just us, and it’s warranted. Not to anyone else, especially not to your mom.”

“What about Mr. Ed?”

“I suppose, if the situation warrants it. I much prefer you say the ‘bum’ word.”

Grinning he reached across, grasping his son’s bare thigh, inching his hand higher, and under the kilt, fingertips stroking warm soft leather; precious boyhood safe within.

“Claire told me she was putting the family jewels in a pouch,” he whispered. “Like a door knob, now, isn’t it?” Increasingly excited, everything concentrated in a little hard ball.

“It’s still small, Dad, only more prominent.”

Bruce fondled, separating, squeezing the tapered shaft, gentle and soothing, wondering how much bigger his son would look in jeans, or gym pants, or a Speedo.

A muted murmur from Daniil intervened. “Better hurry or we’ll miss lunch, Dad.”

That stopped him. “Okay if we take a peek inside first?”

Daniil scrambled out of his seat, pausing to close the car door before skipping ahead, grinning back at his father. Bruce worried about moss-slicked cobblestones and carefully placed each foot, digging in his jacket pocket to find Lyle’s keys. Finally finding the gatehouse key, he opened the lock.

“What’s the smell, Dad?”

Bruce half-closed his eyes, inhaling deeply, savoring the scent of fermenting barley mash. Brown bottles all around, filling rack after rack, copper and brass ladles, wooden boxes full of corks, labels, and wax; dozens of oak barrels stacked by the wall.

Daniil picked up a crumpled label from a table, an etching of Castle GlenIolaire...

“’GlenIolaire Single Cask Malt Scotch Whisky.’ Grandma’d be mad, Dad; they left out the ‘e’.”

“She’d be mad even with an Irish ‘e’,” he chuckled. “She despises anything to do with me.”

“Including me,” Daniil said under his breath.

They peeked into the adjoining rooms, one crammed with two tarnished-brass single-pot stills, pipes all over; another room dedicated for cooking mash, four vats, huge hessian bags of barley lined up in the hallway. Then, racks of oak barrels as high as the ceiling. Backtracking to where they came in, Daniil darted ahead, discovering the ‘Uachdar Iolaire’ factory in a small room beyond; pails, boxes, slabs of chocolate, crates of farm eggs, a big brass vat with bottles lined up in rows.

Bruce caught up outside the cold room. Sipping from a tiny sample cup, he showed his offspring the label on an opened bottle. No castle, a soaring eagle, its talons clutching an old-fashioned cream pail.

Daniil nibbled a small piece of chocolate he picked from a bowl. “Mr. McIntyre said I could have a sip, Dad.”

“Aye, tha ‘e did. I doubt ye’ll like it, tastes like cough syrup.”

“Daaaad!”

“Apparently, ‘Iolaire’ is Gaelic for ‘eagle,’ and ‘Uachdar’ is ‘cream’.”

Bruce filled a second small paper cup and handed it to his son.

Daniil erupted in giggles. “Eagle cream looks like jizz.”

Somehow, his father kept a straight face, although he nearly spilled his sample cup.

“How, exactly, does a nine-year-old know about ‘jizz’?”

“From the guys at school, duh. Mr. Ed told me it was the same as cum.”

“How about you say semen instead?”

Daniil sipped, and promptly snickered. “Hey, semen is yummy, Dad; really nice.”

Bruce chuckled, not at all surprised when his son’s small hand bumped the front of his jeans. It stayed there, rubbing gently. He glanced down; eager blue eyes leering up. His already-firm penis reared up like a randy pubescent boy, ready to play with his best friend. Did it really matter that forty years separated them, not four years?

Feeling carefree, even juvenile, he looked around even as Daniil’s little fingers and thumb determined what was what under coarse blue denim.

“Right oh, ‘ave a fiddle if ye must. It’ll ‘ave tae be quick.”

No longer shy, Daniil deliberately squeezed his father’s plump glans. “Stop with the stupid accent, Dad.”

They headed to the window; it afforded a view of the parking area and the road to the castle, its turrets peeking above the trees. Daniil squatted; his kilt pulled up. His father gaped, all but salivating over alabaster thighs, knees wide apart, boy-sex completely contained in his little lambskin pouch, red with red-leather-stitching, red tie-cords to match.

“Claire said I should show you how much I love you.”

“You don’t have show me anything. I already know.”

“I want to suck him like Lyle said.” Only a whisper, yet it was loaded with lust.

“You’re sure?” Seeing a nod, Bruce hurriedly unzipped.

He stopped, turning his head at the sound of a car outside. It didn’t stop, thankfully. Before the sound faded, he’d pushed down his boxers and extracted his erect penis.

“You don’t have to do it; not in your mouth; just play with it like usual.” He waited a moment before Daniil returned his ‘you can’t be serious’ look. “I love you, Dani-boy.”

Daniil reached, grasping his father’s hot thick hardness. It was awkward, uncomfortable with his butt balanced on his heels, wriggling the leaking glans on his cheek. Rubbing it against his nose, inhaling.

“I love you, Richard,” he murmured. “You’re the most incredible dick there ever was.”

Eyes closed, yet absorbing its slippery soft warmth. Then, instinct insisting, he guided it to his lips. He kissed the tip repetitively before extending his tongue to lick off a shiny bead. It seemed like it should taste of something besides ‘slimy.’

“Don’t... unless it’s what you want.” Distant, urgent, last chance, hoping despite panic setting in.

Little heart racing for the duration, trembling, suddenly getting hotter; Daniil peeked up, still savoring, licking his lips, ignoring ‘slime’ on his cheeks and eyelids.

With no time to waste, Bruce took over, wedging the waistband of his boxers under his scrotum, the essential stuff fully exposed. Daniil licked again, settling the domed head between his lips, only smooching. Teasing his father was fun, lifting off to lick, smooching, lifting off again.

“Fucking incredible,” Bruce groaned.

“Only just started, Dad,” Daniil snickered.

He drooled spit on the knob, emptying his mouth for the real thing, opening to take it inside. Just the helmet at first. Suddenly, it shoved his tongue out of the way, forced his teeth wide apart.

“Not too much, Dani... Oh baby. Oh yeah.”

He looked up, bewildered and blinking, which was only to be expected with his father’s cock plugging his mouth. He inched away and made himself gulp, carefully lowering his head. Again, his tongue was pushed down, pressure bulging into his palate, holding still with less than a quarter embedded. Even that was too much. He panicked, fighting the urge to pull away until the urge to gag settled down. Then, the realization that came to all boys who sucked grown-up cock; nothing was this thrilling. Nothing.

Bruce’s husky voice finally broke through. “Use your hand, Doofus.”

Clutching his father’s thighs, yet easing away momentarily, he inhaled. Energy restored, he grasped the shaft, sliding his little fist up and down. Making a zombie face, cross-eyed crazy kid earning approval.

“You’re good at jacking...”

Daniil was good—he had regular hands-on practice on his own, sometimes on his dad’s in the spare half-hour between getting home from school and leaving for soccer-team practice.

Bruce panted; it was too good to be true. “Kiss it, too. You’re really great at it.”

Daniil looked up, grinning. They did a lot more on Saturday afternoons, not nearly as flustered when his mom went shopping with her friends; and during their extra-long sessions whenever she worked late at night.

His father rubbed the back of his head, pressing him closer. He looked up, angelic eyes teasing, smirking, licking his lips.

“Worth your half of the Aston, Dad?”

Bruce almost laughed. “Suck me every day for a year and it’s yours.”

Giggling and nodding, Daniil resumed sucking on the firm fat knob. This time was different, not because of the Aston; he knew how far he could go down without gagging. He switched zombie for greedy glutton, pretending to burp, blowing out his cheeks, saliva seeping down the shaft into dark pubic hair.

Bruce groaned, his hand now cupping the back of Daniil’s head, his thighs gently moving back and forth, not thrusting, building trust, always reassuring.

“Faster, if you can.”

Looking down at Daniil pretending to be asleep, a playful cuff to encourage his gleeful son to be more vigorous, both sucking and masturbating.

Daniil groaned, going from bored country hick to Energizer Bunny. Rubbing so fast his hand was a blur, gasping when he dared lift his head, gulping every oozing droplet of preseminal fluid, hungrily feeding his urge. Throbbing, slurping, sucking, a few times getting the head so far inside there was barely room for his hand to wriggle.

“Going to...”

It was enough warning for Daniil to back off even if he hadn’t felt the throbbing shaft swelling, stiffening that last little bit. He’d seen his father ejaculate often enough to stop with only the helmet between his lips, vibrating his wrist. The final flustered burst, seconds racing past, his father’s hand clasping his head, scarcely aware of the pulsing under his fingers, both bodies shaking frenetically.

“Ah... ahhh.... Ahhhhh. Oh! Ohhhh...“

Wide-eyed and endearing, Daniil looked up at him, near-perfect impression of a dutiful altar boy, the acolyte ready to receive his first-ever ejaculation.

Bruce shuddered, shocked beyond belief that he could be overwhelmed by primeval desire, a final gasp before ejaculating into his son’s hot mouth.

Daniil thought he was ready for it. For a moment, the sudden flood seemed to take over his mouth. Instinct said to pull away, and he did. A thick glob blasted his cheek before he latched onto the glans again, not so deeply, barely past his lips. Holding it with both hands, still throbbing powerfully, squirting a couple of times before the final dribbles.

“Dani, I’m sorry... I didn’t mean to...”

Daniil scrambled back, elated yet pretending, screwing pretty features into a face of disgust.

Bruce gaped, staring down for several contrite heartbeats before realizing; there was no need for empathy. The surge was instant, a deep-down thrill, intense satisfaction from his son’s momentous initiation.

Wiping his fingers across his cheek, smearing live-giving slipperiness, Daniil suddenly realized what Claire expected him to do now that his father’s thick warm semen filled his mouth. Then, his father reached down for him, wanting their usual cuddle.

“I love you so much.”

Daniil bounced up, shaking his head, hurriedly leading the way out of the gatehouse. He kept his lips closed until he got in the car, teeth clenched, not pukey, sated in a way he’d never been. Strangely weak, feeling proud, waiting until his father closed his car door and stopped muttering about being sorry.

Finally, he pointed to his mouth, lips puckering.

“You’re my beautiful gay boy,” Bruce murmured, more enamored than ever. “My little cock-sucker; you swallowed daddy’s cum, didn’t you?”

Daniil jabbed his finger at his mouth, twice.

“It’s still in your mouth?” Amazed until understanding arrived in an unsettling rush. “Claire said to?”

He nodded, pointing up the hill, the British Union Jack hanging listlessly above the main house.

Bruce started the engine, reversed onto the road and accelerated.

oUo

Daniil was of the mind that his father’s semen tasted like runny eggs. It was different licked from his hands, or scooped from his tummy. Then, it tasted worse, icky and bitter, not something he enjoyed. Now, what was in his mouth was manly, ever-so-slightly salty, not particularly pleasant, not awful. It was also his father’s, and that made it okay.

The glade and Glen Iolaire zipped by, less gloomy with sun and a few drifting wisps of mist. However, Daniil was thinking about other things. By then, what started as thick and gooey had slowly diluted with his saliva. Slow motion masticating semen into a curious mouthwash, remembering how it got there in the first place, the same stuff had made him ten years earlier; he began to think it was the best thing ever.

There was no sign of Lyle at the coach house, just a few stragglers outside the gift shop next to the stables. Bruce parked next to the Range Rover as Claire got out, visibly flustered.

“Lyle said you went for a drive over half an hour ago,” she complained, turning on Daniil. “I told you to be back by one pm at the latest.”

Daniil shrugged, keeping his lips compressed, his tongue swooshing his father’s semen against his teeth and side to side, now fighting a pressing urge to swallow.

Claire’s eyes widened. A smile appeared as she stepped around the Aston Martin, finally giving it an admiring glance before she took Daniil’s small hand, drawing him up and out of the car.

“Oh, my! You have his seed in your mouth, don’t you?” Smirking over Daniil’s head at Bruce, still seated behind the wheel. “All this time, you poor little thing. Well, show me.”

Daniil’s head tilted back as he opened his mouth, his tongue lifted. He waited nervously, meekly. Scarcely a trace of white and the texture was watery, yet there was no mistaking adult semen.

“Let me see you swallow it. All down in one go is best.”

Claire’s silly giggle didn’t help his anxiety—he was utterly powerless. Impossible to swallow with his mouth gaping, so he closed and gulped, and emptied his mouth. He gagged momentarily, spluttering, a quick breath before he opened wide. She wanted to linger, nurturing her longing to kiss him properly, admiring his perfect white teeth and little pink tongue. Instead, she gave a cursory nod and turned away. As a catamite, he still had a lot to learn about oral sex, and she knew just the person to teach him.

Bruce followed her gaze, noticing a police car pull in beside the tour bus. Claire shook her head, a slight gesture toward the castle portico.

“I’m not sure what it’s about,” she whispered. “I was inside, talking with Mrs. McIntyre when that woman from the dining room rushed in an hour ago. She was very upset. I pity her poor husband, having to put up with...”

She stopped abruptly when the door opened. Mrs. McIntyre hurried out, scarcely a glance at them as she headed toward the police officer, now standing by his car with notebook in hand.

Daniil tugged on Claire’s arm. “Like my car, Mum? Dad’s giving his share to me so it’s all mine.”

“You have to earn it, Mister,” Bruce countered, coming to the front of the Aston.

Mrs. McIntyre had glared right at him as she passed. Bothered, he lifted the bonnet (hood), hoping to draw Daniil’s immediate interest. Standing front to back, they gazed at the 4.7L V8 crammed into the engine bay. To anyone watching, it might’ve been an intimate father and son hug as they took in first-class engineering; however, out of sight...

Daniil giggled, pretending to be pulled away, staying glued to the fender. “It’s a really strong magnet, Dad.”

Bruce mussed up his hair. “I hope it’s better than a red E-Type for picking up boys.”

Daniil nodded, pushing back for another hug, this time worming his hand between his buttocks and his father’s groin, groping playfully. Little fingers grasped the thick tube hiding behind jeans, deftly squeezing until he reached the right end, then pinching relentlessly.

Bruce smothered a groan in silky-soft curls, his hand straying, honing in on magnetic boyhood hidden behind the bonnet. The little round pouch had turned into a stubby cone. Telling himself he was simply reassuring, he fiddled with his son’s short erection. It was appealingly precious, cupping padded lambskin leather, tantalizing clumped testicles before he focused on Willy. Just few seconds until Daniil twitched; then, back to rubbing boy-balls.

“I get to drive it until you’re 16; then, it’ll be your boy magnet,” he whispered, peeking around the bonnet to make sure they were safe from prying eyes.

Mrs. McIntyre was talking to the policeman while walking toward the house, avoiding the Aston as they passed.

With them gone, Bruce’s entranced fondling switched to investigating constrained boy-parts; the shaft, short, curved, and tapered; the delicate tiny glans; the negligible scrotum and its tender little eggs; everything was the perfect size.

He leaned to whisper. “Claire said it’s important to wear a pouch as often as possible at your age. Not sure why, but it feels really nice.”

Daniil sighed, still grasping his father’s penis. “It feels nice for me, too. Hot, though.”

Mrs. McIntyre and the policeman hurried inside, leaving the door open.

“I wonder what that’s all about,” Claire said, turning around. She smiled even as she shook her head.

Bruce quickly separated from his son. “She’s flustered, barely a glance at us.”

Daniil cringed, barely a murmur, “Um, I told her to bugger off.”

“Well, she jolly well ought to after what she said last night,” Claire muttered. “No reason to call the police, though.”

Bruce scratched the back of his neck. “Okay, Dani; what happened?”

“She shouted at me. ‘Stop carrying on like a little goof,’ or whatever. I was kinda goofing off. It rhymed with ‘oof.’”

“Poof,” Claire said coldly.

“Still no reason to involve the police.”

“What’s a poof, Mum?”

“A particularly nasty term that polite people don’t use.” Claire shuddered, watching the door.

“Probably better to ignore it,” Bruce cautioned, glancing at Daniil.

“I know her type; always making a big fuss when she’s to blame.” She rubbed her thumbs The best way to deal with her is to her face!”

oUo

Daniil was brooding beside the Aston Martin, with Claire behind the wheel with Bruce in the passenger seat trying to figure out how to adjust the seats, when Mrs. McIntyre beckoned anxiously from the door.

“Mrs. Handley,” she called with an awkward wave, “I wonder if you have a few moments to talk with the police.”

Claire exhaled, gave a quick nod, and got out of the car. Daniil dawdled after his still-agitated father. Up the stairs, through the door and reception area, following Mrs. McIntyre into the office. The policeman immediately stopped talking with the woman, her husband timidly keeping his distance.

“This is Constable Argyll,” Mrs. McIntyre began.

Argyll’s gaze paused on Daniil, who kept his head down and stood in front of his father. Poor training dominated good manners; he made silent observations. The boy was pretty enough to pass as a girl. His hair was too long not to be gay. Otherwise, he seemed normal enough. Still, fathers and son were closer than most, one of five key warning signs according to his most recent Identifying Abuse: It Starts at Home training course.

He confronted Bruce before he had a chance to say anything.

“Good afternoon, Sir. I’m here concerning your son.”

Training required a quizzical expression, curious, not accusing. It was essential to let apprehension build before conducting the interview. He watched the man’s eyes closely—the identifying-abuse consultant said he excelled at eye contact.

“I’d like you to remain outside with him.”

“I’m sorry; Constable Argyll, wasn’t it?” Claire said. “I don’t understand. How is Daniel a matter of concern to the police?”

Bruce rested his hand on Daniil’s shoulder, his thumb rubbing gently, reassuringly. It didn’t seem possible that the police would investigate rudeness, even if it was unjustified. In fact, it was so ridiculous, he nearly laughed.

“Things being what they are, Mum, it’s standard procedure for the local police officer to immediately conduct a preliminary investigation whenever we receive a report of potential child abuse.”

“Constable, there must be some sort of mistake. Might I inquire what kind of abuse?” Claire said pleasantly.

Her calm demeanor surprised Bruce, less so her quick glance in his direction, or was she looking at Daniil, who was pressed back against him, wriggling ever so slightly. He could feel heat rising, along with his heart rate. Damned if he didn’t have an erection.

However, with her taking over, he gained a few precious seconds.

“My son has a few bruises from playing soccer; that’s child abuse?” he said, certain he sounded nervous.

Pretending meek, Daniil turned and gazed adoringly up at him. Then, he pressed with his elbow, harder, deliberately tormenting like he was out of his mind.

Argyll looked them up and down, lingering on Scottish charm in a tartan kilt and sporran, Ghillie shirt, velvet vest, long socks, and red sneakers.

“Shortly before noon, today, a witness saw your son partially unclad.”

“That’s a sign, right there,” the woman muttered.

“She’s not certain,” Argyll interrupted. “I thought it best to chat with his parents first.”

“However, she’s still accusing us, Constable. Abuse of what kind, might I ask?” Claire asked, courteous yet chilly.

“There is no accusation at this time, merely a suspicion of abuse, which is all the law requires.”

Claire took in the woman’s frumpy-pantsuit and peevish expression, and returned a disingenuous smile.

“Taking into account that she was some distance away, Mrs. Handley, there are still ample grounds to investigate.” Argyll looked over his shoulder, expecting confirmation.

Still wearing her Princess Anne hat, the dumpy dowager nodded boorishly.

“Your son wasn’t wearing underwear.” Nasal and a grating Midlands-accent, with tone to match.

“Going commando constitutes child abuse, now?” Bruce scoffed.

“Bruce,” Claire warned. She locked eyes with the matron of morality. “Perhaps you’d like to explain exactly what abuse you witnessed, Madam?”

However, Argyll was having none of it.

“Mr. and Mrs. Parfitt, you said you’ve yet to have lunch. Now would be a good time to go. If I have additional questions, I’ll find you. A detective will be in touch later today.” He regarded his notebook and focused on Bruce. “I’ve called for a policewoman from Glencoe to conduct an examination of your son. Until she arrives, he’ll need to stay in this room with Mrs. McIntyre.”

“Parfitt’s a halfwit,” Bruce growled. “She makes an accusation and waltzes off to lunch, while my son is to be interrogated for not wearing underpants; unbelievable!”

“No normal child runs around naked. It’s obvious why your son’s queer. He’s been sexually abused, probably since he was a toddler.”

“You sick bitch!”

On the verge of tears, Daniil made his about-to-puke face at the woman. She returned a smarmy smile and promptly turned her back, muttering to her husband about how important it was for people to intervene when a child was at risk.

With rags in hand, Lyle strolled into the office. Unaware, he saluted Daniil with a bottle of car polish.

“After yer doon wid lunch, laddie; a wee bit a wax will bring oot tha Aston sparkle.”

Bruce hugged his sniveling son, glaring at the Constable. It was like waiting for a very slow computer, frustrating, likely to have the blue screen of death at any moment.

“Good day tae ye, Gavin,” Lyle continued, still oblivious. “Yer oop fer fishin’? Thae’s a mackerel glut oof tha Lochaline road, by tha wharf.”

“Lyle, will ye shut oop!” Mrs. McIntyre interrupted, holding her hand to Daniil’s forehead. “Poor we bairn’s tremblin’ like a leaf.”

“Aye, what be tha problem wid me favorite laddie?”

“Mrs. Parfitt-the-halfwit called him,” Daniil muttered, wiping his nose before pointing at the constable. “She says I’m abused because I don’t have underpants on.”

Smirking, Claire picked up. “I told him about the tradition. He decided for himself.”

Lyle guffawed. “Bloody Hell, Gavin, ye cain’ be serious. ‘e’s wearin ‘is kilt! Either e’s bare or ‘e’s got no bloody balls.”

Argyll shrugged, suddenly self-conscious, staring at his little black notebook.

“Aye! Ye wanna show Parfitt-tha-halfwit what a Highlander wears oonder ‘is kilt.” Lyle pivoted. “On three, Danny Boy. One. Two...”

Alarmed, Claire almost shouted. “He’s a big boy, for Christ’s sake!

“It’s okay, Mum,” Daniil peeped.

Then, Bruce elbowed his jacket pocket and shook his head slightly, only a moment for her to realize before spinning Daniil around to face him, and just in time.

“... Three, and oop,” Lyle called gleefully.

On cue, Daniil and Lyle flung up their kilts. From behind, Daniil’s bottom was tiny and pale, heavenly compared to the man standing beside him.

Appalled, Mrs. Parfitt covered her face, snorting disgust. “I won’t put up with such depravity! We’ll not stay here a second longer, Harold.”

Instinct unbridled, Daniil peeked sideways, seeing what others could not. Lyle was middle-of-the-road for thickness and length, uncircumcised with low-hanging testicles. His closely trimmed red pubic hair was a shock to a nine-year-old gay boy, anything but average.

“Aye, tae be sure, ‘e’s a true Scottish laddie,” Constable Argyll declared.

“The little faggot’s no more Scottish than I am!” Mrs. Parfitt exploded.

Lyle stepped up to her. He took several deep breaths, his jaw clenched. “Madam, yer speakin’ aboot tha son of tha new Laird Stirling. Aye’ll hear no more from ye!”

Mrs. McIntyre stepped back, mouth agape, humbly avoiding Bruce’s gaze. “Oh, dearie me. Tha thing’s aye said aboot Laird Alistair. Aye’m so sorry, Sir.”

Bruce grinned. “Not to worry. I appreciate honesty, Mrs. McIntyre.”

She curtseyed. “What I don’t appreciate are busy bodies who insult my guests, Sir.”

He gestured at the Parfitts. “Lyle, apparently they don’t want to stay at GlenIolaire. Perhaps you can convey them to that guesthouse you were talking about earlier? Their bus can pick them up when it leaves here tomorrow morning.”

“Well! I’ll talk to the tour company about this! You won’t get their tours again.”

“Marjorie, please; can we just pack and go?”

“Harold, for once, shut up!” Mrs. Parfitt pivoted, glaring at Bruce. “You’ve not heard the last of me. We’ve got friends in high places. My sister is a Deputy Director in the Reading Department of Health...”

“Have you sent money to Nifty, lately?” Constable Argyll demanded, his tone officious. “It’s important ye know. Every cent goes to protect queer speech in the colonies.”

“Fook the faggots, Not a farthing will I give to support sodomy,” Mrs. Parfitt snapped. “Especially them boy-diddlers, scoutmasters and the like.”

She glared at her husband, who shrank back, finally diverting an admiring eye, both eyes, actually, from dear sweet Daniil.

“Now you listen here!” Mrs. McIntyre raised her voice. “Ay’ve goot noothin agin foogs, mah Lyle took it oop tha bum since ‘e were a wee laddie, boot this ‘ere is a catamite. ‘e fooks better’n ye, an’ me combined.”

“What me mum’s saying,” Lyle said, “Is get the fook out, boot first send a few quid to Nifty or ay’ll tell tha’ coonstable ‘ere about yer hoosband lookin’ at pictures of coob scoots playin’ stick thay tails oop a donkey.”