Date: Sat, 1 Aug 2020 15:20:37 -0400
From: MC VT <mcvt2017@gmail.com>
Subject: The Hurricane Pietro Gay Adult-Youth (Revised)

The Hurricane Pietro
©MCVT2017 November 16, 2018/August 1, 2020
mcvt2017@gmail.com

Another glimpse inside a gated community.  Hurricane forces an ostentatious
neighbor and precocious boy into a public shelter.

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Adult content:  100% fiction, Gay, Mb, Mt, MM, romance, slow.
=====================================================================================

"Batten the hatches."  Weathercaster warned us for the second time this
storm season.  Plywood and sandbags emerged again, store shelves emptied, a
few flew to LA or Europe for the duration. Most Miamians are accustomed to
hurricanes, annual social event until the eye lingers too long near the
coast. Flooding causes the worst problems.

...

I bought my place when I retired and kept the most valuable items from my
childhood home--antiques, heirlooms.  Instead of the downstairs guest room,
I'd reworked the floor plan to make a sanctuary I called "My Salon."  My
salon was a small theatre of sorts.  High-gloss oak floor and acoustical
tiles on the ceiling and above the wainscoting.  A harpsichord and a baby
grand were elevated in the center of the room a platform that stood
eighteen inches -- two nine-inch steps above the actual floor.  If the
water rose more than eight inches in my study, the platform would lift
hydraulically, protecting my joys in life -- my irreplaceable instruments.

Those instruments were objets d'art. The centerpieces of my life and my
home.  Such beautiful, dignified tools.  Yes, kept safe in a
humidity-controlled study behind the original front door of my family home
-- twenty panes of beveled glass broke the sunlight into tiny spots of
rainbows making that room shimmer through the day.  Two walls were to the
outside faced my back lawn, a botanical wonderland.

My instruments and billions of key taps in practice through my life earned
me a place of esteem in a large institution of higher learning.  My life
was filled with music and the headaches of administration, nervous students
hoping for scholarships or a negative pregnancy test result.  Yet it was a
wonderful career!  Under my tutelage, most of my young phenoms went into
fantastic careers and I became renowned for my instructional methods and
amiability.

Actually, I'd survived all those my headaches and heartaches through the
rich, resounding vibrations of that baby grand in front of me, Bach and
Vivaldi and other great composers kept me sane and satisfied with my life.
I'd thrived in the sheltered world of campus life far from the dog-eat-dog
maneuverings of the corporate world.  A career there would have surely left
me impoverished with my soul cloaked in unbecoming tatters before I reached
middle age.

...

Alas, all my proficiency and prestige couldn't stop the storm offshore.  My
housekeeper stocked my pantry and told me she wouldn't be in for the next
week.  Her family were leaving for higher ground.  Wasn't sure if
Guadalajara was higher, but it was probably drier.

My phone didn't stop ringing as I busied myself closing the louvers,
latching the shutters.  I brought my collection of exotic begonias into the
garage.  Finally answered the harassing calls.  My neighbor from across the
street had called twelve times.  New neighbors.  Dad was a bigwig in the
fire department, and his wife managed the emergency call center downtown.

"Hate to bother you Dr. Collins, the evacuation bus is coming by this
afternoon -- I have to go to work and hubby's off to the coast to help with
dikes.  Can you help with Pietro?"

"Who's Pietro?"  Won't lower myself to pet sitting.

"My son -- he's a very independent second grader.  The bus will take him to
the shelter at the high school on Palmetto Drive.  Pietro's aunt is working
there, she'll take him home with her.  You are going - aren't you?"

"Hadn't thought about it."  I looked out the front door to see the wind
whipping the rain horizontally through the air.  Light rain, but the sky
was darkening toward the east.

"You need to go to the shelter till the worst passes, and if you'd take
Pietro I'd be eternally grateful."

"Can't he go to work with you?"  I looked across the street and saw her
standing inside her door with a short humanoid beside her.

"I'm working the 9-1-1 dispatch, my staff can't or won't come
in... double-stepping for the next forty-eight hours -- probably longer."

"Here's my rule -- If I can't see the center of the street, I can't cross
the low place..."  I couldn't see the center of the street now.  The water
was rising fast.  "Send him over."  Mini-Quasimodo ran toward the street,
huge backpack under his orange raincoat, splashing through the current at
the curb.

"Keep your phone with you -- I'll call from the shelter." I told her as we
watched Pietro run up my walk.  On the front porch, he stomped his rubber
boots on the mat and looked up at me.  I waved at his mother.  We watched
her through the front door as she ran to her car and left quickly.

"So, you're Pietro?"  He shoved his hood back, dripping on my Italian
tiles.

"Yeah.  Mom said you're Dr. Collins -- but not the kind of doctor that
gives shots."

"Did you want one?  We could arrange that."  I joked menacingly.

He grinned -- open, girlish face with big brown eyes and extremely black
hair, bangs cut straight so they almost covered his eyebrows.  "Kids don't
like shots."

"Hang your wet things here."

"Dad says to put a note on your door to tell the rescuers we're at the high
school."

"Take off your jeans, we'll put them in the dryer while we wait for the
bus."

"No, we'll just get wet again.  Where's your bag?  Mom said the bus will be
at the corner in ten minutes."  He told me.  "Hurry up.  The eye's hitting
land tonight - the wind is strongest around the eye..."

"How do you know all this?"  Already started irritating me.

"Mom's scanner."

I thought for a moment, maybe I could keep the boy here with me.  Then I
remembered that my body hadn't seen more than a hot tub in years and I
wasn't sure about swimming with a boy in tow.  Resigned, I could endure a
shelter lifestyle with the fiend-ette for a few hours.  Quickly bounded the
stairs to pack.  In my bathroom, I grabbed my toiletry kit, a change of
underwear and threw them in an old gym bag.  From down the hall a tiny
voice yelled, "Remember your phone charger.  You better write your name on
it."

He was right and damned bossy about it.

We waited at the door watching for the bus then ran through the rain to
have to wait in line to get into the bus.  I thought I smelled a noxious
whiff of wet dog somewhere among the other damp refugees but decided to say
nothing--support animals and all.  More wet humans loaded on, obliterating
the canine smell with their own unwashed odors revived by moisture.

...

At the high school, we waited in another line and were assigned to an area
for adults with children.  We were given a name tag and a cot number.  Beds
#202 and #203, hmmm.  Our cots were near the wall at the back of the gym,
somewhere in the middle of the row.  I texted Pietro's mother that we were
tagged like cattle and sheltered but couldn't find the aunt yet -- not all
the shelter workers had arrived.

Pietro followed the pop music blaring down a hallway.  It came from the
cafeteria where an area was made for kids -- board games were scattered on
the tabletops there were jump ropes and hoops in the corner.  Pietro
recognized a couple of kids playing checkers, went to their table.  I
noticed two more busses passed the windows filled with people standing in
the aisles.

...

Instructing at the university for years has its benefits.  Several of my
former students working in the shelter recognized me and I quietly
negotiated cots #56 and #57 by suggesting Pietro had "accidents" at times.
While they made the changes, I listened to the news station as the wind
roared outside the building.  The metal roof above us was rattling, wished
I'd brought an umbrella.

Later, Pietro and I stood in line again, we were given a squirt of hand
sanitizer and allowed a small brown paper bag with dinner.  That's what
they called it -- lunch meat, bread, an orange and a bag of chips.  Another
line for red sugar-water in a paper cup.  Shelter cuisine at its finest!
Pietro ate his orange and the chips quickly.  In the far corner of the
cafeteria behind a cluster of chairs, boys were stomping their catsup and
mustard packets to see them explode against the wall.  I looked away after
I gave Pietro my condiments.  A sharp blow with his foot made a nicely
arced red squirt and gave a lunatic laugh.

Kept my eye on the news.  Sure enough, the eye of the hurricane was nearing
land.  The roaring and banging outside continued.  Debris slammed against
the building, anything not tied down became airborne.

Blessedly, someone brought the popcorn machine out and we had a somewhat
edible treat.  Knowing there would be another line, I hustled Pietro off to
the bathroom to wash his hands and face and brush his teeth before
lights-out.  We found our cots and new name tags with our corrected cot
numbers and spread out the thin blankets on flimsy folding beds made of
canvas and wooden slats.  Looking through his bag, I handed Pietro his
extra tee shirt and grabbed mine.

"What's this for?"

"Cover your face -- smells good and keeps your eyes dark so you can sleep."
I plumped up the rest of my additional clothing to make a pillow.

Not sure if it was insomnia, anxiety or complete lack of couth, but a
number of strangers began walking through the aisles between the beds --
strolling silently and openly staring at people readying for bed.  Never
expected an unabashed parade of creeps exploring new heights of insolence
in an emergency shelter.  I got up and moved Pietro's cot next to mine,
partially blocking the aisle.  Several other people nearby did the same,
creating a voyeur-free area.  The lights dimmed and the winds kept howling.

"Did my mom call you?"  Pietro whispered as I sniffed the pressed-fiber
blanket -- there was a strange, musk-epoxy smell to the pressed fibers.  I
pulled my phone out and dialed, "Here."  He took the phone and put it to
his ear.  I waited; he waited.  The call rolled into voice mail.  He hung
up.  "Can you text her?  Tell her to call me."

I punched his words in the phone and told him to press the send button.
"Are you frightened?"

"I'm worried about my mom."  The small voice said, "This place stinks.  I
wanna go home.  Where's my mom and dad?"

"I don't like it either, but it's not so bad.  Plenty of people around."

"Why isn't my aunt here?  Adults are supposed to help kids -- where is
she?"

"Let's ask."  I stood and motioned for a shelter monitor to come, "Do you
know where Pietro's aunt is -- What's her name?"

"Genevieve Morgan."

"Could you find out where she is?  She's supposed to be working here.  If
you could get her number, we'd appreciate it."  The shelter worker entered
the name in his phone and sent a message.

"Don't count on any messages anytime soon."  He pointed to the ceiling,
"It's getting worse."  He wandered off.  "Hope the cell towers don't go
down completely."

Sitting next to me on the bed, Pietro looked dejected; almost upset.  "Did
you bring something with you like a stuffed animal?"  I asked.  "Do you
have a teddy?"

"That's baby stuff."  He sat on my cot next to me, cupped his hand near his
lips at my ear.  "I always sleep with my dad when it rains."  He looked up
to me, "It's our secret time."

That perplexed me, but I glanced around, "Come here, I'll cover us, pretend
Dad's here."  My hand, flat on his belly brought him close to my chest.
"You're a good boy, so patient today."

"I wanna go home."

"A few more hours.  Cover your eyes and pretend you're in your bed."

The smell of the boy's sweat, his feet, and his warmth was foreign; oddly
virginal and distinct.  I'd lived alone too long -- the warm scents of the
boy were enticing, almost stinging my brain with an aroma of innocence with
a touch of tangerine.

Under my hand, I felt him breathe; his body relaxed and soon his breaths
were longer and deeper.  Gorgeous boy, neat, straight eyebrows, a line of
eyelashes so thick they made him look like he was wearing eyeliner.  His
eyelids had an almost waxy sheen, pale with a faint shadow of blue.  Even
asleep, the bright flush of roses on his cheeks were evident in the dim
light.  Angelic lips, the plump lower lip, fuller and a delicately pointed
chin on his almost round face.  I was never so beautiful as a child.

Around midnight, the boy turned toward me on the narrow cot, sleeping
deeply and making small snores.  I angled myself to accommodate his move,
but my back and shoulders were stiff.  I fell back asleep to the sound of
the rain and wind raging outside.  Sometime after that he turned again,
facing away from me and pulled my hand over him.  The air in the room was
chillier now.  He lay my hand directly over his small package and pressed
it against his genitals, right into a miniscule package.

What's that about?  My brain blanked for a moment.  Was that "secret time"
with Daddy.  I squeezed gently, gave him a few strokes wondering what he
was dreaming of.

"Nnn."  He whispered in a sandy grunt.  Parts of his body flinched and his
breathing went back to long and slow.  Asleep again.  Had he even woken?

...

Impossible to sleep with the drone of the news from the corner and constant
footsteps of the parade of peepers several rows away, so I woke Pietro at
five and took him to the bathroom, then we went back to our cot to get up
later for breakfast.  That was a stroke of genius -- we only had to wait
behind a few men for the bathroom then we were first in line for damp,
chewy English muffins with rehydrated scrambled eggs.  Brown dust in heated
water was offered under the guise of coffee; I grabbed a tea bag and a cup.

...

As we ate, the lights blinked then went off.  We all waited for a moment in
the dark hoping they would come on again.  Within a minute we heard the
motor of a generator start up.  We'd be in low light until the electricity
came on again.  The eye had hit land and the storm was diffusing heavy
rains clouds as the core lost its definition.  Monitors worked around the
clock.  I kept looking for the young man from last night to find out if he
had contacted Pietro's aunt; didn't see him.

Shelter staff kept the children busy in relay races, then they announced
they were going to open the second-floor hallways for a ball game.

Out rolled out a huge ball - about thirty inches in diameter -- almost as
big as Pietro was tall.  Kids crowded and were sorted by size.  Smaller
ones in groups of fives were taken first, then the taller children were
taken.  Two teams formed standing closely.  Then they sat, had to keep
their butts on the linoleum as they swatted the ball back and forth.

With all the children arranged and seated, the ball went back and forth
again and again.  Scoring a point seemed to require as much screaming as it
did muscular effort.

To the side, noting one of the young monitors - he reminded me of a boy I
knew in high school.  Had to remember that kid -- he taught me what the
phrase, "turned out" meant.  After spending the night in jail when he was
fifteen, he found out what the phrase meant; an abrupt induction into the
world of non-consensual sex.  My schoolmate got "wised up" about the most
intimate acts within the space of three hours, explained every detail with
delight.

Couldn't help but wonder if Pietro had been "turned out" in a familial way.
Had he been sexually programmed by his father?  Were the once tender edges
of his sentiments now crispy from the heat of lust?  My curiosity turned
that idea every which way but loose as I stood watching.

By divine intervention the teams tied.  Pietro came to me sweating, "Did my
mom call?  Have they found my aunt yet?"

As we walked to the office, I tapped another text message to Pietro's mom.

"The storm's weakening -- maybe you can sleep in your own bed tonight."
This time I bypassed the useless monitors and asked for the supervisor.  I
hate to pull rank, but I recognized a face from the campus security squad
now in a shelter management position.  "Mr. Pietro needs to contact his
mother or his aunt.  Could you please attend to this matter?"

We found out his aunt was working the shelter in the north side of town,
and his mother must still be at the dispatch center.  They would try to
call the aunt for us.

"In the meantime, is there a private shower where my charge could refresh
himself?"

Perhaps embarrassed with his underling's ineptitude, he escorted Pietro and
me to a small shower and dressing room behind the coach's office.  "Don't
say anything to anyone else but take as long as you want Dr. Collins.  Lock
up on your way out."

I grabbed several clean towels and motioned Pietro to the shower, "Give me
your clothes and remember to check under the hood."

"I'm not a car."

"Not that hood."

I heard him laughing at me.  Then I remembered Pietro may not have a hood
to check under.

While he showered, I handed him shampoo and conditioner.  Those beautiful
black lock would turn to a sticky glop with the soap in the shower.  As he
shampooed, I inspected his shoes -- phew!  I dusted them with Mavis and
laid out his clothes.  When the water turned off, I handed him his towel
behind the thin canvas curtain.  "Dry enough for your briefs."  He did and
I handed him his superhero underwear.  He came out.  "Come let me finish
drying you."

He grinned, "What's that stuff in my shoes?"

"Mavis talcum.  It smells nice, don't you think?"

"Smells girly."

"It smells like -- like gentility.  We're allowed a modicum of refinement
in this place."  I took the towel and asked him to sit down while I dried
his feet.  A smooth, gently curved foot came to my hand -- delicate ankles
and tiny, perfect toes.  True works of art that needed an individual
dusting of powder.  He let me slip his socks on him and he stood to dress.

"Are you going to shower?"  He asked me.

"Only if you stay right here -- too many strangers out there."  He stayed
in the tiny dressing area.  I wasn't so lucky to have everything handed to
me.  Washing quickly, I stepped out naked and began drying.  "Powder my
shoes, please."  I told him.

He found the red tin of talc but watched me as I dried and moved to the
sink to shave, then came to watch me.

"Are the alligators and the snakes going to be in our yards?"  He asked,
eyeing my own constrictor which wasn't constricting.

"I don't know.  What would we do if we found some?"  I continued with my
routine.

"Do you have a gun?"  He asked with an excited twinkle in his eyes.

"Heavens, no."  I answered.  "What would your father suggest?"

He thought for a moment, "Get them in the back yard and call Animal
Control.  Boring."

"You don't need new shoes or a new belt, do you?  We could bonk them silly,
gut them with my apple corer and skin them a letter opener."

He looked at me for a moment, calculating his odds of actually fighting and
skinning a snake.  "You're joking, right?"  Then, his finger came to my
foreskin and he flicked it!  Well, that was a surprise, but I figured it
was a personal eccentricity among grade-schoolers.  As I slapped the
aftershave on my face, I cupped his precious face in my damp hands, "We
need to talk."

"Are you going to yell at me?  That guy Justin needed to be elbowed -- his
butt was off the floor most of the ball game."

"Cheaters deserve elbows."  I sat on the bench and repacked our bags.
"When you have a sleepover or like here at the shelter, please be careful.
Don't say anything about sleeping with your father or your secret time.
That's no one else's business.  If someone finds out - they can hurt
you. You could lose your dad."  I looked at his face.  "Do you know what
I'm talking about?"

Pietro turned away.

I pulled him against me.  "Did someone hurt you?"

"No."  He started wiggling around and found a sudden interest in the soap
dispenser and how many drips it would make with one hard hit.

"Okay.  Let's make a deal.  If you want to talk, or you're hurt, and you
don't want to talk to your parents, come to my house.  Will you do that?"

He nodded and I kissed his forehead thinking I'd give report anonymously if
needed.  But maybe nothing happened, Pietro didn't seem upset.  We left for
lunch.

...

Through the window into the school kitchen, I saw a number of large pots on
the gas stoves, steaming away.  Gnocci or pasta?  Reality hit when we were
handed instant ramen noodle soup with a packet of peanut butter on cheese
crackers.

Pietro's technique involved stabbing the noodles while waiting for them to
soften so he could suck the slippery curls into his mouth, delighting in
the tiny splashes that flew across the table.  I drank the salty broth and
searched in vain for an actual vegetable while the imp ate all my crackers.
Maybe someone would make popcorn later -- oops!  No electricity.  I found
an apple in a post-ingenue state; two bites were enough.

...

We were able to call the aunt, found out she would come as soon as possible
when the shelters began shutting down, "One more night, but Thursday
morning looks like we should be able to get out."

I told her I'd take Pietro home with me on the same bus we took to the
shelter.

"I'll be there as soon as I can."

The children ran relays up and down the hallways with whistles blowing and
balloons and stickers for prizes.  Pietro told me the stars he won were
"kiddie crap."  He stuck them on the buttons of my sweater.  The evening
wound down, a woman came to read bed-time stories for the younger children.
Pietro went over to listen for a while but rejoined me in watching the
coverage of the flooding as the last bands of clouds whipped high overhead.
Gratefully, the worst flooding wasn't in our neighborhood.

Finally, Pietro's mother called, "Genevieve got switched to another site,
sorry.  Looks like everyone's going home tomorrow..."  She prattled on with
her thanks and tidbits of news.

"We're leaving on the first bus home."  I interrupted to cut her
conversation about the death count short.

"Okay.  Let Genevieve know where you are."

"Pietro's worried about you and his dad."

Pietro grabbed the phone, "When's Dad coming home?"

I didn't hear her response, but from the look on Pietro's face, it wasn't
soon.  I wiped the booger off the volume button of my phone when he handed
it back to me.  We went to the patio area, looking through the big plate
glass doors.  A light rain hit the glass with only a breeze pushing it.
"I'm going to ask your mom to get you a phone of your own."

Several tissues later, he leaned against me.  "I want to go to bed.  Can we
do like last night?"  We did and I'm sure he was not asleep when he placed
my hand on his groin and pressed.  I didn't move my hand, so he moved my
hand on his shaft through his briefs.  Interesting little bumps he had on
his groin, I tried to think of weather stripping and resetting clocks as my
erection plumped behind his rounded rear.

"Pietro, this isn't right."  I whispered after he grunted a few times,
wriggling hard against me.

"Yes, it is--I like it."  We slept well despite the continual shuffling of
feet around the sleeping area.

...

"Up, Pietro." I whispered early.  Unfortunately, too many other people were
up as well; I was accustomed by now to staring at the back of other's
heads.  We sat near the front door waiting for the bus that would take us
back home eating cups of sickeningly sweet yoghurt.

As we rode the familiar boulevards lined by piles of trash, limbs and parts
of roofs, drywall shoved to the sides of the streets.  I dreading finding
what was left of our block, but the damage wasn't too severe.  The houses
were intact, landscaping was ruined; shingles were strewn about, palms
bared and broken. The bus let us off in front of my house.  Pietro walked
slowly behind me.  Inside, "Let's call Genevieve and let her know where you
are."

"Can we go to my house and wait for her?"

"I'd rather you stayed near me."  Had I become accustomed to childcare
duties?  We went to get him clean clothes and waited on the front porch of
my home for Genevieve to come in her station wagon full of children with
all their bright paraphernalia.

Pietro was grinning and waving as he left.  That night I sent his mother a
text message asking her to get a phone for Pietro.

...

Saturday, before school resumed, I saw the old station wagon deliver Pietro
home. He went in and soon enough, he was knocking on my door -- his hair a
mess and his jeans muddy at the cuff.  Looked like he had a good time.

"Shoes off before you come in!"  He pulled off his shoes and came in those
beautiful feet in dingy, mismatched socks stinking.  I ignored it, glad to
see him grinning.

He pulled up his shirt and I saw he'd stuck a large white envelope into the
front of his jeans.  "This is for you."

Still warm from his body, he handed it to me.  I opened the envelope to
find a greeting card with the generic photo of two kittens in a basket.  On
the inside, Pietro scrawled: "Thanks for taking care of me, you're the
best."  His mother taped a gift card to the inside of the card with her
thanks.  "Watching Pietro helped me, which helped the entire city."
Looking up from the card, I saw Pietro holding a cell phone toward me.
"Put your phone number on here so I can call you."

I put it on speed dial under the name Dr. J. Sebastian Collins.  "Call any
time, rascal."

...

During the next few weeks, the neighbors were all out cleaning and
straightening; recounting their relations with insurance adjustors.

Strange events disturbed the peace of the neighborhood.  I was summoned to
my front window several times by yelling, and slammed doors across the
street.  Pietro's parents held several rather loud disagreements.  Had to
wonder if Pietro had said anything to his mother about his father's secret
time.

Rascal had my number; he didn't call.

That neighborhood fiasco ended with Dad coming back with friends and a
rented truck.  He took some furniture and several large suitcases and boxes
and left.  Pietro's house was dark but for a light on near the back of the
house.  Okay, I'll admit I was watching the window of Pietro's upstairs
bedroom.  It stayed dark.  Why wasn't he on his computer or reading -- why
didn't his bedroom light come on?

After the neighborhood was calmed for the evening, I was reading in bed
when my phone rang.  Pietro!  "Are you alright?  Your parents were upset,
arguing.  Distressing!"

"Dad met a girlfriend on the coast -- he left." Low words, clearly sad.

"You'll get some new step siblings.  They might be fun."

"Yeah, he said I was old enough to find a friend my own age.  The lady he's
going to marry has a lot of little kids.  Dad said he loved little kids.
He was my step-dad really, but the only dad I knew."

"Let him go.  Good riddance--I'll be your friend, okay?"  Was that the
sweet aroma of an exotic freedom I suddenly smelled?  Back to earth:

No response.  There wasn't anything I could do about his parents.  "I'll be
home all day tomorrow, ask your mom if you can come over and help in the
back yard.  Glad to pay for some help."

No response.

"Maybe we'll find a boa." Silly enticement.

The idea of a few bucks and a snake motivated the boy out of his funk.  The
next day we reshaped what was left of my banana trees.  My pomelo tree was
broken low.  We dug it up.  Pietro brought all my begonias out and we took
several breaks in the bright sunlight and super-heated air.

Determined worker alongside me, raking and bagging in my over-sized gloves
keeping a sharp eye out for a lost snake.  With his tee shirt wrapped
around his head, he pulled and raked and pulled and raked, working the
small muscles of his back until we lugged two big trash bags to the curb.

My imagination went overboard as I watched him.  Exactly what had the boy
meant when he described his step-father's "secret time."  Couldn't shake
the image a large man forcing his way into this small, body -- it was
almost like an obsessive thought.  Could that really happen?

Here was a beautiful young boy making his way in a difficult world.  If his
first introduction to love was painful, a first can't be undone. Perhaps it
wasn't love.  Perhaps, it could be modified by the right person.

As we finished, Pietro pulled his tee shirt off his head, turned on the tap
and lifted the sparkling water to his lips, then wet his head and shook the
water out of his hair.  He crimped the hose and gave me several hard
squirts before he let me rinse, laughing all the while.

...

Through the semester, I saw noticed Pietro had changed schools -- he was in
public school now and seemed to have integrated himself well.  He became a
latchkey boy.  Mom was dating a number of men.  Dark SUVs were parked in
front of her home every weekend.

Had to appoint myself the public decorum officer of the neighborhood,
watching everything and noting the makes and models of the cars and the
types of men entering the house to calculate their chances of enjoying our
upscale community. To ensure quality officiating, I moved my harpsichord
near the front window so I could observe the comings and goings of Pietro
and his mother more closely as I enjoyed my music.

...

My daily observations became a habit I couldn't shake.  Every afternoon, as
I sat at the keys enjoying a bit of the baroque, I watched for the school
bus.  Pietro was an obedient boy -- he ran into the house from the bus
immediately.  I didn't realize that the bus driver wouldn't leave until the
boy was inside the house.  I imagined him completing his homework and
reading -- my heart knew he was probably eating everything in the
refrigerator and watching cartoons.

The holidays neared and I got a call from Pietro's mother -- they were
leaving for a week, visiting her parents in Palermo.  "Would you pick up
our mail?"  Of course, I would and allowed myself to get snagged into
dropping them at the airport.  I had to take a picture of a handsome Pietro
in his slacks and a yellow knit shirt.  It brought out the flecks of gold
in his rich brown eyes.

This was his first plane trip - he fidgety and anxious about such a long
flight over a wide ocean.  "Where's your passport?"  He showed me; Pietro
Rafaelli -- his mother had reverted back to her maiden name and given it to
him.  Hmmm.  "Keep it by your phone so you won't lose it."

Pietro sent me several pictures of Palermo, his family's house, the soccer
team practicing, local flora.  There were photos of his grandparents -
handsome, white-haired couple with big smiles and olive skin and those same
rich brown eyes.  Pietro said he had a surprise for me.

Anxious for a gift from the lad, I asked him for his flight number and
offered to pick up my rascal and his mom when they returned.  Mom gifted me
with a small bottle of Versace Eros -- it was definitely one of my favorite
scents.  I was much more interested in Pietro's gift.  "Did you bring me a
pebble or a shell?"

"No.  You have to wait."

...

School started again, and the household across the street fell into their
routines.  Oddly, Mom didn't date any longer.  They were home every weekend
working in the yard and sprucing up the lawn decor.  Occasionally, I lent
them a ladder or a tool.  Several screens had been damaged and though I had
my repair work done with student labor, I went to show Pietro a full-grown
man could stumble off a ladder and nick his fingers with manual tools.
Fine demonstration on how to bloody a cell phone calling for assistance.

On spring break Pietro came over with a folder in his hand.  He rang my
doorbell and waited as I hurried to the door.  "Hey!  Are ya' ready for
your surprise?" The boy was beaming.

"Why yes, please come in."  He walked tall, with an air of business about
him.  His hair was combed, his face clean and I noticed his nails were
trimmed and crud-free; he smelled like baby powder.

Then, to my surprise, he pushed past me and strode directly to my salon and
opened the door.  He'd just invaded my sacred space!  I sucked in a quick,
hard breath -- he hadn't asked, but took a sudden and masterful charge over
my inner sanctum.  The personal, intimate salon where Bach and I met on the
closest of terms possible even after my brief fling with Scheidt now held a
boy with a manila folder approaching my beloved piano.  He ascended the
steps to the platform as though he were at Carnegie Hall.

Words vanished.  I filled with horror -- this rascal was going to blithely
cootify my dearest place with schoolyard microbes and eardrum scraping
tunes!

In front of the baby grand, "I hear you practicing all the time --
sometimes I open my window to hear you.  I like to listen in the dark."  He
gingerly put his folder on the music stand and opened the keyboard.  Took a
few moments to get the bench in the right place and sat his butt
deliberately on the velvet cushion and began with a straight back and
curved fingers...  Well, this was a surprise, but he'd never...  No, he
couldn't...  Chopsticks?  I wondered.

His eyes looked upward at the simplified version of "Kiss the Rain" by
Yiruma.  His short, smooth fingers began touching the keys -- awkward and
hesitant at first.  Concentrating intently, his timing was off, but he
completed the piece and turned to me.  "I have to learn the easy stuff
before I can play ragtime."  Putting his sheet music in his folder and
standing, "Did you like your surprise?"

Still agog, "Ragtime?"  I suppose there's a time and place for that.
"Wonderful.  Come back to the keyboard."

I sat, and placed him on my lap, his legs straddling mine, "Open your music
and let's play together."  Through several times playing the eerie, but
touching piece, his pace picked up.  I added chords and he watched my
fingers.  His electronic keyboard only had sixty-one keys and no pedals but
he'd bravely used my heirloom Bösendorfer to create his gift for me.
He watched intently when I showed him the notations and the pedals though
he couldn't reach them.  On the piano, I found a copy of an easy version of
"Eine Kleine Nachtmusik."

"Let's try this."

We began slowly, I watched him focus on the page as his fingers found their
way slowly to the right keys couldn't help but notice the two slender
tendons on the back of his neck and kissed them.  His butt wiggled, "Stomp
the left pedal now!"  He pointed to the sheet music.

Pressing the pedal, with the boy on my lap, I kissed his neck again.  "Can
you feel the passion in this piece?"

He shook his head, continuing to figure out the notes.  "Such an expansive,
moving piece..." My fingers took control on both sides of him and we played
together, my hands leading his unsure moves.  My body trembled; Mozart and
Pietro made excellent company in my holiest-of-holy places.

Pietro didn't come home to eat and watch the tele, he'd been listening,
then practicing -- for me!

While visiting Palermo, he'd told his grandparents he heard me playing.
His grandmother had taught music at one time in a local school.  She'd
given him the basics -- they emailed back and forth.  My Pietro had learned
his foundation from videos online and coaching from the elderly woman who
loved him dearly.

Of course, my little champ had to be rewarded.  With a few calls, I
arranged for him to come to my house after school on Tuesdays and
Thursdays.  Wasn't sure if he'd be a prodigy, but he was proficient enough
to play well - play well with me.  ...

Knowing the day would come when Pietro would be able to reach the pedals, I
had him on my lap as often as possible to practice.  His smell, his smooth
skin and the feel of his lithe body and muscles working as the sheet music
became more complex was exhilarating -- like I could feel his inner pianist
developing into a handsome, confident musician.

"Jupiter" by Holst was one of my favorites, but Pietro struggled with it at
first.  It never occurred to me that the boy hadn't really experienced many
different deep emotional moments in his short life, "Can't you feel the
passion?  Jump on the notes, don't drag through them like you're hauling a
dead cat to the alley.  For heaven's sake, you show more spunk in that
ditty about the horses.  Humph!"

I'd crossed his line.  Tears welled in his eyes.

I reflected on all I'd ever been taught; an idea came to me: "Start again,
I'll show you what I mean."  I positioned him squarely on my lap and he
began again, not very happy about it.

As he came to the section he'd slowed on before, I placed my hand gently
over his small package and squeezed.  As I fondled his tiny rod through his
cotton shorts, "Make the music ring with what you feel."  I whispered and
continued rubbing gently.  There were a few heavy breaths, then a smoother,
more moving series of notes.

"Yes, like that."  He was touching the keys lovingly and grinning to the
very end of the piece.

When he finished, he turned his head and kissed my cheek and pressed my
hand back against his groin to feel his stiff twig.  "Let's do it again!"

"Jupiter" got a work out that day -- five times with several short orgasms,
longer than a whole note, but not by much.  When we were finished for the
day, he helped me play the harpsichord for him using my same
passion-inducing technique.  We both wound up laughing till we had to leave
the salon for the patio.  I needed to cool off while Pietro grabbed his
soda and went off to look for a snake in the bushes.

I had a snake in my bush, and kept it to myself.

...

As summer neared, Pietro got yet another father.  "Mom says he's an oof."
Pietro told me as we entered my study.

"You mean an oaf?"

"Whatever.  He wants me to play footy or baseball.  He told me to decide,
so I told him lacrosse."

I could only nod, not my son; not my family.  "What do you want to do?"

"Run track.  Cross-country maybe.  Get away from all the goofy adults."

"Choose something that won't hurt your arms or hands, please."  I took his
hands in mine and kissed them.  "Where should we start today?"

He straddled my lap, this time facing me and smiled.  "Got a problem."  He
pressed his cheek against my chest while I played Handel, then as the last
notes waned, "I'm out of passion again.  Completely."

"It'll come..."  I was lightheaded with the smell of the boy and the deep,
rich music enveloping us, hadn't considered what he was actually asking
for.

He nodded and we watched his hand go to my white polyester slacks.  His
fingers outlined my throbbing, full shaft.

His head back on my chest, "Are you queer?"

"Why do you ask?"  My heart began pounding, not from shame, but from fear
of losing this warmth.

"'The oof' says you're a faggot.  Mom says you're gay -- queer."

With the softest voice I could find, I held his head against me, "I'm a
homosexual male.  I've loved men all my life.  Does that bother you?"

I felt him shaking his head.  He didn't move.  We stayed like that for a
long time.  "Why do you want to know if I'm gay?  Is someone bothering you
because I'm working with you on your music?"

"My stepdad said he wasn't gay, but he liked sex with me.  `The oof' says
he's straight and he acts like he hates me cause I'm not all macho and
tough like him but he watches the men porn.  You're queer and that's all
about men but you never do anything mean to me.  It's confusing."

His perspective became clear.  It was the men in his life that muddled his
thoughts instead of clarifying his path.  "When you grow up, you'll have
choices about sports and the person you want to love.  I choose to cherish
the precious things in my life, like your talent and tenderness."  I
swallowed hard feeling a copious amount of dampness at the head of my
erection.  "You'll make your own decisions later and maybe change them when
you're older.  Allow others their confusion."

Rocking him in my arms for a moment, he commented, "You got a stiffy."

Glad he couldn't see my face in super-heated scarlet, I spoke without
thinking.  "Men get erections all the time--give a pecker a little
attention, and there they go."

"My stepdad got hard all the time when he was in bed with me, then we did
sex.  Are we going to do sex?"  He wiggled his butt on my groin.

Was I being played?  I took the high ground.  "When you get a stiffy, think
about an alligator chasing you and nipping at your rear."  I grabbed a
handful of boy-butt and gave it a squeeze.  "Or go to the men's room into a
stall, rub it away."  My rod was about to rupture with bliss but my brief
dissertation on erection elimination was perfect.  "If you need a few
moments alone -- "

Didn't get any further, he was unzipping his shorts and pulling his proud,
uncut twiglet from his pants.  I couldn't pull my eyes away.  He was hard,
about three inches, a tiny bird, thin and with the most plump, rounded
glans in a deep rose color peeking out from a short, greyed foreskin.  The
essence of Pietro filled the space between us.

Sweet mother of Bach, the dampness in my briefs was spreading; a spot of
pre-cum gained size as I watched him stroke his short rod.  Then, without
words, he leaned forward and rubbed himself on my shaft through my
slacks. My hands went to his rear and I helped him, feeling his breath near
my neck.  A few hunches from his hips and I felt his back tense and he
stopped.  Orgasm; dry, complete. I continued moving him against me several
more times and released a load that dropped my heart into free-fall.  The
smell of my discharge overpowered his musk and I sighed deeply.

His arms went around my neck and he kissed me sweetly below my ear.  "Can
we play something new today?"

My mind was still reeling. "That's what we just did."

I composed myself quickly.  I could destroy the reputation I'd carefully
built over the years -- bringing a small university's music department to a
nationally renowned level though my homosexuality had put a few barriers in
front of me several times.  Fortunately, most of the staff and students
simply tolerated my peculiarities; peculiarities are all too common among
the gifted and usually dismissed if their gift is treasured.  My gift had
brought in several large endowments.

Looking into his eyes, I asked myself if I allowed this to go any further,
would I destroy my own self-respect?  Holding his sweet face in my hands, I
kissed his cheeks, his eyes and his nose, "We're going to try some Domenico
Scarlatti -- fine Italian composer..."

Italians -- such a delectable history they have.

...

I decided to begin our studies with videos of some of the best pianists
performing pieces I'd selected to exemplify various motifs and demonstrate
reflection and interaction with composers through their written music.

Never had to ask Pietro to reveal his passion in his playing again -- he
seemed to intuit the mood of the melodies.  We read about the Medici family
and the history and times of various composers.  I enjoyed sitting
alongside Pietro in his cotton shorts and tee shirt.  Yes, there were
manual exchanges of appreciation that which superseded practice with
increasing frequency.

Toward the end of our first year together, he explored sexuality further
and at his own pace, led only by curiosity but often driven forward by
unusual playground comments.  No, women don't have any teeth between their
legs, and they are quite attractive beings if you have an appreciation for
that kind of loveliness.  He sometimes enjoyed feeling my genitals and
inspected them closely several times.  I made no comment when he said that
his stepfather had a much larger penis or that `the oof' seemed to have
more hair than equipment...  Our formality vanished when we spoke frankly
about our bodies, and I answered his questions about being a gay man.  Not
much to say there, except that any relationship requires respect and
special care if it's meant to last.

The longer we engaged in fleshly play, the more interest I had in Greek,
Roman and other traditions involving younger men in mentorship or
patronage.  Catamites -- hmmm.  How very interesting and what a fine
support system for young men; carnal mentorship.

Recorded history can only fill in so many blanks, so I cruised the dark web
for more contemporary information and found the motherlode on one site.  I
was so stirred by the videos, the photos and descriptions of young men
whose sexuality had been so carefully nurtured that they were full and
enthusiastic partners in mutual sexual entanglements in a plethora of
enticing situations.  My spunk roared out of my sexagenarian testicles --
well, okay, maybe it was just a few short but sincere surges.  In my mind,
the heat and intensity were incredible when I fantasized about young
Pietro's rectum and his clenching his anus around my shaft.  Every night,
I'd watch porn of young boys seducing older men and find myself in awe of
the increasing depth of my yearnings.

Could he?

Would he?

How does one ask for such adult intimacies?  His dad hadn't asked --
instead he did as he pleased.  No way could I force myself on Pietro.  My
rapidly degrading rectitude wanted Pietro to come to me, like the boys in
the videos -- smiling, enticing with rouged lips, fluttering eyelashes and
hot, tight holes for me to open and fill.

I kept those ideas secured deep inside.

...

The augury that forced changes came from my housekeeper.  It is an
unfortunate fact of life that housekeepers can be overly-caring to the
point of irritation.

"Doctor, do you have a cold?  We can go to the clinic if you've got a
fever."  She was emptying half a rainforest of wadded tissues from the
trashcan in my bedroom.  I couldn't admit that the tight knots of thin
paper weren't glued into wads by nasal mucous.

"At times tears come, my dear Consuela.  You'll understand when you're my
age."  I lied, covering my recent onset of perverse proclivities.  Then I
remembered I'd probably left evidence of my nocturnal activities on my
pajamas and sheets during my research sessions.  "Why don't you take a few
hours for yourself this afternoon?  I'll get the laundry -- do me good to
get my mind off things."  She left, glad for the day off.

The afternoon was racing toward three-thirty.  The school bus was already
leaving the school!  Quickly, I threw all linens into the washer, gathered
up the sheet music I'd printed out for Pietro and ran to my harpsichord by
the front window.

As I began touching the keys, I rued the loss of my once fastidious decorum
-- I was becoming a lust-driven ogre with the family values of Caligula.
I'd already missed two symphony dates with friends and several meetings of
the scholarship board.  Damn, I had it bad for the boy couldn't stop and
didn't want to either.  Is this some kind of senile dementia -- could a man
like me really have such uncontrollable desires?

...

Soon enough, my rambunctious student was flying through the door with a
crumpled sheet in his hand.  "I downloaded Scott Joplin!  Ragtime!"

Ragtime.  It was going to happen eventually.  Crestfallen, I followed his
quick footsteps.  He approached the piano but stopped to smooth out his
sheet music and saw the folder on the music stand. "What do you have for me
today?"

"Cat Fugue, it can wait in line behind Joplin."  I sat on the stool while
he pulled down the folder and started riffling through his new pieces.
Then he giggled.  I looked over to see a photo I'd printed off from the
dark web -- a small boy that looked amazing like Pietro ensconced on the
lap of an older man, obviously filled with the man's meat.  I was horrified
into utter silence, but tried a ruse, "Did you print that out and slip it
into your music?"  Hellacious aspersion, but what else could I do?

"No.  It was in your folder.  `The oof' has one like this, he showed me."

Floored again within three quick moments.  I swallowed hard, "He showed you
porn?"

"One night he was fucking my mom and left his computer on so I looked
around and found some good stuff.  He caught me and told me it was play
acting -- just a lot of tricks with a camera.  He said there's a lot of
lonely people in the world who use it for jollies."  He shoved the papers
back into the folder and sat on the bench looking over the Joplin piece.
"This is going to be easy."  He looked up at my confused expression.

"What do you think about it?" The words choked in my throat.

"I don't like this key, but I have to learn it, right?"  He said,
considering the Joplin piece.

"No.  What did you think about the photo?"

"It's not real."

"Well... Well...  What if it was?"

He pulled the photo out again.  I held the folder over my burgeoning
member, unable to breathe.

"Looks like they're having a good time.  But they're actors -- they get
paid to look happy."

I sucked in a deep breath.  This was an unexpected topic of conversation
that caused me to tremble internally.  Where were my damn nitro pills?
"Seems to me like the man loves that boy very much.  Look, I think he's
making it so it doesn't hurt the boy at all."

"How do you know?"

"Well, um, the boy is almost smiling, seems to me."  Second lie came more
easily.

"Okay."  He put his music on the stand and began playing -- he had ragtime
on his mind and wanted to branch out into boogie-woogie as soon as
possible, I could feel it.  Had he been watching Jerry Lee Lewis videos
again?  He mentioned Little Richard last week...

...

We practiced several pieces and through the moments and rich strains, I
thought my brain began functioning again for a moment.  Since Pietro could
reach the pedals for himself, I sat beside him.  As we wound up our
practice, I let him watch me finger through his sheet music to the photo
again.

"I know what they're doing -- they're making the catalights blink.  I
remember reading about that years ago.  Supposed to be the most incredible
thing men can do, but it's an old practice, not used much anymore."  I
shoved the photo back amongst the pages. Hopefully, I'd aroused Pietro's
curiosity.

"Catalights?  He had the most precious, perplexed look on his face.

"Yeah, I think it comes from the name Cadillac -- you know the fancy car,
one of the finest cars in its day.  Uh, so these guys called it "blinking
the catalights."  Real classy ritual, but only for men who know how to do
it the right way."  Bigger lies were even easier.

"Yeah, how do they do it?  Does it hurt?"

"Well, there's supposed to be a special place inside your behind -- inside,
uh, the rectum.  Supposed to be like a switch to blink the lights inside
the guy's head.  I heard it makes for an intense, well -- I think it's like
a...  Um, well, it makes a man's whole body light up and blink on and off
rapidly -- they say it's unbelievably good.  Couldn't hurt, in fact, I
think it's supposed to be um, well, pleasurable."  Mercy, I hadn't been
that inventive in years, but was I convincing enough?

"You mean that photo's real and that guy is blinking that kid's catalights
with his penis?"

"Can't figure what else he would be doing..."  Pure prevarication through
short, shallow breaths.

"Looks like it would hurt."  Pietro's attention was wandering back to
ragtime.

"Well, I read that most times people blink their catalights with something
smaller, like maybe something non-toxic -- nothing sharp!"  I couldn't
suggest a vibrator or a small butt plug and reveal my true feelings or
nefarious fantasies.  Honesty?  Honest about what I wanted Pietro to do
with me?  That thought shot past as though it were coated in petroleum
jelly on a corrugated tin roof in July.

"Like a rocket pop?"  He asked.

"Excellent idea, and maybe messy when it melts...  Probably easier just to
use something like, something..."  I glanced around the room feigning a
search -- "like a finger."

He was staring at his sheet music but thinking silently, I could tell he
was curious and at that point, I was sure he was doing some personal
exploration on his own.

"You wanna try blinking?"  His voice was low, soft and very serious.

Not wanting to appear too excited, I looked at the ceiling, then back at
him with my lips pressed together, "I think blinking is only for that club
of rich guys.  We'd be stealing their secret."

His eyebrows shot up, "Really?"

"But If you don't tell anyone, I won't either."  I was up immediately
closing the blinds around the salon.

...

Within a few moments, we were taking off our shoes and soon we stood in
front of the piano in only our tee shirts and socks.  What an impertinent
rod he had, it stood straight up with his tiny balls tucked neatly in their
purse underneath.

But what to do next?  Ah, yes.  The photo.

Sitting on the edge of the platform, I helped him on my lap.  "This feels
good."  His skin was warm on mine and I smelled boy musk from a full day of
play and almost twenty-four hours since he'd checked under the hood.  "Have
you been touching yourself at night?"

"Mom says it's okay."

This boy carried none of my reticence about discussing one's privates...
"Wait, why don't you sit facing me and put your legs around my waist, like
the boy in the photo?"

"Okay.  Hey - your pecker's leaking."

"Lucky us!"  I swiped my finger through my precum as Pietro nestled close.
"Ready?"

He grinned, looking up at me.  "Yeah."

I began rubbing gently, gathering more precum as my heartrate increased.
He was fingering my few wisps of pubic hair, and his index finger poked my
scrotum.  "I think you're supposed to hold on to my -- my, erection.  Hold
tight." Jerked out of my throat.

By the time I had about a quarter inch of finger inside him, "That doesn't
feel good and my lights aren't blinking."

"Soon my little catamite - I mean catalite.  Tell me when your lights come
on."  I whispered and moved forward before he became bored.  Pressing his
head against my chest, the pad of my middle finger scouted his rectal wall
for his light switch, and soon enough I felt his skin warm and his hands
gripping my delighted shaft.  "Better now?"

"Yeah."  His voice was dreamy and small.  A few hunches against me and his
grip tightened. "Ah!  Ah!  Nnn..."  What an adorable orgasm, and it
signaled one hot surge of cum up my urethra.  I shuddered as I realized I'd
cum, Peitro'd cum and he wasn't screaming.  He seemed quite relaxed and
happy.

I sighed heavily several times, still pressing him against me.  He pulled
away and looked down at my mess between us, "I think I blinked -- looks
like you tried to put my lights out with all this stuff."

"Wanna try again?"  I wiggled my finger inside his butt.

"Is this queer stuff?"

"No, it's men's stuff."  I pulled my tee shirt up and pulled it down over
his head and pressed his face against my chest.  "Tell me when it's good."

I tried prompting the boy to be more vocal about his pleasure and pulled
him hard against my chest.  His cocklet was hard again so I slipped my hand
to his rod and began with both hands, hoping for something dramatic moans
to fuel my fantasies.

He leaned, relaxed against my chest and I squeezed his glans and tugged the
delicate petal of his foreskin back and forth while the pad of my middle
finger found his tiny glands.  I tried to stroke different ways, in
different places to tease him, but his young body didn't have that
attention span yet.  A few grunts and he tensed and relaxed.  His tiny anus
clamping around my finger almost, almost got me going again, but it wasn't
quite enough.

...

We continued our gentle rubbing and blinking through the weeks that somehow
turned to months and school was about to let out for the summer.  Pietro
told me his mother was sending him to church camp.

Almost fell off the bench.  I'd have to survive two whole weeks without my
Pietro?  I recalled what boys did at summer camp -- behind the canvas
flaps; thin sheets covering plastic-lined mattresses in the dark.
Whispering and touching, sweating and surprising each other - college
students in their briefs with flashlights when they heard the boys'
high-pitched giggles...  That may work to my advantage, a little boyish
exploration, a few different techniques.  ...

The first week Pietro was gone, our neighborhood had yet another soiree.
This time, a barbeque where I got the scoop on `the oof' -- a husband was
imported from Palermo because the mother couldn't make up her mind and
Sicilians are big on family.  Wasn't sure if he was related to Pietro's mom
or "the family" was more about organized crime.  This guy was dark, heavy
and big -- broad shoulders all thickly carpeted.  He had a deep voice,
heavily accented.  Something of a luscious physical morsel, but I set that
aside -- this was a guy that had an attitude about men with my
propensities.  Carefully kept my distance at the side of the pool watching
the children run and jump trying to cause a head injury, sipping an
imported ale when he came and sat beside me, pulling his chair close.

"The boy's straight as an arrow.  He'd better stay that way."  He whispered
as he sat down.

"I'm sure he'll be fine."  This was going to be sticky, but I held my own.

"I've seen you sashaying out to your car in your plaid pants and lavender
shirt.  Can't fool me.  The only reason you're getting him for lessons is
his mom.  If he's going to be a musician, I'm getting him a saxophone or a
drum set.  The kind of music you're making him play puts me to sleep."

"He has talent and drive...  The keyboard was an excellent idea, and
perhaps it's time for a spinet..."

"Don't sucker me -- you just want some tight ass.  I know how you guys
work."  He winced his eyes at me, "Have you heard about the big suck -- the
Sicilian Vacuum?"

I'd heard a lot in my life, but a Sicilian Vacuum?  "No.  What's that
about?"

"You've seen the water pumps -- the kind they use for irrigation in the
fields?"  He leaned back, taking a swig.  "Hook that up to a guy's face and
pull his lungs out -- takes a minute or two with a tube of sealer.  So if
you think about making a cock sucker out of that boy, think about it
twice."

The thought of my lungs on my lap was disconcerting, I strategized quickly.
"Interesting way to choke, I'm sure.  But I'm on the verge of calling a
friend at the Birchfield -- you know, like the Berkshires.  Perhaps a gig
at the Shellman so he can become accustomed to an audience..."

Leaning his head back, he took another swig.  "Shellman?  What's that?
Some geriatric joint or one of those faggy spas?"

"Fine establishment serving discriminating clientele...  Genuine formica
and vintage linoleum that they've kept in its original luster.  Only the
finest following -- high rollers."  I looked aside, "But if you're going to
limit Pietro's potential with the impediments of percussion and reeds,
well, go at it.  What treasure of a talent to waste."

There were several silent moments as he eyed my pale skin and meager, bare
physique.  "How much would this gig be worth?"

"Not sure, I'd have to contact the proprietor, and feel him out about their
schedule."

"Let me know, the kid won't come cheap."  He grunted.  "I'll have to get my
cut off the top."

"Mercenary bastard," I thought and ignored him the rest of the afternoon.

That evening, I sent an email to the Shellman, hoping someone would
remember the name of an associate I often lunched with, a Dr. Dalton Brawne
-- sociologist.  He'd visited the Shellman and returned in a daze, his
experience was so exciting.  In fact, his brief stay touched him so deeply
he refused to elaborate, only describing it as "stupendous."  Through him,
I contacted the hotel.  Someone responded saying I'd need a referral from a
prior client.  Brawne sent a referral with a wide grin.

...

During that last week Pietro was in camp, I stopped eating, my mind raced
back again and again to his smooth groin, that neat little package that
responded so immediately -- so vigorously to my limited ministrations.

Dark circles formed under my eyes; I couldn't sleep, I couldn't play my
harpsichord.  No joy or passion in my life without Pietro.  Yet his return
may herald new fields of exploration -- but would he ever dance for me in
only lip gloss, a ribbon and long gloves?  Would I ever feel his lips at my
foreskin?

My body rattled around the empty house until I heard noise out front.  A
ragged van painted with, "Holy Mother of the Ever-Bleeding & Eternally
Miserable Suffering Heart," or something like that, dropped Pietro off,
blasting Gregorian chants to rock music.  He ran in the house -- my heart
jumped.  He's back!  My scrotum felt a jolt that twisted, giving off sparks
causing a full-body sweat and my salivary glands were in max-production.

It took him an hour to come over and he was striding quickly with a scowl
twisting his face but had his music folder in his hand.  As I met him at
the door, "Did you enjoy camp?"

"There's no such thing as blinking catalights -- you tricked me!  All the
guys were laughing -- it's called a butt-fingering, and I'm supposed to get
a blow job when you do that!  You lied and you cheated me!"  He stood
defiantly with his hands on his hips demanding some explanation.

My ingenuity absented itself for a moment, but my lies regrouped quickly,
fueled by need for boy-musk.  "Oh, really?  A butt-fingering..."  I cocked
my head to the side thoughtfully.  "That's a good name for it."

Hustling him to the dim salon, I turned on the lamp by the music stand,
"Well, I didn't cheat you -- uh, I wasn't sure..."  I grappled for an
excuse.  "I was afraid you'd think I might bite you."

"You don't bite when you do a blow-job.  Where've you been all your life?
You're supposed to lick and suck -- no teeth."  He was it a sharp mood
today with his fresh expertise.

A parade of the hard cocks I'd enjoyed through my years ran past in my
brain and I smiled.  The tastes, the smells -- each one different.  But I
broke myself out of my succulent reverie to focus on the little rod I
wanted.  "Did you play with the other boys at night?"

"Yeah, but you cheated me!"  That sounded almost like a request for me to
correct my deficit.

"Warm up your hands and start on any piece you want today.  Watch your
rhythm -- read the music and play it as it's written."  He smirked at me
and flipped his folder open.

Sitting beside him, I put my arm around him as I listened.  "Did you kiss
the other boys?"  He nodded and continued playing -- damn, that boy had
focus.  I kissed his neck and pulled him closer with my hand on his cotton
shorts.  "Did you like it?"

"It's okay."  He continued playing in perfect time.

I unzipped his shorts and snaked my fingers into his briefs.  Ah, there it
was, that poor little suck-deprived cocklet.  "Did the boys do anything
else besides fingering your butt?"  I whispered as he continued as ancient,
romantic strains filled the air around us.

"I told them to leave me alone, but I got to butt-fuck Jeremy."  He
continued reading and playing, not losing a beat.

"Ah! Jeremy's butt.  Did you like that?"

"Pretty good."  He mumbled, concentrating as he turned the page.

When he finished, he closed his folder, "I figure you owe me about..."  He
opened his folder to a row of marks, neatly bundled in fives.
"Thirty-seven blow jobs."

This boy was dangerous if he kept notes, "You kept track?"

"Not really, it's how many pieces I play completely through for you and did
my best.  Usually play my best when you finger me."  He was standing and
pushing his pants down, then took his shirt off.  Naked boy wearing only
his socks -- glorious!  My hands shook as I slid my hands along his sides,
observing his impudence rising to the occasion.

He only gave me a look and pointed to his penis as he climbed on the piano
bench and tugged my ears to pull my face into his groin.

Camp hadn't introduced him into the finer points of consent: "Pay up!"

Oh, yes.  I sucked and fingered his butt and he jerked and twitched, his
smooth skin rubbing my face -- so much better with a small package in my
mouth.  He shivered when I sucked and bit his tiny nuts -- made me do that
several times before he decided to allow an orgasm to fill him.  Then, he
let go of my ears and let me kiss his tender, hairless skin.  I took him
off the bench, sat and held him on my lap.  "Did the boys tell you that
when you got a blow job, you're supposed to return the favor?"

"Yeah.  Some of the guys don't have a foreskin..."

"Bless their little peckers."  I sucked a deep breath as a pressured
erection strained the skin on my penis.  "Did they cum anyway?"

"Yeah, some of them are shooting."  He'd been with older boys!  That may be
to my advantage.

"Did it taste good?"

"No.  I spit it out."

"Damn."  Lifting him off the bench, I made a bold move.  "Now your turn."
A tremor ran from my erect staff, rumbling through my chest as I stood.

He climbed back on the bench and on his hands and knees, his lips were at
the tip of my dripping excitement.  "It's big."

Heartbeats in staccato, "It's like playing the piano -- do your best till
you perfect your style."  Wheezed from my gullet.  I pulled my foreskin
back.  He looked up at me with his tongue sampling my pre-cum.  He flicked
a few times causing me to jerk.  With his lips almost encircling my corona,
and a few light sucks, I came.  Couldn't control it seeing his narrow hips
and the hint of a hot cleft in front of me.

"Aargh!" I allowed a muted roar as he jumped off the bench and spit on the
glossy oak floors then grabbed his tee shirt and wiped his tongue and chin.

I grinned, "Sorry `bout that."

Yes, I repaid the debt he said I cheated from him in record time -- three
weeks.  I also found he loved laying on the bench with his rounded butt
near the edge letting me bite, nip and suck with his feet on my shoulders.
His expressions of delight were incredible, and I loved it when he shoved
his perineum into my nose as his hot, tight hole wanted more of my tongue.

As part of my instruction, I introduced him to nipple stimulation -- he
didn't enjoy that much but never turned me down.  The boy was strange in
some ways.  I had to quit shaving the days of his lessons -- he liked the
feel of my rough stubble on his groin; it left irritated, red areas.  Good
excuse for the inclusion of lotions and oils with that peccadillo.

...

What a summer -- wish I had it on video.  Couldn't help but notice Pietro
was getting taller, not much, but his peanut-sized testicles were expanding
into the almond-sized category.  Sure sign he was healthy and I made sure
he was happy.

That fall I received an email from a man named MacLeod from the Shellman.
He asked a series of questions regarding legal issues about work.  No,
Pietro wasn't of age to legally hold a job, and he was certainly a bright
student with an incredible talent -- I sent a photo of Pietro at the piano.
In my excitement, I didn't notice that in the photo Pietro's jeans were
unzipped and the head of his penis was peeking out of his y-fronts, just
barely visible. MacLeod was definitely interested.

Didn't say anything about that to Pietro, though my testicles were
demanding a road trip and a hot, tight chute to fill.  Hard to keep that
thought to the side when he was around.  After each lesson I had to shower
and squeeze my rod hard as I stroked, imagining how good that would feel.

Since I'd met Pietro, I'd lost weight; nervous energy drove constant
thoughts of his sweet kisses while he sat on my lap like the boy in the
photo I kept under my mattress.  But always, I came back to the image of
him, perhaps with a black ribbon holding his delights snugly, wearing long,
black gloves and smiling at me with shiny, inviting lips.  Would he dance
for me?  Would he ever seduce me instead of ordering me around?

...

Our third summer storm season came peacefully -- `the oof' left.
Fifty-to-life so we heard.  Mom was permanently off the market.  The
neighborhood was calm and Pietro and I had several extra hours in the
afternoons.  I put on music from the best symphonies in the world as we
enjoyed ourselves.

Pietro and I began an after-class ritual that August.  We went to hammock
in the shade of the patio after practice, watching clouds from among the
begonias and with the smell of star jasmine scenting the air.  Bees buzzed
around hibiscus and oleander, while we sipped mint tea and discussed his
upcoming recital.

That afternoon, I remember it well, I stood and slipped my clothes off and
misted myself with water and lay down again to let the breeze evaporate the
water and cool me while Pietro discussed his mother making him get a
haircut.

"Have you selected the pieces you want to play?"  I asked, not wanting his
hair cut and admiring his stalwart nature on the issue.

He licked his popsicle and offered the tip for me to bite off.  "Yeah, I'm
choosing the easy pieces, the one's with zip.  Whadda think?"  He got up,
took his clothes off and turned on the ceiling fan, then went and brought
the lawn sprinkler to the patio near the hammock.  Disappearing around the
wall, he went to turn the water on.  How clever -- cool breeze and
continual sprinkling of water as we lay on the hammock and discussed the
important things in his life.

Soon, the cotton twine mesh of the hammock was damp.  Pietro came back with
the green bottle of Sea-n-Ski and put his head at the other end of the
hammock, looking at me.  I handed him his half of the popsicle as he shoved
the bottle toward me with his perfect toes.  Seeing his splayed knees and
that lovely line from his balls to his anus open to the air, I sighed and
opened the lotion.

"What have you been sticking up your butt these days?  Still with the
markers?"

"I found the toothbrush case in Mom's travel bag -- it's octagonal but it
works.  I save my sandwich bag from lunch that way I don't have to wash it
off."

"I've been waiting for you to tell me I can finger your butt with my
erection."

"I know, you ask me all the time."  There were beads of sweat on his upper
lip that I wanted to lick.

"I'll let you do me, too."  I offered -- his few inches might be fun.

He licked his popsicle and tossed the stick in my ficus, thinking about
putting his four inches inside me.  "Can you get half-hard, like make your
dick the size of mine?"

"Probably not, but it's flexible, it fits where I put it -- well it always
has...  Humans are made to fit together.  Remember the photo?"

Strains of Vivaldi filled the patio and I wondered where his mind was
going.  He got up and went around the side of the house again and turned
the sprinkler on a bit harder.  Droplets flew, moist cool air circulated
with the fan's movement.

When he came back, he looked at me, paused, then began dancing through the
mist of the sprinkler, standing close to dampen himself in the shining
ribbons of water.  Then he lifted the sprinkler over his head as his feet
splashed across the slippery floor.

With the sun behind him, the moment was perfect -- droplets of mist
peppered him with prisms of light for split-seconds as his
shadowed-silhouette pranced.  He spun and giggled, as his rod bounced on
his groin and his legs.  He knew this piece and swung the sprinkler
spraying me liberally with water at the most dramatic movements and I
couldn't take my eyes of the incredible grace of his nubile body.

Muscles tensed and relaxed as he moved quickly.  Water drops flew from his
slender arms and legs.  He was smiling and grinning, batting his eyelashes
at me like an elfin-chanteuse as his slender torso expanded for breaths,
then tensed hard with movement and stretches.

My aching heart almost stopped beating during the moments that bridged his
sleek body into my fantasies.  I grabbed the Sea-n-Ski, liberally coating
my throbbing shaft as I watched breathlessly.  He watched my face as he
pointed his toes and approached the hammock, sprinkler held high so I could
enjoy seeing his straight form and tiny dots of nipples.  He grinned coyly
at me.  My boy knew he was a powerful sexual being -- and I had to wonder
sometimes when he was overtly suggestive, if he'd decided to practice his
hunting skills on me.  Damn, I was easy prey - so damned willing to submit!

Then he leaned over and set the sprinkler nearby so we'd get an ample
sprinkling as the music softened to its final few notes.  By the hammock he
stood still grinning at me as his body dripped, then on one foot, he slung
his leg over me and the hammock as his hand came to my chest, pressing
firmly over my sternum.  He liked to rub himself against me when he came,
that's what I thought we'd be doing, and smiled.  "That's good."

He situated his open legs over my groin.  "Rub my butt."  Oh, he wanted to
be fingered.  I liked that just as much.  His nut sac pressed against mine
sending a jolt up my spine and the continual showering in the breeze set up
a delicious contrast.  I liberally coated his cleft and began rubbing
between his legs, massaging behind his tender balls all the way to his anus
and back and gently probed while he hunched and repositioned himself.  He
pushed my erection down and between his legs.  In response, I rubbed my
dick along his small hole for a few moments.  I slipped my foot off the
hammock and made the hammock swing gently -- could life get any better?

My right hand stroked along my erection nestled in his cleft.  Felt my cock
juice mixing with the lotion and he sighed, but I probed, ready to give him
his orgasm.  Left hand, one finger, then two penetrated -- he was
accustomed to this kind of stimulation.  With two fingers, I made a victory
sign inside his rectum and twisted my wrist giving him a new sensation.  He
sighed and made a few soft noises.

Pulling and pushing my fingers in and out his sweet hole, I slipped another
in.  His body tensed but relaxed immediately.  He'd come to like that
feeling.  With every inward push, I wiggled my fingertip against his
budding prostate -- but not quite enough to send him into orgasm.  He
wiggled his butt, wanting more but I held back, teasing him.  Easy prey has
that option.

Exchange of wiggles went on for a few moments, Pietro was becoming
frustrated.  My willful lover was about to make a demand, I could feel it
building.  He pushed himself up to a sitting position, and with his face in
a scowl.  "You're supposed to make me cum -- stop playing around."

A cool hit of sprinkles hit the hot skin of my torso and in my most
innocent farm-girl face, "I'm not playing around, I love your little rear."

Strangely, "You love all of me.  I know it.  You're supposed to tickle till
I cum!"

"I do love all of you.  Maybe I need to review my job description."  I
plunged my fingers deeper inside him than I'd ever done and wiggled them in
his smooth heat.  He closed his eyes and sighed.  "How do you know I love
you?"

"Mom said so."  He was enjoying deeper penetration.

"Mom?"  That felt like a brick to my head.  "What'd she say?"

"She said you must love me because you're trying to teach me to be a
gentleman."

"Yes, I'm trying."  That relaxed me, though taming his determinedly sharp
nature would never happen -- I could only blunt a few of the pointed edges
and in my mind, I saw him as a man with a whip in the bedroom hollering
degrading profanities at his quivering slut.  This boy had potential.  I
felt his hand on my wrist and he abruptly pulled my fingers from him and he
positioned my glans at his hot hole.

I tensed with excitement, but I had to be patient and go slowly.

A strong breeze blew with the fan and a sudden cooling happened as he
looked into my eyes and his feet slipped to the floor aside the hammock.
His rod was erect, eagerly bouncing and his smooth groin was white,
accentuating the deep rose color of his scrotum -- his olive skin cast a
greyish color that only accentuated his sexual blush.  I held his butt open
as he grunted and shoved, trying to get the head of my erection inside him.
"Push out against me...  It helps."  I felt the muscles of his anus pushing
outward, and as though I were a machine on auto-control, my hips pushed
upward only once and only a fraction of an inch.

"Oooow!"  A perfect C sharp!  His eyes were open wide, then he fell silent
-- staring at me.

Pulling him to my chest, "I love you Pietro. Wait, it gets better."  My
fingers went to his hole to rub the tightly stretched opening around my
erection.  Damn, that felt incredible, and I reached over to grab the
lotion and applied more along my pulsing shaft.  Sprinkles of cool water
christened this event.  "When you're ready, take a little more."

Adjusting his penetration with his feet and thighs, I watched his face as
he examined the newer, deeper sensations as he lowered himself onto me with
his eyes glazed.  I continued trying to make soothing, slippery touches
around his anus.  "Yes, like that."  I closed my eyes, concentrating on the
extremely tight confines my glans was enjoying.  Pure bliss.

Suddenly his foot slipped on the wet floor -- his rear swallowed almost all
of me and he jumped up a little, though still penetrated.  His face went
into a grimace of pain for a moment, as he pulled back, creating a gentle
suction on the head of my cock.  I pulled him against my chest again, "It's
alright, just wait a moment..."  His heart beats fluttered with mine.  The
angle of my rod changed when I pulled him forward.  He was still for a few
moments, then his body trembled and he began hunching against me.  He found
the right place inside him where my corona was pressed where he needed it.

He wriggled around a little, seeking more internal stimulation and making
soft grunts.  When he started mewling I knew I only had a few more seconds
before I filled him.  Cum was roiling and started blazing a heated path
outward.  Couldn't help but hump back against him, rhythms in syncopation,
we came.  Holding his butt cheeks hard against me, I thrust my load deep
into him, and kept thrusting until slippery drips oozed out around my
deflating, but satisfied cock.  Hot streams of cum ran down out of his hole
and onto our testicles.

"I love you Pietro."

"I know."  Small lips put a side-kiss on my chest.

"Did you like that?"  I was hoping for some positive response to fuel the
hopeful pervert inside me.

"You didn't do it right--that wasn't what you said, it didn't feel so
great."

"I'll try harder next time, I promise."  I had no idea what I'd done wrong,
but maybe next time it would be easier.

"You better."  He snorted as we lay feeling the soft water droplets
hitting, then sliding down bodies.  "Your stuff's dripping out my butt."

"I'll clean it up."

Sidling out from under him, I lay him crossways on the hammock, face up,
and gave the hammock a little shove, watching his face as he swung gently
in front of me.  Grabbing the sprinkler, I spun it off the hose and took
the stream of cool water aiming it at his smooth chest and groin, "Lift
your knees."

Holding the hose against his still-loose hole, I let the cool water fill
him several times and rush back out.  He seemed to like that, then I gently
leaned over and kissed his penetration point and nipped his balls.  His
slender hand came to my face and I looked up at him.  "I love you, Pietro."

"Humph."

...

Mr. MacLeod from the Shellman asked that I contact him when Pietro was
legally old enough to work, "We'll have a contract waiting."  That was
heartening, but we'd have to wait several years.  Pietro had to be at least
fourteen.

Not being without resources, I made a few calls to old friends.  Pietro's
recital was held with several home-schooled students.  Pietro was way out
of his league, or rather the others were out of his league.  Not only was
he dapper in a rented tux, but he smiled -- even shot a wink at the camera
before he became the music.  What a boy!  What confidence and pride - is
black hair glistened blue under the stage lights as he played and
dramatically stroked the keys -- he played with his whole body and soul.
The small audience jumped from their seats in applause when he finished.  I
kept that video in my breast pocket -- valuable recording.

The next day I posted the video online in the right places and soon he was
offered a scholarship to a private school in the area.  Mom was overjoyed
and hugged and kissed me and Pietro until we told her she had to stop.

Our classes had to continue, simply to run quality assurance on his
teachers at the private school.  The private school boosted his confidence
as well as his uppity attitude.  When he was in the salon, and had himself
situated, I had to offer manual stimulation to "warm up his passion" so he
could play properly.  That's what he said.  Middle school brought a
carousel of carnal delights wrapped in Liszt.

...

Summer rolled around again.  Before Pietro entered high school, his mother
arranged for him to attend a camp specializing in the arts.  She wanted his
confidence in tip-top shape before facing the bullies in the upper grades.
Excellent strategy.  I was allowed to drive him to the camp while his
mother worked.  The camp would be held at the community college near Key
West.  I decided to vacation in Key West while he was in camp -- an
instructor needs a vacation, too.

On the way, Pietro was excited.  He had his camp shorts and a tee shirt on
with new sneakers.  We made sure he had mosquito repellent and sun block.
I'd even taken a step on the wild side and bought myself a pair of shorts
and a snappy Panama hat.

We stopped at the Alligator Farm on our way and I took some great photos
though my heart almost stopped when Pietro dangled a chicken carcass over a
pond of man-eaters.  He ate a gator burger; I had a Mimosas.

Didn't need a map to the meeting point on the campus.  Parents and kids
were making a bee line into the theatre for their instructions.  Names were
called and the children were divided into groups and taken to the dorms.
Parents were asked to stay in the auditorium for their instructions on
medical emergencies, homesickness remedies, laundry responsibilities and
various arrangements.  This was a well-practiced crew.  There was a slide
presentation of the campers from last summer dancing on the beach, in a
play, hand-painted kites flying with long, bright tails, photos of the
cafeteria and the dorms.  Everything new and up to date -- no gang showers
here!

I took a photo of the instruction sheet and sent it to Mom while a few
neurotic parents asked about minutiae.  Before I left the parking lot for
my hotel room, I texted Pietro and asked if he needed anything else.

"This camp is cool!"

"Text or call if you need anything.  I'm about twenty minutes away."

"K."

...

Throwing all caution to the wind, I went to my hotel, got my room key and
asked the concierge about renting transport, "Maybe a moped or a Vespa?"

He looked me over, "How about a three-wheel bike or maybe a rickshaw
instead?"  Well, that wasn't deserving of any kind of tip but he slid three
brochures across the desk, one for bike rentals and one for a massage
therapist and another for an urgent care clinic.

"Hmmph."  I grabbed all of them and left for the marina on foot.

Lunch on the waterfront sounded good, and I remembered a cozy little bar
just chuck-full of tanned, male skin.  Sitting on the patio with several
others, we chatted and enjoyed watching the tourists, admiring the captains
and crews.  Wonderful afternoon and I found out the small, weather-worn
theatre of Key West was showing a musical.  My plans were laid, afterwards
a night walking the streets enjoying a cool breeze and perhaps meeting a
new friend.

Instead, I found myself going back to my hotel room, sitting in the hot tub
wondering what Pietro was doing.  Who was he rooming with?  Ages of the
campers spanned seven to seventeen years.  Was he with some of the older
boys?  I had to force myself in the shower and leave for the theatre, my
heart in an anxious knot.

The next day a more amenable concierge staffed the desk.  He sent me on a
walking tour and suggested that I join the pub crawl that evening.
Fund-raiser for the turtle rehabilitation center -- of course I'd support a
few loggerheads and enjoy myself doing it.

That night a double-decker bus festooned with banners and streamers pulled
up filled with people.  Several from the hotel squeezed into the crowd and
off we went.  Every bar had a specialty, and I sipped each one of them and
enjoyed the entertainment and high-spirits.  Around ten, I got a text
message, but didn't hear my phone over the din of the merry-makers helping
tail-less tortugas.  That was a loud, and exciting evening especially when
I met a young musician, or said he was, who was interested in my treble
clef.  What could I say?  Of course, I'd join in a duet.

...

As my musician friend and I undressed for the hot tub, I checked my phone,
a little unsteady with my fingertips.  There was a text message from Pietro
-- he wanted to go home.  I called him immediately, though it was late, and
he answered immediately -- his voice was muffled.  Must have called from
under the covers, it was midnight.

"I wanna go home.  This place stinks!"

"My love, what happened?"  The musician watched me, listening.

"All the girls got to dance in costumes -- I had to wear a blanket."

"A blanket?  Insufferable!  What kind of class was it?"

"Acting classes, and I was under the blanket all afternoon.  They wouldn't
let me wear a costume."  He went on about a play about a cloud who was sad
that the air was dirty.  The blanket was actually a serape.  My evening
companion sat on the patio in the nude, awaiting affection.

"Did you talk to your camp counselor?  They said they'd help..."  I
reviewed the photo of the instruction sheet.

"They're stupid and I have to room with a dweeb.  I wanna go home."

"Did you call your mom yet?"  When my date heard the words `counselor,' and
`mom,' he began dressing.

That's when Pietro started yelling, I held the phone away from my ear.  "I
wanna go home and if you don't come get me, I'm going to walk!"

As he passed, "I don't do married men."  My entertainment snapped at me as
he left.  Just watched him leave.

"I'll be there in about a half an hour."  Immediately, I called his mother
asking what she wanted me to do.

"I'll call him, but I'd prefer he stay and learn how to deal with the
bullies.  You don't have to go, I trust the camp counselors, and they've
got an extremely high rating..."

Several hours in the bars left me with a whiff of mature activities so I
showered, jumped in the car, bought myself a cup of coffee and left for the
college where I found a sniffling Pietro sitting outside with a counselor.

"Hey aren't you Dr. Collins?"  The counselor Brad asked when I approached.

"In the flesh."  I glanced over his well-developed form, "Do I know you?"
Couldn't help but grin.

"My dad was one of your students."

That was a cold dash of water to my ego, "What's happened here?"  I brushed
Pietro's hair out of his face.  "Are you hurt?"

"I wanna go home.  This place sucks -- "

He started but Brad interrupted his whining, "Some parents of the jocks
sent them here to, well, let's say `knock off their rough edges.'  We have
some heavy-weight harassment down the hall from Pietro's room."

"What have you done about it?"

"One of them is going home tomorrow, but another one always alphas-up into
the gang leader.  We'll keep an eye on it."

"Let me talk to him."  I took Pietro to a bench nearby and sat in the
heavy, humid night air, "Tell me what happened.  A serape can be
flattering, where's your panache?"

He moved between my knees and put his arms around my neck, whispering,
"Those boys said they were going to shove a flashlight up my butt, turn it
on and use me for a cock-sucker nightlight.  Then, they pulled my pants
down and squeezed me hard and spanked me.  I got scared -- my dick was
hiding, then the guys said they were going to fuck it back out of me.  They
wouldn't listen to me and kept shoving me around..."

Ah, my little dom had his authority challenged -- but that flashlight
suggestion...  That would make a great photo..."  I pulled myself back into
the reality of the situation.  "Your mom says to stay, but I think I can
get this straightened out.  The arts make life worth living -- and you need
to try dance, and painting, crafts -- all the other parts and how they work
together.  Will you try to make a friend tomorrow?  I promise it'll be
different."

Then he asked the strangest thing, "Will they let me wear a costume with
the fluffy stuff and not a blanket?"

"No more blankets.  You need to get to sleep."  His eyes were slipping
shut.

I followed them back into the building and went into the camp counselor's
office to use their computer to email the staff of the camp.  I sent an
email entitled "Gender Equity" to the camp director reminding him of
inclusion and the state law and that the law included costumes and roles in
pays.  Then I spoke with the camp counselors asking for one of them to
sleep on a cot in the hallway if the age differences were too great among
the dormers.

I left remembering the nights I'd spent with Pietro at the emergency
shelter.

...

The next morning at breakfast, I texted Pietro.  No answer.  At lunch he
texted back, "Busy."

That was hopeful, but I missed my boy and my piano so I went back to that
nervy concierge and took a nude day trip on yacht with a number of other
men and sated myself in sun and spray until my knees almost gave out yet
met some great fellas and we enjoyed ourselves into the evening.  Missed my
Pietro and wondered if he'd found another little butt to fuck...

At around nine thirty, I couldn't wait much longer.  I called.  "How did it
go today?"

"I made a kite and painted it, then I got to make my own costume.  I don't
like memorizing all those words so I made up my own...  I did a lot of
stuff."

"Did anyone bother you?"

"Uhm.  That dweeb in my room plays the cello."  He was distracted, rock
music was playing in the background and I heard voices.

"Good.  You're okay?"

"Yeah, I'll stay around a few more days."

"Okay.  Call if you need me."

"K."  He hung up.

...

My vacation wasn't broken by complaints again, and it seemed like my boy
was doing fine, learning about color wheels and motion, different cultural
expressions and poetry, though I wasn't expecting for any softening of his
pushy attitude.

As we loaded his art projects and junk into the trunk, he lifted my shirt
and tugged at my shorts, noting no tan line and grinned.  "I thought so."

"Look at you -- brown as a nut and smiling."  I checked his waist, there
was a distinct tan line.  "Good for you -- swimming's great exercise."

"We had to learn some water ballet first.  That's hard!"

Nodding, "Did you get to practice the piano during camp?"

"Sure, we made a quartet."  Looks like the camp accomplished its goal of
exposing him to variety in the arts.

...

We stopped at the beach on the way home, but Pietro didn't want my lips on
his still-short, perky rod, "I'm still sore from the dweeb."

"What?"

"I wouldn't give him his hairspray this morning and he used his teeth."  My
pushy teen lover had become the new bully of the camp.  We had to stop and
see Florida's longest boa constrictor and went home.

Practices went well as we fell into our old routine, practice and
invigorating our passion together.

This camp gave him some new information and it surprised me.  Pietro's
dweeby roommate lived with his uncle and Pietro found out that boys who are
attracted to older men are 'a thing.' And the dweeb was a temporary friend
with benefits, though I doubt if those benefits were freely offered.  More
than likely, the poor boy was ordered around like I was -- Pietro said he
had to remind him all the time...

...

After one of our lessons, Pietro wasn't doing very well, his timing was
off, his focus wasn't there.  He didn't demand anything either.  "Is
everything okay?  Let's put some music on lay in the hammock."

Finally, I drew it out of him -- the dweeb had called him and invited him
to visit.  Pietro didn't want to go and didn't want to talk about it.

"Invite him to visit if you want."  I figured that would be fun.  "You two
can play in the salon -- we'll make a video."

"No. I don't want him around."

Did I detect some jealousy?  "Why not?  Does he play well?"

"Not as good as me."  He was sulking or in an odd mood, so I let him stew.
He snuggled against me, with his hand on my chest, "I love you."

"I love you, my sweet.  What's bothering you?"

"Mom's dating a new guy -- the deputy mayor.  I think they're going to get
married."

"So?"

"I'm afraid my mom's gonna move," He looked at me.  "Last night she asked
if I'd like to go to a boarding school -- I'm gonna to run away."

"Why don't we talk to her about it first?  Is she wearing an engagement
ring?"

"Not yet, but they're getting it on every weekend."  Looking up at me,
"That little twerp I had to room with at camp because his father didn't
like him -- he ran away, but they caught him.  He lives with his uncle now
so he didn't have to go to foster care."  Tears came to his eyes, "Mom's
new boyfriend knows I'm gay and he says I'm mentally ill."

His mom felt a boarding school would offer Pietro some protection for a
while.

This old professor was no fool, I'd kept track of the changes in the laws,
as well as the politicians, especially the local ones.  "You don't need to
worry about a thing."  I stroked his slender arm, "We'll continue
together."  He was still fussing and wiggling, worried about all the `what
ifs' of his life.

"Shhh."  I pulled him against me.  "My young gay man, do you love me?"

"Yeah."  No more said, he stood and undressed while I watched, went inside
and brought his favorite flavored lube.  God, I loved it when he undressed
me and turned me over on the hammock.  The length of his legs, the slack of
the hammock, my eager ass made his not-quite-adult erection strong inside
me.  I found a space between the twine of the hammock and pulled my rod
through one, and my balls through another.  Reaching under the hammock, I
began stroking myself, dropping a big puddle of pre-cum under us.  Pietro's
technique was still best described as `hard and fast,' but he was noticing
things, slowing down and beginning to understand my body's responses to his
movements.  Passion examined and reciprocated.

I heard him suck air through his teeth and his hands grip my shoulders to
get himself fully inside me.  He was ready to start hammering me and fill
me with his sensual, hot blasts.  When my balls tensed, the twine of the
hammock felt good around me and I was ready, ready, hold back -- he was
still pumping hard and grunting.  I felt the shots of liquid heat inside me
and then, his chest on my back as his breaths calmed and his heartbeats
slowed.  He stayed on top of me, whispering, "I'm afraid they'll make me
leave, and I can't leave you and my music."

"First, we have to find out if your mother is going to marry this guy..."
I briefly explained my plan and soon he was giggling and kissing my neck.

"That is so cool."

...

Through the next few weeks, we continued our sessions, playing the piano
occasionally and enjoying the patio.  Then, the storm clouds gathered --
his mom got engaged.  I invited them for dinner on Saturday night with
Pietro entertaining us afterward with Chopin.

The night came -- Consuelo had left a fine lamb timballo with a cold
asparagus salad in vinaigrette.  Lovely.  The table was set and Pietro and
I were ready to turn this situation to our advantage.  After all these
years, was it really fair to take him away from me for a cheap politician's
whinings?  Was it fair to take this budding young twink from his passions
-- his piano and me?

Excellent, calm dinner, and I asked Pietro to take his mother into the
salon and set up the video camera while I had a word with the lout who'd
asked Pietro's mother to marry him.  Quickly, I escorted the skinny-legged
and bulbous-bellied jerk to the edge of my back yard under the guise of
discussing social woes, "Heard the teen pregnancy rate is going through the
roof again..."  I began, nonchalantly.  "I guess most of the guys have to
marry the girls.  Laws allow that, right?"

"Can't have them sucking off the government teat for eighteen years.
Hundreds of thousands we shell out for their lack of control. Someone has
to take care of the potential tax payers until they have wallets to bleed."

"Marry their older lovers while they're mere teens?"

"If we're lucky, the youngest ones emancipate themselves to marry....  It's
legal, and the girls get out of a bad situation with their parents."

I let him inflate his pride in those comments.

"Let's think about that.  Florida wouldn't discriminate by gender...."

He looked puzzled.

"If a young gay man emancipated himself to get out of a bad situation at
home and married his lover, do you think there'd be any press coverage?"

"That wouldn't happen, the kid would hit the strip, work queers, support
himself.  They get work as houseboys.  Who'd marry him? Gays are so
promiscuous; they'll just move on to their next hot hole with a pocketful
of drugs. Disgusting.  No one would care."

"Really? Would anyone care if an under-aged gay boy had to leave a home
where the deputy mayor caused the bad situation?  A kid forced to leave his
friends, his mother and his education?  Bad situation, being forced out,
then counseled for being homosexual.  Being homosexual isn't a condition to
be treated, and certainly nothing he asked for."

He just stared at me, not exactly sure what I was saying, "What do you
want?"

"Well, if a young gay man decided to emancipate himself, marry his lover to
avoid being sent away and shamed for being who he is, do you think there
would be repercussions?  If this boy had a stepfather who was the deputy
mayor of the city, do you think there'd be any press coverage?"

His eyes widened; his mouth fell open.

"Seems like an unusual event, especially if the kid had to marry because a
certain deputy mayor, like you, held a negative attitude toward
homosexuals.  In a wider lens, it seems like a hate crime to force an
underaged boy from his home, seeking shelter with his lover as his last
resort.  If the kid felt like he had to run away, and hit the streets that
would amount to child endangerment and neglect by the parents.  Could cause
bad spin in an election year.  Makes the stepfather appear almost, well,
almost cruel.  At the least it appears prejudiced and bigoted..."

"The kid's mentally ill.  He needs a special school."  He blurted.

With the cattiest of smiles, "I'll give you two choices.  Either you let me
keep Pietro till he finishes high school and you move where you want with
his mother.  Or, you can send Pietro to a special school and face the wrath
of the community -- gay or not, he's an incredible talent and a boy I've
helped raise and come to love.  The fall out of forcing Pietro away could
destroy you, I'll make sure."

He winced, stared at me, calculating.

"Let's go to the salon and enjoy Pietro's talent."  I took him by the arm
and led him to the salon.  What a performance!  Pietro ditched Chopin and
began with ragtime; his boogie-woogie then ended with a beautifully done
toccata.  Pietro stood and took a bow, grinning, then hugged his mom.

"You taught him this?"  The deputy mayor asked.

"Pietro's been studying since he was around six -- yes.  Incredibly focused
student, we're shooting for scholarships at UM."  I fiddled with the video
camera.  "He's starting at the high school for the performing arts this
fall, advanced classes in music theory..."  I dropped into his ear.

We had papaya gelato and mint on the patio before the mosquitos took over,
and as Pietro's mom and her fiancé left, she asked me to keep Pietro
for the evening, "My fiancé gets loud..."

I nodded and asked Pietro to stay and help clean up.  As we loaded the
dishwasher and wiped the cabinets, "If he says anything about you being
gay, any special school or mental health counseling -- call me
immediately."

He grinned, "I love you. Whatever you said worked, makes me want to marry
you."

"You're of age in Florida."

He held me closely.  Our highest hurdle was behind us now.  Sure, I'd
thought about marrying him.  I put it off thinking this boy wouldn't want
me -- his dignified, but much older patron.  It felt odd -- in some ways I
felt like his father, and other ways I was his submissive and deeply
enraptured lover.

Pietro was changing, growing up.  I was changing with him, or maybe it was
the years passing -- I was becoming much more tolerant and oddly, bolder.

Within the week, Pietro's mom came up with a wonderful idea.  I would be
declared Pietro's guardian while he finished high school.  After he turned
eighteen, he'd be an adult and could move onto campus with his friends.

She and the deputy mayor moved into an elite community and had their photos
in the paper often adorning the society columns.

...

New neighbors moved in several months later -- everyone brought
housewarming gifts one afternoon.  They were a household with four
teenagers, one of which was a very alluring young woman who went straight
for Pietro.  She was a world-class flirt and laid into my boy with all
fours.  "Well, your grandpa wouldn't mind if you came over to swim with me.
We'll wait till my parents are out and swim in the buff."

"He's not my grandpa -- he's my partner."  He told her and turned away.

I was floored!

...

My Pietro and I took a trip to France and toured Eastern Europe, then on to
the Palermo to visit his grandparents before high school started.  We both
needed that vacation.  Nude beaches with a tanned teen eating and drinking
everything, then his playing for me at night.  We found vintage instruments
in the bars and restaurants.  He loved the attention and was gaining
exceptional confidence in his playing.  More than ready for the university,
so we enrolled him in half days on the university campus with his academics
at the high school campus.

When Pietro had things in a stable routine and was kept busy with his
studies, I noticed his nature calmed, he was no longer the demanding lover.
It appeared his controlling demands gave him constancy in an oft disrupted
home.

He knew he could have all my affection and attention almost any time, and
that allowed a strong, smart man to emerge.  He made professional plans,
and his focus allowed him to follow through with little prompting -- he
still wanted to be in control but not so much over my body any longer.  The
boy I once knew was making himself into a man with character, commitment.

...

He allowed me to show him how to love another man in a way I enjoyed...
One evening, I asked him to join me in the bathroom, and held a bulb
syringe in my hand.

"Okay."  He grinned and came to the bathroom with his erection bouncing in
front of him.

"Give yourself a couple of rinses."  I told him and opened the medicine
cabinet taking out a large bottle of red mouthwash.  After he'd rinsed, I
took the bulb syringe and half filled it with water, then carefully topped
it up with mouthwash and handed it back to him.

He grinned and inserted the nozzle into his butt and squeezed.  His eyes
got big and he yelped at first, then decided it was alright.  Nothing like
a flavored rimming with a nice sizzling fuck to follow.

I leaned against the headboard and asked him to sit on my lap, "Like the
boy in the photo, remember?"

How I enjoyed watching his face and feeling him move against me while my
glans probed him deeply.  Grabbing his rod with one hand and squeezing his
balls with the other, I smiled, closed my eyes and focused on his struggle
getting my erection inside him.  "I love you."  Squeezing his smooth,
straight shaft, "I loved you since I met you."

"Yeah, I would have done anything for some affection when I was a kid --
and I wanted it from a man -- you gave me so much."  His eyes were closed
as he lowered himself slowly down my erection.  "I crave the way this
feels."  He shifted his hips and opened his eyes, smiling.  "I love you,
Doc."

When he found the right place he stayed still, leaned forward and kissed
me, squeezing his ass tight around my cock, then he leaned back laughing at
my deep breaths.

Watching his thighs tense as he moved on my cock was heaven, our bodies
worked together like a machine in this position.  He liked for me to cum
first, as deeply as I could, then beg him to cum -- seemed to send him over
the edge and his loads were more than generous; ambrosia to my tongue.  I
began squeezing and pulling his erection, hoping we'd come together.  Our
bodies trembled in unison.

He began rocking.  My glans, at my slit, rubbed against the hard knot of
his colonic sphincter -- I was as deep as I could be when his face went
into an agonized expression. "More!"

Biting my lower lip, I closed my eyes and let myself release all I had,
upward and deep into his bowels, as close as we could be to exchange the
physical expression of our love.  "More..."

Looking down, I saw his balls pull up tight and I stroked.  He liked his
glans squeezed, I spit on my palm and squeezed while he squinched his eyes
tightly and I felt the surges of his semen rushing toward me.

"Please, please -- please..."  With my hand between his legs, I pressed and
pulled my fingers forward, pushing his balls to the sides and milking all
his cum.  He was generous to me and continued hunching until I could see it
was beginning to hurt him.  As he fell forward onto my chest, I held him
close and turned us on our side.  When my cock slipped out of him, my lover
moaned. "I hate it being without you."

As I licked his cum from my fingers, I rubbed some on his lips and he
opened his eyes.  "Incredible."  He closed his eyes and kissed me.
Showered in the dark, cool water and kisses.

...

Back in bed, I turned on the music and watched the video of his first
recital, then the video he was in summer camp in Key West.  He didn't like
either so I handed him the remote control.  He turned everything off and
held me.  "Another hurricane heading for the gulf."  He whispered as we
listened to wind in the trees.

Holding him close, "The neighbor girl -- she was all over you.  Why did you
tell her I'm your partner?"

"You heard that?" He grinned as he held my face and kissed my cheeks and my
eyelids.  "You said we had to wait, but we've been together for almost
twelve years now.  We're partners."

Hadn't considered us as partners, though we were lovers for all the time
I'd known him.  "I guess we are."  That felt new and somewhat uneasy inside
my chest -- I'd never had a long-term relationship with anyone but my
co-workers and a few friends.  The old Doctor Collins came forward, "Our
age difference..."

"Our age difference wasn't a problem when you brought me to bed tonight."

What could I say to that?  "What future would we have together?"

"Look, I've seen enough with my mom.  Her playing around and all those
idiots.  I don't want that in my life.  I'm comfortable here with you and
things are good, don't you think?"  He drew a deep breath.  "After you
talked to my new step-dad, I started thinking about it.  I was sure you
loved me -- you took a big chance with your reputation and all.  No one
ever did anything that big for me."

"Will you love me when I'm ninety?"  My voice was shaky.

"Will you love me when you're ninety?"  He grinned.

We were married in Key West with both his mother and new stepfather.
Pietro went on to Julliard, then to Europe, and toured, internationally
known for his focus and passion.  Sometimes I'd accompany him, sometimes
his personal assistant accompanied him.

Our lives were wonderful, filled with all we wanted and needed.  Love was
good, and got better, I noticed, especially when a hurricane raged outside.


End.