Date: Mon, 20 Nov 2006 11:54:10 -0500
From: John Ellison <paradegi@sympatico.ca>
Subject: Aurora Crusade - Chapter 7

Aurora Crusade is work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or
dead is entirely coincidental. Certain venues have been change to enhance
the story.

As this is a work of erotic fiction reader discretion is advised. Certain
scenes may be disturbing to some readers.

Readers are also advised that as works of this genre are illegal in some
states/jurisdictions care must be exercised when reading, possessing or
downloading. If you are not of legal age to read, possess or download works
of this genre (18/21) please move on.

Copyright 2006 by John Ellison

My thanks to all who write and comment. Please contact me at:
paradegi@sympatico.ca

My thanks to my editor, Peter, who takes time from his busy schedule to
help make what I write much better.


Aurora Crusade


Chapter Seven

	The log "A" frame house stood on a long spit of land that jutted
into Harrison Lake. There was a long wooden dock on pilings, with a
boathouse at the end of it that gave easy access to the waters of the
lake. Built of planed and stained logs, and glass-fronted, the house
boasted terraces and decks on all sides and was representative of hundreds
of like structures that dotted the interior of British Columbia. A wide
swath of well-kept emerald lawn swept from the stone walks that surrounded
the house to the tree line.  Directly across the small inlet from the lawns
and house, perhaps 100 yards of placid water, hidden by tufts of sea grass
and low dunes of sand, the watchers sent by Michael Chan lay on their
stomachs, watching, and waiting.
	Tyree Wade Ravenel, the younger and slimmer of the two watchers,
held his Zeiss binoculars to his eyes and scanned the house and
grounds. Beside him, Landon Wilkes, heavier, more muscular than Ty, swatted
away a horse fly.
	"Bastards are worse than Special Warfare School in Norfolk!" Landon
growled as he swung at the fly again. "Got the fucker!" he chortled
triumphantly.
	"Good for you," returned Ty, lowering his binoculars. "Just don't
eat it!"
	Landon's eyes clouded. Catching and eating flies was just one of
the more childish exercises both he and Ty had been forced to endure by the
instructors at the Norfolk Special Warfare School. But that was in the past
and both men now served a different master. Pete Sheppard, Michael Chan's
Chief of Security might be much more understanding and forgiving than Uncle
Sam, he was no less exacting.
	"Look, guys," Pete had begun, "I know that you're both new here,
but I need you, and you're both experienced enough to be trusted with this
mission."
	Both statements were true. Both Ty and Landon had arrived in
Vancouver only the night before. That morning they had undergone a cursory
physical examination by some skanky doctor - neither man had seen him
around lately but neither cared. After their examinations they had compared
whispered notes with some of the other guys and while Landon admitted to
being hornier that an alley cat in mating season, porking the slimy medico
was not high on his agenda. Further whispering made him happy that he was a
clean-cut, All American boy.
	Ty shared Landon's opinion of the doctor, and of what he had done
to some of the guys in the examination room. He swore that his pecker had
shrivelled when the doc touched him to make him "cough"! He didn't have all
that much to brag about but having some faggy quack hanging off the end of
his dick was not a pleasant thought! Ty too was glad that his mother had
insisted on following a fine old Southern tradition when it came to her
boys - Ty had six older brothers and was the runt of the litter. Being a
Southerner, thrifty, and determined to get his money's worth, Ty's father
had paid $60.00 to the local doctor who charged this sum for "All pre- and
post-natal care, including the circumcision if a male."
	Pete's instructions had been every explicit. They were to follow
the man from his home, high on Burnaby Mountain, to his weekend retreat at
the lake. There they would observe. In time other men would join them. What
these other men did was not their business.
	Ty and Landon, accustomed to "need to know" operations, had not
questioned Pete. They might be new to the cantonment, but they both knew
that Pete's orders came from Michael Chan. They had not met Michael but
they both knew enough about him not to question his orders.
	The duty had been easy. The man, whose name was Lennox, was a
successful businessman. Like many successful businessman he was a creature
of habits, and never varied his routine. A tall, red brick wall surrounded
his house, which was on a secluded cul-de-sac. Every weekday morning,
promptly at 0700, the gates would open and Lennox, driving a black, sleek,
Mercedes-Benz SL, would drive downtown to Hastings Street, where his office
was located. Lennox was an art dealer, specializing in 18th and 17th
century English paintings and furniture, silver and crystal. He saw clients
by appointment only, and his appointments never extended beyond 1500. At
1600, so promptly that one could almost set one's watch by him, he left his
office and drove back to Burnaby.
	Once home, Lennox rarely left the house. On Wednesdays he hosted a
dinner party, invariably for 12. Invariably the guests were men and one,
sometimes two, young boys accompanied each man. Cousin Tommy Chan, who Ty
and Landon assumed was Michael's enforcer, had had the house under
observation for weeks. Cousin Tommy knew Lennox's schedule almost to the
minute and neither Ty nor Landon was surprised when promptly at 1800 on
Friday the gates to the house opened, and the nose of the black Mercedes
appeared. Lennox spent every weekend at his summerhouse. This weekend was
no exception.
	Ty and Landon had followed the Mercedes at a safe distance. The
traffic on Highway 7 was always heavy on a Friday evening, with townies
deserting the heat of the city for their cottages scattered along the banks
of the Fraser River or, inland, on the many small lakes that dotted the
countryside.
	Unlike the house in Burnaby, the cottage had no demarcation
fences. It was a good mile inland from the highway, and serviced by a dirt
road lined with thick brush and trees. The cottage was secluded and very
private. The nearest neighbour was across the lake, or around a point of
land, out of sight of the Lennox cottage.
	After hiding their car Ty and Landon had carefully entered the
woods. Landon, who had grown up in the forests around New Bedford, found a
barely discernable deer trail, which took them to a small, open beach
directly across from the cottage. Just inside the line of tall, Pacific
pines, they settled down. And were mightily bored.
	Friday night past slowly and had it not been for Landon bitching
and snapping at the deer flies that pestered them, Ty would have fallen
asleep. Except for the lights of the cottage he could see nothing of what
was going on. The tall, ground-to-eaves windows that comprised the front of
the log structure were hung with sheer drapes. Through his binoculars Ty
could see shadows as they passed and re-passed behind the semi-sheer
drapes. One was tall, and heavy, and was obviously Lennox. One was short
and slim, too slim to be an adult. Ty rightly assumed that this was
Lennox's "boy".
	While Ty kept watch, Landon napped. When he awoke, cranky and
complaining that he needed a piss, Landon slithered off into the woods,
took care of business, and returned. Ty then had a longish nap for when he
awoke the sun was high. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes he had asked,
"Anything?"
	Landon, not taking the Zeiss binoculars from his eyes, shook his
head as he answered, "Not a peep."
	While Landon went off to reconnoitre, Ty continued to watch. He saw
little movement until shortly before noon when Lennox opened the door to
the cottage and walked out onto the deck. He was a tall man, beefy, and
dressed in khaki shorts. Much to Ty's surprise, Lennox was not all that
old, perhaps in his mid-thirties. Lennox spent a few moments surveying the
lake, watching the sailboats that had started to appear just after
breakfast time. Then he turned and called out to someone inside the
cottage. Suddenly a little boy appeared and Ty almost dropped the
binoculars.
	"Holy fuck!" Ty breathed slowly as he watched the boy carefully
carry a telephone to Lennox.
	The boy was naked. He was short, very slim, and walked with the
prepubescent gawkiness all boys of that age - 11 or so years old, Ty
thought. The boy had reddish-blond hair and was pretty rather than
handsome. Through the high-powered lens of the binoculars Ty could see the
boy's pink face and deep blue eyes. Ty could also make out the look in
those deep blue eyes: fear, touched with . . . loathing?
	Except the neatly barbered hair on his head, the boy's body was as
smooth as a baby's bottom. There was no hint of pubic hair on his
crotch. His worm-like, uncircumcised penis hung limply over a tight scrotal
sac. Ty breathed a long, drawn out, "Fuuuccck Meee!" as he watched the
little boy hand the telephone to Lennox and retreat back into the house.
	"I almost did, once," said Landon with a chuckle as he appeared
from the trees. He crawled up beside Ty and gave his friend's ear a playful
lick. "Are you as good as I hoped you would be?"
	"Stop it!" Ty rolled on his side. "You're an asshole, you know
that?" He gave Landon a black look and nodded with his chin. "Look."
	Landon sighed and glanced over at the cottage. His eyes widened as
he saw a naked boy walking back into the house. "Jesus!"
	"Yeah, Jesus," replied Ty darkly. "That kid can't be more than nine
or ten years old!"
	Taking the glasses from Ty, Landon watched as Lennox talked on the
telephone and gesticulated, emphasizing his unheard words. "Ya know, there
are times when a man really needs a gun . . ." Landon's voice trailed off
as he lowered the binoculars and stared at Ty. Neither man spoke but
Landon's meaning was clear to Ty.
	Sighing heavily, Ty rolled on his back and stared upward toward the
cloudless sky. "Captain Sheppard said no weapons. Our job is to watch, and
wait."
	"For what?" Landon demanded.
	"I don't know," replied Ty with a shrug. "I just don't know."

******

	The two men continued their watch. For what seemed like hours
Lennox talked on the telephone, repeatedly hanging up and dialling another
number. From his hand movements Ty thought they were overseas
calls. Eventually, Ty became frustrated at the inactivity and handed the
binoculars over to Landon. "Here, you watch for a while," he said grumpily
to Landon.
	Landon took the glasses but did not raise them to his eyes. He
could see Lennox well enough without them. He glanced down at Ty, who was
once again on his back, seemingly lost in thought. Landon decided it was
time to face a certain demon that had been plaguing both Ty and him since
their time in SEAL school. Lennox was quiescent, and the boy was inside the
house. It was time.
	"We have to talk about it," Landon said quietly.
	Ty's eyes closed and he sucked in his breath through clenched
teeth. "Landon, it's over and done with. We got fucked by a Chief who was
out to get us from the get go. Let it go."
	Landon could not let it go. Chief Ross had made up his mind that Ty
was queer, and that Landon was his butt buddy. That neither had so much as
patted each other on the ass was not important. Ross was the Chief. He was
also a bigot, a racist - there were no blacks in their class - and knew how
to play the system. Ross had dropped a dime on them to NIS, the Naval
Investigative Service, and Ty and Landon had been naïve enough to fall into
the trap. They should never have gone on leave and gotten drunk. They
should never have checked into that motel on Route 60. They should never
have . . .
	"It was my fault," Landon said presently. "I should have made sure
that the room had twin beds."
	Ty chuckled ruefully. "Landon, we both wanted to do it. We were
drunk and horny . . ."
	"I shouldn't have started it!" interrupted Landon sharply. "I'm the
one who started it! I'm the one who wanted to go to that bar, I'm the one
who rented the room, I'm the one who kissed you first, I'm the one who felt
your dick and . . ."
	Ty reached out and shook Landon's shoulder. "Stop it! It was two
way street," he declared forcefully. "I'm not some hick from the hill
country! I knew what you wanted and I knew that I wanted it as well!"
	Rising slowly, Ty reached out to pluck a blade of grass. He toyed
with the green shard of vegetation as he stared into the darkness of the
trees. "Landon, I won't blame you for my failings."
	"What failings?" demanded Landon. Then his eyes widened. "Um, Ty,
are you saying that Ross was, um, right?" he asked in a whisper.
	Ty looked evenly at his friend. "Yeah, he was," he answered without
emotion.
	"But . . . but . . ." spluttered Landon. "You never . . ."
	"What was I supposed to do?" asked Ty calmly. "Knock you down and
have my way with you?" He laughed at Landon's discomfort. "You're much too
big to be raped, Landon."
	Landon became angry. "You're my best friend! You could have told
me! I would have, well, I wouldn't have walked away!"
	"Perhaps," agreed Ty. His eyes never wavered as he looked at
Landon. "But try to put yourself in my position. We were strangers until
Norfolk. I didn't really know you, and you really didn't know me. Later,
when we got close, I wanted to tell you." He dropped his eyes. "I didn't
want to lose you. I knew that you weren't queer, but I liked you, a
lot. You were my friend, Landon and . . ."
	"Ya could'a told me!" growled Landon. "Maybe it would have helped
me understand why you put up with Ross's shit!"
	"I wanted to be a SEAL!" exclaimed Ty. "Ross was after me, not you!
Why drag you down with me? I didn't want you tarred with my brush! You were
my friend, Landon, and you weren't guilty of anything!"
	"Well, it sure as hell didn't help when NIS crashed into the room!"
Landon declared looking fiercely at Ty.
	"We were set up," said Ty. "Ross reported me to NIS. They followed
us. Once they saw us go into the motel room they figured I was going to
take advantage of a drunken sailor." Ty shrugged expressively. "I wasn't as
drunk as you thought I was."
	"Okay," drawled Landon. "So, you wanted me?"
	Ty smiled at Landon and winked. "You're some stud, man, and yes, I
wanted you. I liked you, and I figured that the only way I'd get you into
bed was to get you drunk, you being straight and all."
	Landon looked stunned. "What? You mean that?"
	"I mean every word. I wanted you," Ty said with emphasis. He tossed
aside the ravaged blade of grass. "I wanted you to be my first."
	"You're first what?" asked Landon, confused.
	"Guy, you dick!" exclaimed Ty.
	"What? I would have been . . . your first? You mean you never
. . .?"
	"I never," confirmed Ty. "Oh, there were guys I wanted to do, but
it never happened. I was too afraid, or they were too afraid." He
shrugged. "I knew deep down that sooner or later I'd take up with a guy,
lose my cherry, and I wanted it to be with you."
	"'Cause you liked me?" asked Landon. No one had ever expressed
wanting him before.
	"Yes, thinking back, that was exactly why. I liked you. You liked
me. We were best friends and well, for me it was time. You knew what Ross
was saying about us but you stuck by me. I appreciated that. I knew how I
felt about you, so when you suggested we go out and get drunk together I
went along with you." He gave Landon an earnest look. "It's been on my
conscience, Landon, doing what I did. It was wrong."
	"Yeah, it was," admitted Landon. "But, maybe, if you'd asked me, I
might have gone along with you."
	It was Ty's turn to be surprised. "Landon, you're straight! Have
you ever had a thought about another guy? Truth now."
	Landon thought a moment. "Well, once, before I joined up, a buddy
and me, we jacked off together. When he was hammering his schlong I
wondered what it tasted like, you know, his dick. I also wondered what
getting a blow job would be like."
	"But that was as far as it went?" asked Ty.
	"Yeah. He shot his load, I shot my load, and that was that."
	"Landon, we went through boot together. We went through weapons
training together and we went through SEAL training together. During all
that time you never hit on a girl."
	"I never had a chance!" exclaimed Landon. "We never got off base!
Hell, I'd 'a fucked the crack of dawn if I could!"
	Ty laughed softly and returned to watching Lennox. "Which is why I
figured you'd go along with me," he said presently. "When you didn't pick
up a girl that night I figured you'd end up in bed with me."
	Landon scowled. "You were right," he said with a chuckle. "I looked
at the girls in that bar and I looked at you and you sure looked better!"
He saw the shocked look on Ty's face. "Well you did - you wanted the
truth!"
	"Fuck!" breathed Ty. He shook his head, laughing. "And to think we
never even got our skivvies down!"
	Before Landon could reply Ty held up his hand for silence. "Lennox
just hung up the 'phone."
	Ty watched as Lennox turned his head and yelled out
something. "What did he say?" asked Landon.
	"Sounded like 'Peter', or maybe 'Dieter'," replied Ty. He watched
as the cabin door opened and the boy appeared, looking fearful and
hesitant.
	"That kid is some scared," offered Ty.
	"Let me look," demanded Landon. He took the glasses and peered at
the two figures on the deck. "Yeah, he doesn't like being here, I think."
He paused and looked again. "He's carrying something, a jar, I think."
Landon adjusted the magnification of the German made binoculars. "Yeah,
it's a . . . Holy Fuck! It's a jar of Vaseline!"
	"A what?" Ty croaked. He shaded his eyes and peered across the calm
waters of the lake.
	"Ah, shit," moaned Landon. "Look . . . look what that fucker is
doing to the kid!"
	Ty did not want to look, but he did. The little boy was straddling
Lennox's chest. Lennox had his head buried in the boy's crotch. Neither Ty
nor Landon needed a diagram for them to know that Lennox was fellating the
little boy.

******

	They lay there, transfixed and not quite believing what they were
seeing, watching as Lennox, his hand rubbing and squeezing the boy's body,
suckled at his immature appendage. It did not take the boy long to buck and
squirm, which both men watching assumed was an orgasm. Lennox continued to
suck, while the boy tried to pull away. This displeased Lennox, who
suddenly pushed the lad away and punched him, knocking him to the deck.
	Ty and Landon were too far away to hear what Lennox was yelling at
the boy, but his gestures spoke volumes. Reluctantly the boy pulled himself
up and, on his knees, buried his head in Lennox's lap. The arms of the
rustic, wooden chair Lennox was sprawled in hid what the boy was doing, but
both Ty and Landon knew what was happening.
	Ty could see that the boy's body was shuddering, and thought,
rightly, that he was crying. He saw Lennox suddenly push the boy away from
what he was doing and slap him soundly on the face. The boy drew back, his
hand rubbing his smarting cheek. Again it was the gestures that
spoke. Crying, he crawled up onto Lennox's lap, raised his body and then
lowered it. His face was a mask of pain and the flow of tears increased as
Lenox began to thrust upward viciously.
	"The bastard!" breathed Landon, unable to take his eyes away from
the scene across the waters of the lake. "He's . . . he's . . ." Landon
made to rise, his fists clenched. Ty's hand held him back.
	"It's not our fight," murmured Ty, thinking, "Not yet."
	Landon turned and glared at his friend. "That son of a bitch is
raping that kid!" he hissed venomously.
	Calmly, Ty lowered the binoculars and nodded with his chin. "It's
over," he said simply.
	Landon looked up. Lennox apparently had a hair trigger, or the boy
had done something that had displeased the man. Lennox, his shrivelling
dick hanging down, was standing over the little boy. Suddenly he reached
down and grabbed the boy by the shoulders, slapped him again, and gestured
toward the cottage. The boy, obviously in pain from the vicious
penetration, and crying, clutching his stomach, walked slowly into the
cottage. Lennox pulled up his shorts, settled back in his chair, and
reached for the telephone.

******

	The balance of Saturday afternoon passed slowly for Ty and
Landon. Neither man spoke, both trying to digest what they had seen. Lennox
eventually finished his calls and returned inside. Around 1700 Landon
backed slowly away from their watching area. He went into town and returned
with sandwiches and containers of hot coffee. Ty and he withdrew into the
tree line where they squatted and ate. They had a direct line of sight from
where they were sitting, but saw nothing. The cottage seemed empty, devoid
of life of any kind.
	Landon was seething. He could not understand how Ty could remain so
damned calm! What they had witnessed was a rape! A rape of a child! An
abomination so terrible that it was hard to comprehend. That such things
happened they both knew. What made it all so difficult was actually seeing
it happen.
	Soon enough the afternoon shadows lengthened and turned to
dusk. The lights came on in the cabin on the main floor, but neither man
could see anything. The curtains that covered the windows were too
thick. Landon settled back against a tree and dozed. Ty continued to
watch. He could not sleep, dared not sleep for fear of missing
something. His mind kept replaying the scene he had witnessed. His emotions
were in turmoil and he struggled to keep them in check. He wanted to rise
up and walk around the small bay, slam into the cabin and take a knife - he
had been trained to kill a man in 17 different ways but a knife seemed
appropriate in this case. How Ty would have loved to have reached down, a
knife in his right hand, and with his left pull Lennox's wrinkled pecker
its full length and then, in one motion, bring the knife down and . . .
	Ty shook his head. Stupid idiot! He cursed his imaginings and
himself. Pete Sheppard had not sent him and Landon out to the wilderness to
wreak vengeance. Focus, Ty told himself. There was a bigger picture, a
picture he was not yet to see. But it was there and Ty suppressed any
thought of exacting his own form of justice. Other men would do that, Ty
was sure of it. He had seen it in Pete's eyes when he briefed
them. Something horrible was going to happen to the Lennoxes of the world.
	Thinking of Lennox, Ty wondered how many of his kind were out
there. There had been two other men at the briefing, new men who had joined
the Security Force and been at the medical examinations with him and
Landon, both ex-Special Forces. Those men were also sent out as watchers,
to a house on the outskirts of a town named Brackendale. Ty wondered if
they had witnessed a similar scene as he had. He hoped they had not,
because that would mean that there was another boy in bondage.
	How many watching teams had been sent out? Ty didn't know, but he
had a dark, sickening feeling that there were more watchers, more
boys. Just how many boys there were Ty did not know. Not yet. But he would
know, he decided. Somehow, some way, he would find out. Somewhere there
were little boys being ravished and Ty would help find them.

******

	The house on Buttery Street was dark, with only nightlights glowing
dimly through the blackness. In his upstairs room the boy lay on his bed,
waiting for the summons. It would come soon, he knew. The door to his room
was ajar, and from down the corridor he could hear the sounds, the horrible
sounds.
	Jergen Leyen's hands were tight fists as he listened. "Poor
Zander," Jergen thought. Das arme Zicklen! Das arme kleine Zicklein!
	Jergen felt like crying, but that was forbidden. "Uncle Bob", as
the man who owned Jergen and Zander wanted to be called, forbade it. Tears
were not a part of Jergen's life anymore. Tears were something in the
past. Besides, Jergen had long since lost his capacity to cry. What was the
use in crying? Jergen knew that tears changed nothing.
	The house was set far enough back from the roadway that no
unnatural light shone into the room. Only when the moon had risen was there
a paleness to soften the dark shadows. Rising from his bed, Jergen moved
slowly to sit in the window seat. This room was very much as his life had
been, filled with dark shadows that only became hazy remembrances in his
dreams. Only in his dreams did Jergen recall vague, distorted memories. His
sub-conscious did what his conscious could not.
	Jergen had no real idea of who, or what he was. He did recall a
large room, filled with little boys, boys like him. He knew that he had
been born in East Germany, but where, and when, he had no idea. German was
his first language, as it was Zander's. Zander spoke, when he spoke at all,
in harsh, guttural tones. Jergen's voice and tones were softer, which was
not surprising that from the age of nine or so - he really did not know how
old he actually was - he had lived with foreigners, first the Austrian
count, then the Frenchman, and now the Canadian "Uncle Bob".
	Thinking that he heard the sound of a door opening, Jergen rose
from the window seat and padded quietly to the slightly ajar door to his
room. He listened, heard nothing, and turned. His deep blue eyes caught his
reflection in the full-length mirror that hung on the back of the door.
	Jergen studied the reflection before him. He saw a well-muscled
boy, a boy tall for his age, with blond, close-cut hair and glowing,
healthy skin. The boy's face was square-jawed, with high cheekbones that
were always touched with a reddish blush of colour. The boy's nose was
straight and well-proportioned. His torso tapered to a slim, firm waist.
	Turning slightly, Jergen saw that the boy had a fine, curving,
bubble butt, and strong, well-formed legs. Turning back, Jergen saw that
the boy, who was wearing only a pair of tight, white briefs, had a decent
sized bump pushing out the cotton fabric. Mimicking Jergen, the boy in the
mirror raised his hand to gently rub his dark brown, slightly rubbery
nipples, which were contained in darkish pink coloured aureoles.
	The boy in the mirror was handsome, and had much to offer. Stepping
back, Jergen shuddered slightly and shook his head. He was the boy, and
what he had to offer was the sole reason he was in this bedroom.
	Returning to his bed, Jergen lay down and his eyes roved
freely. His room, he thought ruefully, but not really his room. The room
was large, well-lit during the day by the sunlight, and handsomely
furnished. And yet . . . the room was cold and sterile. It was not a boy's
room. There was nothing to indicate that a teenage boy lived in it. There
were no posters of sports gods adorning the walls, no pictures of
half-naked women, no pictures torn from magazines or catalogues, pinned
over the bed. The flat surfaces of the chest on chest, the dressing table,
the night table, were bare of anything that would give notice that a boy
lived here.
	There were no colourful gimcrack trophies, no forgotten bit of this
or that to litter the room. The room was exactly what it was: a
professionally decorated chamber meant to impress. Every stick of
furniture, every water colour on the walls, the paint scheme, the drapes
that covered the open windows, everything had been designed to
impress. Nothing could be changed. Nothing could be moved. The room look as
if it had been prepared to adorn the cover of an upscale magazine, and held
as much warmth and welcome. The room was exactly the way "Uncle Bob" had
envisioned it, and exactly the way "Uncle Bob" wanted it to stay. That was
the rule, and Jergen knew to his sorrow not to disobey one of "Uncle Bob's"
rules.
	Jergen was accustomed to rules. He had lived with rules of conduct,
of behaviour, all of his life.
	The rules had started in the orphanage where he had been raised
until the age of eight, or was it nine? Jergen could not know. Nobody had
told him where he had been born, and the date of birth on his travel
documents could be as false as it might have been true. The same held true
for his name. Was his real name "Jergen", or had it been something else? He
did not know. The slatternly, heavily built woman who ran the orphanage
probably knew, but she never did anything but scream at the boys, slap them
soundly when they did something that displeased her, and grew fatter as the
little boys grew thinner.
	As an orphan, Jergen was an unwanted member of the socialist
society in which he lived. He was a burden on the State, and would be until
he was 16, when he would be forced into the streets and into the
workplace. His only hope had been adoption. It happened from time to
time. A boy who had slept in the same bed with Jergen (all the boys slept
two or three to a bed as there was a shortage in the supposedly proletarian
paradise) would suddenly disappear. The harridan would tell the boys that
he had been "adopted", taken into the home of a fine family. Everybody
would sigh with envy, and hope.
	Life in the orphanage was hard. The boys were dressed in cast offs
and rags for the most part. The food was plain, usually just potato soup
and mouldy black bread, and every Friday, without fail the soup was
accompanied by boiled fish. Jergen never knew the taste of meat until the
pimpf took him away.
	The rules in the orphanage were strictly enforced. The boys would
wear pyjamas to bed, and neatly fold the garments onto their bare pillows
when they arose in the morning. Naked, they would be herded into a cold,
shallow tank filled with cold water, the better to suppress any burgeoning
morning erections. The matrons, sharp-eyed harpies, never explained why
little boy penises rose up stiff in the morning. All the women did was call
the unfortunate boy a dirty little pig and slap him.
	After bathing, the boys were marched into a long, dismal hall
filled with bare, scarred wooden tables and benches. Breakfast was bread
and gruel. There was never enough and all the boys left the tables
hungry. Following breakfast they attended school, of a sort, where they
were taught by an indifferent and usually drunk teacher their letters and
numbers. This was the only formal education of any kind that Jergen would
know for a long time.
	When the boys were not in the schoolroom they were working. The
State had no money to waste on society's unwanted children. They would have
to earn their keep and in addition to sweeping and scrubbing the workhouse,
for that is what the place was. The boys were employed in doing laundry,
mounds of sheets and linen, underpants and shirts, cloth bits of this and
that, all of which came from the homes and apartments of their betters, for
the party elite had better things to do than the laundry!
	Jergen usually went to bed at the appointed hour - 2100 on the dot,
and no one had better leave his bed until 0600! - totally exhausted. He was
usually asleep before his head hit the pillow, and seldom noticed the
ancient crone who came into the dormitory to sit and watch the young boys.
	At first Jergen had no idea why the old woman sat in the
darkness. She was always there at night and soon enough became more or less
just another drab fixture in the drab room. Later, when he was older,
Jergen heard whispers that the older boys sometimes snuck into the
dormitories of the younger boys and did "things" with them. What "things"
Jergen had no idea. He therefore assumed that the crone was there to
protect the smaller boys. In a way he was right.
	Jergen's eyes were opened one day when he was called to the office
of the Headmistress. Here he was stripped of his clothing and a blanket
draped over his naked body. He was then led, protesting feebly at his
nakedness, and wide-eyed with fear, into what the Headmistress called the
"parlour". This was a room scantily furnished with sagging, tired
upholstered chairs and sofas, and rickety tables. Here he was led to meet
the "pimpf", the pimp. Jergen did not know it at the time, but he had
reached the proper age, and would soon leave the orphanage.
	The pimp, a tall, cadaverous man, crudely examined Jergen, feeling
his arms, his legs, examining his teeth, making the boy bend over to look
at his bung hole, as Jergen called it, and fondling Jergen's penis, drawing
the thick foreskin back to reveal the hidden little purple pink
acorn. Jergen, terrified, saw his little stick thicken and grow larger. No
one had ever touched him there before! The pimp, smiling through crooked,
broken, tobacco stained teeth, continued to manipulate Jergen's foreskin
until the boy squealed and bucked. Jergen did not know what had
happened. He was torn between the pleasure he had felt engulfing his body,
and the horror of the wretched pimp fondling him.  "Der Junge tut. Herr
Stennes ist erfreut," the pimp nodded to the Headmistress, Frau Renfeld.
	Jergen, still panting from the exertion of his very first orgasm,
wondered who 'Herr Stennes' was and why he would be pleased.
	"You will take him then?" Frau Renfeld asked.
	"Yah, for the usual price," replied the pimp as he reached into the
inside pocket of his suit jacket.
	The Headmistress had sniffed loudly and held out her hand. Then she
had asked, "And what is the going price these days?"
	Laughing, the pimp had passed a large wad of strange-looking notes
into the woman's hands. "The same as always, $500.00 American." He
shrugged. "I can go elsewhere."
	"Nein!" shrieked the woman loudly. "That bitch in Bendlerstrasse
will cheat you! She allows the older boys to break in the younger ones!"
She puffed up like one of the pigeons that infested the square in front of
the orphanage. "My boys are virgins!"
	"Which is why you are paid in American dollars and she is paid in
East German marks!" returned the pimp. Turning, the pimp cupped Jergen's
chin and smiled evilly. "This one will bring a good price." Then, over his
shoulder, the pimp added, "Herr Stennes will not forget!"
	"Good." The Headmistress roughly snatched Jergen away from the pimp
and told the boy to return to his dormitory.
	As he closed the door to the parlour, Jergen heard the pimp speak
again. "Still no twins?"
	Pausing, Jergen listened.
	"Twins!" exclaimed the woman loudly. "Always you want twins!"
	"There is a demand for twin boys!" said the pimp. "Herr Stennes
will be most generous for a set of twin boys."
	Herr Stennes again, thought Jergen. He pressed his ear closer to
the barely shut door.
	"How generous?" asked the Headmistress.
	"Oh, five thousand American," replied the pimp casually. "Ten
thousand if they are identical twins."
	The woman gasped. Ten thousand American dollars was a fortune
beyond counting. Jergen could not see her shake her head. "The proletariat
breed like fruit flies. The unwanted flies end up here and I have never
found a set of twins on the doorstep!"
	"When you do, let me know." The pimp straightened his jacket and
then laughed crudely. "And now I will take the boy to his new life."
	The Headmistress joined the pimp's laughter. "I hope he enjoys it!"
Laughing harder, she waved the wad of bank notes in the air. "In the mean
time, I will enjoy the old!"

******

	For the first week after leaving the orphanage, although he did not
know it, Jergen lived in a large house in Wannsee, a tree-filled enclave
southwest of Berlin on Lake Havel. The house was set behind a high stone
wall and hidden behind stands of ancient pine trees. The house was very
quiet, and very private.
	Jergen did not know what to expect. He was a frightened little boy
who had known nothing but abuse and deprivation all of his life. He had
been taught to obey, though, and made no fuss when the pimp took him from
the car and into the house.
	Much to his surprise, the house was well lit and very warm. The
rooms were clean and free of the dirt and the filth that seemed to be a way
of life back at the orphanage. Jergen was taken by the hand and led up a
broad, winding staircase and into a room. And what a room! There was a
large bed, with clean sheets and a warm looking quilt, and one end, near
the headboard, was piled high with pillows in real linen slips edged with
lace. Jergen could not believe his eyes! He also could not believe what his
little button of a nose was smelling. He looked around and on the round
table that dominated the centre of the room saw an array of covered silver
dishes. Dishes that from the wonderful odours filling the room, could only
contain . . . FOOD!
	Resisting the urge to pull away from the pimp, Jergen waited while
the man removed his overcoat and motioned toward the table. "You are
hungry, yes?" the man asked as he nodded toward the covered dishes.
	Of course Jergen was hungry! He was always hungry! He nodded his
head vigorously and unconsciously licked his lips.
	"Well, eat," said the pimp with a slight smile.
	Suspicious, but ravenous, Jergen approached the table. He lifted
one of the silver covers and saw a plate laden with wurst. The only time
the boys in the orphanage ever saw the delicious sausage was at Christmas,
and then only one link each. No exceptions.
	While his stomach growled, Jergen hesitated. Arrayed on the table
were silver spoons, forks and knives. In the orphanage everything was eaten
with a slightly battered metal spoon. Jergen looked at the cutlery, and
then at the pimp.
	The pimp chuckled. The boy was a peasant. He did not know how to
eat properly and the pimp doubted that the youngster was literate. All was
not lost, however. Herr Stennes boasted that he provided only the best
merchandise to his clients. Jergen was a diamond in the rough, although he
did not know it. He would be polished and buffed to perfection and then
. . .
	The pimp dismissed thoughts of what would become of Jergen and
spoke. "Heinrich will teach you," he said enigmatically. He left the room
and shortly returned with a tall, gangly young man with flaming red
hair. The redhead was introduced as Heinrich. He would be Jergen's teacher,
mentor, and minder during the boy's stay in the Wannsee villa.
	For the next two months Heinrich instructed Jergen in the ways of
proper little boys. Heinrich was really quite nice, even if he was no prize
in the looks department. Like Jergen, Heinrich had no idea where he had
been born. He had come from an orphanage in Holstein. He thought he had
Norse blood, because he was tall, very tall at just over six feet three
inches. Where his unruly red hair had come from was anybody's guess. He
thought he was nineteen, but wasn't sure about that either. He had slightly
bucked teeth, and a thin, gawky body, and his chin was spotted with the
remnants of acne. Heinrich told Jergen that he had been with Herr Brost,
the pimp, for ten years.
	Heinrich was Jergen's nurse and nanny. After the first night, after
showing Jergen how to cut the wurst with a knife and fork, Heinrich had
stripped Jergen bare, grumbling about the state of the boy's clothing and
lack of underpants. Jergen had explained that none of the boys in the
orphanage wore pants. It cut down on the laundry, Jergen explained.
	With a look of disgust, Heinrich informed Jergen that henceforth he
would always wear underpants! No exceptions! Then Heinrich had taken Jergen
into the bathroom that adjoined the room, a bathroom so large and filled
with a porcelain tub, a toilet with a reservoir (in the orphanage the
pissoir was a foul, filth encrusted hole in the crumbling tiled floor), and
sinks that were actually clean.
	Baths, Heinrich said, would be taken once in the morning, upon
arising, and once at night, before retiring. No exceptions! He filled the
tub with hot water and dumped in a bottle of bath salts, which filled the
room with the smell of lilacs. Jergen sank into the bath and all but died
from the pleasure of it. He was brought briskly back to earth by
Heinrich. Jergen was to keep himself as clean as possible. Every inch of
his little body was to be scrubbed and cleansed of the dirt that all little
boys seemed to attract. No exceptions!
	Much to Jergen's surprise, Heinrich had then set to work with a
sponge and washcloth. He paid special attention to Jergen's backside,
gently cleaning the cleft of his buttocks and his rosebud. Heinrich then
reached down and took Jergen's soft little penis in his hand.
	"You must always clean your wenig stock, your little stick,"
Heinrich said seriously. "Your new master will want a clean stick, always,
and Herr Brost will look!"
	Confused, Jergen had looked down at his penis. It was clean, he
protested loudly. And who was his new "master"?
	Heinrich had said too much, and his face showed it. "You will find
out in good time," he said. "And you are not clean. Your poppi needs
cleaning. I will show you."
	Reaching down, Heinrich slowly pushed Jergen's foreskin back,
revealing the plump little head of his penis. Jergen's eyes grew wide and
he felt his "poppi" growing. "Bitte, you are not going to do anything to
me?" he whispered.
	Heinrich looked startled and hid a laugh. Herr Brost never changed!
"Little boys always have dirty poppis," Heinrich replied without
emotion. "They cannot help it." He ignored the questioning look on Jergen's
face, just as he had ignored Jergen's question. "Every time you have a
bath, or shower, you must clean your poppi." He gently pumped Jergen's
penis twice, ran the washcloth over the head and around the rim of the
purple glans and smiled. "Your poppi is your best friend, Jergen. He will
bring you much pleasure." And others, Heinrich had thought, but he did not
say.
	"Der pimpf, I mean, Herr Brost, he played with it," Jergen
confided. "It felt very good!"
	"It usually does," opined Heinrich dryly. "Now close your mouth and
your eyes. I must clean your hair. Did the crones in the orphanage ever
wash your hair?"
	"Nein. They never washed any part of us," replied Jergen
truthfully.
	Examining the filth under Jergen's fingernails, Heinrich wrinkled
his nose. "I can well believe it!" he said with a snarl. "Your nails are a
disgrace!"
	"I am sorry," whimpered Jergen. It was not his fault that he was a
dirty little boy.
	Heinrich have Jergen a kind look. "You must not be sorry. I
understand. I will teach you what you need to learn." He suddenly leaned
forward and kissed the top of Jergen's head. "I will not hurt you, little
man. I promise."

******

	After his bath, Jergen was taken back to the bedroom. Here Heinrich
opened a huge wardrobe and pulled out a snow white, obviously new
nightshirt. He eyed Jergen a moment and from the top drawer of the bank of
drawers that formed the bottom of the wardrobe he took out a set of BVD's,
a one piece undergarment that combined vest and pants, which were
baggy. Like the nightshirt, the BVD's were new, and made of crisp, white
cotton.
	Jergen noticed that there were far more clothes in the wardrobe
than he could possibly wear, and every garment seemed to be larger than
anything he could wear. Heinrich saw where Jergen was looking and
explained, "I will be sharing with you. You do not mind?"
	Thinking of what he had left behind, and of Pauli, the boy he had
shared his bed with, Jergen shook his head. Pauli smelled and sometimes wet
the bed. Anything would be an improvement.
	"Good. Now, into bed with you," Heinrich instructed after dressing
Jergen.

******

	Jergen fell asleep almost immediately. He did not hear Heinrich
come to bed. When he awoke the sun was just sending its warming rays
through the windows of the room. Jergen found that sometime during the
night he had snuggled up against Heinrich's warm body and thrown his arm
across the young man's chest. Jergen snuffled and sniffed as he came
awake. Gott, Heinrich smelled good, he thought as he rolled away and
stretched. Jergen would have like to have snuggled against Heinrich some
more but . . .
	Throwing aside the sheet and quilt, Jergen scampered into the
bathroom. He stood in front of the toilet, lifted his nightshirt and fished
his stiffy from within the cotton confines of his BVD's. He began to pee
and the pressure that had driven him from his bed began to ease. Closing
his eyes, Jergen enjoyed the first pee of the day. He was so engrossed in
what he was doing that he was unaware of Heinrich's presence until he heard
the teenager grunt, "Move a bit, I have to piss like a race horse!"
	Jergen opened his eyes and saw Heinrich standing beside him,
pointing his morning stiffy down toward toilet bowl. The first thing Jergen
noticed was that Heinrich was not wearing BVD's. His skinny loins were
covered by tight pants, very high in the waist and . . . purple! Not only
were Heinrich's underpants purple but the leg bands and pouch were bordered
in yellow! Jergen, who had never seen underpants any colour other than
white, was intrigued. He was more intrigued, however, my Heinrich's penis,
which was, like Heinrich, long and slim.
	While Heinrich grunted and pursed his lips, willing noisily for his
penis to wilt enough for him to pee, Jergen studied the man's organ. At
first Jergen thought that Heinrich had drawn back his foreskin to pee -
some of the older boys in the orphanage did that - but there was something
else. Jergen's eyes grew wide when he realized what it was.
	Bending lower, Jergen studied Heinrich's penis. "Sie haben keine
haut! Wo ist thre haut?" he blurted.
	Finally able to pee, Heinrich finished and, hefting his penis,
presented it to Jergen for a closer look. "I don't have any skin," he
said. He ran his thumb around a thin, tan ring perhaps halfway down the
slim shaft. "Ich bin beschneiden worden." He raised his soft penis slightly
to show Jergen the head, which was slightly smaller than the shaft and
curving to a rounded point where his pee slit was. " I have been
circumcised," Heinrich repeated.
	Jergen screwed up his face, not understanding. "Beschneiden? Was
wird beschneiden?" he asked. He had never seen a penis that did not have
skin covering the head.
	Heinrich was not at all surprised at Jergen's curiosity. "Pull your
skin back," he said. Jergen did so. "See, when you pull the skin back - and
you must always do that if you pee because if you do not your poppi smells
- it looks like mine."
	As directed, Jergen retracted his foreskin. His poppi now resembled
Heinrich's. "But Heinrich, I cannot do that all the time," he
complained. Then he had a thought. "Will my skin go away when I get
bigger?"
	"It is time for your bath," Heinrich reminded Jergen. "Undress
while I start your bath."
	Pulling the nightshirt over his head, Jergen asked, "Heinrich, why
must I wear these underpants? I want some like yours." He dropped the
garment to the floor and began to unbutton his BVD's. "They are very nice."
	Heinrich smiled. "They were a gift, from a dear friend," he said
without elaboration. "They come from Amerika!"
	"Amerika!" Jergen breathed. Amerika was the Grail! The land of milk
and honey, and streets paved in gold. "I would like to go to Amerika!"
	Still smiling, Heinrich tested the water of the bath, tossed in
some aromatic salts, and said, "I have never been to Amerika. My friend is
a soldier in the American Zone. He bought them at the . . ." He was going
to say "PX", but doubted that the boy would understand that. ". . . At a
shop on their base. I will ask him to buy you some if you like."
	Jergen eyed Heinrich's briefs hungrily. "Oh, yes, Heinrich. You are
very lucky to have a friend who buys things for you." He climbed into the
bath.
	"Yes, I am," replied Heinrich as he began to sponge Jergen's
body. He did not dare tell the boy the truth, for fear that Jergen could,
as all children did, unwittingly blurt out to Herr Brost that Heinrich had
a friend who bought him very nice underpants.
	Heinrich had been on the game, as he called it, for ten years,
supplementing his income by visits to the sex clubs that abounded in West
Berlin. It was a dangerous game to be sure, but very lucrative. In one of
the clubs on the Ku' Damm, frequented by American soldiers, Heinrich had
met a shy, introverted young man. The young man was so shy and
inexperienced that Heinrich almost did not charge his usual 100 marks
fee. After that first time every time Heinrich returned to the club "his
American" was there and they became more or less lovers. The American was
smitten and unknown to Herr Brost had been trying to think of a way to
bring Heinrich with him when he returned home to the States. Heinrich was
willing - anything was better than living with Brost!
	As he washed Jergen's immature body, Heinrich thought of his
American lover. "When I was a little baby my poppi looked just like
yours. Then it became sick."
	Jergen giggled. "That is silly, Heinrich!" he declared. "How can
your poppi become sick?"
	"Well, do you know what an infection is?" asked Heinrich.
	"Ja. It is when you cut yourself and you do not clean the cut and
germs get it and cause horrible, smelly stuff to come out," replied Jergen
all in one breath.
	"Well, yes, I suppose you could describe it that way," said
Heinrich. "When I was a baby I had an infection and a doctor cut away my
skin."
	"Did it hurt?" asked Jergen, wide-eyed and wincing at the thought
of a doctor doing that to his poppi.
	"I was a baby," countered Heinrich. "I suppose it must have hurt
but I don't remember."
	"Oh." Jergen reached down and fondled himself. "I have never seen
one like yours." He raised his eyes and looked at Heinrich. "Will I see
more?"
	Heinrich squeezed the sponge he was washing Jergen with and
thought, "More than you will like." He looked at Jergen's inquisitive
face. "Perhaps, maybe never."
	"Why?"
	It was much too soon to demonstrate in anyway what lay ahead for
the little boy. Still, there were some lessons he would learn soon enough.
	"Well, if you stay in Germany you might never see one like mine. It
is not done to real Germans unless it is absolutely necessary. Only Jews do
it."
	"What is a "Jew"?" asked Jergen.
	Heinrich did not truly understand the concept of Judaism and he
doubted that Jergen would either, so he temporized by saying, "Just a
religion." He also thought that given the recent decimation of European
Jewry there was little chance of Jergen meeting a Jew.
	What Jergen did not know was that Heinrich was just beginning
Jergen's "training". The little boy was completely ignorant of many things,
sex being not the least of things. Heinrich's job was to train Jergen, to
teach him how to please his coming masters.
	Motioning, Heinrich said, "Stand up now." As Jergen rose Heinrich
lifted him from the tub and reached for a large bath towel. He began to dry
the boy's body gently, his hands moving the soft towel closer and closer to
Jergen's soft little "poppi". All the while Heinrich kept up a calming
chatter.
	"Of course, Jergen, in some countries the boys are not Jews, but
. . ." He raised his hand and made a scissoring gesture with his first two
fingers. Jergen giggled. "In Amerika it's very common for a boy to be
. . ."
	"Beschneiden!" crowed Jergen, pleased that he had absorbed this
knowledge.
	"Yah." Heinrich continued to rub the towel over Jergen's soft,
silken skin. He was now almost ready and gently rubbed the boy's penis and
testicles, achieving the desired result.
	Panting slightly, his eyes wide, Jergen gulped, "Heinrich, my poppi
feels funny."
	Withdrawing the towel, Heinrich observed the stiff little
member. He dropped the towel and began to tweak the wrinkled ferrule of
skin at the end of Jergen's hard penis. "Do you like it?" he asked in a
soft whisper.
	Unable to speak, Jergen nodded his head.
	"Good," said Heinrich as he reached his arm around Jergen's thin
waist and pulled him closer. Using two fingers he began to pleasure Jergen,
who squealed and squirmed as the feelings that he had felt in the dusty
parlour back in the orphanage overwhelmed him.
	Jergen's true education had begun.

******

	Staring into the darkness of his room in the Buttery Street house,
Jergen felt a tear slowly roll down his cheek. He had not thought of
Heinrich for a very long time. Jergen wondered what had become of the young
man who had been kind to him, even as he instructed the young boy in the
art of pleasing men.
	From the beginning Heinrich had never lied to Jergen. He explained
to the boy that his new role in life would be to please a man in every
way. When Jergen expressed his terror and cried piteously Heinrich had
cuddled him and then, to Jergen's shock, had taken his little poppi into
his mouth and sucked gently. Jergen had almost passed out from that
experience!
	Eventually Jergen learned what was required of him. Using
Heinrich's body as his "training aid", Jergen learned how to masturbate an
adult male, how to fondle his testicles and tease his rosebud. He also
learned that as he matured he would develop. His penis would grow longer
and hair would grow in his armpits and around his genitals. In a few years,
three, perhaps four, Heinrich told the naïve boy, he would produce sperm,
although Heinrich did not tell the boy that this would be bad for
business. Pubescent boys were a glut on the market. They could be had on
any street corner in every city in the world. Little boys, who did not
"squirt", as Heinrich put it to Jergen, were much prized. This was when
Jergen realized that he was a commodity, to be bought and sold, and that
his value would diminish as he grew older.
	In between lessons on how to clean himself, how to dress, how to
eat properly at table, and elocution lessons to help him lose his
"Berliner" accent, Heinrich instructed Jergen in the art of oral sex. These
lessons were very confusing to Jergen in that while Heinrich made no
objection or comments about pleasuring Jergen, he would not let the boy
touch him, even when Jergen asked to do so.
	Heinrich gently explained that while he liked men, he was not, as
he put it, "Jungeliebhaber", a boy lover. He had his American boyfriend,
and he had to service the pimpf from time to time, which he was required to
do, but Jergen was a little boy, and Heinrich had his standards and
principles!
	Not so Herr Brost.
	The man was an enigma. He came and went at the oddest of times,
sometimes for days. At first Jergen was terrified when Brost
appeared. Sometimes the man was in a foul mood; sometimes he was smiling
with pleasure. Heinrich explained that if Brost was in one of his tempers
it usually meant that one of his deals had gone sour, or the STASI, the
Secret Police, were being greedy again and raising the price of the papers
Brost needed to take his boys out of East Germany. One never knew.
	Once Heinrich had reported to Brost that Jergen was now
"experienced in oral sex", Brost would sometimes come home, go into
Jergen's room, and lower his trousers and boxer under shorts. He would
order Jergen to "practice" on him. When Jergen had at first refused he
received a clout on the side of his head that left him seeing stars for
hours afterward. Jergen learned very quickly to pleasure the man, dropping
to his knees and performing oral sex on Brost's ugly penis, a thick,
vein-covered tube of flesh that smelled of stale urine and things Jergen
did not like to think about. Brost terrified Jergen with his roughness and
the boy lived in fear whenever Heinrich announced that the man would be
returning soon. Having Jergen fellate him was the only sex act Brost
allowed, and it only happened when the pimp was in what Heinrich called
"his good mood". Anal sex was something reserved for Heinrich, and always
happened when Brost returned in as foul a temper as an altered Alsatian.
	Jergen's terror lessened when he understood what usually happened
when Herr Brost came home in a foul temper. He would slam about the villa
and then call for Heinrich. The first time this happened Jergen had crept
from his room and snuck down the corridor to listen at the door to Herr
Brost's room. The door was thick and the sounds muffled, but Jergen could
make out grunts, groans, sighs and snorts, interspersed with loud shouts of
"Gott!" As Jergen listened, wide-eyed and unconsciously squeezing the lump
that had suddenly popped out the front of his short trousers, the groans
and yells grew in volume until a blood-curdling shriek of "Gott wird
Gedankt!" rent the air.
	At almost the same moment Jergen's body shook and trembled and his
eyes rolled back in his head. When his orgasm, which he had learned to call
it, drained from his body, Jergen scampered back to his room and waited for
Heinrich to appear.
	Heinrich, looking a little battered and the worse for wear,
eventually returned. He was very quiet until Jergen asked, "Did he stick
his poppi up your bum?"
	Heinrich looked sharply at the boy. "What do you know about that?"
he demanded harshly. "Has someone . . .?" His voice trailed away, afraid
that Jergen might answer in the affirmative. Jergen was supposedly a
certified virgin. His selling price, and Heinrich's share of the profits,
depended on it.
	"No," replied Jergen firmly. "But in the orphanage, sometimes, the
older boys would take one of the littler boys into the janitor's closet and
stick their poppis up his bum." As with many young boys, Jergen's attention
span was limited. "Are you going to buy me some new underpants, Heinrich?
You promised to ask your American friend."
	"Ya, ya, ya!" said Heinrich impatiently. "Has anyone stuck his
. . . poppi up your bum?"
	"I told you, no!" returned Jergen with a pout. "It was not allowed
for the boys in my dormitory. Frau Renfeld said that we were special. It
was verboten to touch us!" Then Jergen grinned slyly. "Well, did he?"
	"Did who what?" snapped Heinrich as he rummaged in the dresser for
some clean underwear
	"Did Der pimpf stick his poppi up your bum?" asked Jergen
patiently.
	"Yes."
	"Will he do that to me?" asked Jergen, a frightened look on his
face. "I would not want him to do that to me!"
	"He won't," replied Heinrich, thinking that there was much too much
money dependent on Jergen's unviolated bum. He began to move toward the
bathroom. Jergen's voice broke his step.
	"Heinrich, who is God?"
	In the Socialist Republic religion was frowned upon, and it was
Party gospel that "God", as a Supreme Being, did not exist. There was a
god, but he was the General Secretary of the Communist Party. Only he was
worshiped.
	Heinrich replied, his voice heavy, as he looked evenly at
Jergen. "There is no God."

******

	The sound of a car passing down Buttery Street broke the silence of
the room momentarily as Jergen thought bitterly that Heinrich should have
added, "For boys like us!"
	Jergen supposed that he truly had first become aware of the belief
in God when he was taken from Berlin and delivered to his first
"master". Heinrich had come for him and explained that they were going on a
trip. Jergen, together with his meagre possessions, which were only the new
clothing Brost had bought for him, and the promised American underpants
that Heinrich had given him, was bundled into the back seat of Brost's
ancient Mercedes.
	From Berlin, where Brost handed the border guards his papers
(conveniently supplied by the East German Security Service, the STASI) and
a large bundle of bank notes, they drove south, stopping first at
Nurnberg. They stopped overnight in a back street hotel where Jergen was
bathed and put to bed. The next morning they drove on to München where they
again spent the night in an out of the way hotel. Jergen was fed, again
bathed and powdered and put to bed. Shortly after noon they crossed the
frontier and were in Austria.
	They drove on to Salzberg and here Jergen was handed over to a
tall, whippet-like man with white hair and a permanent sneer on his
lips. This was Jergen's first master.
	For the next three years Jergen had lived in a tumble down schloss
overlooking the town of Salzberg. The Austrian, who was a Count of the
Imperial Empire, had no interest in Jergen as a person. The boy, who was
rather comfortably lodged, was there to please the Count. Jergen was not an
hour in the old schloss before the Count came to his room, ordered him to
strip naked, and in effect raped the boy.
	Jergen barely remembered the excruciating pain he felt that first
time, and his screams no longer echoed in the shadows of his mind. Jergen
very quickly learned that the act, which happened every night, would be
over sooner if he did not struggle, or scream.
	Living in Salzberg, which was a major religious centre, filled with
churches and surrounded by monasteries and nunneries, it was inevitable
that Jergen learn something about religion. In addition, the Count was a
fixture in the town, and outwardly very religious. Every morning he, and
the members of his household, which included Jergen, attended Mass in the
private chapel of the schloss. Every Sunday, and on Feast Days, the Count
dragged everyone down to the Cathedral for High Mass, a ritual filled with
hymns and incense.
	Religious fervour seemed to stimulate the Count for he always came
to Jergen's room as soon as they returned from chapel or church. In time
Jergen became accustomed to the Count's demands. He also became aware that
as he grew older and approached what he later learned was something called
"puberty", that the act of intercourse was becoming more pleasurable for
him, particularly when the Count's thrusting penis touched something deep
within his body.
	Puberty was Jergen's downfall so far as the Count was concerned. As
Jergen grew taller, and began to take on the form of a pubescent boy, the
Count's visits became less frequent and when Jergen had his first true
orgasm, and soiled the sheets of his bed, the Count came not at all.
	Shortly after his first emission, a man came to visit the
Count. Jergen later learned that the man, a tall, greying hawkish figure,
was "Herr Stennes". By eavesdropping Jergen learned that Herr Stennes was
the mastermind, the boss, who arranged for little boys and sometimes, big
boys, to be sold to wealthy men for pleasure. The two men had had an
acrimonious argument about what had happened. The Count was not pleased
that "his" boy had entered puberty at such a young age! He wanted his boys
smooth and hairless, and not squirting all over the sheets!
	Stennes, for his part, could only argue that he could not be held
responsible for Nature. The Count was not a stupid man and should have
expected Nature to take her course. To mollify the Count, who was a valued
customer who bought a new boy every three or four years, Stennes had paid a
higher price than he normally would have to buy Jergen back. What the
Count, and Jergen, did not know was that Stennes already had a client
waiting for a fresh, pubescent boy.

******

	From Salzberg, and with a new set of papers, this time supplied by
a "friend" in the Foreign Ministry in Bonn, Jergen, accompanied by Herr
Stennes, went by train to Paris. Here he was given over to a Frenchman and
driven to a large chateau in the Ile de France.
	Broad, green lawns surrounded the chateau, which was a showpiece
and much envied for its opulence of architecture and
furnishings. M. Buonoparte, was short and squat, very hairy, and a native
of the Marseilles slums. He professed to be a retired banker. Actually he
had spent the war in Switzerland, collaborating with the Nazis and trading
on the Black Market. His activities had garnered sufficient profits to
enable him to purchase and restore the chateau to its former glories. He
had made so much money that he had also purchased the property surrounding
the chateau and owned a stud, racing the horses at Longchamps every
year. He also owned a vineyard with the appellation of premiere cru. His
money, and his knowledge of what many Frenchmen actually did during the
war, brought him into the highest levels of society. His money also kept
his hidden vices out of the newspapers.
	M. Buonoparte was a pig and Jergen was his "piglet". The first
night Jergen spent with the man was beyond horrible. While he did not in
any way hurt Jergen, the Frenchman's demands were stomach churning. He
adored penile filth. He enjoyed what he called "Golden Showers" and
defecation. Their first night in the master's bedroom set a pattern that
Jergen was required to follow for the year and a bit that he spent at the
chateau.
	Jergen was forbidden to cleanse his penis, and required to build up
a good supply of smegma. He was to masturbate frequently, but not to clean
his glans after he ejaculated. Further, he was not to wipe himself after
going to the toilet. He was not to bathe until after he had visited the
Frenchman.
	Never had Jergen felt so dirty! He felt so dirty that he rarely
left his room and only ventured into the grounds of the estate when the
master was away. Given the M. Buonoparte's social schedule, and the racing
meets, this was frequent and Jergen soon learned to "prepare" himself two
or three days before the master's expected return. He was rank, and filthy,
but the master was pleased.
	The sexual acts were demeaning and stomach churning. Jergen would
enter the room, naked, and straddle the master, also naked, who lay on the
bed in impatient anticipation. The master would suck on Jergen's member,
moaning and exclaiming his pleasure at what he found under the boy's
foreskin. Jergen would ejaculate and the master would swallow
greedily. When his penis softened Jergen would then urinate in the master's
open, eager mouth. To ensure a sufficient supply of urine, Jergen always
drank at least two litres of water before going to the bedroom.
	Once Jergen's bladder was empty the master would thrust upward and
enter the boy. Fortunately the master had what Jergen learned to call "a
hair trigger". When the act was finished Jergen would then turn around and
present his anus to the master, who would tongue and suck his own semen out
of Jergen's body.
	Their coupling lasted barely an hour.
	Once dismissed Jergen would hurry to his own room where he vomited
into the toilet. He would then shower for at least an hour, trying to scrub
away the filth. Usually, after his shower, he would go to bed. He was
plagued with horrible nightmares all the time he lived at the chateau.
	Life for Jergen, other than his sessions with his master, was not
unpleasant. When the master was away he had the run of the grounds. He also
visited the stud and watched the horses being trained. He learned to ride
and so long as he used one of the riding horses, and did not complain that
he had to be accompanied by one of the grooms, he was allowed to ride
freely.
	The master employed an excellent cook and staff of servants. They
knew, of course, what Jergen's position was in the household and coddled
him, fearing that displeasing Jergen would displease the master. As the
master paid them very well for their service, and their silence, keeping
Jergen happy was a small thing.
	Jergen was happy, except when the master was in residence, and
allowed to more or less do what he pleased. He could leave the chateau, but
was confined to the grounds. But he had the library, and television, and he
learned French. He also had a friend in one of the stable boys, a friend
who enjoyed being with him. If the master knew what Jergen did in the tack
room with the stable boy he said nothing. The master had the European
attitude towards sex and expected that Jergen would want to be with a boy
closer to his own age. So long as the boys kept their liaison discreet, and
so long as Jergen followed the rules when he was in residence, the master
had no objections.
	Once he had got over his initial revulsion of the master's sexual
habits, Jergen allowed himself to be lulled into a false sense of
security. He was past puberty, so he had no worries in that department. He
pleased the master and that was all that was important. In his
eavesdropping, and from what Heinrich had told him, he convinced himself
that he would more than likely be in France until he was well into his
teens. M. Buonoparte liked teenage boys and had only dismissed his last boy
when he reached the age of 20. The boy had been sent away with more than
adequate compensation. So it was with some surprise when one night, when
the master was in Paris, he heard a news report in which the master's name
was prominently mentioned. Jergen could not understand some of the context
of the report, but from what he could understand he knew that the master
was in trouble.
	The other servants knew it as well and from their gossip Jergen
learned that the master's activities during the war were being
investigated. While no one wanted to dredge up old scandals, and many
Frenchmen wanted the past buried as deeply as possible, from time to time
the graves would be reopened.
	It had long been an open secret that the natural venality and greed
of the French had risen to the fore during the late war. Their greed and
venality was directed at the most vulnerable of the population: the
Jews. Hand in glove with the Germans, and being natural anti-Semites, the
French had plundered their Jewish neighbours with glee, helped by a decree
from the Vichy Government that declared that Jews, being an alien "race"
were not French at all, and therefore not citizens.
	With their Jewish neighbours being shipped to the East for
"resettlement", the average Frenchman, who saw no reason not to make a few
francs, moved in. The Germans were not the only ones well versed in the
plunder of innocents. As far as the French were concerned the Jews were
natural prey, and who cared anyway?
	The Allies, in the persons of Churchill and Truman, were aware of
what had gone on. They agreed that the French talked a good war, being
either at an enemy's neck or at his feet, usually the latter. They also
agreed that France would make a good buffer if the Bolshevik hordes decided
to swarm out of their nests in eastern Germany and Poland. While they did
not trust the French, and detested their arrogance and false bravado, the
Western nations turned a blind eye to their wartime collaboration. The
French were a necessary evil. Certain events could be, and were,
overlooked. Certain politicians, whose pasts were as shady as a Cherbourg
hooker's, were tolerated.
	At first Jergen paid little attention to the growing scandal and
except for that one report, M. Buonoparte's name was not mentioned
again. However, what neither Jergen nor his master knew was that a bored
reporter for one of the Parisian gutter press, had decided to "investigate"
further. In the manner of many reporters the man made up with journalistic
enthusiasm what he could not confirm.
	M. Buonoparte was hardly innocent. At first he ignored the
questions directed to him by the newspaper riff raff that dogged his every
step. Being a man of enterprise he had taken precautions, in the form of
envelopes stuffed with francs, distributing these envelopes with
largesse. He also hired a firm of advocats, the best Paris had to offer,
and discretely reminded certain politicians that he knew where the bodies
were buried.
	With M. Buonoparte scurrying back and forth between Paris and the
chateau, trying to save his fortune and avoid the modern equivalent of the
Chateau D'If, Jergen found life every pleasant indeed. His master was much
too worried about the scandal to bother with Jergen, and when he was not
screaming profanities down the telephone lines he was swilling Absinthe and
more often than not had to be helped to his bed by the English butler.
	Jergen, with the naiveté of childhood, paid little attention to
what was going on, and even less to the dark visaged men in dark suits who
came calling at all hours of the day and night. They would sequester
themselves in the salon privée with M. Buonoparte. Eventually they would
leave, and Monsieur would call for another bottle of Absinthe.
	As the scandal grew, now fed by questions concerning decrepit ships
sailing from Marseilles to Palestine just after the war. These ships,
filled with refugees from the camps in Germany would sail away, and return
empty. That such ships plied the Mediterranean, dodging patrolling British
destroyers was not in question. What was being questioned was the absence
of passengers when the ship, or ships, were intercepted by the Royal
Navy. M. Buonoparte, who owned three such vessels, was hard put to explain.
	Eventually Jergen noticed subtle differences in the chateau. The
English butler, a status figure in French society, left without notice. An
etching by Picasso, which Jergen thought looked liked it had been drawn by
one of the inmates in the local insane asylum, suddenly disappeared from
the wall it had hung on for years, leaving an empty square of faded
wallpaper. The horse farm was sold, and with it the horses. The vineyard
passed into new hands. M. Buonoparte was disposing of his assets. Jergen
knew that it was only a matter of time before he too, was sold off. As
M. Buonoparte put in one of his drunken near-stupors, it cost money to make
certain documents in the National Archives disappear.
	Jergen was not surprised when, one sunny morning when he returned
from a walk in the grounds, he found Herr Stennes sitting in the
lounge. Neither spoke a word and Jergen went upstairs and packed his
belongings.
	They travelled in a first class compartment on the train to
Paris. Here, ensconced in a suite at the George V, Jergen's wardrobe was
inspected and any deficiencies made good. A man with a camera appeared and
Jergen's photograph was taken. Two days later the man returned and handed
Stennes a large envelope. Inside were the official looking papers, stamped
and signed with illegible scribbles, certified that Jergen Leyens, aged 13,
was a citizen of Germany, and authorized to travel to Canada as an exchange
student.
	They stayed a week and Jergen was once again lulled into a false
sense of security. That he was going to Canada was not at all worrisome. It
meant a new master, but a new master every few years was Jergen's lot in
life. The boy had worried that Stennes would want servicing. When he made
no moves in that direction, Jergen breathed a sigh of relief. His relief
was short-lived.
	Stennes had made reservations on Air France for a city in Canada,
Toronto. The evening before they were to leave he ordered room service to
send up a magnificent dinner. Jergen was allowed to have wine with the
courses and he was feeling quite giggly when they finished eating.
	When the waiter left with the dirty dishes Stennes poured a large
brandy and took an envelope out of his pocket. He passed the envelope
across the table wordlessly. A sudden chill passed through the boy's body
as he opened the envelope. Inside were two photographs, graining black and
white images that would be seared into his memory.
	The first photograph was of a young boy. He had dark hair, and a
winning smile. He was naked except for some gym shorts and playing with a
golden-haired dog. As he gazed at the photo and at the boy's happy face,
Jergen imagined that he could hear the laughter as he gambolled with the
dog. He looked at the photograph for a long time and then removed the
second photo from the envelope. What he saw made him run into the bathroom
and vomit the fine dinner.
	The photo was stark, taken by a professional photographer. It was a
picture of the same boy. He was lying naked on the ground beside a deep,
open hole. The boy's eyes were open, and his face a rictus of pain. His
head was thrown back to reveal a long, bloody slash in his neck. His body
was splotched with dark bruises and his hands were claws. Where his
genitals should have been there was . . . nothing, nothing but a huge patch
of blood.
	"Turn it over," growled Stennes.
	Jergen did so and saw, written in black ink, the words: Das Grab
erwartet die, die schweigsam nicht bleiben konnen!
	Jergen barely heard Stennes order him into the bedroom and in a
trance-like state, knowing what was coming, removed his clothing and lay on
the bed with his legs spread. He did not feel the man entering him, felt no
pain as Stennes began thrusting and grunting.
	"The grave awaits those who forget to remain silent!"
	"The grave awaits!"

******

	Life with "Uncle Bob" was boring. At least with the Austrian and
the Frenchman Jergen had been allowed a certain measure of freedom, even if
it meant being dragged to a Baroque church or just riding within the
grounds of the chateau. Jergen was not allowed out of the house and
forbidden to so much as answer the door. He was confined to the rooms of
the house but he did have a television to watch, and books to read - mostly
insipid romance novels that did nothing for him. Jergen spent much of his
time sitting on the window seat in his room, watching what little street
traffic there was and pondering the strangeness of his new master.
	"Uncle Bob" was an architect of some renown and his creations
dotted the landscapes of every major city on the continent. They were
horrible examples of modern architecture, all glass and steel with
unexplained projections marring the lines. For some reason the art world
loved even the monstrous carbuncles "Uncle Bob" added to stately and formal
buildings. The walls of "Uncle Bob's" office, which occupied a full third
of the floor space on the ground floor, were hung with awards and plaques
testifying to his skill. "Uncle Bob" was a partner in a firm with offices
downtown, but did most of his work at home and visited his partners once a
week.
	The normal routine of the house was simple. There were no
servants. A cleaning service came three times a week and Jergen was
required to sit in the office while the ladies worked. "Uncle Bob" did all
the cooking, in a kitchen tiled with white porcelain and equipped with
stainless steel appliances. The kitchen, supposedly the heart of any home,
was cold, lifeless, and as inviting as the autopsy room in the City
Morgue. Every meal was eaten at the serving counter, the better to maintain
cleanliness. "Uncle Bob" was a neat freak and loathed dirt of any kind. It
was Jergen's job to scour the kitchen clean after every meal and "Uncle
Bob" always inspected to make sure that Jergen had done his job
properly. More than once "Uncle Bob" had been displeased and Jergen was
made to clean all over again.
	Except for the weekly visit to his office downtown, "Uncle Bob"
spent all day, every day, in his office. He worked from 0830 in the
morning, made lunch at 1345 promptly, returned and emerged at 1800. He
would cook dinner and after eating, Jergen would clean up and go upstairs
to his room, and prepare for what came next.
	"Uncle Bob's" fetish extended to everything he did or touched, and
that included sex with Jergen. The boy had been carefully instructed in
what he was to do to prepare himself to receive "Uncle Bob". Remembering
the photograph of the dead boy, Jergen followed his instructions to the
letter.
	First, Jergen would shower. He used perfumed soap - rose scented
because "Uncle Bob" liked the smell. Jergen would scrub every inch of his
body carefully, paying particular attention to his penis and crotch. He
would retract his foreskin and carefully clean the sensitive glans of his
penis. This was essential for any hint of smegma, stale urine, or dried
semen would throw "Uncle Bob" into a controlled rage. Their first meeting
had been disastrous. Jergen had failed somehow to meet the standards set
for him and "Uncle Bob" had whipped him unmercifully with a leather belt.
	Once clean, Jergen would return to his room and take out a pair of
new, white, briefs. The chest on chest that stood against one wall of his
bedroom contained nothing but tighty-whiteys. "Uncle Bob" insisted that
Jergen wear nothing else.
	Once "dressed" as it were, Jergen would leave his room and walk
down the corridor that led to "The Room", a large bedroom overlooking the
back garden. It was here that all their sexual activity took place.
	The Room was all but empty of furniture. There was a double bed,
without sheets or coverlet, on which were placed two pillows, without
cases. Beside the bed was a night table on which stood a shaded lamp. The
lamp bulb was red and cast a muted cherry glow to the white painted
walls. Under the window was a bench piled with soft, white bath
towels. Beside the bench stood a wicker laundry basket lined with a large,
dark green plastic bag. There were no curtains on the windows, no pictures
on the walls. The room was for sex, and nothing else.
	The ritual never varied. Jergen would turn on the lamp and lay two
of the large towels carefully in the exact centre of the mattress. He would
then lie on the bed, the pillows under his head. His feet were together and
his arms at his side. He would lie in that position until "Uncle Bob" was
ready. Jergen was forbidden to fall asleep, or play with himself. He was to
lie there and wait.
	"Uncle Bob" always entered the room without comment. He always wore
a long, white terry cloth bathrobe over his naked body. He was showered,
and shaved, and always wore a particularly foul smelling aftershave lotion,
redolent and filling the room with its smell.
	Jergen would lie stiffly on the bed. "Uncle Bob" would sit beside
him and slowly pull down the boy's underpants. Jergen would raise his legs
slightly to allow his briefs to be slipped off. These "Uncle Bob" would
then carefully place to one side. "Uncle Bob" would then reach out and
examine Jergen's penis, pushing the excess skin down. If Jergen was clean,
and he always was, the next stage would begin.
	"Uncle Bob" would masturbate Jergen with careful, meticulous
strokes. When the telltale signs of impending orgasm appeared "Uncle Bob"
would point the exposed head of Jergen's penis to one side and squeeze and
stroke every dollop of semen onto Jergen's smooth skin. "Uncle Bob" would
then stand, open his rope and expose his skin-sheathed member. He would
take a condom from the pocket of his robe and roll it carefully down his
erection. Then he would reach out and with two fingers carefully harvest
Jergen's ejaculate. Jergen would roll over onto his stomach and "Uncle Bob"
would lubricate Jergen's anus with his own semen. Jergen would draw the two
pillows down and raise up his hips, using the pillows as props.
	Wordlessly, "Uncle Bob" would enter the boy. Except for his loud
breathing he spoke not a word. He would thrust and his breathing would
become heavier and then, without a warning of any kind, he would thrust
viciously into Jergen, the act complete.
	"Uncle Bob" never lingered. He would withdraw, roll away, stand and
reach for Jergen's briefs. He would carefully remove the filled condom and
wipe his penis clean. Once satisfied that he was indeed clean, "Uncle Bob"
would toss the briefs back onto the bed, tie his robe tightly and then
depart, leaving Jergen to toss the soiled briefs and towels into the
laundry basket. Jergen would tie up the bag of soiled laundry and take them
to the large, wooden trash bin that sat outside the kitchen door. He would
then either go to bed or watch television until the wee hours of the
morning.
	The routine never varied and Jergen expected that it would remain
so for the length of his stay with "Uncle Bob". He was therefore very much
surprised when one day, four months after his arrival, his position in the
house changed drastically. "Uncle Bob's" firm of architects had been
awarded a large, and very prestigious new contract. For the life of him,
Jergen could not understand the fuss. He'd seen the drawings, and the
architectural rendering and the building looked as if it had been calved
from a particularly large and dirty iceberg, all spiky valleys and
peaks. "Uncle Bob" celebrated by restocking Jergen's underwear supply with
Fruit of the Looms, a step up from the Sears house brand that Jergen had
been accustomed to. Firmly in the thrall of the advertising mavens of
Madison Avenue, Jergen would have preferred Jockeys (for the extra firmness
in the seat and a double pouch in the front for extra support) but as
beggars could not be choosers, Jergen said nothing.
	"Uncle Bob" also purchased a new boy. Stennes appeared out of the
blue with a boy, barely more than a child in Jergen's eyes. Alexander, or
"Zander" as Jergen called him, was short, thin, and terrified. He had dark
brown hair, wide, questioning eyes, a sweet face. "Uncle Bob", much to
Jergen's disgust, had all but drooled at the sight of the little boy.
	The first night was a festering abscess in Jergen's brain. No
matter how he tried he could not rid his memory of the screams that echoed
throughout the upper floor of the house as "Uncle Bob" ravished the little
boy. Jergen had lain in his bed, petrified at the screams, thinking that
the man was killing Zander and cringed when the door to his room opened and
"Uncle Bob" entered. He had looked stonily at Jergen and snapped, "Clean up
the mess!"
	Hurrying from his room, Jergen had found an all but comatose Zander
sprawled across the mattress. The little boy's eyes and mouth were open,
and he was breathing shallowly. His body was a mass of welts and
new-forming bruises. There was blood, a great deal of blood, on the towels,
on the mattress and on Zander's buttocks.
	Appalled at what he had found, Jergen had at first not known what
to do. He had stared at the near lifeless form of the little boy and then,
as if in a trance, gone to work. He lifted Zander as carefully as he could
from the bed and carried him away. Zander came to life and clutched at
Jergen, sobbing quietly as Jergen held him. Zander would not let go of
Jergen, and it was with difficulty that Jergen managed to fill the bath
with warm water. Holding Zander up, Jergen had bathed him, carefully
washing the blood away.
	After bathing Zander, Jergen had taken the little boy into his own
room. Zander was still bleeding from his rectum and Jergen was terrified
beyond belief. He had no medical knowledge at all, indeed, except for the
knowledge he had absorbed from the romance novels and television, he had
very little knowledge at all. He knew that he had to stop the blood from
oozing from Zander's rectum. Perhaps it was instinct, perhaps it was a
dimly remembered line from one of the novels, or a scene from one of the
endless television shows he had watched, but Jergen remembered that
something called "direct pressure" helped stanch the flow of blood. He had
no bandages, he nothing except . . . He raced to the chest on chest and
pulled out packets of white underpants. Ripping open the plastic wrap, he
then used the rolled cotton briefs to press against Zander's anus. He
pressed and pressed the cloth against the boy's rosebud, all the while
holding him as tightly as he could. Zander made not a sound, not a whimper.
	That night was one of the worst in Jergen's young life. For a time
it seemed that the blood that oozed from the little boy's body would never
stop. Eventually it did, and eventually, Zander slept.
	The next day "Uncle Bill" appeared and asked after the
"brat". Jergen, frightened at the man's indifference, but too afraid to say
much, told "Uncle Bill" of the bleeding. With a snort the man left. Jergen
heard the front door slam and wondered what would come next. Tired beyond
reason, Jergen waited for "Uncle Bill" to return, wondering if Zander would
be removed from the house. Eventually the man returned to Jergen's room and
tossed a bag onto to the bed.
	"There's something to help," the man said. "Pack the little
bastard's ass with the gauze," he said cruelly. "Use the Mecca ointment as
well." Then he added ominously. "He'll get over his first fuck. They always
do."
	Jergen clumsily did as he'd been told. Zander whimpered as his
rectum was packed with the salve-soaked gauze. He obediently, without a
murmur, took the over the counter pain medication "Uncle Bob" had also
brought. Then he slept, huddled as close as he could to his imagined
protector.
	From the day onward Zander rarely left Jergen's side and slept with
him. Jergen tried to make the boy's life as easy as he could. He found a
supply of simple toys in the laundry room and played with Zander. He also,
aware of his own ignorance, began to teach Zander his letters and simple
arithmetic, for the boy was illiterate. He also tried, in his own fumbling
way, to explain that Zander was "Uncle Bob's" boy, and that he would have
to do certain things. Jergen felt like weeping when he saw the look of
terror on Zander's face, but could do nothing. It was their lot in life.

******

	Zander healed and Jergen was made to "get the brat ready". The
second time, Zander still screamed at the penetration, but he no longer
bled. Again Jergen cleaned up both Zander and the room. All too soon
Zander's screams ended. "Uncle Bob" had broken his spirit and only Jergen's
presence kept Zander's will to live alive.

******

	The door to Jergen's bedroom opened and the bulky shadow of "Uncle
Bob" filled the doorway. "Clean up the mess," the man growled.
	Jergen left the bed and hurried down the corridor. In the room, he
found Zander lying on the bed, staring on the ceiling. Jergen picked the
boy up and carried him down to the bathroom. Jergen set Zander on the
toilet seat very gently, knowing that the boy would be in pain after "Uncle
Bob" had finished with him. Zander's eyes were blank and his shoulders were
slumped with resignation.
	Saying nothing, Jergen began to draw the bath, then turned to the
medicine cabinet and brought out the salve that he always used on Zander's
bottom. Zander looked at Jergen and spoke, his words edged with the pain he
felt. "I do not like it, Jergen. Why does he do it to me?"
	Jergen sighed. "Because he owns us, Zander."
	"I hate him!" spat Zander.
	"So do I," replied Jergen weakly. What else could he say? He did
hate the man, but there was nothing he or Zander could do about it. He
lifted Zander and placed him in the tub.
	Zander said nothing as Jergen gently cleaned him. He felt safe with
Jergen, who had never hurt him, and never made him do the things that the
beast did. Zander had nothing but Jergen to hold onto. He did not know his
past, and he was afraid of the future, because . . .
	Raising his head, Zander's dark eyes grew sad. "Nobody cares,
Jergen," he whispered.
	Zander's pain-filled words touched a chord deep within Jergen and
for a moment he felt the compassion he had long ago learned to
suppress. There was no point is showing love, or compassion, or the least
emotion, really. There was no point in forming an attachment. Soon Jergen
would be gone from this house. Zander, so long as he continued to please
"Uncle Bob" would remain. Where Jergen would go he did not know. What might
happen to Zander Jergen did not dare think about. Their future was bleak
and while Zander was too young to know it, Jergen did and it was best to
remain alone with his own thoughts, his emotions tightly reigned.
	Jergen took a deep breath. Nobody cared. To "Uncle Bob" Zander and
Jergen were nothing more than objects to be used and used again. To
Stennes, to Her Brost, and yes, to Heinrich, the boys were nothing but
commodities, to be bought and sold at a profit.
	Suddenly the image of the dead boy swam before Jergen's eyes. He
could not tell the little boy what he saw, nor could he verbalize the
thoughts that ran through his head. All he could think of was the opening
words of the warning on the back of the photograph: "The grave awaits
. . ."

******

	At the end of Buttery Street, hidden in the shadows of the
overhanging branches of an ancient maple tree, the car sat. Shane Kingscote
did not hear the rhythmic clicking of the car's engine as it cooled. He
peered intently from behind the windscreen, staring at the dark house. He
was not supposed to be here at all, but he could not sleep, he could not
rest calmly as he imagined the horrors being perpetrated inside the house.
	Shane had left his apartment angry and resentful, his anger and
resentment directed at The Gunner, who insisted that they would not move
until 0300. The Gunner wanted his men, his Rangers, to rest. Shane could
not and he had driven here, to Buttery Street.
	From behind the car came the soft crunch of gravel underfoot. Shane
looked into the rear view mirror and saw the man approaching. He was one of
Terry Hsiang's men, and dressed in a security guard's uniform. At the end
of the street sat a City Hydro van. Shane knew that on the other side of
the van the manhole covering the transformer that supplied electricity to
the street had been taken up, ostensibly for maintenance on the
equipment. The manhole had been left open and a guard was posted to prevent
an unwary pedestrian from falling into it. Terry Hsiang had planned well.
	Lowering the side window, Shane nodded to the Chinese, who nodded
back, his eyes blank, his face emotionless, and returned slowly to his
post. This was third time that Shane had returned to Buttery Street and the
guard recognized his face.
	Shane's resentment increased as he watched the Chinese walk
away. Shane reasoned that the man, the men, that Terry had set to watching,
had to know what they were watching, and why. Yet this man, and the others,
showed no emotion. His placidity was, to Shane, annoying. Shane's eyes
narrowed as he regarded the back of the retreating Chinese and then he
lowered his head. What, he asked himself, were the other men supposed to
do? They could not as yet change anything. Yelling and thundering their
anger and disgust would have served no purpose. All would be made right in
time and it was better to wait patiently for the moment to be right.
	Shane glanced at his watch. The moment was approaching, slowly yes,
but with patience it would arrive and then he, and The Gunner, Lester and
Sophie, Terry Hsiang, all of them would arrive at the time and place they
were meant to be and Jergen and Zander, and all the other boys who lived in
fear would no longer see a future where a grave was all that awaited them.