Date: Wed, 23 Jun 2004 08:28:57 -0400
From: John Ellison <paradegi@rogers.com>
Subject: Aurora Tapestry - Chapter 11

AURORA TAPESTRY is the third book in a series. It chronicles the lives and
times of a group of men and teenage boys living in an age and an
environment where being gay was to be despised, maligned and scorned. It is
a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or
places, is purely coincidental.

My writing reflects the customs, mores, traditions, prejudices and
attitudes of the times. The year is 1976 and it was a different world. Some
of the attitudes will no doubt offend those who are so determinedly
politically correct that they are unable to conceive that others might have
a different opinion or outlook. Please, do not write me hooting and
hollering about your cause, prejudices, preferences or whatever. I am not
into causes. I AM a grumpy old sailor and I do not suffer fools gladly. Be
warned.

In 1976 the AIDS pandemic was only just infecting North America. Condoms
were used primarily to prevent pregnancy and gay men never gave a thought
to having sex with a condom. Do not, I beg you, let what was common in 1976
influence your conduct today. Always practice safe sex.

As my writings detail scenarios of gay sex - tastefully, I hope - in
sometimes graphic detail, I must warn that in some states, provinces,
cities and towns reading, possessing, downloading, etc., is illegal, or if
you are not of legal age to read, possess, download, etc., works of
erotica, please move on.

My thanks, as always, to Peter, who is an honourary grumpy old sailor (he
was in another branch, poor man). His strength, editing skills, cajoling
and general grouchiness cause me to think and I owe him a great deal.

To any of you who wish, please write me at paradegi@rogers.com. I respond
to all e-mails, except flames, unless I am in a particularly grumpy mood,
and then I flame back. Be warned!


Aurora Tapestry - Chapter 11

	In British Properties a man sat on the wide, stone piazza that ran
the length of the house. With his face buried in his hands he did not see
that star-studded sky overhead, the manicured lawns that stretched to the
high stone fence that separated the flowerbeds and stands of trees from the
virgin forests to the north. He did not see the pinpricks of light that
marked the three villages that housed the perimeter guards and other staff
members.

Behind him, behind the curtains covering the multi-paned windows, he knew a
low-keyed, verbal battle was raging. He did not care. Let them call each
other names, let them insult one another. Patrick Tsang did not care. He
was covered with shame and his life, as he had known it, was over.

With his face buried in his hands, Patrick rocked back and forth, moaning
softly. All his hard work, all his struggling, all his education had flown
into the air when Michael's voice had interrupted his quiet drink with the
Major and Laurence. His veneer of sophistication, his carefully modulated
tone of voice, his clothing of gentility, everything had crumbled and
withered away, replaced by 11 centuries of ignorance! The modern, educated
man had become a 16th Century peasant.

Michael's appearance had caused three men to rise. His voice had caused two
heads to bow. The third body, Patrick's body, had fallen to its knees, arms
extended, palms flat against the fitted, patterned carpet. Patrick had
kow-towed, closing his eyes lest his very look soil the image of the
Serenity. He had prostrated himself and tapped his forehead three times
against the carpet, and in the process had caused humiliation and shame for
the Serenity's voice had cut like a sword through the air, inflicting a
deep wound.

"I will speak with you privately, Major," had come the ice-edged words. And
then, the final, ultimate shame, "And get that fool off of the floor!"

Tears of shame coursed down Patrick's face. His father, in the face of deep
opposition from the other Elders, had sealed his sons with great ceremony
and complete confidence. He had sent his sons to the proper schools, seen
them educated in the Western style, removed the ancient shrines that
littered their house and taken them to a Christian church. Everything that
could be done to turn an ignorant Chinese peasant into a modern,
cosmopolitan Chinese-Canadian had been done, and in one foolish instant
Patrick had retrogressed to the Middle Ages, and in the doing of it had
thrown away a brilliant future.

Hearing Michael's searing, burning anger, Patrick had scrambled to his feet
and hurried outside. He did not know where else to go. He had fled the
Serenity's anger and now he awaited his fate, vowing that his time on his
earth would not end as Cousin Joey Tsang's had ended, the hulking man
squealing like a pig, wailing and begging for his life!

The soft scuffle of leather on stone interrupted Patrick's suffering. He
turned to see Michael approaching and rose carefully, his heart pounding,
his palms wet with fear. Instinctively he hung his head. Whatever was to
be, would be.

"Sit down, Patrick," came Michael's calm, warm voice. As Patrick lowered
himself to sit on the cold, stone steps, Michael placed his hand on
Patrick's shoulder, balancing himself as he joined the younger man.

Feeling the touch of Michael's hand on his shoulder, Patrick felt a tremor
course through his body. He turned his head slightly and his deep, dark
eyes took in the face of the man he had sworn to serve throughout his life.

Sensing Patrick's fear, Michael gently squeezed his shoulder. He too felt
something ripple through him. He did not remove his hand and sat quietly,
feeling the warmth of the young man against his body. Finally, he spoke.

"You must never do that again, Patrick," Michael said softly. "I am not a
god."

Hanging his head, Patrick nodded slowly. "I know it is forbidden, I . . ."

A low, ironic chuckle escaped Michael's throat. "It is forbidden because it
demeans one. You are a man, Patrick."

Feeling the hand on his shoulder gave Patrick the courage to say what he
felt. "I am your servant, I am yours to do as you wish. I am sorry if I
displeased you."

"You did not displease me," returned Michael sharply. "You disappointed
me!"

"I . . .?" Patrick looked quizzically at Michael. "I do not understand."

A long, low breath escaped Michael's lips. "You are not a peasant." He
shook his head sadly. "And you are not a fool. I apologize most sincerely
for that. It was unkind, and most unnecessary."

"I was a fool," replied Patrick, a small smile teasing his lips. "So much
was expected of me, and I threw it all away. I returned to what I am, a
stupid Chinese peasant."

"If you ever speak that way again," snapped Michael, his hand squeezing
Patrick's shoulder without warmth, "you will become a Chinese peasant!"

"But Serenity . . ."

"And do not address me by that term! My name is Michael, not Serenity and I
am your employer, not your emperor!"

Daringly, Patrick asked, "And am I to be your consort?"

"No, Patrick, you are not," replied Michael. He looked with sad,
compassionate eyes at the handsome young man. "You know, until I saw you I
never really appreciated the beauty that exists in the Chinese male. You
are quite handsome, Patrick, and any man would be a fool not to take you to
his bed."

Patrick's eyes widened in surprise as he asked, "If I please you, why then
. . .?"

"Patrick, there is no place in my life for a consort. A companion, yes, a
friend, yes, but a consort, no." He held up his free hand to forestall any
reply from Patrick. "I have no doubt that you would do everything you could
to please me, just as I have no doubt that if I asked it you would come to
my bed, and in some ways I am tempted. However, I will not give in to that
temptation."

"Then what is to happen? If I displease in any way, please tell me,"
protested Patrick mildly. "I want to please you."

"But for all the wrong reasons," responded Michael. "You think that because
of my position you must demean yourself, lower yourself, give yourself, to
me. If I thought that you loved me, as a man, I might consider it. But you
do not, do you?"

Patrick knew better that to lie, to verbally kow-tow to Michael. "No," he
said simply. "I do not love you in that manner. I love you as my Sovereign
Lord, but I do not yet love you as a man."

"Good!" Michael stood up and gestured for Patrick to join him. He took
Patrick's hand in his and together they walked the length of the
terrace. "Patrick, I will not deny that I am attracted to you. You are very
handsome, intelligent, and loyal. The Major chose well."

A snorting laughter broke the warm, summer air. "He and Laurence examined
me as if they were choosing a horse! I half expected them to examine my
teeth!"

Laughing, Michael shook his head. "The Major has a tendency to revert to
his colonial past." His face sobered and he continued. "I understand what
he was trying to do, and I appreciate what he was trying to
do. Unfortunately, for you, and for me, while I might care to have a
companion, sharing my bed, sharing his body with me, is not what I want."

Patrick gently squeezed Michael's hand. "You are man, as you have said. Men
do not sleep alone."

Raising Patrick's hand to his lips, Michael kissed it gently. He raised his
eyes to gaze into Patrick's. "I cannot sleep any other way, Patrick. I have
dedicated my life to something much greater than you, or me, much greater
than anything you have ever known. I am rebuilding a thing of wonder. My
life is dedicated to the Order. Having you at might side would bring me
great joy, great triumph, perhaps great happiness, but it cannot be."

With insight, Patrick replied, "You ask much of yourself."

Nodding, Michael led Patrick to the house. "I ask much of many men. Tonight
a man will be asked to sacrifice a great treasure for the greater good of
his fellow men. If I ask this sacrifice of him, I cannot do less." He
halted before opening the tall French door. "You will become my
companion. I will call upon you to accompany me from time to time. You will
not be asked to offer sexual favours." A caustic laugh escaped his lips. "I
too, must sacrifice a treasure."

Patrick's face brightened. "Me?"

Michael paused at the closed door and turned to look at Patrick. "Laurence
is a very good man. He will always care for you," replied Michael, not
daring to commit his thoughts, "and love you as I cannot," to words. He
smiled gently as he said, "I pray that you will be happy with him."

"Will you ever know happiness?" asked Patrick, his heart going out to this
strange, stern, iron-disciplined man.

Michael shook his head. "In some ways, yes, in others, no. You are
fortunate in that you give yourself to a man who cares for you. I must give
myself to a woman who does not know me, who may never come to know me and
will never have my heart."

"You have decided then?"

Sighing, Michael nodded. "The contract is signed. The Major will affix my
chop and deliver it to Hong Kong." He smiled as he stepped into his
office. "Patrick, from time to time I will ask you to walk with me. I will
hold your hand, perhaps hold you. I will need the touch of a man. Please do
not fail me."

Patrick returned Michael's deep look and nod. He did not need to speak the
words. He would return to Laurence, but Michael had won his heart.

******


	The upper deck of the Naval Veterans' Club, which was located on an
obscure side street just south of the hub of Toronto, the intersection of
Yonge and Bloor Streets, was laid out in the manner of an English
gentleman's club. The walls, oak-panelled in the Jacobean manner, were hung
with stirring prints of sea battles and ships. The main room, perhaps 40
feet by 40 feet, was carpeted with a deep blue rug, framed in a wide, wine
coloured border, latticed with a beige and ivory criss-crossed rope weave
pattern. It was furnished with comfortable red sofas, balanced with blue
upholstered, rosewood Empire-style chairs and overstuffed armchairs
upholstered in shades of light green, red and gold. Over the fireplace hung
an oil portrait of the Queen, behind which were draped the White and Blue
Ensigns. To the left was a large alcove with a pegged oak floor: the
bar. Large open windows gave access to the street below on the south, and a
dank alley on the west. The room, except for The Gunner and Ace, was empty.

As he examined the hanging prints and portraits, and grimaced at a
particularly garish oil of Nelson lying mortally wounded on the deck of
HMCS Victory, The Gunner's mind was racing. So much had happened this
evening, almost too much to absorb. A great sadness had fallen over his
soul. Not so very long ago he had spoken one word, 'accepto'. He had
accepted the nomination as Chancellor of the Order, he had accepted
election as Chancellor and he had this evening accepted his fate. He had
been asked to give up one part of his life for the better good, of the
Order, and of defenceless boys. He wondered if he was making a fair trade.

Sighing, The Gunner settled himself onto a sofa. He drummed his fingers
impatiently. He and Ace had hurried along Bloor Street, determined not to
be late and now, or so it appeared, the man they were supposed to meet, was
late.

Ace saw his companion's impatience and offered a drink. He was, selfishly,
deliriously happy. While he knew what The Gunner was giving up, he now knew
that the man would be with him. His wish had come true. He would have The
Gunner all to himself, they would live together and perhaps, one day, share
a love. Ace was, however, careful to hide his feelings. Steve was hurting
and needed comfort and sympathy. He sat beside The Gunner, leaned forward
and carefully patted The Gunner's hand. "It won't be forever, Steve," he
said softly, referring to the enforced separation of The Gunner and The
Phantom.

Shrugging, The Gunner smiled weakly. "It's my own damned fault! I've gone
through life refusing to bend, refusing to compromise, determined to do my
duty, and now . . ."

"You can always resign," offered Ace, knowing that Steve would never
countenance such a thing.

The Gunner proved Ace correct. His reply was firm. "It is not an option. I
took an oath, Ace, and I gave my word."

Nodding, Ace commented, "You are a stern man, Steve, and whether you like
it or not, you will make a great Chancellor." He thought a moment and then
added, "You and Michael are very much alike. Neither of you will allow your
personal happiness to interfere with what you see as your duty. Frankly, I
admire you." A slow smile creased Ace's lips. "And just as frankly I very
much doubt that I would be able to do it!"

"You don't give yourself enough credit," returned The Gunner with a
smile. "Sophie thinks that underneath that hedonistic exterior is a man of
steel. I agree with her."

"You do?" asked Ace, surprised. He had always felt himself to be a selfish,
self-centred man whose only concern was the next cock he was going to suck.

"I do," replied The Gunner firmly. "You lack direction, Acton, and if I
read you correctly, you've spent most of your life, at least your life
since you discovered sex, satisfying your basic needs." His eyes bore into
Acton. "You are a Knight, and a man. Sophie has asked that I give you that
direction. And frankly, Ace, I think you are much too valuable, as a
Knight, but more importantly, as a man, to waste your life on the Lesters
of this world!"

Ace was about to quip that the Lesters of the world were what made life
interesting, but he saw the look on The Gunner's face and answered
seriously, "Steve, I understand what you and Sophie are trying to do, but
I'm not sure that I'm quite the man you think I am."

The Gunner's face grew stony. "Ace, all that having a penis and testicles
between your legs means is that you are a male of the species!" He reached
out and tapped Ace's chest. "It is what is in here that counts, that makes
you a man. It's in there, you just haven't taken the time to see it."

Ace leaned back against the chair and sighed. "Steve, I'm not sure that I
can do it! I don't want to disappoint you!"

"Ace, I know that you're in love with me, just as I know that you are
secretly pleased about this latest turn of events." Ace's embarrassed
silence told The Gunner that his words had struck home. "I understand the
way you feel, and I accept your love." He smiled grimly. "And I forgive you
your selfishness."

Somewhat taken aback, Ace blushed furiously. "I was hoping that it didn't
show!" he exclaimed. "I know I'm a right asshole for thinking that way."

"You are," agreed The Gunner. "But then, I'm a right asshole for abandoning
Phantom. In many ways he is still a child." He glanced obliquely at
Ace. "Like you, he needs guidance. All too often he lets his heart rule his
head. I shudder to think what he will do when he finds out that our
. . . relationship . . . is basically over. He has friends, but they are
boys, boys who all too often let their dicks rule their actions. If Phantom
could only find someone to, to be with him, to help him over the rough
spots, I'd rest easy. He needs the touch of a man, a mentor, perhaps a
lover, and I am very much afraid that no such man exists in Comox."

Ace thought a moment and said, "Look, Steve, you have to go back, you know,
to tie up any loose ends. And I can't see Michael doing business over the
telephone. He's going to either come here, to Toronto, or have you go to
him, probably the latter. When that happens you can take a few hours to go
up to Comox, to see your Phantom, to explain . . ."

"The unexplainable?" asked The Gunner harshly. "Because that is what it is,
unexplainable. I am walking out of his life, perhaps forever. How do I
explain that to him?"

"If he is the person you know him to be, then for all his 'childish'
foibles, you won't need to explain anything."

"I wish I had your confidence," replied The Gunner.

Ace then asked quietly. "And if he finds such a man as you think he needs,
what will you do?"

A heavy, dolorous sigh escaped The Gunner's lips. "I will remember that it
was I who walked away, walked away to perform the better good. I would
accept the man."

Ace snorted. "Bullshit!"

"What!"

"Steve, you'd be on him like ugly on an ape. If you thought for one minute
the man, any man, that Phantom chose was in any way bad for him, you'd move
heaven and earth to remedy the situation."

"Now it's my turn to say bullshit!" responded The Gunner. "I am not quite
so shallow as all that."

"But you are in love and while you might not want to admit it, you'll worry
and fret and demand that you, and you alone, give approval to whomever
Phantom might, and I emphasize might, find. You might accept that your
relationship is over, that you and your young man won't be together, but
you will never get over that relationship and you will never really give it
up." He smiled tautly. "Frankly, I pity the man who takes your place, if
such a man does take your place. Without your approval the poor bastard
won't have a chance!"

The Gunner could not deny Ace's contention. He coloured slightly as he hung
his head. He was prepared to give up everything he loved for the betterment
of the Order, and for the Navy he loved. His only consolation was that he
would have Ace at his side. He knew that Ace loved him, wanted him, and
would always be there. Still . . .

"Steve, when the time comes, make your peace with Phantom. But also let him
find his own way. Let him make the inevitable mistakes, and if he finds a
new happiness with another man, rejoice and be happy. You've chosen to move
away and take a new path, open a new chapter in your life. Turn the page
Steve, turn it and move on. Let Phantom move on!"

Nodding his agreement, The Gunner reluctantly said, "As difficult as it is,
Ace, I am doing just that." He looked carefully at Ace. "I won't deny that
I feel . . . love for you. You appeal to me in a way that no man has ever
appealed to me." He smiled thinly. "Having said that, I must also tell you
that one day I will leave you, perhaps for Phantom, perhaps because I am
required to do my duty elsewhere. I will never be a constant in your life,
Ace."

"I know," whispered Ace in reply. "But I'm willing to take you as you are,
to take whatever life I might have with you for as long as you'll allow me
to have it." His chilling laugh drifted across the Edwardian splendour of
the room. "And I'll try not to be jealous of a teenage boy, who one day
won't be a teenager." He looked levelly at The Gunner. "You know, when I
heard the news about you having to stay here, and leaving everything behind
in Comox, it was all I could do not to run home, grab my kilt, put it on
and dance down Bloor Street!"

The Gunner reached out and patted Ace's knee. "I know."

"But you never said a word!"

"No." The Gunner smiled kindly. "Ace, you've wanted me all to yourself ever
since our first time together. You would not be human if you did not feel
some form of . . . glee . . . at the turn of events. You're fondest wish
had come true, after all."

A strange look came over Ace's face. "And now I feel like a shit!" He shook
his head. "I don't deserve you, Steve."

"Yes, you do," replied The Gunner. "For some reason our lives are
entwined. I accept it, just as I accept that one day we will part, and one
day I will return to Phantom."

"You're taking this all very calmly, I must say," returned Ace. "Are you
always this . . . stoic?"

"When I am required to be, yes," replied The Gunner impassively. "When I am
faced with accepting the unacceptable, and also when I am forced to do
business with the dregs of humanity." The Gunner's face had grown hard as
he viewed a stocky figure hovering in the doorway of the room. He pointed
ever so slightly with his chin. "This, I presume, is Mr. Troubridge."

******

	As Troubridge settled his bulk onto the sofa opposite to that on
which The Gunner and Ace sat, Ace noticed The Gunner's eyes narrowing and
an almost imperceptible sneer curling his lips. What Ace did not know, but
in time would come to know, as would The Phantom and those closest to The
Gunner, was that he was witnessing firsthand a gesture, an almost invisible
sign of the contempt that The Gunner could not, for one reason or another,
express in any other way.

The Gunner had analyzed the too little information that had been imparted
by Michael concerning Mr. Harry Troubridge. He thought of the old saying
that if one wanted to take the measure of a man, one should know his butler
and The Gunner had taken Troubridge's measure and did not like what he saw.

Troubridge had been in Percy Simpson's service for 20 years and would have
been privy to the goings-on in any of the houses that Percy chose to
occupy. Troubridge had to have known about the boys and had kept silent!
Troubridge might not have partaken from the well of forbidden waters, but
he knew of it, and that made him, at the very least, a co-conspirator, an
accessory, if not before, then certainly after, the fact!

Which had led The Gunner to believe that the butler's reasons for being in
this room were not in the least altruistic. The Gunner had lived in
England, and in a small way, had learned the ways not only of the nobility
but also of their servants. A butler knew all the secrets of the house and
if he were smart, kept his mouth shut and enjoyed, at the end of the day, a
comfortable retirement in a small pub or discreet Bed and Breakfast. If a
particularly venal master employed him, a smart butler spent his retirement
years in a villa in the South of France, or other such hospitable venue
where his particular tastes could be catered to. There was no such thing,
in The Gunner's opinion, as a poor retired butler.

In The Gunner's lowered eyes Harry Troubridge was equally guilty, a party
to perversion, a partner to abuse, a silent witness whose silence had been
bought, which meant that whatever information Troubridge had, he was
selling not giving, and this thought led The Gunner to think that whatever
transpired tonight would cost him, or the Order, or both, a great deal.

******

	  Troubridge had spent much of the day going over his accounts. He
realized that the end was near. He had well and truly let the cat out of
the bag and it was only a matter of time before someone - the police he
thought most likely - would come banging on the door. When that day
happened he had no plans on being anywhere near the door. He would be
. . . He needed a bolthole, a place that was secure, a place where he could
lie low, a place where no one knew him, a place where strangers who came to
inquire after former English butlers would be rebuffed, a place where
money, whether dollars or pounds or francs, bought the silence of the
locals.

Troubridge had no fear of Percy Simpson. He was an old man, long past his
prime, whose only interest was to receive at regular intervals the
"deposits" of Eugen, Sepp and Gottfried. No, Troubridge did not fear
Percy. But he did fear the hard-eyed men who would come if he and Eugen
disappeared. They would turn over every stone; question anyone who had had
any dealings with him, in their search.

Our 'Arry needed a bolthole. After that, when the dust had settled and the
participants in this whole, sad, sorry business were dead or behind bars,
he would find a pleasant little village somewhere, buy the local pub, or
Squire's residence, and enjoy life. There were several available, but they
were expensive. It would take money, but then Our 'Arry had money and, from
the figures in the bankbooks and ledgers, it seemed a great deal of it.

Troubridge had been butler to Percy Simpson for 20 years. He had lived
rent-free, had his meals provided for, and received a generous salary. He
did not have to worry about clothing. Once a year his wardrobe was
replaced, the tailor paid by Percy, the "old" morning suits and director's
jackets sent off to a dealer in upscale cast offs, for a price, of
course. While others had come and gone, Troubridge remained, his hoard
increased by frequent "tokens" of appreciation, which tokens grew larger
with the rapacity of the orgies he had witnessed. Then there were the tips
he received, small gratuities from grateful guests for his not mentioning
finding them in bed with a boy, or a youth, or another man. Larger
gratuities for turning a blind eye to the perversions visited on the boy,
or the youth or the man.

As he examined yet again one of his deposit books, Troubridge shook his
head. "The things I could talk about," he thought. "And the names I could
name!"

A smile creased Troubridge's face as he began to put the records of his
financial future away. If he played his cards right the man, or men, he was
to meet later on in the evening, would be interested in those names, all of
which he had documented, not only in his diaries and ledgers, but in the
copies of papers he had purloined from Percy's safe. The originals he kept
in a deposit box in the same Building Society that cared for his money, at
a decent rate of interest, of course.

As he left the house, Troubridge had no fear of discovery. Sepp and
Gottfried were in their room and, from the squeals, squeaks, moans and
groans, doing whatever it was they did together when in their room. Eugen
was also in his room, alone, with the door locked securely. And Percy?
Well, he was in the upper part of the house, bathing the little Russian
boy, cooing and mooing over the weeping child, a child he was forbidden to
touch in any way.

A tremor of fear coursed through Troubridge as he manoeuvred his bulk into
the taxi that would take him downtown. He knew of the man for whom the
little Russian was reserved. If Percy so much as gave the little boy an
erection, Troubridge knew what would happen to his employer. The German
whom Percy reported to had a particular taste for young, virgin boys, and
if he were presented with a boy who was in any way sullied, why then Percy
would suffer . . . A shudder of real fear coursed through Troubridge. He
had heard stories and wondered if there were still coal-fired boilers.

As the cab pulled away from the house and travelled slowly down the long
driveway that would take it to the street, a sick feeling, a lump of bile,
settled into Troubridge's stomach and he determined that tonight he would
negotiate a price that would guarantee his safety and hasten his leaving
this house, this dismal abode in the lowest level of Dante's Hades!

******

	"You are Harry Troubridge?" asked The Gunner curtly when the butler
was settled. "And you have information for us?"

The Gunner had no time for reptiles, and would not waste any on
pleasantries with one. Ace, while shocked at The Gunner's demeanour,
hastily made the introductions and then kept silent.

Troubridge, who had met young men such as was now confronting him before,
nodded. "Algie said that you would help," he said, his backbone
stiffening. He too, could play the hardnosed game.

"You wish to leave your employer, one Percy Simpson." The Gunner's face
became a rictus of disgust. "A paedophile, an abuser of children, a thief."
He leaned forward, his eyes hard. "Be careful, Mr. Troubridge, for you play
a dangerous game."

"I play no games," returned Troubridge, fear for the first time entering
his soul. "I have information. I am prepared to . . . impart that
information."

"For a price," snapped The Gunner, his veneer of civility wearing thin.

"I say, there is no need to take that tone," returned Troubridge, afraid,
yet at the same time sure of his position. After all, he had the
information, had he not?

"Let's not beat about the bush, Troubridge," said The Gunner tightly. "You
called our friend in British Columbia. You called him out of fear, not out
of compassion, or caring for the boys I happen to know at this moment are
more than likely being abused by Simpson." Once again The Gunner leaned
forward. "You want out and I do not particularly care about your reason, or
reasons, for wanting out. All I care about is the destruction of what I
know to be a web of paedophiles, perverts that are importing young boys for
their own purposes. If you are able to . . . assist . . . then so be it. If
the reason for your assistance is monetary gain, then name your price."

Troubridge did not hesitate a moment. "Twenty-five thousand, pounds, not
dollars, to be deposited in an account I shall name."

Wide-eyed, Ace looked at The Gunner, who did not have twenty-five thousand
pounds. His face grew pale when he heard The Gunner utter one word: "Done."

A look of triumph filled Troubridge's face. "And done." He began to slowly
open the portfolio of papers he had brought with him. As he began to leaf
through the photocopies he looked slyly at his antagonist. "There is one
other, um, requirement."

The Gunner's fists tightened. If this sorry excuse for a human being
thought that he could be held to further ransom he was about to be sorely
disabused.

Troubridge hastily held up his hand. "Not money. There is a boy that I
would like taken care of."

"A boy?" asked Ace, looking at Troubridge. The man did not seem to be the
type who would be at all interested in anything other than money.

"There are, at present, three boys living in Mr. Percy's house," offered
Troubridge almost conspiratorially.

"Germans, no doubt," growled The Gunner, wishing to make it plain to the
man that he knew what was going on, or to at least give that impression.

"What happened to the three fairies he had with him at the Conclave?"
interjected Ace.

Troubridge allowed a small, cynical laugh to escape his lips. "Mr. Percy's
tastes have varied over the years, the variety directly related to his
degree of impotency." He snickered again. "The three young men were a
failed attempt to revive moribund flesh. It is my understanding that they
spent much of their time with two other gentlemen."

"Willoughby and Hunter," murmured The Gunner.

"Ah, you know about them, then?" Troubridge smiled evilly.

"I am aware," replied The Gunner non-comittally. "The question is what do
you know about them?"

"Enough to hang them all." Troubridge gestured toward the papers he had
spread out on the table that separated the two sofas. "Them and more like
them."

As much as he wanted to lean out and snatch the papers away, The Gunner
remained calm. "You mentioned a boy?"

"Yes," replied Troubridge, nodding. "His name is Eugen, Eugen Arenberg. He
is not like the other two. They are whores."

Ace started. "I beg your pardon?"

Shrugging, Troubridge replied blandly. "Whores. They enjoy what they
do. Eugen on the other hand, does not. He wants to be away from this sordid
business. I promised to help him. Sepp and Gottfried - that's their names -
are quite content in their situation."

"Which is?" asked The Gunner.

"Percy Simpson has long had a history of using boys," returned
Troubridge. "It began before the war."

The Gunner, who was not aware of Simpson's past, asked quietly for
information. Troubridge was happy to oblige.

"Percy Simpson was a merchant banker. He was actively involved with the
Nazis in the rebuilding of Germany after the collapse of the Weimar
Republic. He had no interest in their ideology, or their crackpot
philosophies. He was interested in a return on his investments and in
satisfying his cravings for - at the time - teenaged boys."

"The Nazis were aware of his cravings?" asked Ace, not quite believing what
he was hearing.

"Of course. Percy could guarantee a good rate of interest on any loans
offered, and could influence other banking houses. There were mutual
benefits to be had. The Nazis got their money, and later had the gold they
stole from the conquered countries and the Jews laundered through Simpson's
connections in Switzerland and Portugal. Percy had his pick of eight
million Hitler Jugend."

A gasp escaped Ace's lips. "Eight million?"

Troubridge nodded. "Of course, only a small fraction was ever used to
satisfy Percy's, and his friends' perversions. Still, everyone was happy."
"And now?" The Gunner, his stomach churning, wanted to get on with it, to
finish it before he vomited.

"During the war, Mr. Percy spent a great deal of time in the Alps. The
Nazis worked with him, and through him, to funnel gold into the Swiss
banking system. He set up a corporation, a shell corporation, legally
registered, with a Board of Directors, to facilitate his dealings. In
return for a small percentage, and as many boys as the Nazis would allow
into the country, Mr. Percy spent a very prosperous, and satisfying war."

"But how did he manage to avoid detection? How did he manage to avoid
prosecution under the Trading with the Enemy Act?" demanded Ace.

A smug smile crossed Troubridge's lips. "You know of Willoughby and
Hunter. You do not know of the others, men of influence, in positions of
influence. I do."

"And you are prepared to tell us their names for a price," retorted The
Gunner.

Troubridge glared at his antagonist. "For a price. For 20 years I stood by
and watched these men rape and abuse children. I admit that I did
nothing. I also watched and listened as they rallied to protect one of
their own when he ran into trouble. I learned that running afoul of these
men meant one thing: pain and suffering. In some cases, I suspect death. I
have information to sell. I want a boy protected at all costs. Judge me if
you wish. I really don't care. I am looking out for me, and for Eugen."

"Very well," replied The Gunner, his patience at an end. "What else?"

"For years, ever since the end of the war, Mr. Percy has been the North
American contact for a ring that operates out of Eastern Europe, a ring
that is controlled by the STASI, and ultimately by the KGB. Both East
Germany and Russia desperately need hard currency. Mr. Percy, together with
Willoughby and Hunter, handles the financial end here in Canada and the
United States, and sometimes Mexico. They set up a shell company,
Sporinfabrik, and using it as a front, under the guise of spurious stock
sales, transfer funds to Germany. In return they receive boys. These boys
are pre-sold to men who can afford them. The younger the boy, the higher
the price. A clean, virgin, nine or ten-year-old boy commands a hundred
thousand dollars, US, payable in cash. Through other connections the boys
are brought into Canada, usually on student visas, visas approved by
friends in Foreign Affairs. Or they are smuggled into the United States,
which is where the biggest market is, if Visitors' visas cannot be
obtained. They also arrange for the resale of the boys. Eugen, for
instance, was with a man in Kentucky, I believe. When he tired of the boy,
he was returned, for a bargain price I might add, and is now awaiting
someone who has a particular fetish for boys his age."

Troubridge squirmed uncomfortably. "There is a steady resale market. You
must understand that the men who purchase boys only purchase boys of a
certain age, or hair colouring, or whatever. I could never understand,
really, what motivates their particular perversions, I only know that a man
who wants nine or ten-year-old boys will sell his boy the minute he reaches
eleven."

Ace had to excuse himself. "I need to find the can!" he snapped curtly as
he hurried from the room.

It took all of The Gunner's willpower, all of his strength, to disguise the
revulsion he felt. "You can prove this?"

Troubridge indicated his papers. "A small token of my bona fides. These are
copies. I have names, dates, all listed chronologically. I will make the
originals available when the money is deposited in my account." He handed
The Gunner a sheet of paper. "Lest you doubt me, the men on that list are
all participants, buyers, and on occasion, sellers. You may recognize some
of the names."

As The Gunner read the list of names his face grew pale. He pointed to a
name and asked, "Of a certainty?"

Troubridge's smugness was palpable. "Of a certainty. Not only does he use
the services of the boys, he is also the agent in Quebec. He's a pig
because he enjoys hurting the boys. He is also a traitor."

The Gunner's eyes rose to look at Troubridge. "How so?"

"He is a Separatist, to the extent that he is using funds given to him to
foster dissent in Anglo Canada. I also believe that he donates quite
handsomely to a neo-Fascist organization that has infiltrated the Canadian
Armed Forces."

The Gunner's mind reeled. He had never expected this. He had to talk to
Michael, and Rick Maslen. He also had to . . . "Any information you can
provide on this . . . organization . . . will be well rewarded."

Troubridge made a deprecating gesture. "I can provide little, but there are
some interesting letters in Mr. Percy's files. Mr. Percy considers them to
be crackpots, of no consequence, and any money sent to them is like pouring
it down a rat hole. Unfortunately the man Mr. Percy reports to, a man you
will regret ever meeting, believes in fostering dissent in all its forms."
He shrugged expressively. "He is a man who would slice your throat and then
walk away and enjoy a beer and sausage dinner."

"And that is the man you fear most of all," replied The Gunner
knowledgably.

"Yes," admitted Troubridge. "His name is Edmund Stennes and he is the point
man. From what I can gather he is STASI, but Moscow-trained. He is
ruthless, and without a conscience. When there are difficulties with the
boys, or a fractious client, he puts in an appearance, and then there are
no more difficulties."

"No more boys, you mean," returned The Gunner through tightly clenched
lips. "And if necessary, no more fractious clients."

"Please, sir, I beg you, do not cross this man. You cannot know the danger
you risk, I risk, if he hears so much as a whisper of what you are doing,
of what I am doing."

"You will be well-recompensed for any information you give me." The Gunner
stood up. "On Tuesday you will be here." He glanced at Ace as he said,
"Acton will make the arrangements and advise you of the time. Do not be
late. A certificate of deposit in the amount of 25,000 pounds will be given
to you. In return you will hand over any and all documents and other
papers, originals, not copies. I will make arrangements to bring your boy,
Eugen, to safety. That will take time but it will be done."

Troubridge quailed at the icy tone of The Gunner's voice. "There is another
boy, a Russian. He is only nine or ten. He is at the house now. None of the
other boys, nor Mr. Percy, is permitted to touch him. He is a special treat
for Stennes."  "Stennes is coming here?" asked The Gunner, his surprise
written on his face.

"Yes. I do not know when. I only know that the little boy is for him - he
enjoys them, you see - and to touch the boy means death."

The Gunner thought quickly. If he liquidated everything, sold all the
stocks, and emptied his bank account - wouldn't Uncle Edward love that - he
could satisfy this parasite. There were his aunt's jewels, but The Gunner
had no idea of their resale value. Better to rely on what he knew he
had. He nodded briskly and addressed Troubridge coldly, "Ten thousand
pounds for any information that proves useful on Stennes. Cash. You'll need
money to cover your tracks and cash is best. I want a photograph, if
possible, and his arrival date."

Without waiting for a reply The Gunner left the room and hurried down the
stairs and out the door to the street where he vomited explosively into the
gutter.

******

	"I need your telephone," said The Gunner to Ace as they hurried
along Bloor Street toward Ace's apartment. "I also want you to arrange a
car. We're going to Sophie's for a late night supper."

"May I ask why?" Ace had not been present when Troubridge had given the
list of names and Steve had been grimly silent since leaving the club.

"I need to speak to Michael Chan and to Rick Maslen. I also need to bring
Sophie into the loop. She's a dotty old duck, but I met some of her friends
tonight and I need to know more about them. If they are as powerful as she
claims they are, they can be of use to us. Also, I want you to contact your
friends in the Hassidic community. Arrange to meet with a gem broker." He
stared at the passing traffic for a moment and then issued another
instruction. "Also, please check the exchange rate on pounds sterling. Then
speak with your banker to arrange for the bank draft and the cash."

"All right. Monday?"

"Yes, after the funeral. We'll go directly to whomever you contact for the
jewels. I am not planning on attending the wake."  Ace nodded. "This is
bigger than you thought, isn't it?" he asked.

"Bigger than Michael thought," replied The Gunner. He stopped
abruptly. "Ace, I recognized one of the names on Troubridge's list. I
recognized it and I intend to bring the treacherous French bastard down!"

******

 	The mansion stood on the north shore of the river, on tall bluff
overlooking the wide channel that separated the mainland from the Isle
d'Orleans. The main house, two stories tall, with narrow windows and stout,
iron bound doors, was a relic of the original Seigneiury, and was
pockmarked with holes from the musket balls and singed in places from the
fire arrows fired at it during the two sieges by marauding Iroquois it had
weathered during the French and Indian wars.

Built of native fieldstone the house had, as the centuries passed, been
added to as the prosperity of the family and the ever-expanding Seigneiury
grew. To the north and east was the village of Ste Anne de Beaupre, and its
world famous Basilica. To the southwest was Quebec City. Behind the house
the bountiful fields that had brought prosperity were bright with the
riches of what promised to be a very good crop, the fields of ripe corn and
wheat blowing in the soft wind, the trees in the orchards drooping their
branches from the heavy load of apples that awaited the arrival of the
pickers. It had been a good year and the General smiled. His Intendant,
Lebarge, had done well. His façade as a retired, gentleman farmer was
assured.

Adjusting the lapels of his Paris-made suit jacket, the General lit a
foul-smelling Gauloise. If only the other reports on his desk were as
optimistic. He sighed angrily. Willoughby and Hunter had called in a
panic. The markets had plunged and a great deal of money had been lost! The
General did not particularly care if either of the Anglais batards lost
money. He did care if they lost his money, because he needed it! Or, more
to the point, Levesque and his band of useful idiots needed it. They could
win the upcoming election with money, and the General had pledged,
secretly, to supply it.

The General was dedicated to a separate, free Quebec. He had worked much of
his life to further his ideal. When in the Navy he had used his influence
to see to it that money originally earmarked for projects in Halifax, or
Victoria, or any Anglais venue, was sent instead to Quebec. He had placed
his own people in positions of authority in Ottawa, true Quebecois who
would see to it that the aims of Quebec were furthered. In time, with the
Anglais yoke lifted, Quebec would assume her rightful place in world
politics.

The movement was strong, and growing stronger every day. Politically the
movement was advancing, gaining adherents, not only among the young,
disaffected voters, but also with the older, more settled,
conservative-minded voters. Winning in Quebec meant a blow to the Liberal
body politic. Playing one off against the other guaranteed that the money
pipeline would flow unimpeded from Ottawa. The Liberals could be played for
the fools they were, and would pay for Quebec's independence.

Chuckling, the General regarded the balance sheets again. With Quebec City
in his pocket, and Ottawa nearly so, the money would buy the necessary
votes in the Referendum. Which was very expensive. As was an election
campaign. Merde! What grasping, greedy things politicians were. Always they
came, with their hands out, an unctuous smile on their faces, making empty
promises (or so they thought). They were fools, for the General gave
nothing for nothing, as more than one Member of Parliament had learned to
his regret.

Victory was in his hand. He could feel it. He could taste it! All he needed
was money to ensure a Parti Québécois victory and now those two idiots had
gone and screwed everything up! Damn them! Everything had been going
well. The money from Germany, the money he needed to support the fools who
strutted around in black uniforms heiling a dead madman, would not be
enough to also support the Cause. He needed that movement to divert
attention from his true goals. The authorities were busily running around
chasing a neo-Nazi farce, never dreaming that hidden in the back country
was a special camp filled with pur lain boys training to form Quebec's new
army, an army that he would command, never dreaming that selected boys
would be sent to Germany, to another special facility, a facility where
they would learn their true callings as ruthless, uncaring automatons, his
special Guarde, boys who would do his bidding and ensure his grip on the
Quebec that was to come.

To that end the General cultivated the true leaders of the Aryan
Brotherhood, paying them for their cooperation and collusion. He even
allowed selected boys to participate in the special training. Who knew what
good would come of it? After all, oft times a convert was plus Catholique
de le Pape. Which was exactly what was happening in the guest wing, or so
he hoped.

Leaving his office, the General went upstairs, his footfalls muffled by the
thick carpet that covered the floor. He stopped outside the bedroom door,
listening carefully. From the sounds the tow-headed Anglais guttersnipe was
having the time of his life! Smiling as he listened to the muffled grunts
and squeals, the General began fingering his crotch, feeling his growing
tumescence. He knew that he could count on his favourite nephew. Sylvain
might be a blond-haired aberration, but he was pur lain, and loyal.

A long, high-pitched squeal broke the silence of the corridor and the
General squeezed his hardness through his trousers. It had been a very long
time since he had enjoyed a boy. For a moment he wondered why he had never
taken his nephew. But then, one did not play with family, did one? No, it
was better to . . . Lebarge's youngest boy was now 12, perhaps a little
older, he wondered . . .?

The hour was late, but Lebarge had many sons, all of whose livelihood
depended on the General's happiness. Perhaps the boy had reached the sweet
stage. The General hoped so. He would so delight in being the first to
taste virgin boy cream.

Turning, the General was about to hurry down to the telephone when his eyes
fell on the table halfway down the corridor. Sacre! She had done it
again. How many times had he to tell his wife not to use the old souvenirs
from their time in Esquimalt? He stared at the silver candlesticks and
colourful plate. Madame must be made to realize that such things must not
be seen! Not now! Another muffled squeal broke the silence and the General
turned his head, listening.  Ah, the lucky fellows, he thought as he
hurried down the corridor, all thoughts of Madame and her purloined
crockery forgotten. He must ring Lebarge, who must bring his youngest boy
to the house! Now what was the boy's name? Armand? Achille? Did it matter?
Did it really matter at all?

******

	The slim, blond-haired boy's howl of ecstacy filled the large,
ornate bedroom and his quaking body trembled as the French-Canadian youth
whose body was pinning him to the huge, carved, oak four-poster bed rammed
viciously, slamming his thick, hard penis against the English boy's
prostate. The Anglais' penis, assaulted for at least 20 minutes by the
youth's manic thrusting, rubbing it against the cotton sheets that covered
the bed and against his downy treasure trail, spasmed and squirted, filling
the sheet with his hot ejaculate.

The Anglais could feel the hot breath of the French-Canadian youth blowing
in his ear, could hear the high-pitched squeaks he made as he approached
orgasm, could feel the boy's broad hands squeeze his shoulders tighter,
could feel the massive organ that had caused his eyes to widen in pleasure,
thicken. He thrust his head up and even as his body continued to convulse
in the throes of the most powerful orgasm he had ever experienced the
Anglais boy shouted, "Fuck me! Fuuuccckkk Meee!"

Sylvain began thrusting harder and then, as he bent his head to press his
lips against the Anglais boy's, a high-pitched squeak rent the air. He
jammed and rammed maniacally and the Anglais could feel Sylvain's huge
penis, hard, thick, and long, throb and then the warm liquid filling his
bowels. He returned the youth's passionate kiss and their tongues duelled
as Sylvain thrust and thrust in short sharp jabs.

Finally, with a groan of animalistic fervour, Sylvain rolled from blond's
body. He lay, spread-eagled, arms and legs akimbo, moaning from the after
effects of the best fuck he had ever had in his life.

******

	Sylvain was no stranger to boy with boy sex, just as he was no
stranger to man with boy sex. He had, in fact, had a very active sex life
almost from the day he had agreed to become an altar boy and been
introduced to Father Marcel, a devilishly handsome young priest with a
dazzling smile, a Gallic wit, a steel-trap, well-trained Jesuitical mind
and an insatiable appetite for boys in general, and the 30-odd altar boys
who served in the chapel of St. Ignatius Loyola in particular.

Attached to the chapel was the Jesuit College, a huge, rambling structure
built in the French Colonial manner. Here, with a student body of 450
boarders and 80 day boys, the Jesuits maintained, or so they thought, the
French Canadian culture. No hint, no vestige, of the hated and detested
English overlords was ever allowed to pollute the hallowed air of the
school. The boys were instructed in the classical, European manner, and
indoctrinated in all things French. Later Sylvain would ponder over the
other things he was taught, practices that were hardly unique to France.

Life in the school was pleasant enough, and the priests and brothers made
certain that the boys, the sons of the finest, and oldest French-Canadian,
pur lain families, lacked few, if any creature comforts. Sylvain, who had
shared a bed at home with two, and at times, three of his brothers, had
been pleasantly surprised to find on his arrival at the school that he
would have his own bed, in a room he shared with just one other boy.

The room was large, although somewhat gloomy, filled with heavily carved
and moulded furniture, the walls hung with bad prints and mezzotints of
Jesuit Martyrs suffering the most horrible of fates at the hands of
Iroquois, Arabs, and assorted Nubians. The room was also dominated by a
large crucifix, the Christ of which, carved from a single piece of a dark
veined wood, frightened the young boy, fresh from the wilds of Sept Isles
no end. Still, he and his roommate, Lucien Bedard, a short, black-haired,
handsome young boy who was forever laughing, and forever seeking fun, did
not have to brave the horrors of communal bathing, for there was a bath
attached, a refinement that Sylvain's uncle's money had made possible.

Sylvain's uncle, who had a sour-face wife, gainsaid his nephew
nothing. Sylvain was heir to the childless man, and did everything he could
to please the recluse, who lived in a huge stone house overlooking the
gorge of the St. Lawrence River, near Ste Anne de Beaupre. Uncle had
insisted that his favourite nephew have the best education available and
had sent him to Montreal, to the Jesuit College, and into the hands of the
priests.

At first, Sylvain felt fear and trepidation. Back home the priests ruled
their parishes with an iron hand. They railed constantly at their
congregations, expounding most often on the sins of the flesh. They
interfered in everybody's life, telling them to have more babies, work
harder, give more to the church and to always vote Liberal.

Sylvain was thirteen and a bit when he entered the carved, arched doorway
of the Jesuit College. He was much too young to worry about having babies,
or working hard, or giving more to the Church - his father slipped him a
fiver every Sunday, for the collection plate - and he couldn't vote, for
the Liberal Party or anyone else. What did worry Sylvain were the myriad
sins of the flesh, which seemed would be denied him in this priest-ridden
environment.

Sex, innocent or otherwise, had been a part of Sylvain's life for almost
two years. He slept in a bed with two other boys, his brothers to be sure,
big strapping Quebecois lads with thick penises and hairy balls hanging
between their legs, lads who objected vehemently to having their "little"
brother plunked between them. While they knew that Sylvain had inherited
the family gene that had given them firm, thick penises and large,
pendulous testicles - although where their little brother's blond hair and
"English" colouring had come from puzzled them no end - they worried that
his presence in their bed would mean an end to their nightly playtime.

They need not have worried. Sylvain might have been just on the cusp of
puberty, and a little naïve, but he knew what happened when he, or one of
his brothers played with his or their dicks. He also made no objections
when Laurent and Pierre stripped naked for bed, parading about the bedroom,
showing their semi-hard organs, with their foreskins pulled back to reveal
just a hint of the huge, plum-coloured heads, scratching their balls and
asses. Sylvain was no fool, and besides, he had seen them together in the
barn one afternoon when they thought he'd gone into town. Laurent had bent
Pierre over a bale of hale, unbutton his overalls, and fucked his
18-year-old brother silly. When he was finished, roaring like the bull when
he serviced the cow, Pierre had exchanged places and Laurent had then
proceeded to fuck his 20-year old brother silly. In the loft Sylvain
experienced a dry orgasm and thereafter jerked himself into oblivion every
night with the images of his horny brothers fucking to beat the band
filling his mind.

For two years before leaving to go to the Jesuit College, Sylvain, Laurent
and Pierre pleasured each other in the night. As Sylvain grew older, and
taller, and if possible more handsome, it became apparent that his dick
would put his brothers' in the shade and his balls would hang lower than
either of them imagined. Sylvain, smug, gloried in the attention shown to
him. His brothers seemed to never tire of settling between his legs and
slowly sucking him first to hardness, and then to orgasm. They also taught
him other ways to bring himself, and them, to pleasure. The only thing he
refused to let them do was to fuck him, which they objected to loudly,
seeing as how he planted his huge club in one, or the other, sometimes
both, almost every night. Sylvain retorted that if they wanted his big
dick, which they did, they would have it on his terms. The most he would
allow was for either Pierre or Laurent to rub themselves off with their
erections snuggled in the crack of his ass. In compensation, however, he
became a very proficient, very expert cocksucker. Pierre and Laurent lapsed
into grudging acceptance, and met each other in the barn whenever they
could.

Leaving the farm, Sylvain worried that he would now be reduced to nightly
masturbation. He also knew that he would be sharing a room with a relative
stranger, and that he would have to be quiet, which was something his
brothers had stressed over and over while they pleasured him. They had also
warned him that he must never tell anyone what they did together, and for
God's sake, to never so much as hint at what they did in confession. They
were all good sons of Holy Mother Church and, with much makings of the Sign
of the Cross, they wanted everybody, the priests in particular, to share
that opinion.

Sylvain needn't have worried. The first night in the college he had emerged
from his nightly bath, dressed in flannel pyjamas, to find Lucien stretched
on his bed, happily pounding away. Lucien, who never missed a stroke,
informed his roommate that he beat off at least three times a day,
sometimes more, and always at night before retiring. He hoped that Sylvain
would understand that he had needs. He was sorry if lying in bed, pounding
his souris, his mouse, was offensive, but there it was. Sorry.

Laughing, Sylvain had immediately stripped off the pyjamas the priests
thought all the boys should wear to bed and lain down beside Lucien. One
thing led to another and before either of them knew it they were in the
classic sixty-nine position. It was a position they would assume for many
nights to come.

With his sex life assured, and hearing rumours that there was more to be
had outside the confines of his room, Sylvain had applied himself to his
studies, paying little attention to the gossip that seemed to dominate
every conversation. He assumed, correctly, that what he and Lucien were
doing was hardly uncommon, and from time to time he heard deep moans and
squeals coming from behind the closed doors of the rooms of the other
boarders, to which sounds he paid little attention, as he was fully
satisfied with Lucien.

There were, almost inevitably, the usual whispers about the habits of the
priests. This was nothing new as back home the old women, who seemed to
have nothing better to do, gossiped constantly about the priests who
occupied the rectory next door to the church. This was particularly true if
the priest were young, and handsome. The boys, particularly the older ones,
gave whispered warnings to the youngsters, and smiled knowingly when this
or that priest happened to pass by.

Sylvain, who was not at all interested in the priests, paid little
attention to the rumours. At least he did until the morning he had crawled
out of bed and gone into the bathroom for his morning pee. He had entered
the room to see Lucien standing in front of the sink washing the exposed
head of his penis, carefully cleaning the pale purple, curving dome, and
paying particular attention to the area under the curving rim of the glans.

As he peed Sylvain watched Lucien and then, intrigued, asked, "What are you
doing?"

"Cleaning myself. I'm on duty this morning." Lucien then released his
foreskin and nodded approvingly as it slowly covered the head of his
penis. He pulled the skin back again, nodded, released it and then walked
into the bedroom where he began to dress.

Sylvain was a little confused. Lucien being "on duty" meant that he was
serving early morning Mass, which was said every day at six in the
morning. All the boarders were required to attend this Mass. Lucien, as one
of the altar boys, usually served at this Mass once a week.

When he first arrived at the college, Sylvain had heard about the altar
boys. There were actually two sets of boys who served Mass. The younger
boys served in the chapel, where Mass was said daily, usually by Father
Marcel, the Dean. On Sundays the chapel, a misnomer as it could seat the
entire student body with ease, was open to the public and Mass was said at
ten, and a High Mass, always said by the Rector, or a visiting prelate, at
noon.

The second set of altar boys, drawn from the upper two, senior forms,
served the priests who said Mass in their rooms. A priest was required by
Canon Law to say Mass each and every day of his priestly life and, as there
were only three altars in the Chapel, each priestly cell had a small alcove
containing an altar built into his room.

Sylvain had avoided altar boy service. He simply was not interested at all,
basically going through the motions. He believed in God, and was a good son
of the Church, when it suited him. Back home he had attended Mass every
Sunday, and his brothers had been altar boys. Thus he knew that nowhere was
it written that one cleaned one's penis before serving at Mass and said as
much to Lucien.

Lucien raised one eyebrow in what he thought was a sophisticated
gesture. "Mais Sylvain, cher, when one's dick is being sucked one does like
to be clean, non?" Then he laughed lewdly. "Marcel likes a clean dick."

"Father Marcel?" Sylvain gasped. "He sucks your dick?"

Laughing, Lucien pulled on his grey trousers and searched for a clean
shirt. "After every Mass."

Shocked, Sylvain had sat down on his bed abruptly. "After Mass?"

"Sure. Of course he has us wait around until the coast is clear, but oui,
every time, it's drop your pants and show hard. Marcel is a pig for altar
boy dick!"

As Lucien tucked his shirt into his trousers Sylvain noticed that Lucien
had not put on underwear. Lucien saw him looking and grinned. "It's easier
without the unders, Sylvain. Less clothing to fumble around with." Then he
walked over and hefted Sylvain's penis and large testicles. "Pere Marcel,
he'd faint if he saw this! Ooh la, la!"

Sylvain squirmed away and then looked down at his 14-year-old flaccid
organ. Soft, it measured a little over four inches, from thick base to
blunt, foreskin covered head. Hard, it measured eight inches, and thickened
considerably. It was, he was forced to admit, a formidable weapon. He
raised his head and smiled slyly at Lucien. "After every Mass?"

Lucien nodded. "And sometimes he bends over and takes it up the ass."

Sylvain's jaw dropped. "You've fucked him?" he gasped when he had recovered
from the shock.

"Sure have," confirmed Lucien. "He's pretty tight and likes it rough." He
sighed unhappily. "But not today. Alphonse is on with me and he's got the
dick of a horse."

Sylvain nodded. Alphonse St. Germain was hung like a horse, and built like
a brick shithouse. He was tall, muscular, and always horny. Sylvain
snickered. "He is one stud, that Alphonse."

Lucien laughed loudly. "And Marcel is his mare." Then he knelt down and
kissed the tip of Sylvain's penis. "Of course, if he saw you, he'd change
studs. You are ever so much bigger than Alphonse."

"I am?" Sylvain lay back on the bed while Lucien slowly suckled him. He
began to thrust gently and then pulled away. "Is he looking for altar
boys?"

Lucien pulled away, nodded his head, smiled and went back to sucking
Sylvain's dick.

******

	Becoming an altar boy was hardly a difficulty. One showed up, one
was instructed in the responses, measured for a cassock and soutane and put
on the roster. The whole process took less than two weeks. Thereafter the
new boy would serve the early Mass, which was greatly simplified. All the
responses were in French, and there were less prayers and mumbling. Later,
if he proved himself, the new boy would be allowed to serve at special
Masses, usually funerals, occasionally weddings (the Chapel enjoyed a
certain cachet in society). The extra money the boys received was
welcome. Father Marcel's gratitude at a well served mass more so.

For the first month after becoming an altar boy, Sylvain was left
alone. Father Marcel concentrated on teaching him rubrics, the proper way
to serve a Mass, complimented him on his bearing and deportment, and never
made a move. Sylvain would linger outside the chapel after Mass, watching
Alphonse, Lucien and half a dozen other boys emerge, snickering, flushed,
rubbing their crotches, and smiling. Then, one evening after Vespers, the
priest had asked Sylvain to wait in the Chapel while he discussed tomorrows
schedule with Lucien. When he emerged from the room the boys used to
change, Lucien gestured and winked. Sylvain nodded, swallowed, and entered.

Father Marcel stood and gazed at the blond vision, so beatific in his
starched white soutane and black cassock. He had lusted after Sylvain
nightly and now the time had come.

Sylvain closed his eyes and waited, feeling the soutane being pulled over
his head, feeling the buttons of his cassock being undone. He felt hot
hands fumbling with the buckle of his belt and pushing his trousers
down. He heard a gasp and then felt the warmth envelop his penis.

******

	From that moment Sylvain became Father Marcel's favourite boy. Not
only was he assigned the choicest of masses, where a good tip was
guaranteed, but every Sunday he was given the honour of carrying the huge,
ornate, processional Cross. Handsome, tall, and muscular, Sylvain basked in
the looks of envy from the other altar boys and lust from more than one
member of the congregation - both male and female.

In time Sylvain learned that his penis could bring a great deal of pleasure
not only to himself, and Father Marcel, but also to other boys. He was
constantly asked to come up to this or that room for a game of lacrosse,
which was really a play on words. In Jouel, masturbating was called ça
crosse. To invite another boy to one's room for a game of lacrosse was an
invitation to play. Sylvain happily obliged.

Of course he kept Father Marcel happy. The young priest enjoyed nothing
better than a good fuck, stretched out on the dingy carpet of the changing
room. He also enjoyed a good blow job, which Sylvain happily provided, for
he had fallen in lust with the priest's penis, intrigued by the priest's
circumcised penis, an almost unheard of status in a French-Canadian pur
lain, to the extent that until he joined the Sea Cadets, and went to camp,
Sylvain had never seen a circumcised organ. No French-Canadian boy, whether
he had been born in the most modern facility in the province, or at home at
the rough hands of the local midwife, was ever circumcised. It was not a
part of French-Canadian culture and the priests quietly railed against
it. Only the detested Anglais, roundheads all, practiced it, and the Jews,
who had killed our Lord! A pur lain was intact!

Still, Sylvain was intrigued, and after joining the Sea Cadets (at Father
Marcel's urging) he had managed to make friends with an Anglais boy every
time he went to camp. He learned that while Father Marcel had been the
victim of a constructed foreskin as a year old baby, the Anglais boys
treated the whole thing as just another normal occurrence. In their world
everybody was circumcised, period.

Sylvain loved the smoothness of the boys he lusted after, and the boys he
pleasured. Some were intrigued with his extra bit of flesh, some
repelled. Most accepted what he offered and Sylvain never lacked for
companionship.

With the exception of Marcel, Sylvain never had sex with a man. He had come
close, on two occasions. Both times he had been summoned to his uncle's
house. Here it was explained to him that while his uncle loved him dearly,
there would be times when he would be required to ask that his beloved
nephew assist him in his goal of achieving the ultimate, the Grail, the
independence of Quebec. Sylvain quickly learned that while being the
General's nephew had a price, the General was very generous. The schools he
attended, the clothes he wore, the new house his family lived in back on
the farm, were all paid for by the General.

The first time he had been summoned, Sylvain had lusted after a new stereo
system for his room at school. Uncle had smiled and promised it if the man
who was coming to visit needed a little game of lacrosse in the night. The
man had not, and the services of a professional female escort had been
procured.

Sylvain enjoyed the wonderful sound of his new stereo for almost a year
before he was summoned for the second time. By then he needed, desperately,
a colour television set. This time around the man had requested only that a
carafe of tepid water be available in his room. Sylvain very much enjoyed
the new colour television set that had, a few days later, been placed in
his room, enhancing his popularity amongst his fellow boarders, who would
join him in his room, sitting around in their underwear, enjoying the
marvel of a colour television set. That Sylvain's invitation to watch
television with him included a game of lacrosse went without saying.

Older now, Sylvain, a big-dicked, full-balled pur lain male needed, wanted,
lusted after his ultimate goal, his "Grail", a 'Vette, a fire engine red,
Chevrolet Corvette convertible. His uncle would have preferred he think or
slobber after something European, such as a Fiat 124 Spyder - the
Pininfarina roadster from Italy - which would be in keeping with Uncle's
spurning of anything Anglo.

Sylvain knew of the foreign motorcars from the glossy advertisements in the
foreign magazines the priests subscribed to and left in the library for the
boys to read and hopefully be seduced into a proper French, or at least not
Anglais mind frame. He was not interested in the least. The motors were,
well, flashy, and nice, but had nothing, as far as he was concerned, on a
'Vette! That he might be influenced by the constant barrage of
advertisements appearing on his wonderful colour television, showing the
motorcar and extolling its power, and its magnetic effect on females,
Sylvain never considered. All he knew was that he all but creamed his
Jockey's whenever he thought of the motorcar.

Twice now Sylvain had brashly expressed his lust but Uncle had said nothing
and there had been no summons for the past year. Resigned to life in the
Jesuit College without any hope of a reprieve, and grudgingly satisfying
his fantasies through television, Sylvain had gone off to Sea Cadet camp.

His return flight had been uneventful, save for the fact The Gunner had
been on board. Sylvain, in a huge snit, had refused the man's offer of an
upgrade to First Class and figuratively kicked himself every hour of the
flight from Vancouver to Toronto to Montreal. From Dorval Airport, Sylvain
had ridden a bus to the College where a scowling Rector met him. Sylvain,
who had been away for two months, was at a loss until the priest, with a
disapproving glare, had conducted him to the mews where the ancient
vehicles used by the college staff were kept. There, a thoroughbred in a
stable of spavined carthorses, sat a cherry red, 1976 model Chevrolet
Corvette convertible!

Sylvain had not been in the least surprised when the scowling Rector had
handed him the note that had accompanied the automobile.

******

	When he arrived at his uncle's house (he had driven the entire
distance from Montreal to the house at manic speed, with the top down and
deliberately dressed in the tightest T-shirt and blue jeans in his
wardrobe), Sylvain had been greeted effusively, conducted to the most
ornate of the guest rooms and asked to remain. His uncle explained that a
very special guest, a guest who enjoyed the favour of powerful friends in
Germany, had arrived. Uncle hesitated to ask, but if the young man wished
to play a game of lacrosse, would Sylvain oblige.

Sylvain opined that he had not planned on staying too long, as he needed to
sort out some money for the insurance on his brand new motor. Uncle had
smiled and assured his favourite nephew that such picayune things were
beneath his concern. Sylvain had returned his uncle's smile. Of course, if
Uncle said they were.

After dinner, without the guest, who had been delayed, Sylvain retired to
the drawing room, where he read. As the room was at the front of the house
he heard the crunch of tires on gravel and the squeal of brakes as Uncle's
motor, an ancient Peugeot, growled to a stop. From the hallway drifted the
usual pleasantries as the guest was greeted, and then conducted into the
drawing room, to meet Sylvain.

The guest was young and, surprisingly, an Anglais, which was a cut above
some ill-smelling, evil-tempered Boche. He was blond, his hair cut in
Teutonic emulation of the Nordic gods he adored and so wanted to be. He was
dressed in a silver and black uniform, with a red, black and white
Swastika-emblazoned armband on the left sleeve. He was short, barely five
feet tall, and his thin lips were unsmiling as he raised his arm in a
straight-armed salute. There was no flicker of recognition or emotion in
the young Anglais' dull, lifeless eyes as he clicked his jackbooted heels
together and shouted, "Heil Hitler!"

******

	Sylvain groaned as the blond-haired Anglais moved between his legs
and tongued the foreskin-covered head of his penis. He felt the boy's
tongue slide under the loose skin to rim and cleanse his glans of the
remnants of his last ejaculation. His penis responded, rising hard and
tall. There was more movement and Sylvain saw that the blond was straddling
him, positioning himself so that his anus was directly over the broad head
of his penis. Sylvain knew what was coming, but was not prepared when the
youth, instead of gently lowering himself onto the turgid organ his hand
gripped so tightly, had dropped, and in one fell swoop accepted all of
Sylvain's hardness.

"Fuck me hard," whispered the Anglais as he leaned forward. "Shove it in,
Sylvain, and fuck me hard!"

Sylvain looked into the pale grey eyes, now alive with lust and bright with
anticipation. "Fuck me hard," repeated the Anglais huskily.

Nodding, Sylvain thrust upward, a hard, vicious thrust that caused the boy
to throw back his head and groan loudly. "Ah, yeah! Again, harder," he
yelled. "You have no idea how good this feels!"

Sylvain began a rapid, jackhammer thrusting that caused the boy impaled on
his rigid organ to groan loudly. "Yeah, like that, only harder." Then Paul
Greene leaned forward and looked into Sylvain's eyes. "Fuck me hard!"