Date: Sun, 25 Apr 1999 10:01:43 -0700 (PDT)
From: bpell@anon.nymserver.com
Subject: Chronicles of St.Barnabas chapter13
13. In the Garden of Eden
What a jolt it was getting back to school! How unreal the
place seemed! I was still floating on soft pink clouds shaped
like Ronnie's buttocks, and although the air was filled with
all the delicious smells of spring, there lingered in my nostrils
the aroma of BOY, of the special smell of Ronnie's sacred
grottoes which had been my snug harbor for ten days.
Having imbibed his heady wine, I was still high, and had
no wish to come down to earth. I had only to close my eyes to
see Ronnie's youthful form against the backdrop of the
Manhattan skyline, romping in Central Park, rolling in the
green grass; or stretched out on a sand dune, the wind
whispering in the rushes, the waves pounding against the
shore, and my cock pounding against his perfect thirteen-
year-old bottom.
I'd look at him in class and my mind would wander from
whatever dreary point I had been trying to make, and we'd
be back in the hideout again-Ronnie lying naked on the
bed, the sun striping his smooth bare body as it shafted
down through the half-closed blinds, my hands caressing his
smooth warm flesh.
I wanted to make love to him again, of course; but oppor-
tunities were few and far between when school was in ses-
sion. The most I was able to accomplish was a few private
chats, accompanied by some kissing and caressing. Other-
wise our communication consisted of knowing looks when
our eyes met in class. I did a minimum of preparation for my
classes, none of which seemed the least bit important, and
spent as much time as I could out of doors, enjoying the
budding out of spring.
Boys in scanty garb were everywhere, frolicking like pup-
pies in the grass and the warm sun; or like butterflies,
released from their cocoons by the earth's rebirth, fluttering
about, flapping their arms and legs, their shrill choirboy
voices singing a cacophonous pagan ode,
One day in particular I was wandering through the fields
and woods, delighting in the sounds of the birds, and the
sight and smell of young glades of grass and budding flow-
ers, when I came up behind Timmy Tucker and Eric Ladd,
identically clad in blue gym shorts and white T-shirts, their
arms around each other, sharing an apple. I savored their
bare thighs and delicious tightly encased bottoms, their lithe
torsos and pretty heads, before overtaking them just as Ladd
was offering Tucker a bite.
"Watch out, Timmy!" I cried. "How do you know that is
not the Forbidden Fruit, taken from the Tree of Knowledge
of Good and Evil, and offered to innocent trusting you?"
"Oh, sir," Tucker said, "do you really thing Eric looks
like Eve?"
"Perhaps. As much as you look like Adam, anyway. And
this certainly could be the Garden of Eden." The boys
looked around them as if they wondered for a second whe-
ther it really was.
"But, sir," said Eric, "if this is the Garden of Eden, then
where is the serpent?"
"Ah! Serpents are wily, slimy, tricky creatures, not given
to showing themselves. They hide in the tall grass, or under
rocks, or in trees, where they watch and wait for innocent
boys such as you."
"Father Sayers says the serpent is within you," said
Timmy. "What does that mean, sir? I hope there's no snake
in me!" Both boys giggled at the thought, while inside my
pants a snake uncoiled itself, one which very much wanted
to be inside Timmy Tucker.
"Oh," I said, "he's talking about something else. He
means temptation. You know, like when you're tempted to
do naughty things." The boys looked at each other and
blushed.
"But the question remains," I said, "which one of you is
Adam, and which one Eve?"
"I'm not Eve!"
"Neither am I!"
"The test, of course, is which one of you has a belly
button. Adam didn't have one, being made from a handful
of dust, but Eve did, having been made from Adam's rib. So
whichever one of you has a belly button has to be Eve. Raise
your shirts."
Neither little boy wanted to be Eve, of course, even
though they knew it was just a silly game, and so they didn't
want to raise their shirts. However, I insisted, as masters
will, so slowly both little lads pulled up their T-shirts, stuck
out their little round bellies, and showed me their navels.
"Ah-hah! So you're both Eve!"
"No,sir!"criedTimmy. "Adam was created perfect,so he
must have had a belly button, just like everyone else. So
that's no proof at all!"
"And why would Eve get a belly button from being made
from Adam's rib, sir?" asked Eric. "We learned all about
how babies are born from Mr. Plimpton, and we knew that
belly buttons are where the umbilical cord was cut."
"Yes, sir, that's true. You can't trick us!" joined in
Timmy.
"Well," I said sadly, "all the same, it's a pity we'll never
know which of you is Eve."
"Eric is, Eric is!" cried Timmy. "You know I'm not,
because you saw me undressed in the Infirmary. Don't you
remember?" How could I forget! "So you know I'm a boy. I
am, aren't I, sir?"
"Yes, you definitely are a boy, Timmy."
"So that leaves Eric. Why don't you make him take his
pants down, sir?"
"No, don't!" cried Eric, not sure whether I would or not.
"Come on, sir, take his pants down! Take his pants
down!" And he danced around his little friend, holding his
crotch with one hand.
"If I ever take Eric's pants down," I said slowly, "and
most likely I shall one day, it will not be for the purpose of
determining his sex, but for the purpose of roundly spanking
his extremely naughty little behind."
And, noting Eric's rich blush at these words, I turned and
left the little lovers to finish eating their apple, or whatever
else they might want to eat. As I strode off into the woods, I
could hear their silvery giggles mingling with the chirping of
the birds.
Bird-watching is a hobby of mine. I really enjoy identify-
ing the different species, stalking them with binoculars or
camera. Then, bird-watching inevitably takes one into love-
ly, wild, uninhabited areas. And finally, in such wild, unin-
habited areas, one is apt to pick up in one's binoculars other
objects of interest, such as the time last year when I was out
with my glasses on a particularly warm spring day and
happened to hear chirpings of a definitely puerile nature,
coming from a bend in the creek.
This bend I knew well: it was broader and deeper than the
rest; because it was well-hidden by trees and shrubs, it was a
favorite summer swimming hole for the town boys, in this
case three tempting morsels of about twelve. I was surprised,
because the boys don't usually use the spot until after our
school year had ended, but, as I said, this was a particularly
warm day, and I suppose they could not resist the tempta-
tion to trespass. I was standing from a vantage point and
watching through my glasses their silvery naked bodies
flashing in sun and water, when who should come ambling
into the woody copse but poor old blind, deaf, Mrs. Fox.
"Spying on a yellow-bellied sapsucker, Mr. Murchison?"
asked the good dame.
"No, ma'am," I replied, "just some bare-tailed natators."
"Oh, I see," she said, neither seeing nor understanding,
and ambled on her uncertain way, leaving me to my voyeur-
istic activities. But this is all digression.
One day, not long after my encounter with Ladd and
Tucker in the Garden of Eden, I was out, not with binocu-
lars but with my Nikon-to which was attached, like a
massive erect cock, a 400-millimeter lens-and if I didn't
catch any of my feathered friends this day through this
powerful lens, at least I didn't return empty-handed.
Walking stealthily through the woods, so as not to scare
off any birds, I suddenly heard a noise which made my ears
perk up. I didn't hear anything very distinct, but to my
trained ears it sounded like only one thing: boys.
The sound was coming from a dense section of woods not
far away, and there was no way to sneak up directly without
being seen or heard, 'so I retreated, skirting the area, but
keeping a fix on the approximate source of the suspicious
sounds. I say suspicious because (that sixth sense again) I
was quite sure I had stumbled onto a bit of schoolboy
chicanery. It was not like boys just talking; the sounds were
broken, fragmentary, sometimes high-pitched, sometimes
low. There was another sound, too, which I wasn't able to
make anything of.
I climbed a pine tree and scanned the ground below. At
first I saw nothing. Then I caught a glimpse of blue. Cloth,
perhaps. Then pink. Flesh? I couldn't see enough from this
tree, so, marking the spot, I climbed another tree. And there
they were.
It was not a totally unobstructed view, and I was too far
away to make out who they were, or even precisely what they
were doing, but it was quite clear that I was looking at two
boys, both naked or nearly so, and one atop the other. I
attached the long lens and looked through it. There was
definitely hanky-panky going on. It looked very much like a
bit of cock-sucking, in fact-something else, too. Was the
boy on top being whipped? I started madly taking pictures,
less interested in knowing at the moment what I was seeing
than in capturing it on film for future viewing. I shot an
entire roll, and was reloading, when the little game suddenly
came to an end. They quickly put their clothes on and went
off into the woods before I had a chance to take any more
pictures. I stayed in the tree for several minutes, to let them
get a head start. Then I went back.
T'hat night I spent in the darkroom. I was terribly excited,
like a detective working to crack a case. I was even glad I had
not been able to identify the boys; it was more fun this way.
Oh, Colin Murchison, what a dirty, sneaky man you are!
Spying on two little choirboys in the woods, hoping to catch
them doing something naughty, to turn to your advantage.
Has this man no sense of decency or privacy? Are the little
fellows never safe from the watchful eyes of their masters?
Have they no place to go to play their little boyish games
without fear of discovery?
I poured over the contact sheets, then started blowing up
one of the more promising ones. My heart pounded as I
focused the negative image on the easel. My fingers shook as
I swirled the paper in the developer; my blood surged as the
image began to appear. It was going to be a good print. I
yanked it from the developer and plunged it into the hypo. I
couldn't stand to wait the required time; at the risk of
ruining the print, I switched on the lights and peered at the
wet print.
The boy underneath was Georgie Candy, no mistake. He
was sitting, half-leaning against a stump. He was naked
below the waist. Bending over, his head in Georgie's crotch,
was a smaller boy. He was naked, except for his socks. Who
was he? He looked much too small for a sixth-grader.
I blew up another frame. In this one Geoigie was bran-
dishing something. A stick? A bunch of sticks? I still
couldn't see the younger boy's face. I blew up a couple more.
Now it was clear that Georgie was holding a bunch of twigs
with which he was lightly whipping the bare, up-turned
rump of the younger boy while this unidentified boy sucked
his cock. While I could not recognize the younger boy, he
definitely was not from my dorm, which meant that he was
one of Percy's. A fifth-grader, then, or perhaps even a
fourth-grader. How depraved Georgie was! Imagine! Forc-
ing an innocent little boy of nine or ten to perform such a
perverse act on you, all the while whipping his poor tender
little behind! Just wait until I got my hand on that innocent-
looking Georgie, the quintessential choirboy, angel-faced,
but evil within.
I made several more prints, and at last found what I was
looking for. In this picture the boy being whipped had raised
his head from his task of performing fellatio on Georgie. It
was Eric Ladd.
I was thunderstruck. Eric, Timmy Tucker's constant com-
panion, the little boy in the Garden of Eden; Eric, the
product of strict governesses, the best-behaved boy in the
school, whose silky blond hair always looked as if it hadjust
been combed into place by some fond Nanny; Eric, whose
shirttail was always tucked in, whose shorts were always
neatly pressed, whose socks were always pulled up, whose
sandals were always polished. I once watched him prepare
for bed on a visit to Percy's dorm. He had folded each item
of clothing atop his bureau, setting out clean underpants
and socks for the morrow, slipped into crisp pajamas, knelt
chastely with folded hands to say his "God Bless's," slipped
under the covers without mussing them, and fallen to sleep
at once, his hands outside the covers, as he had been taught
to do. Eric, the perfect product of the old-fashioned Euro-
pean governess.
If Nanny could see him here-naked as a jay, his little
bottom sticking up in the air, his silky hair tumbling down,
and his sweet red lips enclosed-yes, Nanny, it's true!-
around another boy's penis! All those years of "firmness
with kindness," those painful training sessions over Nanny's
ample knees, his cheeks red with shame, a redness reflected
in his bottom cheeks as Nanny's familiar broad hairbrush
rose and fell dispassionately on his little bottom. All those
efforts to produce a docile, well-trained little boy who would
be a source of pride and joy to his loving parents, so that
when visitors remarked, "What a beautifully mannered
child, however do you do it?" his mother would respond, "I
owe it all to Nanny, she's a wonder, a jewel. She had such a
way with Eric. And he adores her." (He'd better adore her!
Small children know the wisdom of adoring those who wield
the hairbrush!) All the efforts she expended on the boy! And
all for this? For nothing? Ah, Nanny, if you could see the
dear little boy now, his bare bottom bobbing up and down
(but not from hairbrush blows!) and his red lips sucking and
sucking (but not on a lollipop!) Ah, poor Nanny!
Such were my musings as I looked at the prints spread out
before me on the darkroom table. I wondered how the clever
little Georgie had managed to coerce little Eric into this
depravity. Was it blackmail? What a rotten little boy Geor-
gie was! It was my duty to see that he got what was coming to
him!