Date: Fri, 14 Mar 2003 21:56:22 +0000
From: Ganymede
Subject: Paradise 1

Paradise, Part 1 of 7. By Ganymede

WARNING:

This story contains descriptions of sexual acts involving
men and MINOR boys. Such descriptions are an integral part of the story.
While the story may appeal to prurient interests, it is intended to have
serious literary value. If you are under the age of 18, if this material
is illegal in your place of residence, or if man-boy relationships aren't
your thing, then exit now and save yourself from a life of sin!



As a friend recently said: "Everyone has the right to
fantasy. No one has the right to censor an imagination, or dreams." With
that in mind, know that this story is not true! Further, it is not
intended to promote illegal acts against minors, but to demonstrate that
men and boys can love each other despite the prevalent attitudes of
western society. It is my goal to help readers appreciate that love. The
sexual acts described in the story are the result of my imagination. I
have not performed these acts, and I do not encourage others to perform
them with minors. If the subject of man/boy love offends you, if this
material is illegal in your place of residence, or if you are under the
legal age for such material, do not read further!

By downloading this story:

"... you implicitly declare and affirm under penalties of
perjury that you are not a minor or in the company of a minor and are
entitled to have access to material intended for mature, responsible
members of society capable of making decisions about the content of
documents they wish to read...."

The story is copyrighted under my pseudonym, Ganymede. A
copy has been placed in the Nifty archives for your enjoyment. The story
cannot be used to derive monetary gain. The story cannot be placed in
archives that require payment for access, or printed and distributed in
any form that requires payment either directly or indirectly. Any
similarity to individuals, living or dead, is entirely accidental. My
sincere appreciation to two friends whose comments have been very
helpful.

And one more thing, a special thank you to Susan. You know
who you are and what you mean to me. Thank you for the dedication.



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Paradise. By Ganymede



Technical Note:

The hypothalamus produces GRH ganatotrophin releasing
hormone. The GRH goes right down the stalk between the hypothalmus and
pituitary and causes the pituitary to produce ganatrophins. The
ganatrophins go to the testicles and cause them to produce testosterone.
Body temperature is also controlled by the hypothalmus, a section of the
brain that acts like a thermostat. That is, if the body gets too cold,
the thermostat sends out instructions to warm things up, and if it gets
too hot, the thermostat tries to cool things down.



Prologue



Steve Adams absently watched a fishing boat approach the
dock. He was more than slightly inebriated, he was fast approaching
intoxication. It was that, rather than the need to be seated for the
purpose of relaxation that caused him to be reclining in his foam-
cushioned lounger. Where he sat, overlooking the teak after-deck of the
motor yacht, 'Candyman', he was in absolute control, or so it might have
seemed at first glance. However, nothing was ever quite the way it
seemed.

He checked his watch abruptly, jerking his arm nearly enough
to spill his drink, Bourbon and Coke, three cubes of ice. Nearly four
p.m. Thirty minutes late. He thought about that with restrained emotion.
He didn't like to wait for anyone. He lifted his glass again and drank
with a trembling hand. To anyone else, he appeared to sit without
displaying even a passing interest in the world around him. Yet, he was
excited. His mind was dulled by the heat and liquor, but his penis was
hard. Thick and long, and lodged up the leg of his shorts with nowhere to
go. His mind churned relentlessly over the last week, replaying yet again
what he expected to do in short order. Vincente should arrive at any
moment, but there was no telling with the boy. Sometimes he dawdled.
Errands that should have taken minutes, took hours. Adams closed his eyes
and sighed, remembering the previous day; a week of wonderful;
unforgettable days and nights spent with the tight-assed brown-skinned
kid.

He would have liked to go for a walk earlier during the day,
before it got too hot. There was a lot to do in Georgetown. He could
begin by checking out the market. He needed to buy some gifts for his
wife and kids, maybe visit one of the nearby resorts. Now, he had to wait
until the hottest part of the afternoon to do it. That was the trouble
with young boys. There was no getting around the problem that they were
supposed to be in school during the week. To do otherwise invited
suspicion and police involvement, the last thing he wanted. Still, they
needed a few things from the nearby store that couldn't wait much longer
and Vincente was eager to get off the boat for a while. Knowing that the
store was only a few hundred yards up the street, did not help much.
Adams was impatient by nature. Constant worry was also part of the
problem. Nowadays, people noticed men with boys. It would have been a lot
safer had he stayed on the island.

He told himself not to worry for the tenth time in as many
minutes. The boy would be back with him soon enough. Then, he would get
what he wanted. And he wanted it, he wanted it bad. That little boy-ass
spread wide. Sure, he still had the rest of the day, and then there was
the night to follow, but he wanted more. His heart rate quickened at the
thought. Vincente's ass was everything he had ever dreamed of. His penis
throbbed relentlessly under his linen shorts, a massive engorged stake of
man-flesh. He baked in the afternoon heat and dreamed of what he would do
to Vincente as soon as he got the boy's clothes off. They'd do it in the
cabin on the settee. Quick, because he needed to get off, and hopefully
not too dirty. It would be the appetizer that preceded the main course.
The best sex with a boy was to be had at night in the comfort of a bed.

Not that Adams needed the cloak of darkness to sodomize a
boy. Any time, any place would do. He was not so drunk that he had
forgotten the previous day. They'd done it right there on the deck, in
view of the resort at Rolleville. Dangerous no doubt, but fun. Just the
thought of what he had done to the boy's small buttocks was enough to
keep him aroused. Bent him over a couple of life-preservers. Got him wide
open with a finger, then two. Lots of KY. The kid squirmed around, but
boys often became squirrelly when the moment of truth approached. He
slammed his cock in, all eight-plus inches of it. He forced it into the
willing twelve-year-old and watched the boy writhe and wail. Vincente
took it all, then backed up for more. The kid had a well-used hole and he
knew how to use it to mutual advantage. They did it all the time, but
mostly in the cabin where it was cool and quiet, where there was no
chance of interruption. It was the best sex a man could have.

There had been a few times when Adams realized afterwards
that the boy hadn't climaxed with him, but they could be counted on one
hand. It was no secret that the boy liked getting deep-dicked. He liked
it good and hard, fast and furious, no holds barred, and Adams was the
man to do it. He also enjoyed knowing that the boy was there for more
than just the money.

There was exactly one night left of his one-week vacation.
Seven days and as many nights of pure, unadulterated paradise with
Vincente. Just one more night before he had to say good bye to Vincente,
drop him and the motor yacht off at Candy Cay and return by motor-launch
to Nassau. Then, he had a day of business in Miami before flying home to
Chicago. He tried to put the idea into a safe compartment of his mind
where it would not depress him any further.

It had been the best vacation of his life, bar none, except
perhaps the year before, when he had spent the entire time on Candy Cay.
He'd stayed with Vincente then, too. Sexy little Vincente. There was not
a hair on him, cumming dry with little squeals of pleasure. He provided
almost enough incentive to consider getting a divorce, even if he was
costing him $250 a day. Chartering the motor yacht, was quadruple that.
Then, there was the crew, the food and drink, and a thousand gallons of
diesel fuel that cost an arm and a leg. Adams smiled, wondering what his
business associates would say if they knew the company had picked up the
bill. Or his wife? Then, thinking that it was a pity there was not a
weekly or monthly rate available for Vincente, he laughed aloud. It was a
lot of money for a week. However, it really did not matter. Vincente
last-name-unknown was worth every cent of what he paid.

Momentarily, Adams glanced over his shoulder and looked
directly at the approaching boat. It was, he decided at first impression,
quite unseaworthy. However, his first impressions about most things were
often negative. At least that was what his wife said. She derided him
constantly. The dumb bitch! He took another gulp of his drink. Next time,
he needed to include more ice, or he needed to drink it faster.

Strangely, 'the bitch', as he often called her to himself,
did not deride the money he gave her to spend. He put his attitude down
to life experiences, the frustration of being a boy-lover at a time in
history when it cost a man five years of his life for a single feel of an
under-aged dick. He mumbled his favorite saying. 'People are ass-holes
and life is about fuckin' shit.' And then he took another drink, still
thinking about Vincente and his firm small butt, bending over in front of
him on the life-preservers, or better yet, lying on top of a pile of
cushions down in the air-conditioned cabin, his little brown cheeks
spread far apart, his gaping anus shiny with the water-based lubricant
that he had purchased from the pharmacy in town for three times what it
would have cost in Chicago.

He licked his lips hungrily. There was nothing quite like
fucking a sexy young boy, he mused. He had been with many other boys over
the years, but that was before he joined the Candy Club. They were mostly
Mexicans and Puerto Ricans, some of them cute as buttons, but none could
be compared with Vincente. He had it bad for Vincente. Now, there were
rules to follow, but they were worth it because Vincente was special.
There was simply nothing that could compare to the sensation of slowly
sliding his engorged penis through Vincente's tight little sphincter. It
did not matter how often he did it, the boy's opening remained tight. He
knew why of course. His cock was big enough that Vincente would always
have a problem with it.

Every time he got behind the boy, there was a minute or two
when Vincente would whimper and complain that it hurt like hell. It
probably did. His ass was being stretched to the point of bursting, but
he never wanted to stop. Usually, the only relief he received came from
pulling away slightly before quickly pushing back to impale himself
again. As if trying to prove his manliness, once the cock-head was
inside, Vincente took over for the few minutes it took to complete their
union. He had a habit of huffing and puffing with effort while he slowly
forced the man's cock further into his rectum. Again and again he did it,
a rutting routine that happened whenever Adams' oversized cock had to
breach his little ass. Adams loved the sensation of quivering,
frantically straining boy-muscle. It made him pause and put aside his
lust when all he wanted to do was to penetrate deeper into the looser
luscious void beyond. Even still, he couldn't help thinking that
Vincente's ass was put there by God for the sole purpose of containing
his cock.

Adams smirked and sipped his drink, rubbing his bulging
crotch with his other hand. It was no secret that the boy wanted his cock
inside him. Vincente wanted it every bit as much as he wanted to be
inside Vincente. The best boys were like that, Adams  mused. All of the
boys on Candy Cay were like that. 'Hot for cock', he called them, those
sexually hungry boys who could never get enough man-cock in their little
hairless asses. He had learned to spot them from a distance, although
exactly what it was about them that said 'I want to fuck', he could not
have elucidated in words. It was a look, a smile, a way of moving,
everything about a boy that turned him on.

Still watching the other boat's slow approach, Steve Adams
found himself contemplating whether a sexually immature boy received the
same pleasure as a boy who was capable of producing semen. There was no
way of being certain. He had long forgotten what it was like to be a boy.
He'd had sex with younger boys, of course. He enjoyed their hairless
smooth bodies, tiny dicks like fingers and balls the size of marbles. He
liked how they gasped and groaned and carried on. It was enough to make a
man think that they enjoyed being fucked, but did they? More often than
not, prepubescent boys ended up jerking and writhing around, flailing
their arms and legs and begging for more, certainly giving the appearance
of orgasm even though nothing was ejaculated. There was a lot to be said
for younger boy who still had undersized testicles and a hairless groin.
However, he liked that Vincente came, even if it was not a lot.  It was
more like skim milk, droplets that spat first and dribbled second. There
was never any question of when Vincente came, but younger boys could fake
it. The thing was that for any other boy, Adams would not have cared
whether the boy was erect or not, but for some reason he wanted Vincente
to enjoy it as much as he did.

He savored the liquor, rolling his tongue languidly to pick
up the taste. With his eyes nearly closed, he could simulate the
sensation of squirting his semen into that small grasping void. The joy
was overwhelming. He possessed Vincente completely, dominating him as
only a man can dominate a boy.  Finding Vincente was like finding
paradise. It really didn't matter that his groin was shaved. Even when he
was with his wife, Adams always fantasized about having sex with a boy
like Vincente. In fact, the night he was married, he dreamed about a
young boy with a small penis, a boy whose anus stayed tight the entire
time his penis was lodged inside him, a boy who could climax again and
again before he was done. He often had that dream about a boy who was
just like Vincente, only younger.

He put the thought aside while he drank some more. Vincente's
body was such a delight to hold that the notion of being in bed with his
wife sickened him. Vincente was slim and soft, with sleek brown skin. It
was so incredibly, wonderfully hot and tight inside his small body that
it really didn't matter that the boy's enjoyment was real, or faked like
his wife's orgasms. With Vincente in front of him, his excitement ended
with copious spurts, sometimes so much of it that some of the milky fluid
oozed out. He liked to look down between them to see his cock
disappearing into the boy, his small dick still reasonably hard and two
boy-balls that were so very small compared to his own.

However, what was in front of Steve Adams at that moment was
not so small. His eyes continued to follow the vessel's approach to the
dock. Definitely unseaworthy, he decided! In his considered opinion, it
was indicative of sheer irresponsibility of a captain to put to sea in
such a vessel. It was low in the water, perhaps several inches below the
anti-fouling line, far enough that the dark-blue scruffed boot-stripe
was nearly submerged. To confirm the presence of one or more unseen
leaks, a stream of grey oily water pulsed erratically from a garden hose
hanging over the side.

At one time, the fly-bridge cruiser, the term itself being
almost a misrepresentation of its present reality, had been painted
white. Under the mismatch of what was now white and cream-colored
patches, the hull appeared to have been built of steel, despite the
absence of welds to show where the metal plates had been joined. There
were long streaks of rust-colored stains to mark the passage of water
from the deck scuppers into the sea. The accumulated stains, peeling
paint and salt at the bow all but obliterated the name of the once-proud
vessel, 'Conundrum'. The bridge was also variously patched with cream
colored splotches, and was as rust-streaked as the hull. It looked
considerably older than the ten years since its construction. The boat
appeared to be well constructed and had simply been neglected.

Yet again, Steve Adams tastelessly sipped some more of his
Kentucky Black-label Bourbon and continued to watch the boat's approach
to the dock. Like most sailors who were sufficiently familiar with
nautical engines to detect the difference, he immediately recognized the
healthy exhaust gurgle of twin Cummins diesels. The sound of the boat was
puzzling, posing a question that could not be easily answered. It was as
if there was far more to the vessel than first appeared. Even the name
was unsettling in its appropriateness. It posed lots of questions, all
without obvious answers. On the surface, it appeared to lack civilized
efficiency, but it was unquestionably sturdy. Judging by the sound of its
engines, it was also very powerful.

The high 'tuna-tower' and outriggers gave him further cause
to smile, if cynically, because unlike his boat, the approaching vessel
was highly suited to its intended purpose of offshore sport-fishing.  At
40-plus feet, it was barely two-thirds of the length of his well-cared-
for boat, yet being of a similar beam and displacement, it would convey
confidence in a heavy sea. Unlike his boat, with its over-sized fly-
bridges and shallow-V planing hull, this vessel would be stable in almost
any conditions that nature could provide. Indeed, Conundrum looked as if
it had already taken on the worst conditions of the sea and managed to
survive.

There was only one person on its deck, a gray-haired man of
otherwise indeterminate age who casually steered into the crowded dock
area as if there were no other boats there. It was with the same
casualness that the man stood up, placed a bare suntanned foot on the
wheel, and used both hands to coil a line, feeding the thick nylon rope
into precise loops so that it would not tangle at an inconvenient moment.
Adams half-closed his eyes when the vessel turned through the afternoon
sun.

He raised his nearly empty glass to toast the new arrival in
an equally empty gesture, swilling the last of the Bourbon and Coke in
the bottom. In return, the man waved absently, suddenly yet casually
spinning the wheel with his foot, and turning the vessel sharply to port.
The engines idled listlessly, a faint haze of white exhaust smoke eddying
in the still air. The man stepped onto the ladder, descended from the
fly-bridge in two long-legged steps, and walked quickly to the bow. As he
went forward he released a scuffed stained fender on the port side. Adams
smiled, waiting for the sound of the unavoidable collision with the dock.
Yet, the imminent impact was miraculously avoided. A line arced
gracefully outward and fell neatly over a dock cleat.

With the bow restrained, the stern of the boat began to drift
outward. Adams mouthed the word 'fuck' and started to leap to his feet
with the vain hope of being able to push the 'Conundrum' away. At the
same time, the man who had until that instant been standing in the bow
watching what was happening with what appeared to be vague interest,
leaped nimbly onto the dock. The distance between the two boats narrowed
to less than a yard before the man reached the end of the dock. He
secured the stern line that he had been coiling while he stood on the
bridge. With seemingly no effort at all, he brought his vessel to an
abrupt halt. The man smiled and acknowledged Adams with another wave.

"I'm a bit slow today, I'm afraid! Sorry about coming so
close! It's been a hell of a long day. Reckon I was thinking about
something else."

"Yeah, right!" Adams replied sarcastically.

He fumed that his afternoon Bourbon and Coke had been
interrupted. Worse, Vincente still had not returned. Every second was
becoming precious. In just a matter of hours, he had to leave Vincente
and return to Chicago. Just one more night of paradise. He had to go back
to his bitchy wife and a business that demanded more and more of his
time. If he had a choice, he would much rather stay right where he was,
just so long as Vincente was lying in his bed at night.

Closer now, indeed much closer than he would have preferred,
Steve Adams could see the man was about his own age. He was around fifty,
but it had been a hard life that had taken its toll in physical
appearance. The man's hair was unkempt from the wind, his face darkened
by the stubble of several days of beard growth. He was beyond suntanned.
His upper torso was a dark brown color with shoulders flecked with paler
spots left by peeling skin. Both man and boat had the same look,
weathered by long exposure to the wind and sea. However, as Adams eyes
continued to linger, he began to realize that the man looked vaguely
familiar. The man continued to smile, but not from amusement. He seemed
to be enjoying himself while he adjusted the boat into position and
secured the lines. From the stern of `Candyman', Adams waited for
Vincente to return while he kept an interested eye on the new arrival.
Vaguely familiar? No, make that very familiar, except that he could not
place where he had met the man before.

Then, Adams remembered. Out of the blue it all came back.
Detective Kingston. Wasn't that his name? Two, or was it three years ago?
Two years ago was right. How could he have forgotten so quickly? The
detective had taken over the murder investigation of his friend and
fellow boy-lover, Robert Hardy Junior. The worst thing was that the last
time he had seen his friend, he was happier than he had ever been. He'd
just met up with a darling nine-going-on-ten-year-old boy who was, as Bob
Hardy put it, 'to die for'. There was no arrest despite the detective's
excellent reputation. However, Detective Kingston had solved another
crime he was also working on at the same time, and that was within a week
of being assigned to the case. 'Brilliant detective work,' the Tribune
had called it, the reason being that the case had been assigned
previously  to a team of six other detectives for nearly four months
without any result.

Because Adams' name was in Hardy's rolodex, Detective
Kingston had interviewed him for nearly an hour. Right away, Adams
recognized that the detective was more perceptive than any person he had
ever met, his wife excepted. However, in her case, slyness dictated what
she deciphered. Kingston possessed an innate ability to make him feel
comfortable, comfortable enough that he would say things he might not
otherwise have said. More than once, he had nearly said something that
might have led to his undoing. The secret he shared with  Robert Hardy,
Junior, endured. Bob had introduced him to the Candy Club. Indeed, it was
only because of his friendship with the now-deceased Bob Hardy that he
was sitting where he was in the Exumas, sipping Bourbon, and waiting for
twelve-year-old Vincente to return so they could have sex again.

After the interview, Adams had reflected on what had
occurred. The detective had been both perplexing and unrelenting. Yet it
was far more than that. He asked questions that disturbed him, and in a
way that reactivated a person's memories of an event. Kingston's ability
to probe in new directions while he sifted though evidence to find
unrealized connections was uncanny. It was more than seeing the crime
from a fresh perspective. In the high-technology world of modern criminal
investigation, the detective was an anomaly. He had a discerning
understanding of people and the criminal mind. Detective Kingston was
nothing short of an enigma. It was little wonder that the Chicago Tribune
had referred to him as the 'Sherlock Holmes of the Mid-West'. He wondered
how the man had ended up on a charter-fishing boat docked at Georgetown
in the Exuma Cays.



"Nice boat you got there," Kingston said absently as he
ambled along the dock.

>From aboard the luxury cruiser, Adams nodded back, keeping
his head down. Kingston paused, almost if reflecting on obnoxious people
who found it impossible to return a compliment, or who couldn't find
nothing to compliment even when a compliment was in order. Getting
nothing more than a curt nod from the other man, he decided to persist,
if only to interrupt the stranger's tranquil afternoon.

"Yeah, she's a real beauty. A Hatteras, right?" Kingston
added with a drawl that wasn't from Chicago.

He studied Adams in the seconds that dragged slowly by. The
man looked familiar, but he could not place where he had seen him. He was
certain of one thing. Both the man and his boat were out of place. The
boat was far too fancy to be tied up at Georgetown's public dock. It
should have been at one of the outlying resorts.

Again Adams nodded grimly. He was toying with his empty
glass, a habit that annoyed his wife. Either put it down or refill it.

"Damned fine boat builders, those guys in Florida," Kingston
acknowledged. "I hear they do a great job on the interiors."

It was a back-handed compliment and both men knew it.
Hatteras were 'pretty boats', with interiors that were luxurious as all
get-out. It was a vessel with reputation for being overpriced. Again, the
man nodded. He lifted his glass to sip his drink before he realized it
was finished.

"It's their biggest one, right? About 60 feet isn't it? All
plastic?" Kingston continued, rubbing salt in the wound despite the
decrepit appearance of his own vessel. "I didn't know they were using
teak on the decks."

"They had it done specially."

Nothing more than that because Steve Adams was hoping that
the detective from Chicago would keep on walking if he limited the
talking. There was an unwritten code among sailors. `Ignore and ye shall
go on about thy business'. In the heat of the day, he felt obliged to
offer the man a drink, and if he did so, the conversation would surely
drag on until Vincente made his appearance. The last thing he wanted to
do was to explain to a policeman from his home town why he was in the
company of a twelve-year-old island boy who obviously didn't belong to
him.

However, by then, even squinting in the afternoon sun,
Kingston had recognized him. He immediately made the connection to his
last case in Chicago, the murder investigation of a stockbroker, Robert
Hardy. Even though there had been no arrest, the likely motive was simple
greed and vengeance. Hardy had been churning investment accounts at his
brokerage, building his personal fortune at the expense of fifty or so
wealthy clients. It cost Hardy his life. One of Hardy's clients, Mafia
more than likely,  had taken the matter into his own hands and used a 38-
caliber pistol at close range. There was not a lot left of Hardy's head.
Adams, as a rolodex-friend of the deceased, had been peripherally
involved. Hardy's calendar revealed that they'd taken vacations
together. To the Caribbean too, Nassua if Kingston remembered
accurately. There was a possible implication that Hardy, who was on the
Board of Directors of Adams Electrical Supplies, might also have been
guilty of insider trading. An e-mail on Hardy's computer implied that
Adams' was manipulating that company's share price for their mutual
benefit. If the SEC chose not to investigate the material Kingston had
sent them, that was their business. From the look of Adams' expensive
yacht, he had apparently managed to avoid prosecution.

"It's turning into one hot son-of-a-bitch day," Kingston
remarked. He wiped his perspiring brow, watching the distant entrance to
the dock for a sign of someone.

"Yes it is," Adams replied abruptly.

Kingston glanced over the stern of Adams' motor yacht,
looking at vanished mahogany, polished fiberglass, brilliantly polished
stainless-steel fittings, smooth gray sun-bleached teak. It was
spotlessly clean. Perhaps he felt a momentary pang of jealousy. It was
only human to be envious of something that was so desirable, but so out-
of-reach. If he was jealous, his grudging resentment was short-lived. At
that moment, called by a sixth sense, that familiar awareness of
someone's nearness, he turned away from Adams.

A boy was walking down the long gangway that lead out to the
floating dock. Kingston smiled happily, resisting the immediate impulse
to wave for a reason that even he did not quite understand. His
subliminal consciousness kicked into gear. He smiled, but only just. Yet,
evident in his slightly changed expression was just how much he loved his
son, his precious Joey. Suddenly, both father and son simultaneously
lifted their arms and recognized each other with a spontaneous wave.

That afternoon, there was also another boy, a boy who was a
step or two behind Kingston's son when they came down the narrow ramp. He
was not a local boy, at least he was not a boy who Kingston recognized.
There weren't that many twelve-year-old boys in Georgetown. The logical
assumption was that the second boy was probably visiting from one of the
other 360 Exuma islands. However, one thing was clear. The two boys were
friends. They talked while they walked along. The boy in front held a
backpack by its remaining strap, the other carrying a plastic shopping
bag. Kingston's son  was half-Hispanic and darkly suntanned,  yet he was
still much lighter than the other boy who had Caribbean blood in his
veins. That boy was taller, and older too, but he was still very much a
boy.

>From where Kingston stood, it almost looked as if the second
boy trailed  behind like an obedient puppy dog, walking a feet behind his
son. For a few seconds, he focused on the other boy, but for a very
different reason than when he looked at his offspring. That boy was
physically attractive too, no doubt about it, yet there was no comparison
to the boy in front. Close to six inches separated them in height, and
there was at least a few months' difference in age. However, differences
in height and age did not account for what Kingston felt

The second boy had the appearance of belonging where he was.
There were three reasons why boys were to be found on the Georgetown
docks at that time of day; boys came to fish, to clean tourist boats, or
to rent their bodies to men for sex. There were always one or two boys to
be found loitering around the dock during the tourist season, and if
there was enough money to be had, they would do whatever was wanted of
them. Enough said!

The two boys approached, their footsteps growing louder as
they padded down the wooden planks of the dock. Adams shifted in his
seat, seemingly to find a more comfortable position. He was agitated that
another man was nearby, yet seeing Vincente again had brought his cock
back to full erection. Thinking the other man could not see except by
turning around, he rearranged his crotch. Kingston smiled, for he had
been watching from the corner of his eye. It was plainly obvious that
Adams had an erection. It was huge, like a log stuffed behind his shorts.
However, he wasn't the only man with a hard-on.

Retired detective, Trevor Kingston also had an erection. He
was aroused because he was thinking of what they had done before his son
left for school that morning. His ass-sphincter tightened with fond
memories of the passion they shared every time they had sex. He was far
beyond the self-recrimination that came from incest. Sometimes father
and son were awake for most of the night. He fucked into his son's hot
little hole until he could barely move, let alone stand and walk. He
could not stop his smile from forming while he saw his son walking
towards him. Even then, and it had been before breakfast the last time
they had sex, it seemed that the boy could still feel the thick man-cock
buried deep inside him. It was the way he walked, not quite bowlegged,
but not far from it. He walked like a cock was still inside his ass,
clenching his buttocks to feel it move around inside him.

The boys came closer. They passed a fishing boat strewn with
green netting. Only then, could both men see that one boy was noticeably
better endowed than the other. The lumps in their shorts were very
visible. Both boy-pricks were as hard as wood, and jutting up. There was
nothing new about that. Boys that age were often aroused. Vincente was
proud of what he had been his legs. He walked with the same hip-swinging
'I'm ready to fuck' swagger that the other boy had. Any man could easily
discern, just as he was intended to see, the pronounced bulge that was
lodged behind the boy's skin-tight jean-shorts. In a few more years, his
cock was going to be big, matched by a pair of balls that would be the
size of chicken eggs. For now, and luckily for both him and the man who
watched him, it was still boy-sized.

Kingston glanced at the man who was gazing at the approaching
boys. He stared with eyes that were unquestionably lust-filled.
Unnoticed, Kingston observed  Adams's appreciative smile. If ever there
was a pedophile, it was this man.  He hadn't noticed it in Chicago, but
then no boy had been around to arouse suspicion. No question about it,
the other boy belonged on the Gerogetown dock. He was of an age when he
was perpetually horny, and with his budding sexual maturity, he was
exactly what men like Adams craved. Not too dark, a long way from being
African, but brown enough to make a person think of chocolate. Some men
liked boys like that, not pale and white. Kingston did, yet there was
something different between him and Adams. Kingston's eyes expressed
feelings for his son that were entirely about the love they shared.

When the shorter boy stepped to the side of his companion and
came into full view, Kingston waved again. The boy ignored his talking
friend and waved back instantly, his face coming alive with welcoming
joy. Kingston beamed. Whatever Vincente meant to the man on the boat, it
was meaningless compared to how Kingston felt about his son. He lived for
the boy. Most of the time, no, make that all of the time, his entire life
was dedicated to his son's happiness.

Adams glanced back at Kingston with evident distraction. In
his mind, the new arrival had interrupted his afternoon of debauchery. It
was going to be embarrassing for him when the dark-skinned island boy
finally climbed on board his boat. At the same time, Kingston wondered
what the other man would say if he knew that he had docked his luxurious
motor-yacht next to a man who had sex with his soon-to-be twelve-year-old
son on a non-stop basis. For a moment, his expression was smug,
appreciating his exaggeration. Sex was not 'non-stop' but it was
certainly a frequent occurrence. They had figured out once that it
happened about every seven or eight hours. Like clockwork, although the
sex was anything but mechanical or repetitive.

The boys passed behind the fueling area and disappeared from
sight. Both men, standing only a few paces apart,  considered leaving the
dock as soon as possible. There was no reason to court disaster. While
Kingston  reflected, he kept an eye on his  neighbor. He found him
fascinating. Another man who loved boys. In all his years, he'd only
known one other man like himself. He couldn't help but smile. Adams'
sideways glance at the man next to him, caught him by complete surprise.
The new arrival was staring at the shorter boy, smiling and deep in
thought with what could only be infatuation. Adams smirked,
instinctively recognizing the look for what it was. He had seen that boy-
lover look all too often on Hardy's face before he died.

Vincente and Joey walked slowly along the dock, seeming
almost reluctant to break apart their newly formed friendship. That it
would have to end when they reached the end of the dock was very obvious
from seeing the men who watched them. Neither of them wanted any
compication. The boys neared the motor yacht and Steve Adams finally
raised his arm to greet Vincente. He might as well demonstrate to the
stranger next to him who the boy belonged to.

"Hi guy," Adams called out. "You sure took long enough."

Vincente grinned and swung easily over the stern rail onto
the teak deck of the yacht. The heavy plastic bag of cans and bottles
dropped onto a seat. His hand wiped across his sweaty brow.

"Ese sure hotter 'ere dan Candy," he returned tiredly.

He gestured good-bye to the other boy who, after returning
the wave, kept walking, coming closer to his father. For barely an
instant as he passed by, he glanced at the recently arrived boat. He had
no preconceived notions about what a yacht should look like, but he
recognized money when he saw it. His eyes lingered, then moved away to
his father. The man looked back at him with gentle eyes, eyes that
conveyed understanding and patience.  Both man and boy were transfixed.
The sun was behind the boy and the afternoon light sparkled in his hair.
In that first shared look of the afternoon, the boy saw love. And then
the man smiled at him. A moment later, he was standing before his son.

"I'll pass your bag up when you're on board, Joey," he said.

He confidently took hold of the boy's bulging backpack. It
was heavy, full of books as well as groceries that had been purchased at
the store on the way home from school. Joey nodded dumbly. Confronted by
the man he loved, all he could do was to nod his head. His heart was
already beating quickly. Try as he could, he could not think of something
to say. Not the weather, not about the boy he had met at Grendal's, not
how was the fishing, nothing that could be said in public. All he could
think about was getting naked and getting fucked again. He grinned and
climbed aboard.



Chapter 1.



Rain or sunshine, the waters of St. Angelique Cay were always
a thousand shades of blue. The colors of the palette ranged from the
palest watercolor tint of turquoise in the shallow waters of the lagoon
at dawn, becoming midday azure at the outer reef, then darkening suddenly
to reveal where the deep ocean currents surged with the denizens of the
night.  Throughout the day, there were verdant patches scattered among
the turquoise, clumps of weeds that hid outcrops of rock where spiny
crayfish could always be found, or the red-brown shapes of miscreant
coral heads that for some reason or other refused to grow out on the
reef, where it was supposed to be. I loved to gaze out across the lagoon,
but it was beyond the reef, in water that was deep and cold, where I made
my living. There, the water became so dark that it was the color of
indigo, had that infamous dye still been traded in the islands. To my
mind, the sea beyond the reef, like a night spent in the ghettos of
Chicago, was decidedly threatening. When I ventured out to fish it was
never for enjoyment, but as a means to make some much needed cash. If I
had my way, I would not stay out beyond the reef for very long, if I went
at all. I much preferred to stay close to land, in the shallow safety of
the lagoon, ideally within sight of Fernando's bar.

It was because of my cautious nature when out at sea that
within a few weeks of going into the charter-fishing business, I
discovered the essentials of business success. The trick was to quickly
catch a marlin or half-a-dozen of the big yellow-fin tuna, just enough
for my passengers to believe they had received value for their $250 for
the half-day, plus the cost of diesel fuel to feed Conundrum. More often
than not, my clients had no interest in eating what they caught, and I
made another $100 at the fish market at the end of Farley Street for the
fillets and steaks I cut.

After a few hours of cruising up and down the sound, my
clients were content to spend the rest of the day  talking about their
'catch' while they sat on the deck and drank my $2-a-bottle beer.
Usually, once they found out the price of diesel at the Georgetown dock,
they were more than happy to lie at anchor with the shore in distant
view, or pay to take my flat-rate $50 tour around the bay, ending up at
Fernando's for margaritas and chicken. For some of them, the free floor
show of women sunbathing on the beach usually resulted in a companion for
the night. I was content to eat jerk-barbequed chicken for lunch, and in
the heat of the early afternoon, to spend my time sipping frozen
margaritas while I dozed and dreamed of the boy I loved.

Sometimes, it seemed as if I lived on chicken, not boys in
New York street lingo but the scrawny island bird that was drowned in
Fernando's home made jerk-sauce. Either way, I was happy. I never showed
the nearly naked women on the beach more interest than a passing glance
because I had my own real live chicken-that's b-o-y as in 'boy-pussy', as
in the best fuck ever.  Now, I know what you're going to say. 'I'm
kidding myself that boys like getting fucked.' It's true most of them
don't like it one bit, but those are the boys who aren't gay.  From
personal experience, I know that gay boys are into getting their tight
little butts loosened up just as much as the men who fuck them. Indeed, I
saw it as my personal responsibility to fuck Joey a couple of times a
day. It kept him happy. Me too. Enough said!

I enjoyed my 'job', the real one that is, the job that paid
the bills, if it could be termed a job. It really wasn't a job in the
sense that most people thought of going to work. The money was not a lot,
maybe a thousand dollars on a good week, but after paying overhead on the
boat it was barely enough to get by on. Food and drink, mostly beer, a
few dollars a week for clothes-shorts and tee shirts and the occasional
pair of shoes.  It was just enough for the essentials of island life, and
even the clothes were optional if one kept away from the inhabited areas.
What extra there was, or whatever came in tips usually went either to the
fund I had set aside for Joey's medical bills. I had another fund for
college, retirement, and whatever. Sometimes the tip went  directly to
him if he worked for me with anything approaching a modicum of
motivation. The work he did was not very much because I had a rule that
he could  help out only on weekends or during school holidays, although
if he had his way he would happily have worked aboard full-time.

School was important, even though I loved to have him near me
all day long. In fact, I was seldom content until Joey came home from
school. And when he did, I rejoiced to see him. As soon as he had
deposited his bag on board the boat, we hugged. Sometimes we wandered
down to the lagoon to swim or try to catch fresh fish for dinner.
Usually, he played with any of half-a-dozen friends on the beach while I
busied myself in a futile effort to clean the boat or perform some
necessary but disagreeable task of maintenance.  If I had my way, I would
spend most of my days with a pitcher of frozen margarita or a six-pack of
ice-cold island beer, listening to the outrageous squabbling parrots,
watching the colors change or the palms blowing in the ocean breeze and
waiting, enduring the time until I would take Joey's slender suntanned
body in my arms again. If I was lucky I would be able to control my lust
until after dinner. Then, we watched the fiery sun settle in the west
before we fucked ourselves all but senseless in the quiet stillness of
the inky night. Usually, not. Usually we did it while the sun was blazing
hot. He wanted to fuck as much as I did.

I always called him Joey, never Jaivin. That was the name
that his mother had given him despite my wish not to saddle our son with
a name from somewhere else. He was stuck with the name, her last name
too, because she changed both hers and my son's name after the divorce.
She did it to eradicate any memory of me. I never used his last name even
on the papers I had to fill out for his school. Not because of
resentment, but because I did not want to remind him or me of what had
happened in Chicago. Jaivin Navarro had become Joey Kingston as far as I
was concerned.  He was my son, although in many ways I had stopped
thinking of him as my son for the last two years.

Joey said I liked to sweat while having sex. At least that
was his explanation of a habit that once started, could not be stopped.
Fernando and Vincente thought we were crazy not to wait until it was
cooler, yet there was something wonderful about joining our perspiring
bodies together, our bare flesh slipping and sliding on the oily wet film
we shared. Then, it was the same on the outside as it was inside him, a
cacophony of physical sensations that every man needed to have at least
once before he died. Inside a boy, and I do mean a boy, where the only
hair is the hair on his head, I discovered paradise. It wasn't like
pussy, nothing like it! Over the years, I had fucked enough women to
appreciate the difference, but I hasten to admit that was before I had
made love to Joey. Don't get me wrong. I've always been a boy-lover. I
was smart enough not to do anything about it.

Back then, it was another life. I dreamed of boys but I
didn't know what I was missing when it came to sex. Inside my boy, was
what I had been looking for all my life. I soon discovered that there
were muscles surrounding his rectum, strong muscles that could squeeze
hard enough to make a man's cock throb with delight, enough to cut off
the blood flow.  lmake my cock become bloated and turn dark purple. Joey
always waited until I was completely inside him before he took over. He
was always tight at first. I could never have gotten my cock inside him
if he didn't want me to. Then, with his face contorted, he exerted all
his strength. It was enough to feel like the flesh we shared was about to
burst from the pressure that formed deep inside him. And then, when he
relaxed again or the muscles dilated as they did after a few minutes, the
void within him  became so loose and sloppy that I churned his innards
like the proverbial hot knife through butter. Truthfully, and because I
gave a lot of thought to it afterwards, I could not be certain of what I
enjoyed the most. Tight or loose, Joey's ass was heaven sent as far as I
was concerned.

It was a good life. It was not quite the life of a beach bum,
but it was so close that money was always in short supply. No matter how
many charters I took, how many over-priced beers my passengers consumed,
or how many fish I sold at the market, it seemed that there was never
enough money to get the boat air-conditioner replaced. It was beyond
being repaired, although I tinkered with it once a week just in case
there was one-in-a-thousand fluke that I could get it working again. On
the priority list it came in third or fourth, never higher, not when
safety had to come first in order to retain my charter license. After
doing what was needed to keep the business running there was never more
than a few dollars left over. I had given up trying to save for a rainy
day because every time I had saved a few hundred dollars, it rained.
There was always something else that needed to be repaired.  The last
time was a bilge pump. Before that was a new VHS radio. The list was
endless.

So during the heat of the day, when the cabin was too hot
even for me and my sweat fetish, Joey and I went outside. It wasn't just
for sex, although it usually ended up that way, either lying on a towel
placed over the scorching deck or going down to the beach. Either way,
the sun beat down mercilessly upon my back whenever I knelt above him. He
preferred doing it that way because he could look up at me. I liked it
too, partly because I enjoyed looking at him as well, but it was also the
natural way for a man to fuck a boy. His legs parted further, sometimes
with his feet wrapped around my back or lifted up on my shoulders, or
with his ankles by his ears, or splayed wide like a dissected frog with
his arms locked behind his  knees. In those positions his buttocks opened
up for me, not like when he was lying on his belly or kneeling and
bending forward, which tended to bring his cheeks closer together. It was
easier getting inside. One good push was all it ever took.

On the beach it made a lot more sense to do it standing up.
The radiant heat, baked into the sand since early morning, seared Joey's
much smaller body from beneath, but we seldom got up from the sand. When
we writhed with animal passion, shamelessly ecstatic, gorging ourselves
with lust, I gazed down at him and smothered him with kisses, and fucked
him and me into orgasmic oblivion. In and out, pistoning like a mad man
even as Joey humped back at me, both of us fucking frantically.
Sometimes, make that often, it was difficult to believe I was fucking a
boy who was still months away from his twelfth birthday. The real thrill
came because he wanted me to do it, submitting willingly  because that
was the way he wanted it. It had been the same way when he was ten. He
needed to be fucked every  bit as much as I needed to be inside him.
Gasping, pounding my dick into his quivering little ass, never mind that
rivulets of sweat dripped from me to him. Sand stuck to us, to every part
that wasn't used for sex. I teased him endlessly about getting grit
inside his hole and he responded with obscene comments about my having
such a withered rough old cock that he wouldn't know the difference if
half the sand on the beach was inside his ass. It was a good life.

Just the thought of the expression on Joey's face when our
bodies finally separated was enough to make me happy for the rest of my
life. There was no question in my mind that he enjoyed the sex as much as
I did. Whenever he squeezed down hard to keep my cock inside him it felt
and sounded a little like pulling a cork from a wine bottle. By contrast,
it  had become remarkably easy  to slide it into him. All he had to do
was push outward as I pushed inward. Mutual penetration, mutual longing,
mutual loving. It was all about sharing ourselves..

After each afternoon's shameless copulation on the beach I
carried Joey down to the water's edge. It was  a bizarre ritual of
absolution, although guilt was never in my repertoire. He clung to me,
still too exhausted to do much except wrap his legs around my hips. My
milky semen dribbled out of his distended ass, dripping onto my legs,
sometimes oozing so much that even I was surprised by how much I had put
inside him. I carried him out into the lagoon until it was deep enough
that I could release him to swim away. Cleansed of sweat and the slimy
smelly mess of sex, he soon swam back to me. After a long kiss to seal
our secret, we would frolic in the crystal clear waters of the lagoon as
if nothing had happened. Only Fernando and Vincente knew the truth about
us. Others probably suspected we were more than father and son, but never
said anything.



We were lovers. A father and son only in the surname and the
genes we shared. It had taken two years to leave our previous life
behind, but at times it seemed as if our relationship had always been
predestined from the moment of his conception. In truth, I could never
identify the moment when we changed from father and son to become a man
and a boy who loved each other. Of course, we had always loved each other
because Joey was my son after all, but all too often I found myself
thinking that we had never loved each other the way that other fathers
and sons loved each other. There was always that something extra that
extended our relationship beyond what it was supposed to be. During those
first five years we spent together, we wrestled for what seemed every
minute of the day. We showered together and I soaped and rinsed his
skinny brown body with great delight for both of us. And  when we kissed,
even as a toddler, our lips lingered longer than they should have. I got
erections when we cuddled in front of the TV, but he did too, and we hid
them underneath a blanket and giggled whenever our secret tickles strayed
to private places. I think Joey's mother discerned that something was not
quite right by the time he was five or six, for that was when our
marriage began to falter. It was only a few months later when she finally
told me to leave and not come back. It was phrased in no uncertain terms.

'Get the fuck out you perverted ass-hole'. The words stung
because they were true although there was no evidence she could produce
to back up her statement. Perhaps she had finally figured out that I
loved our son more than I loved her. Nothing happened for years after
that, because between my job and my ex-wife's machinations  I managed to
see Joey only once or twice a year. I missed him sorely, tried to
remember his birthday by marking it on my calendar, sent lavish gifts to
him via UPS that probably went unopened despite the polite thank-you card
that came in the mail. I  avoided telephoning him because it made his
mother angry at him. I hated myself almost as much as I hated her.

And so it went, living a half life until the terror of that
night in winter. It was a long night that I spent standing outside the
emergency room, waiting for news, somehow knowing that it would never be
the news I wanted so desperately to hear. It could have been worse, but
not by much. There was no damage to his spinal cord. He would walk just
fine. His injuries weren't life-threatening. However, the impact of the
blow had caused injury to a tiny gland at the base of Joey's skull.
Despite my job as a homicide  detective, I didn't know much about the
anatomy of the brain. The doctor had to explain what a hypothalamus and
pituitary gland were and what they did. He had to tell me twice. The
strange thing was that there was almost no sign of where the baseball bat
had struck Joey's head. His baseball bat, the one signed by  Sammy Sosa,
the bat had been given to me, and then handed from father to son as a
surprise gift for Christmas.

What I could not understand was why the man had attacked my
sleeping son after he had killed his mother. When I asked Joey about what
had happened, he merely shook his head and cried for half-an-hour. I
never asked again. None of it made much sense. There was nothing I could
do. The investigation was in a different precinct, and while I was kept
up to date, there was little information added to what I already knew.

His mother's funeral came and went in a cold December
afternoon with freezing rain in a forecast that never happened. There was
a perfunctory hearing in early January that restored my rights as Joey's
father. I thanked God at the time, but I wasn't able to change his name
from Jaivin Navarro to Joey Kingston. I needed to ask his permission for
that, and that was not about to happen. Then, I waited three weeks, weeks
instead of months that he could have spent in  hospital. It was what the
doctor called a remarkable recovery, except there was no recovery. There
was a shard of bone, a mere sliver embedded in his hypothalmus that was
too dangerous to remove until he had recovered properly. His next
appointment was to be a month later.  I would never forget driving Joey
to my apartment still dressed in pajamas. His face was ashen, which for a
boy with that much Hispanic blood was unsettling.



Our love renewed itself in a rush of emotions that never went
away. That night before he fell asleep I discovered that he still got
erections that wanted to be tickled, and for the first time in almost
five years, my hand strayed onto a cock that wasn't much larger than it
had been the last time I had touched him. I tried to convince myself that
it was innocent, something I did only to comfort him until he fell asleep
and then I intended to carry him into what had previously been my study,
but which had been converted to his bedroom.

However, from that moment forward, the change in our
relationship was profound. I had touched his body in a  way that caused
him pleasure and he had no qualms in letting me know that it was what he
wanted me to do. Even that first time it was expressed as mutual lust and
not a  matter of seduction.



He had sex with me again the following morning. I could not
resist for it happened at his instigation. He was awkward and silent yet
very eager as we explored feelings that were unfamiliar. Then lying on
top of me, both aching hard, we began grinding our cocks together. He was
smooth and soft and as hot as can be as he wriggled and humped against
me. After a while he sat up and straddled my thighs. He inspected his new
toy meticulously, eventually bringing my cock to his lips, nervously
touching with his tongue before he opened his lips and took the head into
his mouth. That a young boy could feel and act that way shocked me at
first. Of course, I made him stop, but it was already too late. It had
happened. The dam had burst. Our spontaneous lust was already changing to
love.

In truth, we became lovers before I realized what was going
on. Otherwise, I probably would have taken steps to prevent  the
inevitable change from being father and son, or at least tried harder. It
happened in a way that seemed as if nothing had changed between us, while
our emotions were running out of control.

It took a few days until it became impossible to stop the
inevitable desires from being satisfied once more. Indeed, I went out of
my way to stop it from happening again. I tried to avoid the obvious
truth of what I felt by avoiding him. I paid my cleaner an extra $100 to
stay all day. I went back to work, reviewed the cases I was supposed to
be working on. There were fifty people who could have murdered Robert
Hardy Junior. There was nothing new on his mother's murder.

Those few days passed slowly. They were miserable days when
he cried or moped around my apartment, blaming himself, crying
frequently. I assumed, rightly or wrongly, that his tears came from
hating what he had done in a moment of out-of-control lust, probably
imagining that I hated him as well for being queer.  Perhaps it was worse
because I wasn't there when he needed me during the day. I had not
rejected him. I was too busy to spend the time with him that he deserved.
That weekend, we moved the rest of the things he wanted to keep from his
home into mine. One carload, then another, and on the third and final
trip he smiled for the first time since his mother's death. Something
snapped inside me and the frustration of our long separation dissolved.
We shared the same bed again that night. By the next morning it was too
late to stop. What had started as another gentle consoling touch late
that night when he said he could not go to sleep, had, before we
finished, left my semen in his mouth. Things were different after that,
although I was slow to realize that after what he had been through, he
needed me around constantly. However, it was not as his father,  but as
his lover that he needed me. I loved him with all my heart.

Every day of the next few weeks we spent together was a day I
would never forget. We made love with a tenderness that I had never known
before  with any woman. Progressing slowly, cautiously experimenting
with the things that men and boys were supposed to do together. There was
no manual, no guide to follow. I would have given a thousand dollars to
have a copy  of 'The Joy of Man-Boy Sex' if such a thing existed.
Instead, we learned by trial and error, repeating what felt good and
right, always getter easier, always improving our technique. Those two
weeks passed very quickly. We soon discovered that he liked my finger in
his ass. From then on, he encouraged me at every opportunity, practicing
at our favorite sixty-nine with him receiving anal stimulation from my
tongue until we could time our climaxes to be simultaneous.



The next meeting with his doctor was an exercise in futility.
There must have been a dozen x-rays and ultra-sound scans spread out on
the desk. It was impossible to miss the piece of bone. It was shaped like
a pointed triangle. It was not large, smaller than I expected. It had
moved slightly since the last time, burrowing deeper into the
hypothalmus. There was no rush to remove it. Joey might not even be badly
affected by it. The doctor repeated his explanation about hormones, using
terminology that I forgot as soon as I heard the words. There were
substantial risks associated with getting it out, compared with no
immediate life-threatening effects if it remained. It was impossible to
say whether there would be a noticeable improvement in Joey's condition
even with surgery. The damage might already be  done. Perhaps in another
year or two. There might be better surgical procedures if we waited. It
wasn't the end of the world, but there was no reason to be happy beyond
the fact that I was head over heels in love with my son.



My decision was made on the way home. I was eligible for
early retirement under a recently announced plan to restructure the
Police Department and reduce costs. It was gobbledygook, of course. It
was the politically correct approach to eliminate inefficient senior
employees with high salaries.  They didn't want an age discrimination
suit. It wasn't intended that detectives would take advantage of it, but
I did. For as long as I could remember, I had wanted to run a fishing
charter business in a place where it didn't snow.

We went south, all the way to the Exumas. It was a good life,
operating my charter boat out of Georgetown. It made for a long hard day,
fishing for a living. The usual catch consisted of marlin, a tuna or two,
a couple of wahoo, some bonito. It was enough to keep the passengers
happy.  Usually, I got through the day thinking of cold beer and a boy.
The boy was my beautiful, sun-tanned, over-sexed son. He was headstrong
and independent and ready to try anything. He also a boy who would never
take no for an answer when it came to having sex. Joey lived for sex. At
times it seemed as if all there was to his life was being fucked. For
that matter, as far as I could tell, all Joey wanted from life was to
have sex with me.

I loved to look at him. I loved his smell, sweet and sweaty,
the smell of boy. And the taste of his bare skin, especially when it was
tangy with salt. I also loved to hear him speak and laugh, attentive to
the sound of a voice that was still unravaged by puberty. It didn't
matter that I was his father. I lived for the sole purpose of making love
to him. I loved him dearly. Indeed, even though we lived apart for half
of his life, I never stopped loving him from the day he was born. I
entered his life again when I cradled the frightened, badly injured boy
in my arms two years earlier. Then, I silently promised myself that we
would never be separated. Joey and I had been through a lot together, not
all of it as father and son.

For good reason, he had stopped thinking of me as his father,
if indeed he had ever done so once his mother was out of his life. Now,
after two years of constant loving,  I had little hesitation in plunging
hard and fast into his hot, hungry bowels. We rutted furiously until my
cum spurted in thick hot gobs. There were times when I filled him up so
much that when my cock finally slipped out, the excess dribbled from his
ravaged hole and made wet spots on the sheet. I loved Joey's smooth body,
still in the bloom of enduring childhood. Lean and wiry and very much the
body of a boy. Joey was a kid in lots of ways, but he possessed the
sensual eroticism of a much older boy. I loved watching him grow up, but
I could not help thinking that it was unfortunate that in another year he
would be a teenager.

The sex was always good. No, make that great, incredible,
wonderful, unforgettable, but without love it was just plain wrong for a
man to fuck a boy.  I didn't need to fuck my son. Just being near Joey
more than made up for my devoted love. Merely seeing his beautiful face,
the lips that I knew to be incredibly passionate, always brought back a
memory of waking up with him beside me, that first sleepy early morning
kiss, ignoring morning-breath and lingering while we exchanged hugs,
then at Joey's insistence, rolling onto my back. Most mornings, we did it
jockey style. I would fuck him for a long while with him on top, sliding
in and out of his boy-chute, popping my cock-head through his anus with
quick jerks. Usually, we climaxed together, and rested for a while. Then,
we had to hurry to get him to school on time and for me to meet a charter
on the Farley Street Dock at the standard departure time of 9.30. If his
butt was sore from the night before, we found other ways to quench our
lust. Sometimes, when I saw him off on the ferry from St. Angelique, his
beaming smile suggested something else. Then, with his tongue sliding
back and forth across his pure white teeth, he revealed to me, if not the
rest of the world, that  he could still taste my semen from when a half-
dozen spurts had emptied down his throat. At times, we were so late that
he missed the ferry to Georgetown, and I conveyed him across the channel
instead. Those times I spent an hour or more waiting on the Farley Street
dock fondly remembering what we had done. More than once, Joey had sucked
me off again while we motored across from St. Angelique, eating my cum
for breakfast. Laughing, he would tell that me it tasted just like thick
cream, or, in a fit of giggles, like eating a salty slimy clam. I gave
him some extra money to buy lunch in case he was still hungry.

It was no secret that, as he crudely put it one time, 'I
loved to be fucked and you love to fuck me. Why fight it?'. It was a
mutual adoration society. I loved the mahogany smooth skin of my young
son's chest, his firmly muscled thighs, his slender sun-bronzed legs, his
compact waist leading to a diminuitive dick and even smaller balls. His
sex organs, which as far as I was concerned also included his pinched
buttocks and the treasure hidden between them, were as tanned as the rest
of him. When we sucked each other, which we did just about every
afternoon, he would lie with his head cradled between my legs, his mouth
stretched wide open, deep-throating my cock while his fingers played in
my nearly black pubic hair, a patch that had been trimmed to a neat 'V'
especially for him.



Finding St. Angelique Cay was the second best thing that had
ever happened me. It was the perfect place to love a boy.