Date: Mon, 10 Feb 2003 15:45:54 +0000
From: Ganymede
Subject: Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy, Act VIII

The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy, by Ganymede.


WARNING:


This story contains descriptions of sexual acts
involving a man and a MINOR boy. 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 relation-
ships 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 penal-
ties 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 capa-
ble 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.



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The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy, Act VIII



OVERTURE



Alesha danced. For years, for as long as he could
remember, he had always wanted to dance. And now, this
once-in-a-lifetime chance to dance in France. He smiled at
the unexpected rhyme, repeating it again and again until it
became meaningless. Five no-longer-amusing words drifted
through his subconscious and mixed with other far more
interesting thoughts, thoughts that made his heart beat
faster.  He arched gracefully, stretching back, the phrase
lingering to the point of annoyance while he balanced on
the tips of his toes. He stopped there frozen in poised
immobility, arching like a vertical bridge, a sapling
before strong wind, using his arms, his chest and head to
maintain his balance on long egret-legs. `At last, Alesha
gets the chance to dance in France', he mused yet again. He
smiled again, not letting go, delighting more in the idea
than the annoying rhyme. Being in France pleased him as
much as the graceful motion that flowed instinctively from
his body. So ingrained were the movements of dance that his
mind could wander back and forth. He held the position
longer than he had ever done before, en pointe with his
limbs perfectly aligned in the classic pose of the prima
ballerina. When he did that he always found himself imagin-
ing the awe of an audience, although both self-deceit and
self-conceit were the furthest things from his mind. He did
it simply because he was afraid to fail. His mother had
ingrained that from his birth. He could not miss a single
step before them, those distant shadows who had come to see
him dance.

Finally, too tired to go on any longer, he grinned
with amusement. The rhyme still would not go away, not
until he said it aloud, and that he would not do if only
because Mr. Beaufort might hear him. The phrase danced
through his head again and again, a torment unlike even the
longest practice could procure. In truth, he had reason to
be proud for he had the self-satisfaction of doing some-
thing that he had always wanted to do. He was going to
dance in France, to live in Paris for the entire summer,
not by himself in some tawdry boarding house near the
school, or even with other children in the dormitory, but
with Mr. B at his mansion overlooking the Jardin du Luxem-
bourg.

Before him, huge windows opened onto a scene that
left him all but breathless. The view was of the Luxembourg
Gardens, spectacular in the first rays of sunlight. From
the east, a long line of glorious French Empire buildings
cast long shadows, but they were weak shadows in the haze
of early morning mist. The sunlight penetrated deeply into
the room, casting a golden flame across the floor and warm-
ing Alesha's naked body. He stretched again, shifting to a
single foot as he bent his right leg. He began the loosen-
ing routine that he had done every day, three times a day,
for as long as he could remember. He started by lifting his
leg until his thigh was horizontal and his knee was at the
same level as his navel, then higher, until it was so high
that his thigh was vertical, his knee reaching nearly to
his shoulder, his foot pointing outward as a direct exten-
uation of his leg. He counted, half closing his eyes and
basking in the glow of warmth. A minute passed before he
trembled with the sheer effort. He felt his left ankle
begin to weaken and he cautiously lowered. Only a moment
passed before he repeated the exercise with the other leg.

There was no rail in the bedroom, and he had been at
something of a loss for a while until he figured out how to
use the polished wood rail at the end of the bed. It was a
few inches lower than the rail in the studio in New York.
It was not all that important for he used it only when he
needed to. He breathed deeply as he went through his rou-
tine. Every one of his teachers had said the same thing.
Controlled breathing was essential to a dancer. Each lung-
ful had to be used to maximum advantage. It did not do to
be seen gasping across the stage. He conserved his energy,
inhaling, silently chanting his mantra as he worked each
muscle group carefully, marking in his mind the beginning
point and the number that he would have to reach as he
repeated each exercise. He counted off the steps and
motions. Practice made perfect, and there was no point in
practicing if the next routine was not better than the last
one.

Throughout the practice, he constantly glanced to the
bed. Mr. B. was still asleep. Alesha smiled. He enjoyed the
thoughts that filled his mind. That he was alone with him,
and would be until the housekeeper-cook arrived to prepare
breakfast, was anything but a cause for concern. Part of
him wanted the man to wake up right then because then he
would have company even if they didn't say a word to each
other. Even for Alesha, practice became boring. However,
there was another part of him, a part that was content to
look. He was filled with a hungry curiosity, a need to
feast his eyes. The sheet was drawn halfway up the man's
broad pale chest, but enough could be seen that there was
no question that both man and boy were naked.

Mr. B. slept on his side, almost as if looking towards
the disturbed sheet where Alesha had spent during the
night.  He did not remember falling asleep, but he remem-
bered everything else. He dwelled on how he had been
touched, stroked, caressed, and how happy he had been at
the time. Alesha trembled suddenly and turned around as if
to reassure himself that he was not alone. He glanced back
at the man lying on the bed. So much had changed between
them.

Vaguely, he wondered what his mother would say when he
told her. She had let him know in no uncertain terms what
was expected of him when Mr. B. became his patron.  Even
that, that thing that men did to boys to show they loved
them. Although Mr. B. was adamant that nothing was expected
of him and despite his initial reaction of shock as much as
anything else, the fact was that he had not minded. It was
reassuring that he had something to offer in return. It was
something that involved his private parts, the parts that
other boys joked about but really weren't amusing. He
smiled to himself, turning his head to keep watching Mr. B.
while he continued through his routine.

Some time in the recent past, he was not exactly cer-
tain when it had occurred, he had changed. It was strange
how it had happened, how his feelings had changed. He was
certain what he felt except that was becoming stronger.
That he felt like that for someone other than his mother
was surprising, but equally surprising was how it had been
so different to what his mother had told him it would be
like. He felt the butterflies in his stomach  beginning
almost from the moment he had moved into Mr. B.'s house. It
was only to be expected that he was nervous, but his appre-
hension came not only because he was by himself for the
first time in his life.

He had changed, there was no doubt about it. The gnaw-
ing feeling of loneliness inside when his mother said good-
bye and he had watched her drive away had long since gone.
It seemed as if from that point onward, he looked upon the
world with different eyes. His mind was filled with
thoughts that had not been there before, or if they had
existed, they had not been so dominant. He was growing up.
It was the only explanation. `It was time he grew up and
stretched his wings and found out who Alesha Yaroshenko
really was'.  His mother had said that  just before she
left him alone on the curb, although it had seemed a
strange thing for her to say at the time.

He glanced fondly back at the bed, noticing that Mr.
B. had changed position and had shifted onto his back. He
was still asleep, but he was about to wake up. Absently,
Alesha licked his lips, not at all surprised to find a hint
of the strange salty taste still there. Had he really done
that? It was in his belly. The  man's seed was inside his
body like a nurturing milk. He swallowed, imagining,
repeating what he had done during the night. The thought of
taking the man's penis inside his mouth made him quiver
with excitement. Yes, he had definitely changed. He was no
longer an innocent boy, not after what happened during the
night.

What had started as shock had quickly become grati-
tude, and something more. He had come to like Mr. Beaufort,
to admire him, and yes, even to depend upon him for affec-
tion. It had happened exactly as his mother had said it
would. He had been very lucky when Mr. B. became his
patron, even though he had no other choice at the time. The
alternative was to leave New York and move to Texas with
his mother. At first he had been worried and he had not
wanted to do the things his mother told him that he must
do, yet as much as he wanted to hold back, as much as he
wanted to hate it, he had not been able to. Increasingly,
he felt as if an enormous weight had been lifted from his
shoulders. He was happy in a way that he had never expected
to be.

That night, like the other nights when he and Mr. B.
had been in the same bedroom together, he had taken yet
another step. It had begun downstairs when they had kissed.
Alesha shivered at the memory. He could feel the man's lips
against his, endless kisses, the roughness of a day-old
beard, and his warmth, a wonderful warmth that flowed into
Alesha's body and ignited something within him. Stronger
than ever before, liberating too. What was it that made his
heart beat faster and took away his breath? Mr. B.  made
him feel,...  anxious. He trembled every time Mr. B. came
into the room. No one else made him feel like that. No one.
The man looked at him continually, but it was mutual for
they often exchanged glances. What was happening to him?
Especially now, now that he was alone with Mr. B. for the
summer. Just the two of them for the summer. He trembled,
glanced back yet again, remembering everything from the
night before, every wonderful detail indelibly inscribed,
unforgettable.



Once they were upstairs, in the privacy of the man's
bedroom, it seemed as if he was unable to stop himself. His
heart was racing like his mind, doing things before he had
a chance to think. It happened very quickly, in a rush of
emotions that left no options. Mr. B. had undressed him and
Alesha had all but done the same thing to the man. Then,
they had sex until it was late. There was nothing funny in
what had happened, not really, but he giggled to himself
anyway whenever he dwelled on what they had done. It was
fun, doing that, doing what other men and boys did
together. For that was what had happened during the night.
At last, they had done what Julian and Roland did all the
time, what they did whenever the opportunity presented
itself.

He turned and gazed at the bed where it had happened.
Only then did he notice the bulge lifting up the crisp
white sheet. Instinctively, he took stock of the length and
breadth of the man's massive erection as it rose upward and
caused the sheet to drape over it.  It was so big that it
took his breath away. He gasped as the realization sank in.
It was so big that it dwarfed his own boyish parts, yet
instead of making him feel insignificant, he felt complete.
Although only a small part of that huge penis had been
inside his mouth, it had been wonderful. The memory was
enough to finally divert his mind from the task at hand.
Finding it impossible to concentrate, he stopped and
rested, sitting on the side of the bed. The man shifted,
stirring, ready to awake. Alesha smiled fondly. For once,
dancing could wait until later.



Act VIII Scene I



"Good morning, Mr. B."

Alesha's voice insidiously entered my foggy mind and I
was startled awake. I lurched, then struggled to sit up. He
was sitting on the side of the bed, grinning at me.

"Et tu, mon petit, un bon matin," I replied.

He was, I saw in that dozing glance, naked, like a
faun from the classic  fables of Ancient Greece. Although
one might have expected to see such a glorious sight only
in a deserted glade instead of in my bedroom, he was
equally magical. Wiry, lithe, smooth skinned, entirely
shameless, sitting cross-legged in a position that I found
entirely impossible.

He smiled. Then , still grinning, he pointed. Quickly,
I glanced down, following his indication of something
amiss. It took a moment before I realized what he was
pointing at. My penis was reassuringly erect, just as it
had been every morning since he had entered my life. I was
almost beginning to measure time not in relation to Jesus
Christ but pre- and post Alesha.

"How did you sleep?" Alesha asked with a teasing,
tilting of his head that left little doubt that he was
thinking of something else other than how I had slept.

"Very well, Alesha. And you?"

"Okay." He smiled, suddenly shyly. "You should know,
Mr. B. I slept in your bed last night."

I looked at him while I pretended to ponder what he
had said. The memory was enough to give me an unexpected
thrill, an excited surge that caused me to tremble in its
power. Finally, as much under a boy's irresistible charm as
ever a man could be, I shook my head as if trying to clear
out the cobwebs.

"Hm, I must have had too much to drink last night.
What happened?" I faked ignorance.

"We had sex." He blurted it out for the whole world to
hear.

"Oh! We did?" I inclined my head, giving him a some-
what disbelieving look. "You know,... now that I think about
it, hm,... I seem to remember something happened. Are you
sure that happened?"

Alesha giggled uncontrollably, aware that I was pre-
tending. "You did it to me, Mr. B. You know you did."

"Huh? Did what?"

He had not expected that. He gave me a querying look
with his eyes downcast. It was as if he was ashamed of say-
ing what was needed to explain what he claimed to have
transpired. Neither of us spoke. After a while, he started
to giggle again.

"Well, what happened?" I asked with a pouting voice.
"I certainly don't remember."

"Yes you do, Mr. B," Alesha said adamantly. "We had
sex. You know we did," he added with a giggle. "We sucked
each other." It sounded strange  in his boy's voice.

"We did that? Are you certain?"

He smirked, realizing that I was teasing. "You wanted
to,... " He paused, leaving the sentence unfinished.

"I must have been drunk."

"You weren't that drunk. You're just pretending
you've forgotten to make me say it aloud."

As I surreptitiously began to move my hand towards
him, I raised an eyebrow and he giggled again. For a moment
our eyes met. I felt the need to take him in my arms, a
need that was stronger than it had ever been. I had never
felt this way with any other boy, not even Martin.  It was
an endless, overpowering longing. I needed to make love to
Alesha desperately. Although only one of us was ready to
admit it at that point in time, we had become so close that
there was no question that love was at issue.  He hesi-
tated, still filled with a boy's inhibition, at saying
words whose meaning was barely clear to him. There was no
point in pursuing the issue because he suddenly stood up
and moved away from the bed.

"Have you finished doing your exercises?" I asked
pointedly, yet rearranging the sheet so that what was
underneath was less obvious.

He shook his head, glancing at what he had been look-
ing at earlier. "I got bored."

I raised my eyebrow. That was out of character for
him. He did not notice, he was too busy looking at my
groin.

"Besides, Mr. B., there's a week before the summer
program starts. I'm supposed to be on a holiday. That's
what you said yesterday on the plane, remember. I'm only
doing practice in the afternoon so I can spend more time
with you."

I pretended to be surprised by dropping my mouth open.
That produced an immediate and very cheerful laugh.

"Alesha, are you feeling sick? Perhaps it's jet lag,"
I suggested. "Did I say that you could skip morning prac-
tice?"

He stepped back until he was framed in the window.
With the rising sun behind him all I could see was his sil-
houette, yet it was enough to take my breath away. I gazed
earnestly, captivated by his slender body, the lissom agile
limbs that had pressed against me during the night. He was
less angelic than one might have expected simply by looking
at him. I had awoken at least once in the middle of the
night, but one time I would not forget. Alesha was touching
my penis absently, his fingers stroking on the end. I sup-
posed him to be dreaming, his breath hot against my chest.
I laid awake for a long time, content to be held by his
small soft hand, only to realize when he finally did fall
asleep again,  that he had awaken and sought reassurance by
holding that part of my body nearest to him.

"Mr. B.?"

"Yes, Alesha."

"Last night,.... Before I fell asleep,...  You said you
wanted to,... " His voice trailed off.

"Yes?" I prompted. It was difficult not to laugh as
Alesha struggled to say the words.

"Do it. You know,... Mr. B,... We talked about putting
your, er, um,... ah,... your thing in my bottom. Like Julian
and Rollie do...  But you said I wasn't ready. How will,... I
mean,... like when? I mean how will I know when I'm ready?"
he finished in a rush.

It seemed to me that his voice trembled, or perhaps
his body, but there was most definitely a sense of antici-
pation and excitement  that had not been there before. Was
he interested in what we'd talked about, desirous of that
ultimate act of love? Julian once told me that is had been
his experience that for every boy who refused a man's
attention to his rear, another boy desired to give himself
in that way. From my experience, I had learned that the
vast majority  of boys resisted anal sex at first, but
those who eventually accepted penetration did so with what
could only be called ambivalence, and in the it would be
often repeated.  And for the few who desired that pleasure
that came from being taken from behind, once the initial
pain was gone, they would give a man no rest.  Such had
been the case with Martin, and I could only hope would be
the case for Alesha. For an instant he glanced in my direc-
tion, but he avoided my eyes, looking down at his bare feet
so pale against the dark-stained wood floor. I took a deep
breath, partly to interrupt my rising lust.

"Well, it's hard to explain, Alesha. I suppose the
best way to put it is that you'll know when the time is
right because then you will want to do it more than you can
stand." I hesitated to say more. He nodded slowly. "Alesha,
not every boy wants to do it, and if you are one of them, I
will understand."

That seemed to satisfy him. At least it did for a few
moments while he turned around and gazed out the window at
the broad expanse of gardens six floors below. I sensed
what he was thinking. The Luxembourg Garden was always at
its best in the freshness of the morning, before the crowds
arrived to consume the beauty of it with their presence.

"Mr. B.,... Last night, well,...  you said there was
something you wanted to do to me instead."

Now, it was my turn to play the game. I pretended to
be as disinterested as Alesha, who was continuing to stare
down at the gardens and the morning traffic in the street.
I let him wait for almost a minute. Finally, he glanced
over his shoulder. He frowned.

"Well?"

"Uh, yes, I think I did say that. Don't you remember
what I did?"

"No. See I think I fell asleep. What did you do to
me?" he asked nervously.

"Ah, that's too bad, Alesha. It's really a pity."

"Why?"

He turned around suddenly. Now, I had his undivided
attention. He was finished looking at the view. His eyes
sparkled with renewed interest. I shrugged. Alesha smiled
back at me. He walked towards me slowly, his puny sex
beginning to respond of its own accord. He was so beautiful
that he took my breath away. Coming closer, until he was a
single step away from the bed. Again, as I regarded him
across the broad expanse of my belly I pondered the inevi-
table dilemma. What could he see in me that he found so
desirable? It was impossible to look upon Alesha, dressed,
or as now, in his natural state, and not feel overwhelming
inadequacy. I was in the presence of a god, a boy of divine
beauty. I did not deserve to be in his presence.

"You're very beautiful, Alesha," I murmured in awe.

Alesha shrugged, yet his shy smile said that he appre-
ciated my reckless admiration. His sex was still a long way
from being aroused, yet it was larger than when it was
limp. It did not hang down, instead lifting up and bowing
outward from his compact bony mound. I admired the gracious
curve of his slightly elongated member, the delicate skin
revealing the shape of his tiny glans, the balance of sym-
metry and irregularity  offered by his loose scrotum and
testicles, the right marginally lower than the left. As if
intentionally contradicting what was appropriate behavior,
Alesha put his hands on his hips and surveyed me with mer-
riment as he wriggled his pelvis from side to side. His
penis bounced against his legs.

"Hm. Are you doing the hula, Alesha? Or is it some
kind of exercise you do at school?"

He giggled. "I'm teasing you, Mr. B., so you get
horny."

"Oh. It's a very nice way to be teased. But if you
keep that up, I'll have to drag you onto the bed and do
disgusting things to your body," I laughed.

"Like what?" he blurted out boldly.

"Oh? I'll have to think about it. However, you can
trust me that you'll behave yourself afterwards."

He smirked knowingly and shook his head. "You'll have
to catch me first, Mr. B."

"And you think I can't catch you, is that it?"

He inclined his head, his eyes flashing with excite-
ment. Suddenly, I lunged and Alesha leaped back. He danced
away, laughing.

"You'll have to do better than that, Sheldon."

"Sheldon?" I tried to sound exasperated.

Of the boys I had known over the years, only Martin
had taken the liberty of calling me by my first name. I
remembered when, the second time we had sex. By making
love, we had become equals in his mind. It was a fascinat-
ing prospect despite the difference in our ages. He never
called me anything other than Mr. Beaufort in public, but
in private, from that point forward, I had become Sheldon.
In fact, it was inspirational when spoken softly in his
delightful French accent.

"Perhaps I should call you Shel-donne? I can make it
sound very sexy. Like Martin does," Alesha taunted with a
leering smirk. "Shel-donne. See, it sounds ssp sexy dosn't
it?"

No other boy had ever mocked me, at least not to my
face, although I suspected more than a few had taken with
libery behind my back. I would not have minded if Alesha
always made fun of me. He did it with a sparkle in his eye
that said it was all in jest. I smiled with what I hoped
was guileless disinterest. It would not do to encourage
him, but neither did I want to discourage him. I avoided
looking directly at him. Without thinking, Alesha lowered
his guard and leaned over the end of the bed. His hands
reached for my feet and he playfully tugged on my toes.

"It's time to get up, Shel-donne?" he chided, still
emphasizing the syllables with glee.

His voice with its musical lilt,  his playful eyes,
his shameless smirk, his wondrous bare body, all tantalized
me. I swallowed and licked my dry lips. Absently, his hands
moved back from my feet, one taking hold of the linen sheet
at the bottom of the bed, the other cupping his genitals.
He fondled himself openly, without shame, not masturbating
but visibly enjoying his self gratification. He tugged on
the sheet, trying to pull it back to uncover me.

"My,  but I forgot. You're already up, aren't you."

To make his point, he pointed at the tent in the sheet
where it had pulled over my erection.

"And you sound more and more like a boy from the
Bronx," I responded. "Not a boy from the East-side."

"Ha! But don't you think I'm hot when I speak with an
`merican accent?" he queried, trying his best to lose his
Ukrainian inflection that enunciated every word clearly.

"No. Not really." I tried to sound disinterested. "I
like you just the way you are."

"You're particular this morning, my good man" he guf-
fawed, switching to yet another phony accent that could
have been British.

"Hm, I think I like the other one better."

I rubbed my nose, wondering where he was headed. This
was a different side to Alesha, a side that I liked very
much. His confidence was growing. He was settling into to a
role that had been waiting for him for a long while. Then,
the self-assurance faded as quickly as it had come.

"I'm not hot like Rollie?" He sounded uncertain. He
wanted the truth. I could see it in his eyes.

"No. not really. At least in the same way."

"So I'm not sexy then?"

"I don't think Rollie is all that sexy. He's very
nice, and he's good looking, but he's not my type."

"Ramon, then?"

I hesitated. "Ramon?" I repeated as if I had not heard
the name..

Alesha's hand moved from the sheet which he had been
preparing to jerk back when I least expected it.

His other hand, having brought his penis close to full
erection, had moved to casually fingering the puckered end
of his foreskin.

"Yes, Ramon," he answered. "Would you rather I was
more like him?"

He was serious and I pondered the issue for a few
moments. There was no question that before Alesha entered
my life I found both Roland and Ramon sexually arousing,
albeit for very different reasons. The attraction was very
definitely stronger for Ramon. In that way, I was like Mar-
ius. In some ways, with Roland's boyishness and Ramon's
femininity, Alesha blended the best of both boys. Yet, from
what I had observed of his sexuality he was more complex
than either of them, enigmatic one might even say, or still
emerging. It was an interesting combination, even if  he
did not flaunt his desire like the other boys. To my mind,
he was infinitely more desirable because of it.

"No." A one word answer, for I would not have Alesha
try to become something that he wasn't.

He smiled at me, as coy a look as any boy had given to
a man. It was a look that communicated a need that denied
his tender age of eleven.

I lunged with the vague goal of grabbing his arm, but
with no notion of what I was going to do if I actually man-
aged to catch him. He almost got away. My fingers locked
around his wrist, realizing in an instant that his wrist
was so thin that he could easily slip away if I allowed him
even the slightest movement. I dragged him, laughing uncon-
trollably, up and over the end rail of the bed. I kept
pulling until he was on the bed beside me and struggling to
get free.

Alesha pushed at me, wriggled and writhed with all his
might. It was like trying to hold onto a wild cat. He was
remarkably strong given how slender he was. After years of
ballet, his supple smooth body was all muscle and bone.
Finally, I managed to subdue him by lying over him and
pressing him into the bed. With one hand I held his arms
over his head.

"Now, I believe it's time we talked about my name.
Shelddon now  is it?" I jeered.

Alesha nodded eagerly. He could not stop giggling. It
took several attempts before he finally managed to get the
words out.

"Uh huh,... 'cause it sounds so sexy."

"'Cause? Ah, it sounds like you've been in the Bronx
again, I fear. Do you mean, because, my dear?"

I pinned his squirming legs under mine to further
restrict his movement. Teasingly, I trailed my fingers down
and then up his exposed flank, closing slowly on his arm-
pit. Alesha tensed and tried to bring his arm down protec-
tively. After a moment he gave up and nodded. His smile
mocked me, arousing me even further.

"That's better. Now, I think I'm old enough to deserve
some respect from a young ballet dancer, even one who is as
good as you are. "

"Calling you Mr. Beaufort makes you sound like a
friend,-" he rebuked, grinning with mischief.

"How about sir," I suggested with amusement.

"For my grandfather, but that's not you, is it?" Ale-
sha promptly returned with a bold smirk.

"Hm,... Okay, I get your point. I can understand that
you don't want to call me Mr. Beaufort, however I think
that Mr. B. would be appropriate."

Alesha considered that, still smirking. "It still
sounds old. Not like someone I want to have sex with."

It took a few seconds before it sank in. He wanted to
have sex with me? My mouth dropped open. I had to make an
effort to close it again. Alesha gazed up at me, his eyes
dancing, alive with merriment, signaling the increase in
his lust. After the last few weeks I had become used to his
bashful yet coy looks when he was sexually aroused.  Usu-
ally he was quiet and retiring, almost anxious when
expressing his desire, until he realized that I accepted
him no matter what he wanted. The boy who looked up at me
was different. No longer shy.  It was not that he had sud-
denly become more aggressive because he had not. Simply,
with familiarity, his anxiety was disappearing. It was
another step forward in our plodding relationship.

"Then, in that case, when we're in private, you may
call me Sheldon," I said jubilantly.

"And if I call you Sheldon?"

"I'll take it as a sign that you want to have sex with
me," I laughed.

"Sheldon?" Alesha said softly, but distinctly. He
wanted my attention. "Shel-donne... ." he finished with an
exaggerated sigh.

I shook my head, then slowly lowered my lips to brush
his. It was not a kiss, at least not the kind of kiss that
people do in passion. Underneath me, his body was immobile,
yet he could still move his head. His head tilted back, his
lips pursing. I took that as encouragement, if only I
because I wanted to see what he would do. I  brought my
lips back and pressed down and onto Alesha's mouth. He had
called me Shel-donne after all.  I wanted him to make the
necessary association. I barely realized his arms, now
freed, were moving up and around my neck to hug me, to keep
my lips firmly against his. His tongue dabbled against my
lips, then forcefully entered. It was completely unex-
pected. I felt his tongue like a warm sleek eel, sliding
around behind my lips and toying with my teeth. The kiss
went on and on, French style as was entirely appropriate
for our first morning in Paris. After a while, I began to
tire. Not from kissing Alesha for I could have done that
all day without stopping, but from supporting my weight as
I straddled him.

"I don't want to squash you," I gasped as I clambered
off and lay down beside him. "I'm sorry if I did."

"You didn't."

He sounded,...  Disappointed. He breathed hesitantly,
trying to get his breath back after the surge of emotion
that neither of us had expected. He blinked and smiled
shyly.

"What's so funny?" I asked.

Alesha stretched, placing his hands back behind his
head, stretching the skin of his belly and chest until it
was a taut as a drum. His penis stood straight up, flexing
every time he breathed.

"Nothing, other than I'm happier than I've ever been,
that's all. I'm in Paris, finally. We have a whole week
before ballet school starts, and I'm going to spend every
minute of it with you."

"Well, there is an introductory session you're sup-
posed to attend, and I do have some business to take care
of in the next day or two. I think you'll be bored to
tears," I said, hoping that would not be the case, already
making plans for where I would take him.

"No I won't. I promise, Mr. B."

I leaned across and kissed him again. I licked his
nose, kissed his cheeks, then when our mouths came back
together and  we kissed again, his body wriggled further
under me. The next time, his tongue waited for mine. I felt
his body press up against mine, his hands pulling against
my arms, tugging earnestly.

"What do you want me do?" I asked awkwardly.

"I want you on top." He licked his lips. "Or you can
do what you were going to do last night," he instructed
with a playful snicker.

"I take it that's with a 'please'?"

He pretended to grumble. "Please," he finished
meekly.

"That's much better. Manners are very important to a
young man."

"What were you going to do to me?" he asked suddenly.

"Maybe I was going to,..." I brought my lips close to
his ear. "F-u-c-k you."

"Okay." His giggle was infectious.

"And then again, maybe not."

He groaned loud enough to disturb the people in the
apartment below mine, but I was certain it was pretended.
He wasn't ready to take that step, at least not eagerly the
way I wanted it to be. Reluctantly, perhaps, giving me what
he thought I wanted. Sex without love, wasn't worth the
having.

"What then?" he demanded.

"It depends. What's it worth to you, Alesha?" I
teased, not expecting much of anything because he was still
so young and his sexual experience was very limited.

He considered that, ready to prolong the game, but
mistaking what I was asking. "I don't have anything, Mr. B,
except the hundred francs I won from Martin. How much is
that worth in dollars?"

"About twenty dollars. Actually, you even don't have
that," I reminded him. "You used it when you bought the
chateau last night."

"He was joking about that," Alesha snorted. "He was,
wasn't he?" he added suddenly curious.

"No. Martin doesn't joke like that and neither do I.
He wants to sell the chateau because he has no interest in
keeping it and he knows I will take good care of it."

"That's all?" he asked in skeptically.

"Mostly.  It was also because he thinks he owes me a
debt from years ago. He doesn't, but that is neither here
nor there with Martin. He's very stubborn."

I did not mention that there was another reason. Like
me, I suspected that Martin was infatuated with Alesha.
Certainly, he enjoyed a loving relationship with Raffi, but
that did not mean he was not attracted to other boys, that
he did not look long and hard and fantasize about what it
would be like to be their lovers. I had observed his piqued
interest  from the very first moment that he saw Alesha. I
was thankful that he would not do anything to threaten my
relationship with Alesha. I did not think I could win that
battle.

"Why?"

I shrugged, taking the easy way out. "He's a lot like
you."

I was unwilling to tell Alesha that it was my initial
gift to Martin and subsequent investment in the vineyard
that enabled him to develop the wines he had made so suc-
cessful over the last ten years. At the time, I wanted to
assist him because we had been lovers and we were still
very close friends. I expected nothing in return except the
occasional case of wine, but Martin's mind did not work
like that. He never tired of saying that we had been lovers
because we loved each other, and love and business should
be kept apart. It did not matter that we had been together
constantly throughout his early teenage years. He expected
nothing in return for doing only what he wanted.

"Will it be very expensive to fix it up, Mr. B?" Ale-
sha asked. His tone was subdued, the mood spent with curi-
osity.

"Very expensive. How much money do you have?" I
teased.

Alesha gave me an insipid look. I chuckled. How often
had he looked at me as if gazing deep inside? His expres-
sion turned into bemusement.

"Actually, I have exactly three dollars and sixty
cents in my wallet," he said solemnly. He did not add that
the purchase of the stair master he had given to me for my
birthday had taken the rest. It was a gift that I would
always treasure.

"That won't go very far, my boy. How are you going to
fix up our chateau?"

"Duh." Suddenly, his eyes lifted up. "Our chateau?"

"My, but you're sounding more American every day,
aren't you Alesha?"

"What did you mean, our chateau?" he persisted, ignor-
ing my attempt to divert him.

"Well, I'm not going to live there alone, am I?"

Alesha grinned. "You're really going to buy a real
chateau? Really?" He realized how silly that sounded and
rolled his eyes. "I think we left New York just in time,"
he added. "I'm beginning to sound like the boys at school."

"I think you're right," I agreed. "But to answer your
question, yes,... we are."

"When will we see it?" he asked excitedly, still miss-
ing the point, which was fine by me because I'd always
found it difficult to give gifts.

"Hm,... well Martin's invited us down this weekend. I
was thinking of waiting until Dewon has arranged a car so
he could drive us, but after my meetings perhaps we could
take the train to Beaune and have Martin pick us up from
the train station?"

Alesha nodded eagerly. "I'll make it worth your while,
Shel-donne," he said with a lewd giggle.

"You will?" I asked. He nodded again. "And how will
you do that?"

"Um,...." He paused. "Ah,... I'll do anything you
want." A few moments passed while his offer hung between
us. "Shel-donne,-" he said in a  sultry soft voice.

"Anything at all?"

The inflexion in my voice left no doubt that I was
going to take up his offer.

He nodded, but less certainly than before. Absently,
or perhaps deliberately, he licked his lips. His eyes
slowly came to meet mine. He expected me to kiss him, to
resume where we had left off, perhaps even to go beyond the
established limits. He breathed deeply, mentally preparing
himself to be ravished. His hand moved quickly, a sudden
nervous gesture. A quick glance down confirmed what I sus-
pected. His fingertips touched his penis, but so lightly
that they offered almost no stimulation to the tender
flesh. At the very tip, there was just enough skin to form
a puckered nozzle. His fingers pressed inward to push his
penis against his thumb. Then slowly, ever so slowly, his
fingers eased down.

Watching his glans pierce that little pointed tube of
skin was like watching a flower come into bloom. The shape
of the bud within was clearly defined. It appeared first as
a darker tone, a marble-sized pearl of pink that peeked
through a tiny wrinkly opening. For a moment it seemed as
if the head of his penis was too large to fit through, but
his fingers tightened. He kept pushing, making the little
hole larger, exposing more of the shiny bulb. The puckered
tip disappeared before my eyes, the skin flattening against
the straining head. The glans within darkened further, the
opening stretched until it was tight.  By then Alesha's
foreskin was almost half way retracted. He grinned as he
glanced up. He was joyed that I was watching, and together
we took delight in sharing the intimacy of revealing that
most mysterious part of a male's body. A second later, he
uttered a little gasp and the skin sheath settled behind
the delicately flared rim.

"See? Anything at all," he murmured.

I gazed along the length of his nude body, considering
my options. He would be happiest if I fellated him. Would
he resist if I asked for something more? Was he ready for
that so soon? Tenderly, I stroked his upper thigh, easing
my fingers onto his prominent hip, the following the curve
of his buttock until I reached the beginning of his crev-
ice. Alesha trembled with anticipation. He was excited. He
was nervous. He would not resist if my fingers pushed
inside. Or more.

"Are you sure?" I asked.

I heard the urgency in my voice, the longing, the
thrill of breaking the taboo. He hesitated, but what boy
would not hesitate when confronted by the unknown. Of
course, over the last few weeks we had discussed sex,
everything from masturbation and orgasm to anal sex, and he
had talked with other boys who had sex with men, but there
was a big gap between theory and practice. He nodded
slowly, as if it was the most important decision of his
life.

"Then, what I want is this. You have to promise to do
everything I want for the rest of the day," I proposed
irreverently.

It took time before Alesha realized what I had said
and then he looked at me as if I was out of my mind.

"That's all?"

"Trust me, it will be more than enough."

"Okay. It's a deal," he said hurriedly. He sounded
relieved.

I slapped his bare small bottom. "Well then, my deli-
cious sugar plum. The first thing is for you to get
dressed."

"Dressed?"

"Yes dressed. Unless you plan on taking a stroll
through the Luxembourg Gardens in the nude?" I answered
jovially.



Act VIII Scene II



Our first day in Paris passed very quickly for we were
always on the move. I made up my mind to show Alesha all of
the sights I treasured in the city. Not the tourist sights
for I resented the hordes who took over the grand city
every summer. We began with a walk through the Luxembourg
Gardens. It was the perfect time to visit not only because
the garden was at its best before the heat of the day, but
also because few tourists ever managed to get up and about
before ten o'clock. No doubt there were a couple of for-
eigners who ambled down the long pathways besides Alesha
and me, but the preponderance were clearly Parisians who
were there to take advantage of the fresh morning air to
cleanse their lungs and prepare themselves for the rest of
the day.

We ambled from the central fountain or `bassin' among
the vast array of statues that dated from the time of
Louis-Phillipe to the far corner known as the `Ancienne
Pepiniere' with its flowing pathways. From there it was
back along the Terrasse to the Fontaine de Medicis. It was
a place of fond memories for it was there where I took Mar-
tin so many years ago the first time we were alone. If
indeed I suffered from Alzheimer's there was no memory loss
of that long-ago morning. I recollected everything that had
transpired, every wonderful detail of that boy. Had it
really been so long ago that Martin had become a man and
now accompanied a boy of his own?

Alesha and I sat in the same spot where I had fallen
in love with Martin, trailing our hands in the green cool
water to make ripples travel out across the pond. In that
quiet idyllic place surrounded by plane trees, in a setting
that was more Italian than French, but with the romance of
the latter, we chattered like two love birds. I pointed out
the niche in which the jealous Cyclops, Polyphemus, waited
to crush Acis and Galatea. Yet even as we talked of insig-
nificant things, I began to think that my feelings for Mar-
tin had been less about love and more as infatuation. If I
could love anyone, it would be reserved entirely for Ale-
sha. Never before had I experienced the sense of complete-
ness that I had discovered with Alesha. I thought of Ying
and Yang, the immutable Eastern principle of opposites that
also contain the essence of the other, for together they
made a whole. Oriental philosophy assigned male and female
to the principle, but it was equally true of Alesha and me.

I was content, feeling a deep satisfaction merely by
being in his company, by sharing thoughts and feelings. We
raced leaves as boats, although there was so little wind
that we eventually tired of the game.  I made a mental note
to purchase a radio-controlled sailing yacht for him so
that we could join the throngs of avid racers who gathered
around the pond every Sunday afternoon.  With my antiquated
Leica, an heirloom of my father's, I took photographs of
Alesha, several with the fountain behind him, others where
he was surrounded by brilliantly colored flowers, although
the black and white film I was using would capture them
only as shades of grey. I finished the entire roll within
minutes.

>From the Luxembourg gardens, we enjoyed a brisk walk
to Notre Dame, along the Boulevard St. Michel to the Boule-
vard St. Germain. I took advantage of a shortcut, stopping
for breakfast at the Café Noir on the Rue Dante.  Not for
the first time, while we buttered our croissants and
applied spoonfuls of strawberry jam, I found myself think-
ing that as much as I loved Alesha, I enjoyed his company
even more as a friend. He swelled with pride when the
waiter served him coffee and hot milk. The sun glistened in
his hair, flecking the unruly strands with brilliant gold.
A curl, more unmanageable than the rest trailed down his
brow. It would have been very easy to convince myself I was
in the presence of a movie star or some other icon of soci-
ety whose natural grace and elegant appearance were certain
to draw admirers. With some amusement I noticed the occa-
sional glances in our direction by other patrons. A few
glances lingered, some with curious eyes, others that were
cast with nervous eyes. Alesha was, or at least he appeared
to be oblivious to everything except his croissants and
coffee, and me. My heart glowed with happiness as I basked
under his attentive gaze.

All too soon our breakfast was complete and with the
bill paid, it was time to continue our tour. He chattered
incessantly with the observation powers of an artist, eager
to learn what everything was. My knowledge of things French
was tested to the limit at Notre Dame. Indeed, there were
even a few times when I was at a loss for words to answer
his questions. We followed the quais along the Seine, a
long walk at any time, but one that was infinitely more
enjoyable with Alesha beside me. We stopped often, to exam-
ine the wares of the booksellers and merchants who lined
the balustrade. Needless to say, I finally relented in my
avid avoidance of tourist haunts and took Alesha up to the
top of the Tour Eiffel. It held no special interest for me,
but I owed him that for his patience when we visited an art
dealer and old friend on the Rue du Bac. Monsieur Parten
was keen to sell a recent acquisition, a smaller work by
one of the lesser Impressionists. It was a good painting
and I offered him a price that I thought fair. We haggled
for nearly half-an-hour while Alesha explored the gallery
on his own.

Both of us enjoyed the view and the engineering
extravaganza of the structure that towered over the Parc du
Champs-de-Mars. Indeed, as we surveyed the city and its
environs from far above, I gained a new appreciation. A
boy's perspective on the world is unlike any other. It was
a typical Parisian day so we could see only as far as Orly
Airport. Still, I pointed out where we had traveled on our
walking tour. I pointed out the Ile de la Cite and how it
split the Seine in two, which was the organizing theme for
the original city. Them, putting on my professor's voice,
as Alesha called it, I explained  how Hausmann sliced the
city in a different way with grand avenues that were carved
through the medieval network of streets and lanes. I
directed his attention to the barriers in the distance, the
gates that had once provided entries into the walled city
even though the walls had long since been dismantled. Ale-
sha was enthralled. He leaned against me, sharing the mag-
nificence of Paris on a warm summer day, just as we had
shared the wonder of New York at night standing on the
viewing platform of the Empire State Building only a few
weeks earlier.

Dismissive of the tourist throngs that gathered in
their inevitable lines for lunch at La Tour Eiffel, we
headed for the Jardin des Tuileries with the intention of
steering clear of the Louvre until I could arrange a pri-
vate tour for Alesha.

"Tuileries actually means tile-works," I expounded,
and Alesha smiled and gave the impression that he had
absorbed every word I had spoken since leaving home.

We were standing near the statue of Apollo and Daphne
by Nicolas Coustou, not far from the octagonal `bassin'. It
was nearly lunchtime and I was ready to decide where we
should eat. There were a number of good restaurants in the
neighborhood, many just across the Rue de Rivoli, but I was
tending to something less exotic. A baguette and some brie
cheese sounded ideal.  Perhaps some ice-cream to follow
becasue both of us had walked far enough to work off any
calories.

"There! See, Mr. B.! There he is again, with another
one," Alesha suddenly exclaimed.

He pointed to a man dressed in a brown leather jacket
who had been walking slowly through the Quinconces. At
first glance he seemed to be a businessman because he car-
ried a matching leather briefcase in the soft-sided portfo-
lio-style that Frenchmen prefer. After a few minutes, the
man crossed the path and sat down beside another man who
was awkwardly dressed in a dark suit and tie. The strange
thing was that at various times, both men had talked with
yet another man, a dark-haired man who was attired in
casual clothes.  We had noticed that same man acting suspi-
ciously some five minutes earlier. He had been studying the
statue of Hippom, not unusual in itself because it was an
interesting statue, but while he looked he had given sig-
nals to both men who he obviously recognized. Neither of
them had signaled back, yet clearly contact had been made.
Then, he quickly moved away. Not quite out of sight, yet
close enough that he could intervene if needed.

"Shhh," I hushed, pushing Alesha's hand down. "It's
rude to point."

"Who do you think they are, Mr. B.?" This time he
whispered, making a pretense of looking in the opposite
direction.

I nearly laughed. Alesha, the spy, was quite unex-
pected. "That's a good question," I answered. "They look
Arabic to me."

"They're probably spies", Alesha muttered to himself.

"Perhaps," I replied noncommittally, still watching.
"More likely they're tourists. The Saudis are always trav-
eling. I think there alre more of them in Paris than Japa-
nese."

"Why are they pretending they don't know each other?"

"Perhaps because they don't want to draw attention," I
said evasively. "Maybe we should get some lunch? I'm fam-
ished," I suggested.

"Look!" Alesha said urgently.

The newcomer had opened a brown leather briefcase. He
took out a few sheets of paper and after glancing to each
side, let them flutter to the ground. The other man leaned
down and picked up the two sheets. However, he handed only
one of them back. It was over in a few seconds, but the
entire situation left me with the distinct impression that
it was not accidental. The missing sheet was casually
folded and placed in a pocket as if it had never existed.
The other page lay on the seat as the man in the leather
jacket searched through the open

"So he's clumsy."

I gave a little snort as I said it. It was not unusual
for me to be dismissive of anything out of the ordinary
simply because that was the way I had always been. This was
Paris after all. My Paris, not some Third-World city of
drug dealers and arms merchants, or Moscow, which I'm sure
still had more than enough spies to keep everyone busy, In
fact, it seemed somewhat ludicrous that such amateurs would
be used for anything important because the exchange was
impossible to miss. It was almost as if they wanted to be
seen. One thing was obvious, all three men despite their
efforts at disguise, were Arabs.

"I'm going over to have a closer look," Alesha
announced suddenly.

Before I could stop him, he had bounced to his feet
and was a half-dozen paces away. Unable to call out because
it would draw attention to him, I watched his impetuous
back. He walked almost directly to them, diverting only to
go a little closer to the fountain, where he stopped and
turned around. It was not  much, yet it gave the impression
that he was looking for someone.  After a moment, he
started walking again, this time on a direct line to them.
As he neared the two men, I got to my feet, trying to
decide what to do if Alesha needed my assistance. I watched
anxiously. He spoke to them, smiling and nodding his head.
Then, he pointed to his wrist. The only thing that made
sense was that he was asking them the time. After a few
seconds he turned around and started back towards me.

He had gone a few paces before he called out, "Papa!
Le temps est presque deux heures. Votre montre doit être
cassée." (The time is nearly two o'clock. Your watch must
be broken.)

His French was perfect, sounding very much like a
well-educated Parisian boy. I played along, fascinated by
his uncanny ability at the same time as I relished the fact
that he had called me `papa'. I waited until he was closer
to me, but still far enough away that the men would hear
me.

"Merci, Francois. Nous serons tardifs pour le rendez-
vous."  (We will be late for the appointment)

To complete the picture, Francois, aka Alesha, even
jogged the last few yards until he was by my side.

"For God's sake, why did you do that?" I whispered as
I took his hand and  hurried  down a path that led away
from the Rue de Rivoli.

"I wanted to see that was on the paper, Mr. B."

"And what was on the paper?" I demanded under my
breath.

Alesha gave me a irritable look that suggested what he
had seen was not at all what he had expected to see.

"Well?" I prompted.

"It was nothing. Just a photo of the World Trade Cen-
ter towers.  Boring old New York, of all places,-" he
answered morosely. "I'm sure the other one was the same."

Apparently, he had been expecting something much more
dramatic, drawings of a top-secret stealth aircraft per-
haps? Certainly, it did not make a lot sense for them to
exchange photographs of something that was readily avail-
able in any number of books, yet it was harmless enough. I
smiled and placed my hand on his shoulder.

"If it bothers you, I can call the embassy when we get
home," I offered, thinking that I would meet a chilly
reception with such an unimportant matter.

Alesha shrugged. "Why would they care?" Suddenly, his
fantasy was shattered.

"They might not, Alesha. However, a few years back
someone tried to blow the World Trade Center up by driving
a van loaded with explosives into the garage under one of
the towers," I explained.

"Maybe that's what they are planning," Alesha sug-
gested. He glanced over his shoulder, looking back the way
we had come, but we had walked far enough that the three
men were gone from sight.

"It's unlikely. I'm sure they guard the entrances to
the garage very carefully now. You probably couldn't get a
tank in there now."

"Oh well. Maybe they are just tourists, like you said.
Maybe the man with the briefcase said the other man could
have whatever it was he picked up." He did not sound con-
vinced, but he was prepared to let the matter go.

"Are you hungry, dear boy?" I asked, glad to see the
subject disappear.

"I'm famished," Alesha answered.

A block from the gardens, we found a small grocery
shop. I purchased a baguette, some brie cheese which I had
the lady slice up before she wrapped it, and two bottles of
ubiquitous Perrier water. For good measure I asked her to
place a single chocolate-filled croissant in the bag. A
special treat seemed in order after having spent most of
the day walking.

"And some fruit too, Mr. B," Alesha reminded me.
"We're on the Alesha diet, remember?"

"How could I ever forget with a skinny little boy like
you around me every minute of the day," I said happily. I
picked out two red apples to be included.

Alesha smiled meaningfully. "I'll make it up to you,
Shel-donne," he said in a low voice.

"Promise?"

He smiled like one of the expensive yet very competent
harlots who frequented certain parts of the West Bank.
Needless to say, I much preferred boys, even the young Arab
boys who hawked their dark-skinned bodies, and who would do
everything a man wanted for a hundred francs or less. If a
man got lucky, a Moroccan boy with a light-colored skin
could be had for not much more.





"I've always wanted to do this," I said when we
finally stopped and sat down on the grass.

It was a delightful spot, and a familiar one too,
although it had been many years since I had stopped there.
It was next to a high stone wall with a partially
obstructed view along a long alley of plane trees on the
other side.  The view was obstructed by a decaying statue
of Hera, largely hidden by a high box hedge. The statue was
the work of a lesser known  sculptor of the Napoleonic era
and drew no attention to itself for that reason. It was a
secluded place, partly because of its location, but also it
was late enough that the Parisians who normally had lunch
in that quiet part of the Tuileries had returned to work.
It was also far enough away from the usual tourist sights
that we were left in peace. Indeed, the only people we had
seen since leaving the main axis of the gardens had been a
young man and woman standing by one of the small less exu-
berant  fountains. It was quite attractive in its own way
for it offered a place of reflection without the noise of
splashing water.

It was not surprising to see lovers walking hand in
hand at that time of day. Paris deserved its reputation as
the city of lovers. They stopped, perhaps only a half-dozen
paces from where Alesha and I would pass them. As we drew
nearer, the man placed his hand behind the woman's back and
brought her head closer to his. She stood on the tips of
her toes to reach because she was not much taller than Ale-
sha. His head came down and her arms locked around his
neck.

They kissed long and hard, oblivious to all and sun-
dry, tongue kissing until we passed them, or `swapping
spit' as Alesha and his friends called it. From the dura-
tion of their kiss, no doubt that euphemism was accurate. I
heard the woman gasp breathlessly when the kiss finally
ended, both of them giggling with euphoria. Alesha's hand
tightened in mine in acknowledgement that he thought it all
somewhat ridiculous. We had adopted that continental style
of walking soon after leaving the Luxembourg Gardens, and
by mid-afternoon it was with reluctance that we ever
allowed the other hand to depart for even a few seconds.  I
envied them their freedom to be themselves when the most
that I could ever express of my love for Alesha was to hold
his hand in public.

With my back against the white marble wall, feeling
the warmth of the sun on my face and legs outstretched I
felt positively lighthearted It had been a long time since
I had felt so content. Life was worth living once again, I
mused, now that I had someone to share it with. Yet,
despite my ebullient mood, we had walked a long way and I
was tired and hungry. Alesha stretched full length out on
the grass before me. Watching Alesha was like watching a
cat. He moved with feline grace, his seemingly lethargic
movements concealing his underlying strength and agility,
just like a cat. As he breathed, his belly pulled in and
his chest rose, drawing his shirt away from his shorts to
reveal a narrow swathe of pale skin. I made a mental note
to take him south to the sunny Riviera and change that
paleness to healthy brown.

"Do what, Mr. B.?" Alesha asked sleepily.

"Have a picnic in the Jardin des Tuileries," I
explained. I unwrapped the baguette and brie cheese. "Even
with all the years I've lived here, I've not done this.
Shall I make you a sandwich, mon garcon," I asked in a
playful voice.

"Oui, Monsieur." Alesha twisted onto his back and
looked up at the clear blue sky. He breathed out with a
sigh. "Mr. B.?"

"Yes, Alesha."

"Mr. B., what happens when I get older?" He glanced
back at me as I split the baguette open and inserted the
small wedges of cheese. "Will you still want to be my
patron when I'm grown up?" he added.

I nodded and divided the baguette into two. I handed
one to Alesha, expecting that he would only eat about half
of it. I promised myself that despite my hunger, I would
not consume whatever he did not finish.

"According to the rules that Julian and I established
when I set up the fellowship, your support will last for
six years or until you finish with ballet school."

Alesha nodded. I had answered his question by telling
him something that he already knew. "I didn't mean the fel-
lowship," he clarified.

"Oh?" I pretended to be surprised.

He smiled meekly, looking at the baguette as if trying
to decide what end to start from. A piece of brie that
poked out one end seemed much more tempting.

"You know what I mean, Mr. B. I'm talking about you
and me."

"Ah," I nodded. "Let me put it this way, Alesha. Mar-
tin was with me for a long while and now we're the best of
friends. We speak on the telephone at least once a week.
I've told him things that I would never tell anyone else."

"Like about me?"

I nodded. "Yes. You don't mind do you?" He shrugged.
"I told him I had met a wonderful young boy who also hap-
pened to be one his way to becoming the world's best
dancer."

Alesha rolled his eyes and shook his head in self-
effacing denial. One of the things I admired about him was
his modesty.

"Um,... have you,... told him,... everything?" Alesha
asked shyly.

"Everything? You mean about us?"

"Uh huh."

"I haven't told him everything. However, I think he's
heard enough to realize that you and I are more than just
good friends."

"Oh!"

"Don't be embarrassed, Alesha. He's no different to
Julian or Rollie knowing about you. He also has a boy-
friend."

"Raffi right? Have you met him?"

I nodded.

"What's he like?"

"He's very nice. He looks a bit like Roland, I think.
His hair is shorter. Darker too, if I remember correctly."

"Did you love him? Martin,... when he was a boy I mean."

"Yes, very much." It was the truth.

"How long did you love him?" Alesha asked after he had
finished chewing his first mouthful.

"We were together almost four years, Alesha."

He nodded. "Did you have sex with him a lot?" he asked
before taking a second bite.

"Yes."

We both ate for a while. The brie was exceptional. I
wished I had asked the woman what brand it was. Even the
baguette seemed fresher than usual. The crust was deli-
cious, and inside it was soft and sweet.

"Did you,-" He hesitated to ask. Finally, curiosity
got the better of him. "You know," he added as if the rest
of the question was obvious.

"Not right away, but yes, we did that too. We had sex,
and that's part of what happens."

I smiled, wondering where he was going. It would have
been strange if he was jealous of Martin, resenting some-
thing that had ended several years before he was born, yet
he was so persistent that I began to think that he was suf-
fering from envy.

Alesha stopped chewing and swallowed.  He examined
what remained of his half of the baguette.  He still had a
long way to go before he finished.

"How many times did you,... um,... you know,... do it with
him? All the way, I mean?"

"Hundreds of times, I expect. We never kept count.
Every one was wonderful," I added.

"And now another boy is in his place," Alesha mused
aloud.

He took another bite, chewing slowly, deliberately,
ruminating. Perhaps he might finish his half of the
baguette after all. He was already near the half-way point.
He licked his lips, savoring the taste of brie, picking up
crumbs with his fingers and nibbling on them like my cat.
My cat? Recently, it had seemed as if Alesha had adopted
the cat for his very own, and vice versa. They made a
pretty pair, sitting on the window sill in the library,
both lean and sleek if one discounted Alesha's often unruly
hair.

"Shel-donne," he said slowly, thoughtfully.

"Yes, Alesha," I answered before I made the connec-
tion.

"It's,... um, sort of private,... and,-"

"Yes?" I prompted, still unaware of the appellation he
had chosen to use. "You know you can ask me anything you
want."

"It's not that. Here. I mean it's private here, isn't
it?"

Alesha's agitated tone struck a chord within me. Years
ago, hadn't Martin said nearly the same words in a hidden
corner of the Luxembourg Gardens? And his voice, although a
little deeper, wasn't it the same? What was it with boys
and privacy? And then, I smiled, for Martin had then pro-
ceeded to reveal his penis to me for the very first time.
He was aroused and erect, and he had difficulty extracting
his penis from his clothes. He giggled while he worked it
loose, then proudly displayed it through the opening he had
made. It was delightfully compact yet sufficiently mature
that I had cause to speculate whether it was capable of
producing semen.

As I remembered, it was still hairless, well almost
hairless if one discounted the few fine strands that were
scattered on his pubis. Like most European boys, he had
been fortunate to retain his foreskin, a veil-like sheath
that revealed the shape of the helmeted head that was hid-
ing beneath it. I had stared at it, totally entranced for
nearly a minute, my interest held as much by the short pink
hardness of it as by the fact that he had shared it with me
at all. At the time I was, and even now I still am certain,
that no other man, not even his father had ever seen that
part of him like that. His father had abandoned him and his
mother when he was three or four, moving to Quebec where he
disappeared for good.

I remembered Martin's penis being as hard as forged
metal. He was ready for action as only a young male can be.
I still recalled  how the veins stood out, forming pale
blue-grey coils beneath the skin. There, in that private
shaded nook away from prying eyes, I looked upon Martin and
realized that within that beautiful inexperienced boy
there was another boy who was sensuous and hungry for love.

"Yes, it is private here," I answered quietly.  The
words sounded strained, almost foreign.

"I,... Um, you said I could call you Shel-donne,... in
private," Alesha murmured.

"Yes, I did."

I extended my hand towards him. A smile formed on that
beautiful face, dimpling his cheeks ever so slightly. He
reached out, stretching his arm until his fingertips met
mine. For a moment we stayed like that, exchanging a touch
at the very extremity of our bodies. I slid my hand casu-
ally along his, weaving my fingers through his to bind our
hands together,  then tightening my grip so that we were
joined inseparably. We gazed at each other for a long
while.

"It's nice here," Alesha, said talking so softly that
I could barely hear him. He licked his lips and after a
moment's hesitation, chewed his bottom lip. He sighed after
a while, still holding my hand, no longer eating. "Mr. B.,...
why do I feel like this?"

I raised my eyebrows, my answer to his query unspoken.
Instead, I nodded reassuringly. There were some things that
he would have to discover for himself. I did not want him
to depend on me like that. It was too easy to plant a seed
that either did not belong or  whose time had not come.

"Those people we saw before,... " he asked, awkwardly
pulling his hand back again. His mood had changed, or per-
haps he had become aware that there was not enough privacy
for what he wanted to do.

"The ones who were kissing?" I clarified.

Alesha nodded. "Yes, them. Do you think they're in
love, Mr. B?"

"Very likely. From that kiss I'd say that they proba-
bly aren't married," I added in jest.

"Agreed," Alesha laughed. His tongue toyed with his
red pure lips. He tended to do that when he was thinking
about something. "Do you think they have sex?" he asked
suddenly.

"Sex? Hm, I don't know. I suppose so. Paris is the
city of love, you know. If you listen at night you can hear
the bed-springs creaking. It can be quite loud on Fridays
and Saturdays."

"Just those two nights?" Alesha asked seriously

I winked. "You'll have to listen and let me know if
there are other nights."

Alesha laughed again and took a large bite of his
baguette. As he chewed, then swallowed, his cheeks hollowed
in. It would have given him the appearance a starved waif
were it not for the brand new clothes he wore. I had estab-
lished  the renewal of Alesha's hitherto scanty wardrobe as
a personal priority, a task that was intended to be, if not
completed before leaving New York, certainly well under-
way. I relied on Dewon, to assist me in the appropriate
choices. He duly informed me of what was `all the rage' for
boys of Alesha's age. It appeared that the height of pre-
teen fashion in New York consisted of what might be loosely
termed a tee shirt emblazoned with a picture of a young boy
riding a surfboard and a pair of baggy shorts with a seem-
ingly endless array of pockets and `do-dads' as I referred
to them.

The clothes that Alesha wore that day included a tee
shirt, which had started off as size 12 so that he had room
to grow, had mysteriously shrunk so that it would have been
tight on a skinny eight-year-old. On Alesha, it was so
tight that the shape of his abdomen was revealed. As I
studied him, I observed that even his nipples could be
seen. Two tiny dots disturbed the cream-colored cotton, and
yet despite that Alesha looked very much a boy. He was
vibrant , free-spirited, and commonplace in that his attire
was no different to the boys who passed me by in the street
on the Upper East Side. I appreciated that in some impor-
tant ways they were still Alesha's peers, and he needed to
fit in if he was ever to have any friends who weren't danc-
ers or overtly gay. With that said, I would have preferred
if the trend in boys'  clothes was less foreign to me. Call
me old-fashioned, but my preference was for the New England
prep-school look. I would have enjoyed seeing Alesha in the
pale blue oxford shirt, khaki trousers, and navy blue
jacket that I wore as a boy.

Still, sitting back in the comfortable afternoon sun-
shine, I reflected on the boy before me, trying to decide
which Alesha I liked the best. Alesha in leather, an effem-
inate homosexual, the delightful attention-getting  pansy-
boy who I had taken to Appleboys, or Alesha as he was now,
appearing if not in reality, as straight as a boy could be
if it wasn't for the nipples he took great delight in
exposing. It wasn't an easy choice for me.

After a brief silence, Alesha looked up again and
smiled slightly.

Did he have any idea at all of the effect he had on
me? Did he realize how I stared at him, infatuated.

"It isn't the same for us, is it?"

"Pardon?"

He regarded his baguette as if it somehow held the
answer to his question. A fly buzzed close to him and he
flipped at it, then glanced back to me.

"Because,... well, you and me, that should be `I'
shouldn't it? I mean you're gay and all. You just like
boys, but I'm pretty sure that I'm gay. I guess what I'm
trying to say is that we can't make babies,... and we can't
get married either. It's like gays have nothing to gain by
staying together."

I nodded, crunching the fresh bread crust between my
teeth. It was very flaky and my lap was covered with sliv-
ers.

"That's why some guys flirt and do stuff, right-I mean
why they have sex with most anyone."

It was an interesting point of view, not one that I
had ever had cause to think about. It was as good an expla-
nation of gay promiscuity as any other. For the moment, I
gave up correcting his English. He was under the influence
of New York. I could only hope it was a temporary situa-
tion.

"That's true, at least in part I think," I said hon-
estly. "It's different when two people love each other,
don't you think?"

"Like you and Martin?" he asked promptly.

Of course, he was right. "Yes, or,... Julian and
Roland," I added abruptly. I did not like how he had
brought my love for Martin back into the conversation.

"Maybe," Alesha ventured diffidently. He considered
what I'd said. "If they're really in love,... I suppose they
are. I mean Roland says he loves Julian, although he
doesn't try to hide that he's still interested in other
guys. It's just, well, I think it should be different some-
how once you'd fallen in love with someone."

"I happen to agree," I replied, catching Alesha's
eyes. "Of course, the trouble is knowing when you really
love someone and not just like them a lot."

He nodded and did that thing with his lips that let me
know he was cogitating once again. I smiled and went back
to my half-finished baguette. Although it was a long time
in coming, I expected Alesha's next question.

"So, how do you know when you're really in love?"

I thought back over the years. I was certain of only
one boy who claimed that he loved me. That boy was Martin.
Some of the others said it along the way, but probably
didn't mean it. They said it because it was expected of
them. In truth, all of them wanted something for their time
and effort. Compensation was required for services ren-
dered, even it if was not in monetary form. It was no
secret that some boys enjoyed sex with men, but they still
needed expensive gifts as rewards. Martin wanted nothing
except affection and to hear me say that I loved him.

We had been having sex for more than a month before
Martin finally uttered the words that I had been waiting to
hear. When it came, it was out of the blue. We were sitting
in a restaurant in Rouen,  actually in a picturesque vil-
lage a few kilometers outside Rouen, not far from the Cha-
teau de St. Adolphe where we were staying for the weekend
with Paul Guillard. Paul was an avid horseman and his sta-
ble was among the best in Paris, so it was only to be
expected that Martin and I were saddle sore after spending
two days on horseback gallivanting around the French coun-
tryside. However, Martin's discomfort was much greater
than mine.

Only an hour earlier we had wandered into a grove of
pine trees, discovering a glade that beckoned us to dis-
mount. I ached to be inside him, full of longing for the
sprightly lad who tethered his horse and promptly proceeded
to undress without being asked. We flung our clothes off
and I mounted him quickly, using two fingers covered with
saliva to ease the way inside him. He gasped and nodded
eagerly as I ineptly breeched him, using his hands to part
his cheeks and open himself  wider for me. I responded by
taking his ankles in my hands and forcing them back above
his head, then even before he was relaxed and ready, I
began to push my penis through his tight opening. Within
moments I was thrusting hard and deep, punishing thrusts
that made him cry out in ecstasy, slamming against his but-
tocks with such force that his shoulders and head were
pushed into the thick bed of pine needles underneath him.
We came together, urgently calling out each other's names.

It was only with the greatest difficulty that we
avoided doing it a second time. Afterwards, we lay together
in post-coital bliss, still joined, my penis itching
slightly. It was limp but it remained almost totally con-
tained within its warm moist abode. He used those inner
muscles that all boys have but so few discover how to use
properly, exerting a delightful undulating pressure as he
endeavored to invoke another erection while holding my
glans captive behind his sphincter. Yet, despite how much I
would have enjoyed repeating the experience, we were both
exhausted, physically and emotionally drained from the
intensity of what we had done. Finally, we managed to part
our bodies. A trickle of semen dribbled from Martin's bot-
tom as he stood unsteadily. He smirked, bent over and used
a clump of leaves to clean away the slimy mess. He tossed
it away, surrendering the evidence that we loved each other
to the mossy ground. After dressing myself, I assisted Mar-
tin to put his clothes on and then to mount his horse
again.

Instead of riding directly back to the Chateau, we
detoured to the village of Pont de Hadrier,  originally a
hamlet that sprang up around an ancient bridge that accord-
ing to local legend, was built by the Roman Emperor,
Hadrian. We were silent for most of the ride, both of us
remembering what we had done. We made love in that quiet
glade, not sex, not simply satisfying our base need for
physical sensation. It was almost as if we were leaving
innocence behind us, moving our relationship to a different
level. Both of us realized that something, everything had
changed between us. And so, as we sat in the restaurant,
Martin smiled, then giggled and leaned forward. `Je
t'aime,... je t'adore,... I am your lover now, Shel-donne,' he
ended breathlessly. I would never forget those words and
the nervous boy who had finally decided what he wanted from
life. It was only a week later, after we had returned to
Paris, that Martin and I discovered the private nook
against the stone wall in the Tuileries where I had taken
Alesha.



"I don't  know, Alesha," I answered honestly. "Some
people describe it as an ache in the heart when they're in
love." That sounded condescending.  "However, I think it's
mostly heart burn from eating food too late at night," I
added flippantly.

Alesha smiled. "Be serious, Mr. B," he said sternly.

"Hm,... well, I do know that when you're in love, you'll
know it."

"Why?" he asked promptly.

"Very simply, because that's all you'll think about,"
I ended.

"That's a lot of help. Okay, let me try this again,"
he said testily. He thought for while. "How can you tell
those people we just saw were in love?"

"That's a good question. You thought they were in love
too, didn't you?" I asked.

Alesha shrugged, pretending he had not given it any
thought beyond asking the question of me. "I guessed they
might be, but only because I heard them say `I love you.'"

"Ah, see I think that's a very important observation."

"Why?"

"Well, as I see it, only one person knows when you've
fallen in love, and that's you."

"Because no one else can possibly know what I'm think-
ing," Alesha said as he regarded me with a shy smile.

"Exactly, so when you think about it,  there's only
one way for the other person who you're in love with to
find out. You have to tell them. That's why people say `I
love you', I believe. It also means that you shouldn't go
around saying it unless you mean it."

Alesha let out a long sigh. "You really didn't answer
my question," he complained. "Basically, I'll know I'm in
love when I know, and then I'll say it to someone. So when
will I know? How long does it take?"

"That's easy. It takes as long as it takes."

"Wow, that's a big help."

"As little a few hours, or even less for love at first
sight, and for some people perhaps as long as several
years. I think the average time is two months and six days.
Or is it seven days? Hm,... It might even be three months and
six days,... "

"Haha," Alesha admonished with a sarcastic tone. He
took another bite of his baguette, licking off a piece of
brie that clung to his lips.

"Sorry. I'll try to be serious." I laughed.

Was he asking about himself? After spending such a
delightful day together he had to be feeling some affection
for me. I had never seen him so happy. However, I could
tell that he was questioning himself, trying to understand
the feelings inside him.  He obviously took pleasure in my
company, although I seriously doubted it was love. It had
taken almost two months with Martin, but they were wonder-
ful months that  bridged the gap between friend and lover
so that both of us were happy. There were times when it
seemed that we had sex continuously. Indeed, Martin was so
often in my bed that I was beginning to worry something was
wrong with him. Young teenage boys are famous, perhaps
infamous, for their sexual prowess and perpetual state of
sexual arousal, yet sometimes Martin was so persistent in
his demands, that he disturbed me. I worried whether making
love with him so often could result in permanent injury to
his colon.

"What I want to know is,... how,-" He hesitated, then
looked up again. "Isn't there some feeling or something I'm
supposed to have inside?"

I shrugged. "Yes, I think there is."

"Well,..." he grumbled. "What is it?"

"I can't tell you, dear boy."

"Why not?"

"It's a secret. Grownups aren't allowed to tell kids
about things like that  until they're in their teens."

"Very funny," Alesha growled menacing.

He could move very quickly when he wanted to. One
moment he was lying on the grass, gnawing on the end of his
baguette and grilling me with 20 questions, and the next
moment he was in my lap. I was not even sure how he managed
to get there because he jumped when I least expected it.
Having gotten there, Alesha seemed surprised. Perhaps he
expected me to throw him off. Instead, I hugged him
tightly. I pulled him against me completely oblivious to
everything except Alesha's warmth and his delicate skin. My
hand found its way to his cheek. I caressed him gently,
stroking from his brow to his chin. One day, hopefully
years from now, there would be stubble there. My attraction
to him would have begun to fade before that happened. It
had been the same way with Martin after he reached that
threshold of pubertal development.  When the time was
right, I taught him how to shave his face and groin, adding
a year or more to our intimacy. Yet as the months slipped
past, even that was not enough. My boy had become a young
man. Within another year, he was nearly as tall as I was
and his voice had broken to a baritone.

"You feel so good," I whispered in Alesha's nearest
ear.

He smiled and placed his arm behind my neck. For a few
moments, his tongue danced across his luscious lips. He had
a woman's lips, needing only a careful application of lip-
stick and a few more years and he could grace any haute
couture magazine like Vogue.

"Mr. B?" he asked softly.

"Yes, Alesha."

"No one can see us here," Alesha announced after look-
ing around circumspectly. "Not unless they come down the
stairs, and then we'd see them first."

"That's true," I agreed.

He grinned, and then without further ado, he shame-
lessly, almost wantonly plunged his lips against mine. I
was hardly ready for his attack, for that was what it was.
This was no chaste kiss, but a kiss that was born of pas-
sion and undeniable need. His lips melted against mine, his
tongue surged forward again and again, stabbing relent-
lessly into my mouth. I had a vague sense that he was try-
ing to prove something, if not to me, then to himself. His
arms tightened around my neck, holding me to him. He
started sucking, drawing my tongue forth, then into his
mouth where he dueled with it until we finally broke apart,
both breathless.

"What on earth brought that on?" I finally managed to
ask.

Alesha smiled shyly and casually wiped his fingers
across his lips. He was wet there. He shrugged. "Didn't you
like it?"

"Of course I liked it," I replied. "That was some
kiss, though. It quite took me by surprise"

He shrugged again. "It was how they were kissing, so I
did it to you. That's what they call French kissing," he
stated emphatically.

It took a moment or two before I realized that he was
referring to the man and woman we had seen kissing by the
fountain.

"Oh," I smiled. "But Alesha, that's how French men and
women kiss. You have to realize that it's very different
when men and boys kiss."

He smirked, fully aware that I was teasing him. "And
how would that be, Monsieur?"

"It's rather difficult to explain, mon garcon. By far
the best way would be for me to show you."

"Oui."

He regarded me with his intense yet ever playful eyes.
I was totally smitten by him. Some people might say that I
was infatuated, but I would have described my obsession as
being lovesick.

"Well then, the first thing is to close your eyes," I
said softly.

Alesha complied, blocking out his cerulean eyes with a
flutter of his brows. He leaned closer, waiting for my
kiss. I tortured him.

"Now, with a French kiss, it's important to use your
lips as gently as a butterfly. Not the beating wings of a
hummingbird or the sweep of an albatross and certainly not
the violent attack of an eagle."

Alesha giggled and nodded. This time his lips barely
moved and when they did brush against mine it was with such
soothing tenderness that I was startled. After a tentative
caress, he lifted away momentarily. Teasingly, his tongue
made an obligatory swipe to wet his lips before his mouth
returned to mine. We kissed again, both absorbed by the
sensation of lips moving tenderly together. He smiled when
I eased back, yet his eyelids stayed shut. His face was
flushed.

"Now, the tongue, dear boy, is supposed to tickle
one's lips before it enters. It caresses. It does not force
its way inside a person's mouth. It is not a duel or a bat-
tle, but a dance. A very special dance."

He nodded again, enjoying my game. "Like a waltz for
the tongues? Or a minuet perhaps?"

"Hm,... more like a waltz. Imagine the music and let
your tongue do the rest."

"Like this?" Alesha hummed a few bars of Johann
Strauss's Blue Danube. It was music to my ears.

I brought my face closer to his, my eyes still open.
There were a few barely discernible freckles on either side
of his nose. It was strange how I had never noticed them as
much before. Perhaps they were only visible in the bright
sun? His tongue flickered across my lips, gradually easing
between them. The tip touched my teeth and skipped from
side to side. It seemed to pirouette whenever it turned
back to stroke my lips again. Only on the fourth or fifth
pass did his tongue press further. My tongue came forward
to embrace his wet, squirmy, sensuous tongue. My arms
tightened, instinctively responding to his need to be held.
He sucked lightly, then his tongue withdrew, bringing mine
into his mouth. I wondered what it would be like to dance
with Alesha, kissing as we moved. Our tongues merged,
parted, then joined together once again.

"How was that, Shel-donne?" Alesha asked teasingly.

"Quite good."

"Does it qualify as a French kiss?"

"Only if your dick is hard, my sweet," I said
jovially.

I was answered with a smirk. I smiled myself. It was
not often that I resorted to common words. Yet there were
times when common words had a descriptive power of their
own.

Without asking his permission, I reached down. His
legs moved apart to grant access. My fingers brushed
against his hardness. I felt the short stiff organ of his
sex, the fabulous heat of his young body. I cupped his
bulge, capturing his penis and testicles in my hand. He
wriggled, lifting his pelvis to meet me, to increase the
contact. Beneath my fingers, his penis was unyielding.

"It was a French kiss," I whispered.

"No kidding. Can we do it again?"

My head spun the second time. Perhaps it was the
afternoon sun, the heat, the sheer naughtiness of what we
were doing, but I became quite light-headed. We kissed
again and again, oblivious to the world around us. The
kisses ran the gamut from butterflies to eagles, from hum-
mingbirds to albatrosses. And Alesha clung to me, both arms
wrapped around my neck and shoulders. My left hand stroked
his cheek, his hair, his brow, even his ears. My other hand
was at work between his legs, toying, rubbing, almost abus-
ing, but always lovingly upon him, on that special part of
his body that defined him as a boy.

"Mon dieu! C'est un garcon, Jacquelin! Un garcon! Le
homme, il est un pedophile dégoûter!"

So  much for the so-called tolerance of the continent
towards divergent points of view, I thought wryly. I gave
her the rudest gesture that I knew, certain that any French
man or woman would be offended of a single finger raised.
With my head kept low, she could not see either my face or
Alesha's. After a brief conversation and much shaking of
heads, they departed, probably in search of a gendarme.
Hurriedly, Alesha and I, both laughing once the initial
shock wore off, picked up our luncheon things and proceeded
to depart in the opposite direction.



ACT VIII Scene III



Despite laughing about it as we all but ran from the
Tuileries, Alesha was embarrassed. He was sufficiently
shamed by the incident not to hold my hand while we walked
all the way back to the Luxembourg Gardens. Certainly, it
had affected me too, for I half-expected to see a police
car outside the ornately carved stone building that we
would call `home' for the summer. Alesha even stood apart
from me when we ascended in the elevator. It was only when
we reached the refuge of my apartment that Alesha finally
came close enough to me that I could hug him. He stood on
tiptoes, buried his head against my chest and let out a
long sigh. He had good reason to be tired.

"Bonjour Monsieur Beaufort. It is good to see you home
again. I hope you are happy to be in Paris."

At Madame Kahle's cheery but startling welcome, Ale-
sha sprang back to life. His face reddened, as much by
being surprised as by being seen so close to me.  However,
I was not as surprised for it was standard procedure that
when I was in Paris she would greet me at the door. Often
she worked until nine p.m. to serve dinner if I stayed in
for the evening, or even  later if I had guests to enter-
tain. For reasons of her own, she chose not to avail her-
self of one of the two servants' apartments.

"Hello, once again," I remarked lightheartedly.  "Oh,
indeed I am pleased be back. I had quite forgotten how much
I missed Paris."

She had been trying hard to improve her English and
there was a noticeable improvement since the last time we
had talked. I smiled at her with what I hoped was reassur-
ance. Languages were not her forte, but she more than com-
pensated for that with her cooking. That was not unexpected
for she had trained as a chef at the school in Chartres,
before she entered my employ. Indeed, her cooking was the
reason why I hired her in the first place. Yet, even more
important than her culinary forte, I had come to appreciate
her tolerance and discretion concerning my private life.

"This darling boy is Alesha Yaroshenko," I announced,
placing my hand firmly on his shoulder to direct him to
step forward. "As I mentioned on the telephone, he will be
staying here with me for the summer."

She nodded and bowed her head. I noticed that she gave
him more than a cursory glance, assessing him before she
spoke. I was not surprised by that either because she had
long known of my partiality to young males.

"Bonjour, Master Yaroshenko," she said with gentle
reassurance that would make even the most recalcitrant boy
feel welcome.

Her voice that suggested she was already fond of him.
It was not surprising. I had already discovered that Alesha
was a boy who was easy to become very fond of. His smile
was captivating, bright eyes wide and curious as he looked
at her.

"Bonjour Madam," Alesha answered, suddenly less
tired.

His hand extended to meet hers. They shook graciously,
still exchanging a look that spoke volumes of their charac-
ters.

"You have had a busy day, mon cheri?"

"Oui, Madam. Nous avons été très occupés. Nous avons
marché partout dans Paris."

"In English, please Alesha. She's been trying very
hard to learn."

"Yes we did," Alesha said with a grin. "We walked
everywhere, all over Paris. It is so beautiful."

"A beautiful city it is. Paris is a treasure to be
explored, but for a boy who is curious it has no equal,"
she said warmly. She looked from Alesha to me. Her eyes met
mine. ""He has such beautiful eyes. They are so full of
life, Monsieur. He is special, isn't he?"

"Yes, he is... He's everything I hoped he would be," I
answered honestly.

I knew what she was thinking, making the obvious com-
parison with Martin. However, they were as alike as French
brandy and Russian vodka, although that analogy was hardly
appropriate to Alesha. Each boy was to be savored in his
own way, consumed only with great care for addiction was
but a taste away.

"And he is a dancer you said on the telephone, Mon-
sieur Beaufort? Of the ballet classique?"

"Yes he is. And he dances superbly, far better than
any other boy in New York. I am very proud to be his spon-
sor. Of course, there's a price, but isn't there always.
The poor child practices non-stop.  Sometimes, I think that
all he does is dance."

"I do not, Mr. B," Alesha interjected petulantly.

"Might I remind you that you practiced this morning
for more than an hour," I reminded him. "And you'll proba-
bly do another two or three hours tonight."

He shrugged ambivalently. "I thought you were
asleep."

"Asleep? With you skipping about the room like a
frisky foal? I think not, my dear."

"Well, I do need to practice," Alesha said huffily.
"You know I do."

I turned to Madam Kahle. "In future I think we will be
using the library for his practice sessions, at least in
the evening. It's the only room of any size with a polished
wood-floor that won't be in constant use. There is some
furniture to move, and the rugs of course. Would it be too
much to ask?"

"I'll have it done tomorrow morning, Monsieur," she
said. She smiled sweetly, averting her eyes as she often
did when there was something on her mind that might disturb
me if she brought it to my attention. "This morning, I
could not help but notice the guest room was unused."

"He slept with me," I replied quietly.

She shrugged ambivalently, as if to show that it did
not bother here where Alesha slept. "I took the liberty of
placing his clothes in the side closet, Monsieur. I hope
that wasn't inappropriate?"

I smiled and nodded in answer to her unasked question
regarding the nature of our intimacy.  "Entirely appropri-
ate. We will speak about it later," I said. I could sense
Alesha's embarrassment.

"Will you desire dinner at the usual hour?"

"Dinner at eight o'clock?" I turned to Alesha, casu-
ally looking at my watch. "How long will you need to prac-
tice this evening, dear boy?"

"A couple of hours." He sounded moody, which was only
to be expected given that we had been talking about him as
if he wasn't there.

"Hm,... then we have four hours? Will that be enough
time for practice and a nice long bath to soak your poor
tired body?" I teased.

He nodded quickly, his hair bouncing on his forehead.
His tongue poked out, dispatching my weak attempt at humor
with aplomb. The boy had the panache of a Paris gigolo.

"Then that will be ideal. What do you have planned,
Madam?"

"Confit de canard, avec un sauce de creme de cassis de
Dijon."

I smacked my lips in appreciation while promising
myself that I would try to limit my consumption.

"I have it in the oven right now, Monsieur. And of
course, the leeks sautéed in butter that you like. I will
serve it with a risotto with fresh truffles."

"Excellent," I said gleefully. "I am so tired of Amer-
ican cuisine. I'd quite forgotten what I was missing by
being in New York."

It was only then, when the decision to dine in that
evening had been taken that I chanced to look at Alesha. He
was perturbed, unduly I thought since although the menu was
unquestionably fattening, if consumed in moderation it was
no worse than,... a well-endowed foot-long hotdog.

"What's wrong, Alesha?"

He shrugged nonchalantly, but averted his eyes with
characteristic reluctance to share his problems.

"Okay then. Out with it, dear boy," I demanded in a
gruff voice that served only to incite an awkward giggle.

"You've forgotten. It doesn't matter, Mr. B."

"Forgotten what?"

"Nothing,..."

I thought back, trying to remember  whether I had made
a promise that I had forgotten about. I could think of
nothing, at least in recent memory. Still, I was often
accused of being forgetful. Suddenly, what I had forgotten
returned in a flash of inspiration.

"Madam Kahle, there will be a slight change of plan,"
I pronounced.

"You won't be eating in this evening, Monsieur?"

"But of course. I'd not miss your duck for anything.
However, we'll dine promptly, at seven instead of eight. No
need for soup or dessert, tonight. We'll be going out."

I stopped instinctively, then smiled.  Some habits
were hard to break. Paris was not New York, and Madam Kahle
was not sycophantic Mrs. Davis.  She accepted my pecca-
dillo, even if she could not fathom why men loved boys
instead of women. It was a very different morality, freedom
to be myself and live my life as I wanted to live it.

"If you will be so good as to make a reservation for
me at,-"

She inclined her head, perhaps expecting that I would
finish by mentioning one of the many theaters in Paris.

"Le Cage," I ended. I could think of no other night-
club that was as suitable for Alesha's coming out in Paris.

She laughed then stopped abruptly. "Le Cage?" she
asked, unable to conceal her surprise.

"Yes."

"Pour un." She had changed to French, probably hoping
that her effort at discretion would indicate her sense of
inappropriateness.

I shook my head and held up two fingers. "I have prom-
ised to take Alesha to a club for boys, and Le Cage is the
only one I know in Paris where the food is edible."

"Mais Le Cage, Monsieur? He's so young."

I laughed. "Trust me Madam, after what he's seen in
New York, it will be dull. Alesha will fit right in."

I waited until she left the room before I turned to
Alesha. "Now, my dear, you must go to our room and practice
for a while. You have but three hours instead of four and I
expect it will take you at least an hour to get ready."

"What should I wear, Sheldon?"

I smiled. "I will give it some thought while you're
hard at work."



I doodled with my writing pen as I contemplated the
events of the day. By any standard, it  had been a day of
surprises, not the least being the incident in the garden.
I even gave a passing thought to phoning a friend in high
office at the U.S. Embassy. It was hardly worth bothering
the Ambassador about something that was a hunch at best.
The last thing he needed to deal with was expatriate spec-
ulation. However, as I considered what to do, I dismissed
the thought. What could be done without more information
was very limited. I wasn't even certain that a worthwhile
description of the men could be developed from what I
remembered.

Equally pressing on my mind was the matter of what
Alesha would wear to Le Cage. It needed to be daring, a
statement of who he was, an attire that would draw the
attention that he deserved, but without being unnecessar-
ily ostentatious. However, Le Cage was not a place where
leather was in vogue. I decided to look through the ward-
robe that he had brought with him from New York.

By then, Alesha had finished his routine of stretches,
motions, and dance segments. As I expected, he had taken up
residence in the white porcelain bath tub, a slender pink-
skinned angel submerged in foamy water. He tended not to
shower after practicing. Soaking for at least thirty min-
utes in hot water was supposedly a dancer's way of avoiding
osteoarthritis. I went through the open door and stopped to
watch. He lay back, eyes closed in that dreamy state that
came with near exhaustion. His hair was disheveled, clumped
with sweat from his vigorous workout. How he managed to
find the energy to move his feet after walking halfway
across Paris was beyond me. After a few moments his eyes
opened and he smiled.

"Hi Mr. B." His voice was cheerful as always.

"Mr. B? I thought we were on a first name basis when
we were alone,... Master Yaroshenko."

Alesha began to giggle. "Sheldon,-"

"That's better, my pretty sugar plum."

He scooped up soapy water and spilled it across his
chest. He sighed, luxuriating in the added warmth, his fin-
gers playing absently in the foam.

"However, you're going to turn into a prune if you
don't get out soon," I warned.

That got his attention. For a moment he was startled,
then a shy smile formed. His eyes danced with life,
reflecting the intensity of youth driven to success. His
arms lifted up, moved back behind his head. His chest
stretched taut, ribs defined as graceful upward curving
lines. His nipples became oval-shaped, just barely visible
on his skin. And those small hollowed armpits, hairless
like a baby, inviting kisses and the exploration of a wet
warm tongue.

"I know a boy who's very sexy," I said softly. "I
think he's the sexiest boy in all of Paris."

"Me?" He had difficulty not giggling. After all, who
else could I have been talking about. It was not the first
time that I had told him he was very desirable.

"Yes, you my delicious seraph. Who else would I be
talking about?"

He shrugged, mocking me, then barely stopping himself
from smiling, pretended to give the matter some thought.
However, instead of saying something to tease me back, or
asking what a seraph was, he changed the subject.

"She knows I slept in your bed."

I nodded once. "Madam Kahle is very open-minded, Ale-
sha. She's been with me for years. Ever since I starting
living in Paris, in fact. Martin used to play chess with
her all the time."

"Then, if she knows about you and Martin, she must
know you like boys much more than girls," Alesha acknowl-
edged with a sly teasing lilt of his voice.

I answered him with a grin. "Let's just say that she
prefers not to notice when a boy sleeps in my room."

"Oh." He considered that and let the subject drop.
"Tell me about Le Cage," he said. He began to soap his
legs, those long coltish legs that could propel him into
the air so high that one had to wonder whether he had
finally managed to cheat gravity.

"You'll see soon enough, my dear boy," I said. "I want
it to be a surprise. I don't know of any place quite like
it. However, you do need to hurry up unless you want to
miss Madam Kahle's confit de canard," I added, glancing at
my watch.

"I've never had that. Is canard like chicken?" He slid
under the water and wriggled around to wash away the soap.

"You had roast duckling at the Tavern on the Green," I
reminded him once he had surfaced again.

"Yes, of course. I did, didn't I? I liked it a lot,"
he laughed. "I need to practice my French don't I?"

He stood up quickly, all but springing out the water.
It had the effect of sending rivulets of soapy water cas-
cading down his naked body. I stared. Each time I saw him,
I was too stunned to talk. Such undeniable evanescent
beauty, for it was fleeting in the way that all too soon he
would begin the process of becoming a man. Gazing upon Ale-
sha exposed in all his fleeting boyish glory was not unlike
looking at a lithe animal, a gazelle of cheetah, or some
other creature whose form was intended for both speed and
agility. What I had not seen before, simply because it was
under the water, was suddenly displayed before me. His lit-
tle penis stood straight out, pointing like an arrow from
where his slender legs joined to an equally slender abdo-
men.

"Did I say sexy, or very sexy, Alesha?"

He nodded slightly, almost uncomfortably.

I smiled, trying to think of what to say without
resorting to droll exaggeration. "Well, I was wrong."

Banal understatement, but enough for my tone conveyed
my utter awe.

"What am I going to wear to Le Cage?" he asked yet
again, a little uncomfortable beneath my concentrated
lustful gaze.

"Tonight it's my choice," I answered with a wink.

I wrapped the towel around him. It was large and soft,
of the finest Egyptian cotton that befitted an aristocrat,
because that was the delusion that Madam Kahle tended to
pursue. I pummeled him with vigorous rubbing, paying atten-
tion to parts that he endeavored to protect. Finally, when
he was laughing uncontrollably, I led him into the bedroom
with the towel swathed around his body in such a way that
he could not see. With a heave, I tossed him naked and
sprawling, still laughing, onto the bed. He flipped onto
his back and there he lay, his tender skin pink and tin-
gling where the towel had been, his lissom legs stretched
apart, his diminutive sex still proudly sticking up.

"Doesn't that thing ever go soft?" I asked boldly.

"Not when you're around," Alesha answered, equally
bold. It was out of character for the shy boy I had come to
know very well over the last few weeks.

"Ah, so I give you an erection?" I continued. I waited
for him to blush simply because the last time I had asked
him that very same question, he had reddened like a
beetroot.

After a moment, he smiled and shrugged. "Sometimes...
Anyway, I give you big ones all the time. You said so." A
`big one' was how he chose to refer to an erection when he
didn't want to use the words he heard at school.

"That's true. Are you trying to give me one now?"

"Hm,... Maybe,..." His penis spontaneously jerked up
and down, then quivered at full attention like a soldier on
parade. It was entirely deliberate, and enough to make me
flinch.

I laughed. "Well, my dear, you're going to have to
wait until bed time. Madam Kahle doesn't like us to be late
for dinner. Now, what are you going to wear tonight?" I
asked, walking across the room to the doors of the closet
where Alesha's clothes had been placed.

"I brought my leather outfit," Alesha remarked. He
sounded hopeful, as indeed he ought given that it had
achieved the status of being among his treasured clothes.

"Not tonight, I think, Alesha. We'll save that for
when we go to visit Martin and Raffi, I think. Better yet,
perhaps that outfit I sketched on the plane if I can find
someone to make it in time. Tonight, I have something else
in mind. You must be alluring, yet understated."

"Why?"

"Ah, unlike Appleboys, Le Cage is,-"

I stopped myself in time. I did not want to tell Ale-
sha more than necessary. Surprise was everything. Unlike
Appleboys, where the younger patrons, and indeed many of
their adult friends, wore clothes that were intended to
display as much as possible, at Le Cage, the boys tended to
wear quite ordinary clothes at first. However, by the end
of the evening when the dancing became more energetic, most
of the young males there would be dressed in their under-
wear, if that. Some of the daring lads even dropped their
briefs. As that thought crossed my mind, I decided what he
would wear. A leotard. He wouldn't be naked, but neither
would he be sufficiently clothed to hide his body.

Quickly, I found a pair of black nylon tights and a
matching top that opened at the front with a deep `v' all
the way to his waist.

"Put these on,"I instructed as I held them out to Ale-
sha.

"I need briefs too," Alesha said absently.

"Not tonight you won't, dear boy. I want you bare
underneath. I want  to know that pretty little prick of
yours is rubbing up and down against your tights. When it
gets big, I want you to feel it."

Alesha giggled and without further hesitation, began
to put his feet into the tights. I watched him carefully
working the delicate stretchy material up his legs. His
tights always seemed to be much too small for him before he
put them on. This time was no different. It fitted him like
a second skin, only black instead of creamy pink. There was
not a wrinkle or a stretch mark to be seen once he had
straightened it out. A minute later he had put the top on.
I took a deep breath. He radiated sensuality in a way that
startled me. But for his face and shining golden hair, and
proportions that were solely his, he could have come from
the darkest jungle of Africa. I licked my lips apprecia-
tively.

"I like it. Now, what to follow," I mused.

"I like not wearing briefs," Alesha said mystically.
He smiled, suddenly shy again. "I used to dance like this
all the time before Mama said my thing was sticking out."

"I can't imagine why it would do that. It's perfect
for what I have in mind," I said. "Now, we need something
plain. There's nothing more plain than jeans, I suppose."

I smiled at Alesha and stalked back into the closet.
I found what I was looking for quickly. A pair of snow
white jeans and a crisp white shirt with long sleeves. I
brought them back into the bedroom and sat down on the bed,
holding the jeans out for him to get dressed. He balanced
with one hand on my shoulder while he cautiously inserted
first one foot and then the other. I lifted the jeans up
his legs. They were cut with narrow legs but on Alesha they
still looked baggy. Then, standing up, I held out the shirt
for him to slip his hands into the arm openings. He stood
still while I tucked the tailored shirt under the waist of
his jeans and did the buttons up. A blond-headed boy
dressed all in white surely had to be among the most beau-
tiful of sights.

"You look divine, Alesha."

"I look like something out of a lousy New York win-
ter," Alesha commented dryly, mocking his New York friends
with an accent that was overdone.

"I expect a Russian winter is far worse."

"Bad enough to keep everyone in bed," he laughed. "My
mother hated the cold weather when she lived in the
Ukraine, and even in New York. She said she had enough ice
and snow growing up. It's the reason why she wanted to move
to Texas. She said that's why I was born in Fall.  Winter's
the season for making babies and Fall is the  season for
having them."

"Well, the cold doesn't bother me. You're enough to
keep my blood hot," I admitted with a grin. "Your mother
showed good sense getting pregnant with you. You're a
delightful angel," I added. Alesha blushed. "That's
angelic in face if not in mind. If I'm not mistaken I just
heard Madam Kahle call us to dinner."

That made him laugh. Whenever he laughed it made me
think of someone singing an aria. Pure notes of happiness
that rang through my head and left me tremulous. I looked
down and smiled, relishing that I alone had incited his
amusement. He needed only a brightly colored scarf to make
a statement of what he was, like Maurice Girard who danced
the leading role in the musical, `Les hommes', dressed in
white with a red scarf. It was an interesting image to con-
template.

"And now to dinner we must hasten," I quipped. "Or
Madam Kahle will surely chasten."

Alesha laughed again.  "Then Mr. B. will starve and
wasten."

"Wasten? I think not, Alesha. It'll take more than
missing a single meal to do that, I'm afraid. But I've been
trying, as you know. It's just takes so long to undo a
lifetime of gluttony,"



Act  VIII Scene IV



As I expected, upon our arrival we were already an
hour or two too late. Le Cage de Le Cage was filled with
more than a dozen boisterous boys, all dancing. However, I
am getting ahead of myself. Le Cage, the nightclub that is,
because there truly is another cage of black metal bars
that is referred to by the same name, is a discerning
enterprise catering to unusual tastes. It may be found not
far from Poissy on the outskirts of Paris. Thirty kilome-
ters in all, braced by the Seine and the wood known as St.
Germain. The nightclub is housed in a once-famous villa set
well back from the road. It is an expansive neo-classical
edifice, a composition of fieldstone with limestone
details, not unattractive with its mansard roof and broad
terraces flanked by urns.  Forty years earlier it had been
acquired by Jacquelin de Gauvier, for whom no introduction
should be needed, but doubtless is required for all who are
not part of the exclusive group who know of the existence
of Le Cage.

Jacquelin De Gauvier was the man who was largely
responsible for France's untimely exodus from Vietnam. He
decided that it simply wasn't worth the effort of holding
back the communist scourge any longer from the serfdom of
rice and rubber. Less well known, even within the circle of
men who frequent Le Cage, was  the reason for his depar-
ture. It was brought about by a ten-year-old boy of Asian
extraction, although his features suggested some Caucasian
in the mix. He was a lively boy who De Gauvier nicknamed
Bonbon. As the elderly statesman joked with me as he lay on
his death bed a dozen years ago, Bonbon's name came because
he was good-good in bed, especially when it came to anal
pleasures. For many years I suspected Bonbon was his son,
not that it diverted either of them. Apparently, it was the
boy's demand for constant attention in that sodantic way,
even in public places where caution should have prevailed,
which led to their hasty departure from Saigon.

Bonbon, having been formally adopted while still a
boy, subsequently inherited the De Gauvier estate in
France.  However, without benefit of his benefactor's state
pension, his wastrel ways soon brought insolvency. He
promptly began a club whose sole raison d'être was to
entertain men and boys. It was more than merely a place to
eat and dance, for Bonbon quickly discovered the advantage
of providing  `les garcons des joie'. His `boys of joy'
were a half-dozen carefully selected youngsters originally
from Morocco and Southeast Asia, some no older than nine or
ten. Not that money ever changed hands for them, beyond the
initial membership fee of 100,000 francs and the very
expensive meals and drinks served in the nightclub. The
pedantic might argue that the boys were prostitutes, and in
a way they were, but no pressure was ever brought to bear
on them. They were present to entertain the patrons of Le
Cage, both men and boys, in any way they cared. They sang
and danced, kissed and cuddled in the chairs, and had sex
with any man who interested them. Needless to say, given
the laws of the land and the prominence of its adult mem-
bers, Bonbon's Le Cage immediately became a nightclub that
did not exist.

Besides having a penchant for young boys, flair--in
French, `panache', was what was expected of every man who
gained admission to the exclusive alliance of Le Cage. For
myself,  flair was less about flamboyance and ostentation,
but a certain style and elegance that confirmed one's joie
de vivre and love of boys. I much preferred to sit and
watch them dancing in the cage.

I directed the taxi to drop us at the town square
where we waited for only a  few minutes before an anti-
quated Citroen arrived to conduct us to Le Cage. I antici-
pated a reception no different to what had happened when I
had taken Alesha to Appleboys, but remarkably, we were
admitted with little hesitation. As far as I was concerned,
Alesha was my claim to fame because he immediately garnered
the attention of  everyone we saw. My late reservation, not
reputation, was responsible for the mediocre location of
our table. However, as soon as we had taken our seats, Bon-
bon hastened over, all but wringing his hands in abject
apology. He had changed a little during the six months
since I had visited his establishment. Just as thin, with a
face that would always be that of a youth, and elegantly
dressed in intellectual black. When he spoke it was almost
frenetically, but it was normal for him to be so excited.

"Monsieur Beaufort, très bon, comment bon de vous voir
encoretres bon, how to good to see you, merci, it has been
so long, vous avez un gargon, such a pretty lad, American
non?"

I shook my head. It was difficult to understand him,
not only his accent, but the speed at which he rattled off
what he wanted to say. He always ended with a gasp when the
rush ended, which was funny in its own way, but what always
amused me was how Bonbon managed to switch from one lan-
guage to another without the slightest interruption. At
times, I had heard him using four or five languages inter-
changeably. It became particularly amusing when he
included Asian languages in the mix. French, English, Ger-
man and Italian I could understand well enough to get by
without too much difficulty. He was the only person in Le
Cage would could communicate with the dark-skinned Moroc-
can boys, although the few words they needed to know to
satisfy their clients could have been counted on three fin-
gers of a hand.

"It's good to see you again too, Bonbon." I smiled,
appreciating his show of interest. He inclined his head,
waiting for me to introduce Alesha. "I agree it's been too
long. But no, he's not American, although he lives there
now. "

"Not American, ah, then  he must from the north, it
shows, Swedish? Non? Il est tres beau, magnifique, very
beautiful, he cannot be un garcon francais."

"Actually, his name is Alesha Yaroshenko. He's from
the Ukraine, but now he lives in New York. He is staying
with me this summer while he attends the Summer School at
the Paris Academy of Dance."

"Sacre bleu, then he is a dancer de ballet?"

"Yes. Actually, for his age, he's the best dancer in
New York," I said proudly. "And not just ballet, either.
I've seen him dance both jazz ballet and disco style."

"Then he has been with you to Appleboys?" Bonbon asked
gleefully.

He assessed Alesha and decided that nothing needed to
be added to what was obvious to both of us. Boys did not
come to Le Cage unless they already were of a mind to have
sex with men. What doubt he may have retained without per-
sonal knowledge of Alesha's proclivities were dispelled by
the clothes he wore. I had attired him with the intention
of drawing attention to him.

"Indeed he has."

"How wonderful, so beautiful that face even for a boy,
and they are always beautiful. Il est tres beau, and he
will dance for us cette nuit?"

Bonbon backed away a step to size Alesha up yet again.
He was like that, constantly examining, comparing boy to
boy until he found one that achieved the perfection he
sought in them. Alesha smiled shyly up at him and then
averted his eyes. The man's interest was so intense that it
disturbed me as well. He had found what he was looking for,

"He would love to, I'm sure," I said simply. I was
beginning to wonder whether I had made a mistake in bring-
ing Alesha.

"Et tu, my sweet? Will you dance for us later on?"

Alesha smiled shyly and fluttered his eyelashes. It
was enough to send Bonbon into giggles.

"Oh, my, but he's so absolutely wonderful and deli-
cious. He's utterly divine," he proclaimed with an effemi-
nate flick of his thin wrist. "You're very fortunate to
have found such a charming young friend, Sheldon."

Another flick of his wrist brought a waiter to our
table in a hurry. He was a dark-skinned Moroccan, probably
one of the boys who Bonbon had saved from the slums of
Marseille. There were always a few boys for whom places
could not be found once they were too old for Le Cage. It
was likely that he had been kept on as an employee when he
was no longer considered desirable by the clientele.

"Jaki, for Monsieur Beaufort, un Pernod, non?" Bonbon
said to the waiter, then waited for my nod. "Et le garcon,
un vin, champagne, Le Chateau de Sonne?"

Again, I nodded. What was against the law in New York,
was accepted practice in Paris. Children often drank wine
with their parents, if not champagne then red and white
wine that had been diluted with Perrier. A glass or two of
good champagne wouldn't hurt Alesha, I reasoned.

"Tres bon," Bonbon applauded. "Mais oui, and on the
house, isn't that the expression you Americans like to
use?"

"Really, Bonbon, there's no need."

"Non, Sheldon. I promise I will find you a better
table. It would be very bad if Sheldon Beaufort and his
angel-boy sat way back where they can't be seen."



It was nearly an hour later when Bonbon returned to
guide us to a closer table. By then, a half-dozen boys had
ascended into the elevated cage and begun to dance to music
that was far too loud for comfort. Alesha watched with
interest while I divided my attention between watching and
consuming my fill of an excellent repast. For me, a thin
slice of veal with a rich cream sauce that tasted strongly
of Bordeaux while Alesha was content to eat a smallish por-
tion of almondine cookies before offering the rest to me.
My diet was set back several days, primarily because pomme
frites in France are far more interesting than the ubiqui-
tous French fries that dominate the restaurants of New
York.

"So, which one do you like the most, Mr. B.?" Alesha
teased once we were settled again. The new table was much
nearer to the action, but still a few tables away from the
center of the room. It had an excellent view, but with the
added advantage of being somewhat private.

"Which one? Oh, you mean which boy? The one sitting
beside me," I quipped.

He nudged me in the ribs and pointed to the cage.

"Oh, you mean them?" I asked.

Alesha nodded. "You like boys don't you?" he said. In
another setting, his question would have been embarrass-
ingly loud. He was already starting his second glass of
champagne.

"I like you." It seemed strange to admit that I liked
boys, especially to a boy. Alesha smirked knowingly. `Like'
was a gross understatement of my feelings towards him, yet
it seemed to amuse him.

"Ha. I think you like that boy over there. You do,
don't you Mr. B? The one dancing on the other side," he
teased.

"Hm?"

I pretended to think and even scratched my head as if
giving the matter serious debate. The boy was at least a
year or two older than Alesha and quite a bit taller I
would have said, even without seeing them standing side by
side. He was dark-haired and dark-eyed in that typically
Gallic way, yet there was a hint of something , a quality I
called `gypsy', which was unnecessarily pejorative, but
which  reminded me of those boys who I had seen in the
south, near Bordeaux.

The boy who Alesha referred to was a long way from
being ungainly, but he definitely lacked Alesha's grace.
Sometimes it seemed to me that Alesha was growing in poise
and beauty every day.  Some of it was undoubtedly due to
his maturing as a dancer and realizing that every movement
could be expressive, yet the effect he had on me and other
people was far more than that. He was charming to a fault,
not that I could ever fault a boy for being polite and
interesting to talk to.

For no other reason that Alesha had drawn my attention
to another boy, I compared the two. The boy in the cage
might well have been wearing lipstick, so red were his
lips. They were very kissable lips, even from where we sat.
I smiled, making a momentary eye contact with the boy. He
seemed to linger before he turned back, still gyrating his
hips like a belly dancer at one of the shows on La Rue
Juile. I watched his bottom, strangely fascinated for it
was ever so much larger than Alesha's impertinent poste-
rior.

There was still a while to go before the boys became
so uninhibited that they would take their clothes off.
Sometimes, it didn't happen until ten or eleven p.m.. I
could even remember a few visits where I had waited until
midnight for the first glimpse of almost bare bodies. Per-
haps it was going to be an early night, I thought with
amusement.  Already a few of the boys had their shirts
undone, including the boy who Alesha had drawn my attention
to. The front of his shirt was unbuttoned, flapping about
his abdomen when he jumped up and down.

"Mr. B?" Alesha confided with a smirk. "You're staring
at him now."

"Perhaps," I agreed. "But you asked me what I
thought."

"Well?"

"I'm partial to blonds," I answered simply.

In truth, I had enjoyed a few dark-haired Gallic boys
over the years, certainly not as many as the other men who
sat at the tables around us. Gallic boys had their own
unique charm and they were often good looking.  They were
readily available, especially if a man had the resources to
provide for their often expensive tastes. It would have
been impossible to live in Paris and not be attracted to at
least a few of them. They seemed to be everywhere during
the summer.

At that point, the boy in question, spun around,
sashaying along the side of the cage until he was as close
to our table as he could get. There, from four feet up, he
began to twist and shake, not dancing the way that Alesha
danced, with precise vibrant energy, but still maintaining
a good semblance of rhythm despite his lack of expertise.
Again, the boy looked at us, longer this time, leaving no
doubt that he was making a pass at one of us.  He began
undulating his pelvis back and forth in a way that could
only be interpreted as sexual. Indeed, it was obscenely so,
but in reality, it was nothing worse than what most of the
other boys were doing as they danced around him.

Alesha giggled. He brought his head closer and whis-
pered. "He's an awful dancer, but don't you think he's
sexy, Mr. B?"

"If you mean he's probably good in bed, Alesha, then
yes, I expect he is. He wouldn't be here otherwise, I
expect. However, when it comes to being sexy, he doesn't
come close to you," I returned honestly.

I would like to have said that Alesha had no equal in
bed as well, but exaggeration would not have helped me
prove my point.

"Do you think he's cute?"

"I suppose," I relented.

Alesha grinned. "If I wasn't here with you,... would
you?"

"Would I what?"

He shook his head, still smiling, pretending incredu-
lity. It took  a moment for him to find the words.

"Would you want to be with him?"

Even dressed simply in white, jeans and a cotton col-
lared shirt as he was at that moment, Alesha was in a word,
`chic'. But combined with a face that was truly beautiful
and a body that was simply magnificent, he was incredibly
desirable. As far as I was concerned, any other boy was a
poor substitute.

"I like my boys to be thinner. He's a bit on the
chubby side, don't you think?" I said blandly.

"He's not," Alesha rebuked. "It's me who's so skinny."

"Perhaps I have a fondness for skinny little boys," I
suggested jocularly.

Alesha shrugged absently, yet his expression was
almost apologetic. Sometimes, he gave me the impression
that he would be far happier leading the life of a normal
boy and not devoting his life to dancing. It demanded such
commitment and intense effort that he had very little time
for anything else. He lived to dance, and in some ways, he
danced to live. Dancing was his way of expressing himself.
The fame and fortune that came later would merely be icing
on the cake.

"Do you want to go into the cage and dance for a
while?" I suggested blithely.

I would have been quite content if Alesha had stayed
beside me, yet I was also looking forward to seeing him
behind bars, so to speak. He studied me for a moment, then
glanced away, looking towards the boys in the cage. When he
turned back, he was smirking.

"Do they have to take their clothes off?" he asked
boldly.

His voice seemed to quiver with excitement, almost as
if he was relishing the idea of dancing, not only with the
other boys in the cage, but nude as well. I had seen him
dance nude before, but only in the privacy of the top-floor
studio. Without question, it was the most erotic thing that
I had ever seen. Even more thrilling was the possibility
that he might dance nude in public, with other boys, with
men watching with shameless prurient eyes. Watching him
dance at Marius party had thrilled me more than I had
thought possible at the time, and then the flimsy dress had
covered all the important parts. What stirred my excitement
was that he had been dancing in a way that was intended to
get the other men aroused.

"No, but usually they do," I replied wistfully. "But
it's only down to their under clothes, Alesha." Thatw as
absolutely correct, but it was close enough. "You won't
have to take anything off if you don't want to," I added
hastily.

"Oh? So that's why you wanted me to wear my leotard?"
Alesha giggled.

"I thought it would look,... I mean if you wanted to,
it'd look different,... if you wanted to dance tonight," I
answered guiltily.

The truth was that his leotard could make him appear
even more sensuous if he chose to use the flimsy fabric to
advantage. There was something undeniably enthralling by
seeing the form of his body while skin and detail were con-
cealed.

"Do you want me to dance for you, Mr. B?" Alesha asked
suddenly.

His head inclined to make yet another sideways glance
at the cage. Clearly, he found the idea appealing.

"If you'd like to, then I'd enjoy it very much," I
said humbly. "You don't have to take anything off, you know
Alesha."

"But if I want to?" he responded, getting up from his
seat.

I was about to answer, but Alesha grinned. Then, he
leaned forward. His lips brushed my forehead, barely touch-
ing skin. It was the first time that he had cared to kiss
me in public, notwithstanding our earlier misadventure in
the Tuileries.

"That was nice," I said softly.

He hesitated, considering whether he should kiss me
again, but unfortunately for me he thought the better of
it.

"You'd better hold onto your chair, Mr. B," he whis-
pered. "You've never seen me dance like this before."

He backed away, then followed a circuitous course to
get to the opening of the cage which was opposite where I
sat. As he passed the entrance, he said something to the
man at the console. A moment later, he was inside the cage,
safely behind bars, I thought with glee.  I had a thousand
glimpses of him while the strobe light flashed again and
again, pulsating in a frenetic welcoming rhythm to the new-
est member of the boys on stage. Then, in a brief hiatus in
the entertainment, a strip of vivid blue neon tube suddenly
illuminated at the top and bottom of the cage. The show was
about to start in earnest. Alesha's timing could not have
been better.  A dozen small spotlights came on, like
searchlights moving from side to side.

For the first few minutes, it was difficult to discern
Alesha from among the other boys, at least in terms of
lighting if not by his dancing. However, one thing was very
clear.  Under the spotlights, he was without doubt, the
most beautiful boy within the barred enclosure. With a face
that was analogous to that of Helen of Troy, because  a
single glance at him was enough to launch a thousand ships,
in my opinion, he was easily distinguished among the other
boys. And he was honestly blond, not a mousy brown like the
French version, or bleached in pointed streaks like some of
the them. He moved around the small crate, making the
acquaintance of the other boys by sheer proximity, always
radiating personality. His simple white clothing was less
ostentatious than all of them, yet I thought of a precious
bird in a Chinese birdcage. My Alesha was the star per-
former just as I intended.

The music ended, and almost immediately, began again.
Apparently, Alesha had managed to convince the disco jockey
to play "In the Navy", a Village People song that was in
vogue half-a-dozen years before he was born.

It was the ideal song for his debut. Dressed in white,
and minus his red scarf which had somehow disappeared on
the way around the room, he was suitably dressed to pass as
a sailor boy. He began to strut, imitating a sailor on
parade, yet moving his arms and legs with exaggerated
action so that even his simple march was enough to evoke
erections in half the men present. When he turned, I saw
that he had placed the scarf in his back pocket so that it
was hanging down his thigh. It was positively gay!

The other boys parted as he came forward, apparently
recognizing that something special was about to happen. I
watched him intensely. They made an area for him, not half
of the cage, but not far from it. As the music progressed
and picked up pace, Alesha's dance became more passionate.
Truly, he was dancing for me. Back and forth he went, show-
ing off as only a professional dancer could, giving a
flourish with every turn. Then, without warning, he changed
the pace and style. The march was gone in an explosion of
energy. What occurred was like watching a compressed spring
uncoil and bounce around the cage. His dance was frenetic,
but not uncontrolled. Raw energy was being channeled
through a lifetime of practice into a disciplined choreog-
raphy of his own invention. I had the feeling that compared
to the other boys, he did not belong there. Yet he did!
Alesha was where he belonged, flaunting what he could do
and they could not. He had reason to be proud. I was proud
of him.

The dance ended before I wanted it to end. It was far
too soon. I could have watched Alesha's dance for the rest
of the night without complaint. He did not go unnoticed. He
breathed heavily, timing carefully to refill his lungs. His
eyes met mine. He was only a few feet away, so high that
his feet were all but at the level of my head. I managed to
nod my support. It was enough. Unlike some dancers, Alesha
did not dance for praise. His standard was his own, ever
increasing in quality.

He glanced away from me, almost shy. Suddenly, he was
very aware that every person in the club was looking at
him, not only me. Bonbon started clapping. I was too
stunned to think, let alone show my admiration. I could
barely move. My body trembled along with Alesha's almost as
if I shared his exertion.

The people around me began to get to their feet, their
hands resounding with applause. I remembered when I had
first watched him dance, in that misappropriated competi-
tion for my mother's legacy to the world, the Beaufort Fel-
lowship for Dance. Then, as now, I had been lost for words.
My face was flushed, but only from my pounding heart. Ale-
sha had done his dance for me? For me? No one else! For me!
I did the only thing I could think of. I stood up and
clapped as loudly as I could.

The next song, I did not recognize until it was well
along. However, Alesha clearly did. From the outset, he
invented a series of steps that were perfect for the music,
then like a jazz musician began a variation with every cho-
rus. Only when the boys sang the refrain did I recognize
"It's Raining Men". Its gay theme was appropriate to the
venue, though I would much have preferred a rain of boys.
Especially, if they were boys like Alesha. Again, within a
few moments of dancing, Alesha took the lead. The other
boys moved back, watching. In all likelihood, some of them
were jealous. It would have been a natural response given
what he could do, yet most boys were trying their best to
imitate the stranger who had come amongst them. Imitation,
according to my mother, might be the sincerest form of
flattery, but it did little for the ego of the imitated. I
nearly laughed, wondering what she would think if she had
lived to see Alesha.

With every song that followed, Alesha and the other
boys became more laid-back, an expression that would have
given my mother a conniption if I ever used it in her pres-
ence. He radiated `cool' despite the obvious signs of grow-
ing heat. One by one, the buttons on the front of his shirt
were undone until it was open all the way. For a while I
even regretted that I had decided he should wear his leo-
tard. It would have been far more enjoyable to see bare
skin. Yet, his white shirt parted in the front and black
bodice was among the most sensuous of sights.

Finally, one boy, the boy who Alesha had drawn my
attention to, took the initiative.  Perhaps with the inten-
tion of stealing the attention that was focused on Alesha,
or perhaps he did it to encourage Alesha to take his shirt
off, but the effect was dramatic. It was a shimmering
shirt, and probably very expensive silk by the look of it,
which somehow ended up bundled into his hand. He was
dressed in a red tight-fitting tee-shirt that unfortu-
nately showed up excess fat. Still, it was a sight to
behold as his arm reached through the bars to deliver the
article of clothing to a man who was waiting hopefully in
the audience. A loud cheer went up from the rest of the
men. The shirt was quickly passed around, exchanged again
and again until it reached the table next to mine.

The real show at Le Cage had begun. I was startled to
see who did the next divestment. It was the boy who I least
expected. Alesha! He slid his white shirt off his arms
while he pirouetted around and around. It was not unlike a
ballet movement, except that he did not stay en pointe. The
other boy came close to him, shouting words in case someone
could hear over the raucous din of the music.

Alesha stepped back, doing some kind of strobe-like
motion. His shirt was held in one hand, whirled around like
a victory flag, flapping back and forth for the rest of the
song. Bare to the waist, but still covered by the black
sheen of his leotard, he was incredibly arousing. Stretchy
material covered him while revealing that glorious narrow
waist, exposing a flawless muscled chest in every detail
except his nipples and navel. He was a lithe-bodied lively
boy, incredibly beautiful, uncovered for all to see, but
not shamelessly so.  Only I would be allowed to see him
naked as nature intended. Everyone else would have to be
content with the semi-circle of bare perfect skin above the
neck of his leotard, yet even that was enough to captivate
a man's desire.

Sometimes it took an hour or more of dancing before
other clothes were taken off. At other times, it was only a
matter of minutes before jeans and slacks came off. This
was one of those times. In the interval between the follow-
ing two songs, several of the boys took advantage of the
break to take their jeans off. Not Alesha. I was slightly
disappointed. However, he watched them curiously, visibly
fascinated by boys who had no hesitation in taking off
their pants in public. He turned back to smile at me after
they were attired only in their underwear. I shrugged non-
chalantly. It was hardly the encouragement that he
expected, yet he understood that I was leaving the decision
up to him.  He grinned.

A moment later, the music started again. I don't
think that a boy has ever been able to get out of his jeans
as fast as Alesha did. Unlike his shirt, his jeans were not
part of a strip-tease. Simply, he was wearing them one
moment, and the next he was standing all in black, a pair
of white jeans lying in a crumpled heap. What a sight he
made when he began to dance.

There were other nearly black skins in the cage, but
they were naturally dark. Those Moroccan boys had the same
deeply ingrained sense of rhythm and movement that is
inherent in the African race, yet, compared to Alesha,
there was no comparison. Some people might say that my
observation was racially motivated, but untrained hip-hop
or whatever it was called was simply no match for Alesha's
sheer professionalism and unbridled joy in showing off his
body. He had panache. His superiority was clearly apparent
with every step, with every jerk of his body across the
barred stage. He was a study in contradictions, not the
least of which was his pale hands and face and otherwise
jet-black body. His blond hair and blue eyes were the epit-
ome of innocence, yet his dance was audaciously erotic.
>From any other boy, it would have been a brash display of
juvenile sexuality, but from shy and unassuming Alesha, it
was disquieting, at least for me. His precocious sexuality
appeared entirely inborn. That he would do it in public was
a side of him that I had seen only on one other occasion.

By then, my penis was erect. It had been getting
harder throughout those songs when Alesha was at his best,
growing thicker and longer until it became painfully stiff
and it stuck straight out into my trousers.  I didn't think
about it until Alesha came close to the bars and beckoned
to me to stand up and shout `shake your buity' along with
the words of the song.  It turned out that I was not the
only man in the audience who was so affected, but at the
time I was mortified. A hasty downwards glance was anything
but reassuring. The lump I expected to find turned out to
be more like a log. Alesha's eyes instantly grew wide.
Then, he smirked and jerked his pelvis back and forth in a
way that my heart skip a beat, or two.

At his age it seemed unlikely that he could know the
purpose of his wild thrusts, yet it was so spontaneous, so
instinctive, that I became breathless, watching that
obscene imitation of anal sex. That was what it was, of
course. It didn't matter that he was a virgin, that our
conversations about that subject had never included a prac-
tical demonstration. There was no other explanation for the
abrupt jerking movement of his hips and thighs, plunging
against an invisible source of pleasure that was imagined
to be buried deep inside him. And even more surprising, he
even seemed to relish the imaginary sensation with his eyes
closed in what I took for bliss.

"Mon dieu," the man at the adjoining table muttered.
"That boy needs a man in him tonight."

I had not paid him much attention until then. One
occasionally heard rumors of Catholic priests having sex-
ual relationships with boys, but until then I had no knowl-
edge of any priest, certainly of my acquaintance, who had a
reputation for indulging in the practice. However, that
sideways glance was sufficient. I recognized him immedi-
ately, although we had never been introduced. He was a car-
dinal, no less, and a well-known dignitary of the Church at
that. He met my eyes, smiling. Deep penetrating eyes,
almost as if he was searching for my soul. I wondered what
he saw. I had not been inside a church for years. The last
time was for my mother's funeral, and before that, it was
ancient history.

"Bon soir, Monsieur,... Monsieur Beaufort, oui?"

"Um,... Yes. Cardinal Pernier?"

I was at something of a loss for words. We had never
talked, although I had seen him at various charity func-
tions in Paris. My generosity extended to any institution
that worked with boys. He laughed.

"C'est moi. We share a mutual friend,...  Actually, sev-
eral of them. I've heard so much about you, Monsieur, and,...
Alesha too,... " He inclined his head, waiting for confirma-
tion. I nodded. "I knew I was not mistaken! It's a pleasure
to meet you in person at last. May I call you Sheldon?" His
accent was French, yet there was something else, a slight
inflexion that reminded me of other Frenchmen who had spent
a year or two in America.

"Um,... yes, of course."

Awkwardly, I sat down in my chair again and moved fur-
ther back so that I could both watch Alesha and carry on
what so far was rather a one-way conversation. Alesha was
turning into a whirling dervish, jumping up and down. Where
did he find the endless stream of energy to project his
body through the air?

"And you must call me Antoine." He paused, still fol-
lowing Alesha with his eyes. Then, taking a deep slow
breath, he smiled and nodded fondly at the cage. "He's
everything I've heard and more."

"I beg your pardon," I said uncertainly.

"Your boy, Alesha. Who else would I be talking about?"

I shrugged, discovering the meaning of `discombobu-
lated' for myself. That was exactly how I felt. I wondered
what acquaintances we had in common. I mentally searched
through the people who I was most acquainted with, looking
for a link. There were half a dozen men who I could think
of quickly, those few people who I trusted enough to know
something of my relationship with Alesha. Cardinal Pernier
certainly talked as if he knew something. What I had been
hoping was a very carefully guarded secret seemed to be
public knowledge.

His English was far better than my French, so good in
fact that I was glad that the conversation had begun in
English because I would have appeared quite inept. The more
that he spoke, the more I realized that his slight American
accent was East Coast, if not New York, which I fittingly
ascribed to his having spent a year or two there.

"Hm,..." I pretended to ponder.

"You're a very lucky man, Sheldon," he confided.
"That's one very special boy," he added, gesturing to the
cage before us.

Alesha acknowledged me with a wave and a very special
wriggle of his behind. Oh, that bottom of my little Ukrai-
nian ballet dancer was surely the most wondrous of sights.
I had to swallow. I nodded awkwardly, hoping that the car-
dinal's knowledge would not cause my downfall.

"And he's also an outstanding ballet dancer, I'm given
to understand?"

I nodded slightly.

"He's such a sexy little thing," he acknowledged with
a wink. "I've heard he's quite the dauphin?"

That comment narrowed the field slightly. Martin
immediately became the obvious choice. The term `dauphin'
was one that he had coined to describe those effeminate
boys we both preferred.

"He's still exploring his options," I replied eva-
sively.

The Cardinal confirmed my logic with a shrewd smile
that was promptly followed by a question.

"Of course he is. One can only hope that he isn't too
much that way, if you know what I mean. He's much too good
looking to be wearing a dress. I for one would much rather
see him in shorts. You'll be there, this weekend, Sheldon?"

"Be where?" I muttered.

That Alesha might be seen in public wearing a dress
was strangely exciting in itself. It would be different to
the secret fantasies he shared with me. I remembered his
awkward promenade in my private room the first time that he
tried on some of the girl's costumes  that my mother had
acquired over the years. Dressed in those delicately sewn
clothes, full of lace, satin and chiffon; Alesha could eas-
ily be mistaken for a short-haired girl. Although I could
never love a girl, that transformation had left me breath-
less. I was torn between two Alesha's, one a startlingly
handsome boy and the other, verging too close to the other
sex for comfort. Only time would tell which boy emerged.

It was impossible to shift my gaze from Alesha as he
danced inside the cage. Every movement redefined the mean-
ing of `lust'. How I lusted after him, entranced by his
slender agile body. I was consumed by burgeoning greed to
match the hardness in my groin.

"At the chateau, of course."

"Chateau?"

"Martin's place in Beaune, of course. Le Chateau de
Villeau, I think it's called."

"I expect so."

I had not intended it to sound so curt, but I had
thought that it would be a quiet weekend with two men and
their boys. That, and a chance to see our new country
abode, the nearby Chateau Vienne, even if it was in need of
renovation.

He raised an eyebrow, then smiled.

"He hasn't told you?"

"Told me what?" I asked haughtily.

"About the marriage," the Cardinal answered.

It was irrational that Martin would hold something
back from me. After all, I was his oldest and most trusted
friend. I had shared the news about me becoming Alesha's
patron less than an hour after I had made the offer to his
mother.  That there was a marriage behind Martin's invita-
tion to spend the weekend with him was impossible. As far
as I knew, Martin had always been as committed to the love
of boys as I was.

"Marriage? That's,... that's preposterous!"

"Well, it's not exactly an marriage,-"

"I'm sorry, but I have no idea what you're talking
about. I'll be very surprised if there's a marriage,
exactly or not," I interjected rudely.

"Not to a boy?" he confided with a knowing look.

"To a boy? You mean,... " The words sank in with a
smirk. It was as amusing a thought as any I had ever had.
The very idea, the possibility of celebrating love with a
formal ceremony, was very inviting. It did not matter that
it was based on unlawful acts with a minor.

"You didn't know?"  He seemed even more surprised that
I did not know, than I did at finding out in the first
place. "I'm quite looking forward to seeing Raffi in a
dress."

"Martin and Raffi? They're getting,... really married?"
I asked awkwardly. The more I considered it, the more it
was impossible to believe.

"Well, as I said, it's not exactly a marriage, Shel-
don.  In the legal sense of the word, well,... marriage it's
not. It would be illegal even if Raffi was a girl because
he's only fourteen. And the Church,... if they found out,-"
He paused for effect. "I shudder to think. The Pope would
excommunicate me if word got out,-"

"But how?"

"They say `I do', then they exchange rings and kiss,"
he said flippantly. "What they do afterwards, is something
you'll have to ask Martin."

I laughed. "No, not that, Antoine." It felt strange to
be calling a cardinal by his first name.

"I really don't know much more than you do, Sheldon.
Martin wants to make it lasting,...  He's in love with Raffi,
as you know Sheldon. And Raffi, well,... I'm sure we both
know what he likes."

I nodded. Martin felt much the same as I did about a
relationship with a boy. Love, true love, was not about
sharing boys with other men. It was about having a lasting
relationship, sharing a life together, in so far as boyhood
could last more than a few years.

"As far as I've been able to find out, it was some-
thing they finally decided on only few days ago," Antoine
continued. "I was surprised myself to hear it, even  though
I'd talked about it with him at least a month ago. You know
Martin better than anyone else so you for one shouldn't be
all that surprised."

That was most certainly true. I could visualize Martin
deciding what to do without more warning than a day or two.
He was like that, a bit imprudent at times. He had a ten-
dency to be foolhardy as well, although I never complained.
Instead, I advised that a modicum of prudence was in order
when it came to his investment decisions. I tried to stay
out of his personal life. That he and Raffi  should cele-
brate their love with something that was `not exactly mar-
riage' was,... appropriate, exciting, wonderful. I was more
than slightly jealous at him for being able to take the
step of recognizing his love for a boy.

Still, I consoled myself by watching Alesha dance back
and forth. From where I sat it appeared as if that other
boy had attached himself to Alesha like a limpet. The two
boys were never more than a meter apart despite Alesha's
wild gyrations in the cage. I smiled, fascinated by his
sinewy limbs, a body that moved not only effortlessly, but
with awe-inspiring grace.  I decided that I would willingly
forgo any marriage with a boy like Raffi to have Alesha as
my lover for a single night.

"I wonder why he didn't tell me?" I muttered to
myself.

Of course, there was another reason why Martin had
invited me to the vineyard beyond the obvious. The offer to
sell the chateau was a ruse. Simply, he enjoyed surprises.
He had always been like that.  No doubt he was looking for-
ward to seeing my shocked expression when they `tied the
knot'. At the same time, I was well aware that my generos-
ity embarrassed him at times. If I did  not know what he
was going to do, then I could hardly come prepared with
expensive gifts.

"I'm sure he had his reasons. I hope I didn't spoil
the surprise. Now, tell me all about your darling Alesha.
How old is he? How did you meet him, Sheldon?"

"He's eleven," I replied proudly. "I met him when I
was at his ballet school. It's in New York," I added,
because like most New Yorkers, even expatriate ones, I
tended to assume that the world began and ended in that
city. "I was there to give an award, a scholarship actu-
ally. He didn't win."

"He didn't? According to Martin he's the best young
dancer in America. And from what he's been doing in the
cage tonight, then probably he's the best in France as
well."

I laughed.  Considering how Alesha had taken over the
Cage by his very presence, how every man's eyes were con-
stantly following his every move, how he shone whenever
boys danced, whether it was in a disco nightclub or a bal-
let sequence, Martin probably had not exaggerated. Still,
like Alesha, I was also modest by nature.

"I'm hardly the person to say. I'm afraid I'm rather
biased, Antoine," I replied.

"I'm sure you are. I would be with him around as well.
But let's get to the most important question. How is he in
bed?" Antoine asked offhandedly.

"Ah, I'm biased there as well."

We both laughed. I drank some of my wine for the first
time since Alesha had gotten up to dance. It wasn't bad. It
was just that without having Alesha to share it with, there
didn't seem to be much point in drinking. My entire life
was turning out that way, I mused. While he had been at the
table Alesha had worked his way through two glasses of
champagne and I had done the same for wine.  It was not
enough to get me tipsy, but with Alesha's much smaller
body, two glasses certainly appeared to have an effect on
his inhibitions if not his coordination. Every second of
his dance  was calculated to excite the men who watched
him.

"How many others are going to the wedding?" I asked
ingenuously.

Antoine waved his hand. "With Martin, who knows?
Indeed, I wouldn't put it past him to invite everyone here.
He's very proud of Raffi. That's your doing, I expect."

"My doing?" I queried. "I don't see how,-"

"You're the most important person in his life, Shel-
don. You are, you know. He looks up to you so much that
everything he does is patterned on what you would do under
the circumstances. You always have been more important than
a father to him. Next to Raffi now, of course, but it
wasn't always that way. He talks about you non-stop."

I had to smile, wondering how much was true. I often
talked about Martin as well.

"He's always done that, talked about you I mean. He
did that even when I used to hear his confessions twenty
years ago. He used to tell me everything, Sheldon."

His emphasis on 'everything' could not be overlooked.

"Everything?" I repeated.

Antoine smirked. "Oh, the stories I could tell. I knew
all about the time when,... Perhaps I'd better not go there."

"Go where?"

"I believe it was the first time you took him out of
Paris to Azay le Rideau. You went horse riding, if I remem-
ber correctly."

"That was a month earlier. At Marcel's place."

"Oh, my mistake. I must have gotten the two mixed up.
Weren't there a lot of pine needles where you stopped. He
said they were sticking in his derriere?"

He smiled and lifted an eyebrow brazenly.

"Oh that?" I said in a superfluous voice. "Then we
were at Rouen, with Paul Guillard. Did he tell you about
the restaurant too?"

Antoine chuckled. "I expect I've forgotten if he did.
I used to look forward to hearing his confession. There was
always something new. He was rather religious back then,
although one would hardly know it from the things he told
me. You know how much he loved, don't you?"

"As much as I loved him," I answered simply.

"You were at his Confirmation, weren't you? I'm sure I
remember seeing you there, talking to his mama afterwards."

I nodded slightly. Martin had wanted me to be there,
but I made a point to keep in the background, acting the
part of distant relative. It might have been embarrassing
to him otherwise.

"That he spend so much time with you was his mama's
doing, more than likely. She was very devout, yet I'm cer-
tain that her son's best interests guided whatever she did.
I still see her occasionally when I conduct Mass."

"What?" I was finding it increasingly difficult to
believe my ears. Had Martin confessed our relationship to
achieve absolution? Had his mother known all along? I had
suspected something of that kind, but for no other reason
than she was always agreeable to him spending time with me.
What we did, I had always believed to be between the two of
us. Our secret. Perhaps not.

"I always wanted to meet you, Sheldon," Antoine went
on regardless. "You had such a wonderful influence on him.
He was always a little on the wild side, even after you
came along. Yet, I could see the difference in him right
away."

"Wild? I would have said he was irresponsible," I
joked.

"Yes, that too, except when it came to boys. I expect
he'll want you to be his best man."

"Best man?" I repeated vacuously.

"Well, you can hardly be the father of the bride, now
can you?" Antoine joked. "I suppose someone will have to
give Raffi away. His father's dead, you know?"

I didn't know. In fact, I knew very little about Raffi
other than Martin had met him at Le Cage two years earlier.
"How?"

"One of those organized crime murders in Marseille,
from what I can find out. The Moroccan connection, I imag-
ine. A lot of the hashish is supposed to be coming from the
Rif Mountains where Raffi grew up. How long are you staying
in France, Sheldon?" he asked.

"For the summer. Alesha's attending the Summer Pro-
gram at the National Ballet School."

"Yes, Martin said something to that effect. How won-
derful! He'll probably be as famous as Nureyev one day."

"I'd like to think so," I said frankly. "He works so
hard he deserves to be famous."

Antoine smiled absently. Like me, his eyes were fixed
on the boys in the cage, on one boy in particular. "My, but
he's simply incredible, isn't he? He makes dancing look so
easy. Where does he find the energy?" he added.

At that instant, as Alesha leaped and bounded from one
side to the other all but bouncing off the bars. I held my
breath, afraid that he would injure himself. For a moment,
I thought of a wild animal, a black panther that was trying
to escape. Like an animal, his dance was also about court-
ship and mating. Then, that brief interlude of what
appeared to me to be simulated orgasmic ecstasy was over
and he returned to a choreography that had the club vibrat-
ing with excitement.

"Which one is yours?" I asked when my heart beat
returned to a rate approaching normal.

"The boy over there. He's dancing next to your Alesha.
His name's Emile."

I gulped, and hoped that he had not overheard me refer
to the boy as being `chubby'. In reality, he wasn't all
that fat, at least not compared to me. However, compared to
Alesha, he was sufficiently bulky to appear noticeably
overweight.

"He's very handsome," I said.

A compliment was expected of me. Men always compli-
mented other men on their boys, at least to their faces.
Behind their backs, however, was quite a different matter.
Some men could be quite petty. I could only hope that my
comment didn't sound as hollow to Antoine as it did to me.

"Luckily he sings better than he dances," Antoine
remarked with a fond smile. "I found him in the choir, you
see Sheldon."

"Ah. Not an altar boy this time?" I joked.

"It's Paris, not America," Antoine returned quickly
with a grin.

"I'm sorry?"

He smiled. "I was referring to what's been happening
in Boston recently," be said in an ambiguous tone. "There's
probably not a virgin left among our Catholic boys."

"Boston? Oh, of course," I said, finally putting the
pieces together. "Then, it's true? What's been on the
news," I added.

"Oh, yes. The stories that I could tell you about my
time in Boston, Sheldon. There were more boys available
than even I knew what to do with. I spent nearly four years
there and I must have had sex with at least a dozen of
them. Of course, that was a few years after I'd entered the
Vatican, but it's no different now from what I can tell."

"A fresh boy every three months. You must like break-
ing in virgins."

"Hardly. Oh, I think six or seven were, but a lot of
them were sexually active before I came along."

"It must have been fun," I said snidely. "With all
those altar boys to chose from."

And yet, despite my sarcasm,  there were times in my
life when I had also been promiscuous.  What man with my
predilections could not be tempted by  a handsome boy.
There were always boys available if a man knew where to
look.  `Every where, even here at Le Cage,' I thought as I
cast my eyes at the dancing boys. A few of them, perhaps as
many as half-a-dozen were probably unaccompanied by a man,
although that would change before the night ended. I was
not an immoral person by nature, but opportunity could eas-
ily overwhelm one's morality when in came to sex and boys.
Alesha had changed all that.

"Ah, mostly they were altar boys, although any boy was
fair game back then. One of them was a cub-scout if I'm
remember correctly. I'm not proud of it, but he was eight
going on eighteen with the things he did. It had been going
on for a very long while when I arrived. I think every
priest who's interested in young boys has passed through
Boston at one time or another," Antoine observed with a
knowing smile. "Looking back, it was almost a condition of
my appointment.  Everyone knew what was going on. They
turned a blind eye to it if they weren't interested them-
selves."

"Even the Vatican?" I asked seriously.

Antoine laughed. "The way it was put to me at the time
when I received the appointment was to either participate
or look the other way. You've probably heard something on
television about it over the last couple of months, espe-
cially now that some of what went on has started leaking
out."

I raised an eyebrow, not answering because I was
watching Alesha mimicking another boy who had been trying
to show off. Alesha's parody raised a few laughs from the
audience.

"Apparently, a few of the boys have sued the Boston
Diocese, " he continued, explaining what I had already read
in the New York Times.

"It sounds like it's more than just a few boys might
come forward," I said.

"Actually, what's been in the news lately is  more
like the tip of the iceberg. There are probably thousands
of boys involved."

"You're joking, Antoine?"

"I wish I were. It'll be very bad for the Church when
people find out what was really going on. I must say that I
didn't agree with a lot of what was happening, Sheldon, but
I didn't do anything to stop it. Sometimes it was mutual,
but the fact is that a lot of boys were being used. Abused,
I should say, and what made it worse is that it was done in
the name of God." He took a deep breath, not willing to
explain. "I mean it's different if a boy is loved and wants
to have sex, we both know that. But to have them around
just for what they have between their legs, for men to make
them do things,... things that are,... that are depraved, and
then to do things with other men watching like it's a floor
show,... " he added, gesturing to the stage. "At least these
boys want to be up there."

"That's terrible," I agreed, wondering whether what
had happened at Marius' house qualified as being depraved.

The question gnawed at me until I felt uncomfortable.
Perhaps I had caused Alesha irrevocable harm by allowing
him to dance like that. Throughout the dare I had been
encouraging him, watching with self-satisfied enjoyment
and gratitude that he was mine while he employed his skill
and beautiful body to arouse three other men.

"....  and then tell them they are serving God, that's
wrong!"

I sat up in my seat and swallowed. For some reason, I
felt even more guilty. My face was flushed and the neck of
my shirt felt very tight.

"It gets worse," Antoine disclosed in a lowered voice.
"They used to pick out the most desirable boys and send
them to a camp in New Hampshire.  It was supposed to be for
religious training. I went there once or twice."

"What happened?" It was impossible not to be both
excited and appalled. Loving boys was like that-a mix of
remorse and thrill that had no equal.

"A better question would be what didn't happen."

It was intended to be a joke, yet I regarded him
blankly. The silence lingered, gaining its own momentum.
Finally, I nodded, expecting more.

Antoine shook his head. Whatever had happened at the
camp in New Hampshire was a secret that was not about to be
shared with me, even if I was a confirmed boy lover.



Alesha bounded up to the table, carrying his jeans in
one hand. He stopped before me, his chest heaving in a
rhythmic up and down. His feet were apart, muscles taut and
bracing his body. He seemed to tremble from exertion. The
sweat-dampened black leotard clung to his body, exposing
everything except bare skin. There was a bulge beneath the
thin shiny covering where it came around his thighs and
merged into his lower belly. It was an elongated ridge that
was about the size of my finger. His leotard was stretched
so tightly over his erection that little was left to the
imagination. It even revealed his glans to be both small
and probably uncircumcised, if nothing else. I licked my
lips like a salivating dog.

It was strange that I hadn't noticed his arousal
before, but then he had been further away and always jump-
ing around on stage. Besides, my eyesight was not as good
as it once was. How many men had gazed in awe at his boy-
hood, at that small yet obvious projection, I wondered?
What stuck out, or rather up, wasn't large by any stretch
of the imagination, but it was certainly there for all to
see. And beneath, another little lump divulged his rounded
pouch.  He grinned, tightening his inner muscles so that
his penis swelled out against the cloth. Then, after flex-
ing it several times and satisfied that he had completely
destroyed my concentration, he tossed his jeans over the
back of his seat and dropped down beside me.

I glimpsed the boy who had been standing behind him.
Emile had become Alesha's shadow and even showed the same
signs of infatuation that I recognized in myself. Up close,
and dressed in a red tee-shirt and tight shiny briefs, he
wasn't overly chubby, but the pudginess of puppy fat defi-
nitely gave his body a roundness that Alesha lacked. I
acknowledged him with a wave and a smile. His reddened face
shone with sweat, his forehead partially covered with
clumped strands of dark hair. I turned back to Alesha who
seemed invigorated in comparison. His blue eyes sparkled
and his hair looked as if it barely been disturbed.

Still, Alesha leaned back in his seat. "Phew!" he
sighed and wiped his hand across his brow, grinning at me.

"That was quite a workout," I agreed.

He shrugged. Given his daily practice never took less
than  two hours, the thirty minutes that he'd danced in the
cage was nothing out of the ordinary. His breathing wasn't
labored, not like Emile who struggled to inhale. Alesha
took deep strong breaths that filled his lungs.

Suddenly, he swiveled around in his seat. "This is
Emile," he announced with a grin.

"Hi Emile," I said cheerfully. "I watched you dancing.
You're very good."

"Not like him," Emile responded breathlessly.
"He's,-" He tried to find the word to describe Alesha with-
out going so far that it might sound insincere. "He's
incredible."

He continued to stand behind Alesha, giving the
impression that he was reluctant to sit down if it meant
moving further away from the other boy. I knew just how he
felt, because I felt the same way myself. I wanted Alesha
beside me every minute of the day. Emile had a slightly
forlorn look about him, almost sad. Alesha shrugged self-
consciously and lowered his head demurely to contemplate
his nearly empty champagne glass while I completed the
introductions.

"Yes, indeed. He's everything I've heard and more,"
Antoine agreed with a furtive wink at me. "He should be in
the cage every night. What do you think, Sheldon? Would
Alesha do that for us?"

With one hand he openly rearranged his crotch, which
caused Emile to giggle and Alesha to quickly glance away
again.

"I'm not sure my heart could take the strain."

Antoine laughed. "Me too, I fear. How about we put our
tables together and make a foursome, Sheldon?"

I agreed and scooted my chair back so that I could
push the table closer. A minute later we were settled.

Alesha sat next to me, moving his chair nearer to
mine until our sides were touching. He gulped the last of
his champagne and licked his lips. He shook hands awkwardly
with Antoine, gave perfunctory answers to his questions
about whether he liked Paris more than New York, when the
Summer Program started, and what else did he liked to do
besides dance. He mentioned playing chess, which got a
smile from Antoine.

"I'm not surprised."

Alesha inclined his head, "Why?"

"Oh, this and that," Antoine deferred. He reached out,
taking Emile's hand and drawing him closer while asking him
what he wanted to drink.

"What are you drinking, Alesha?" Emile asked. "Cham-
pagne like me?"

"Uh huh," Alesha answered with a smile. "Could I have
another one, Sheldon?" he added, directing a heart-melting
smile to me.

"You're lucky you're in Paris," I quipped. "I'd be
arrested in New York for contributing to the delinquency of
a minor or something. "

I gestured to the waiter to bring another glass. At
this rate, Alesha could consume an entire bottle by him-
self.

"Antoine and Emile will be staying with us at Mar-
tin's chateau  for the weekend," I said without explaining
why.

"I'm really looking forward to seeing the countryside
after looking at that book I found in the library. It looks
very beautiful around Dijon," Alesha replied.  "Besides,
it'll be my last weekend of freedom for a while. Once the
Summer Program begins, I'll have to practice for at least
four hours every day."

I could feel the heat emanating from his body, that
warm pressure of living flesh seeking company. I casually
placed my arm around his shoulders, keeping him close. I
was not the only man in le Cage who embraced a boy. Hugs
and kisses were being exchanged at most of the nearby
tables. Alesha sighed softly. A moment later, the pressure
of our contact  increased slightly. He had edged closer.
Absently, yet quite deliberately, my hand lifted up, my
fingers stroking his upper arm. The leotard was silky
smooth, but it was rough compared to his skin. Then, seek-
ing bare flesh, my hand glided on, grazing over the bony
crest of his shoulder, the triangular ridges of his collar-
bone. The valley that preceded his neck. And that dancer's
neck, so slender and corded, reaching ever higher, beyond
his jaw, his cheek, lightly touching his small ear. I kept
talking with Antoine, aware that his hands were similarly
busy with the boy who had taken up residence in his lap.
Around us, the music and hubbub seemed to fade. In the
cage, now that Alesha was gone, the boys' dancing was less
commotion and more calm. It was entertaining, but only mar-
ginally so with him gone.

Our waiter approached and Alesha took the glass of
champagne that I had requested.  He sipped and made a face
when the bubbles burst against his nose, then put it down
to concentrate on me. His warm breath flowed across my
cheek as his head turned inward. It was just the two of us,
touching. Suddenly, I became aware that we were being
watched.  Antoine smiled and nodded. I turned my head,
using peripheral vision. There were others watching, not
just one or two but as many as a dozen. My fingers slipped
away.

"Don't stop. It's nice, Mr. B," Alesha murmured.

What did it matter if other men and boys watched? My
fingers returned, curling in the silk behind his ear. He
giggled softly. His leg nudged mine, urging me to further
action. Antoine's hand had eased onto Emile's bare thigh,
creeping higher towards a target that became more exposed
when the boy's legs eased apart. Emile's bright red bikini-
briefs were already stretched out and waiting, like a lit-
tle volcano ready to erupt as soon as it was caressed.

"Emile has got something between his legs to be proud
of, doesn't he?" Antoine remarked in the same voice he
might have used if he had said that Emile had big brown
eyes.

To prove the point, he gently pressed Emile's thighs
even further apart. Like that, the shape of the boy's sex
was as unmistakable as what was  beneath Alesha's leotard.
What I observed was considerably bigger than Alesha's
bulge.

"Yes, he does," I replied honestly, not that I appre-
ciated boys who well well-endowed. To my eyes, large geni-
tals detracted from their charm. Alesha was my ideal. He
was perfectly proportioned for a boy.

Emile giggled and flipped at Antoine's hand. "You know
the rule. No playing with it public."

"What?" Antoine pretended to challenge.  "Since when
are you not interested in my playing with Emile Junior?" he
rejoined.

"I am, but not until the lights go off," Emile chided.
"You made that rule, not me."

Antoine laughed. "So I did, to keep you from showing
it off on stage. If you don't behave, I'll take these down
anyway," he said. He tugged at Emile's briefs, pulling then
down just far enough that another inch would be too much.
He smirked at me. "Do you think we should ask Bonbon if he
would be so good as to turn the lights down now? I don't
thin I can wait much longer."

I laughed and wondered what Alesha would do when the
lights went off. Some boys became reticent when other boys
lost their inhibitions. Not that anything truly depraved
occurred at Le Cage. Very few boys were ever exposed beyond
what I could already see. Their private parts were almost
always covered by their underclothes if only because there
was always the possibility that police could be present in
the crowd. Still, what could be seen left nothing to the
imagination when passion became ardent.

"Go on Mr. B," Alesha prompted. His voice was eager,
his eyes sparkling. He licked his lips, smiling coyly. "If
they do turn the lights down, I'll sit in your lap as
well."

At that, my mind was made up even though I seriously
doubted whether he would do it. I gestured to our host who
was standing next to the music console. His eyes all but
popped out from his head when he reached the tables. Anto-
ine's hand was cupped over Emile's groin, groping whatever
there was to be groped. Emile's response was a teasing gig-
gle.

"Oui, Monsieur Beaufort? There is something you want?
Not another boy, not when you have this charming prince. He
danced like the great Barishnykov. Never before have I seen
such beautiful dancing in the cage."

I managed a smile. Sometimes, Bonbon could become tir-
ing with his effusive comments.

"Bonbon, we were wondering,... Would it be possible to
turn the lights off soon?" I asked cautiously.

"Bonbon, pour moi, s'il vous plais?" Antoine inter-
jected.

Bonbon waved his hands, his eyes never leaving Alesha
and Emile. "It's almost eleven o'clock so it's not a prob-
lem for me. I enjoy the dark myself," he admitted and
smirked.  "Especially when boys are sexy like these two.
You are having a good time, my angel?" he asked of Alesha.

Alesha smiled and nodded and lifted his glass again.

"And the champagne, it is also good to pique a boy's
desire" With that, he hurried off.

Alesha smiled again, but so delayed that I could tell
that already the champagne was having an effect.

We waited for a minute or two, Antoine and I talking
mostly about our common acquaintances, those men who would
probably attend Martin's marriage to Raffi. All of them
were inclined to boys, and most would have a young friend
in tow, but only a few of them were of the state of mind
required to have a lasting relationship.

"And of course, Sheldon, you know Count Guido of Ter-
ragni will be there. I expect he'll bring his nephew,"
Antoine added with a meaningful nod at me.

"He's quite the little stud now that he's turned nine,
isn't he?"

"Yes indeed. His birthday was last month, and from I
heard, he wore both of them out." We both laughed. "It was
a pity you couldn't be there for the party, Sheldon. It was
quite a celebration. I managed to convince Emile's mother
to allow me to take him to Rome, although the reason I gave
her was for him to see the Vatican."

"Actually, I had a celebration of my own to attend," I
explained. I brushed my hand through Alesha's hair.  I had
the advantage of a friendship that put me on a first name
basis with Count Guido of Terragni. He was very understand-
ing when I telephoned to convey my apologies.

"Alesha had a very important performance in New York.
I wanted to be there for Antonio, but I could never leave
him by himself for the weekend."

"Ah! And neither could I, if he was mine. Not even for
a day. Martin said he was keeping you very busy."

"Indeed he is, but it's entirely of my choosing. Tell
me what I missed," I asked, hoping that he would provide
some juicy details that only another boy lover would be
aware of.

"Well,..." He took a deep breath. "For one thing,
Guido had Antonio dressed in satin and lace. I suspect it
was one of the family's heirlooms. He was absolutely
divine, just as sweet as sugar. He looked rather like an
altar boy," Antoine elucidated with a wink that said a lot.
"One might have thought it was a deflowering instead of a
birthday party."

We laughed again.

"One can only imagine," I replied enviously. I had not
wanted to miss the celebration, but Alesha came first.
"He's such a pretty child."

"He's grown his hair much longer now," Antoine added.
"It's almost like a girl's, so long and dark."

"I expect Guido's very happy about that," I remarked.
Guido had sent me a photograph of the wedding

"That's an understatement.  Ah, there goes the
lights."

Gradually, the room became darker and darker until the
only illumination came from the neon tubes around the cage.
It filled the room with ethereal light, blue-hued luminos-
ity that made anything remotely white appear brilliant.
Skin tones became much darker, erotic in their dusky hues.
Already beautiful Alesha became infinitely sexy. He
grinned, looking at his unnaturally bronzed hands. His
teeth gleamed brightly. Without warning, he changed seats.
Sliding from his to mine, ending up in my lap. His arms
dropped around my neck, pressing his head onto my shoulder.

Warm, alive Alesha in my lap, hugging, breathing
against my neck, breath that smelled strongly of champagne.
Every movement made my body quiver. My penis hardened
again faster that I could ever remember it happening. He
was not drunk, but neither was he sober. I felt him bear
down on me harder, almost as if he wanted to intensify the
effect he had on me. T seemed as if he was concentrating
his effort on my penis, grinding his bottom against it.
Before I had a chance to think, I felt his lips brushing my
skin. With every wriggling movement, he sent a powerful
surge through me. His leotard became a diaphanous gossamer
that I barely noticed. It was little different to his being
naked. I felt his energy, the residual heat from his danc-
ing, even the beating of his heart. Oh my god! He suddenly
licked my neck, teasing up and down with his tongue, a
fraction of an inch at a time. In return, I stroked his
back, daring to reach to the beginning of his bottom. His
arms tightened, breathing out in a rush. He growled, soft
and slow in my ear, stressing every word.

"You feel so good, Shel-donne."

"So do you, my dear."

"Better than in the garden this afternoon?" he asked
in muted inflecting  tones that reminded me of a woman I
had once known, although never in the biblical sense of
course.

"Much better,..." The smell of him was enough to drive
me wild. He was sufficiently inebriated that his self-con-
sciousness was affected. "Alesha?"

"Yes?"

"You don't have to do anything that you aren't com-
fortable with."

"I'm comfortable," Alesha giggled. "Except for your
thing. It's pushing up against my butt."

"I'm sorry." I felt my face become hot.

"I like it there. It feels so big and strong."

"It is,... for you."

"Mine's hard too."

"I know."

"You can touch it if you want."

"I'd rather,... kiss you."

"Okay."

It was very unlike anything I had done before,
although all logic said that I should have been accustomed
to kissing Alesha. After what had happened in Les Jardin
des Tuileries, kissing him in public was hardly out of the
ordinary. Yet, as his lips came to mine, I sensed that
there was much more behind our kiss than mere kissing. That
first brush of our lips sent shivers though both us. He
broke away quickly, nervously pulling back. For a few sec-
onds, he gazed at me. His eyelids fluttered like a girl's.
He inhaled, flaring his nostrils wide. He swallowed, then
blinking rapidly, touched his tongue where my lips had
been. There was a hint of a smile.

Then, shy, reserved Alesha, leaned into my embrace.
His lips opened wide, bringing his tongue to touch my lips.
Neither butterfly or eagle this time, but simply eager boy.
It moved wet and hot from side to side, pushed inside. It
slid over my teeth while his lips crushed passionately
against my lips. His hand grasped behind my neck, pulling
us closer.  His tongue darted back, stabbed forward once
again, found mine. We dueled, our tongues writhing back and
forth, luring the other onward, then pushing back to take
possesssion. I clutched Alesha, not believing. He trem-
bled, becoming increasingly urgent the longer the kiss went
on.

Awkwardly, he pulled back, breathing hard. His eyes
were wide. He tried to smile, but his confidence was shat-
tered. He needed to be held tightly, but he couldn't find
the words. I hugged him as hard as I could, all but squeez-
ing the life out of him. He groaned, shaking, instinctively
seeking my mouth for his sustenance again. Another kiss,
even longer than the last. Wetter, hotter, increasingly
urgent until he jerked away. He shifted in my lap, squirm-
ing until his chest was against mine, his legs somehow
wrapped around mine. In the darkness, it was unlikely that
anyone could see more than two entwined shadows. Beside us,
Emile and Antoine were doing everything and anything that a
man and boy could do together short of taking off their
clothes and having sex. Alesha watched as well, a vague
smile showing what he thought.

"Rollie said it was fun, making out with Julian," Ale-
sha whispered covertly. "Now, I know why."

"You like doing this huh?"

"Of course. Don't you?"

"Hm,..."

I pretended to think about it, but only until Alesha
pretended to pout like a spoiled little boy.

We both smiled. A moment latter our lips were back
together. Even Martin, after years of practice, did not
give so completely of himself. Alesha offered up his mouth,
yielding in my arms. Subdued, compliant, and very willing.
Perhaps I took advantage of the submissive boy, yet deep
inside I realized that Alesha was responding to deep-down
desires. I had seen that side of him often enough. And oth-
ers had seen it too, that passive aspect of his character
that made him meek compared to other boys. Truly, he lived
to dance, and in learning that role he had somehow shed his
masculinity along the way.

Oh those perfect sweet lips that nibbled on my own,
that soft slippery tongue that twirled and prodded into my
mouth. And always he lay against me, content to be held
like a baby against its mother's breasts.

Needless to say, it was tempting to do more than kiss
him. My hands roamed freely, lifting up and down the flow-
ing curve of his body. His buttocks were enticing and even-
tually my hands settled there, grasping his firm mounds
through the synthetic flimsy leotard. A month ago it was
unlikely that he would have worn it where someone else
would see him, for the cloth was cut precisely and in such
a way that it showed off his body. It pulled into his crack
with the effect of showing both cheeks completely. No won-
der all of the other men had stared at the boy who danced
in the cage.

Alesha sighed wistfully when my hands cupped his but-
tocks in such a way that my fingers eased into the gap. The
heat was startling as much as it was reassuring.

He drank more champagne, savoring the cool liquid, the
invasion of my hand. He shifted position, using his thigh
to rub against me, pushing close to my erection but still
not touching with his own.

"You like my butt, Mr. B?" he whispered.

"What's not to like," I replied. "You have the most
beautiful butt in all of Paris. New York too."

Alesha giggled softly, not really paying attention
because his head was turned to the side. My comment was
appreciative, not amusing.

"He's has his hand inside," he muttered furtively.

"Huh?"

"Look at Emile's underpants," Alesha hissed, his eyes
shifting from side to side drunkenly.

I looked. What man would not under the circumstances?
It was difficult to tell what was happening in the dark-
ness. I could see that Emile was sitting astride Antoine's
thighs. He seemed to be bouncing up and down, but unlike
riding a horse, he was making jerking movements. Very
quickly, Alesha rearranged himself until he had adopted a
similar position. He grinned at me. Now, we were face to
face and all I needed to do was look down to see how
excited he had become. The bulge was still there. It had
never gone away. It was no longer a ridge near the junction
of his belly and thigh. It was pointing upward, centered on
his navel but not reaching halfway there. I felt an over-
whelming urge to do the same thing to Alesha, to take that
liberty than men can take with boys like Emile. Antoine's
hand was rubbing back and forth between Emile's thighs, and
the boy seemed entirely at ease.

"Well, look at you," I said teasingly as I leaned for-
ward to kiss his ear. I tongued the tiny lobe until he gig-
gled. "A boy who you hardly know gets his dick played with
and yours becomes as hard as it can be. I'm beginning to
think you like boys as well."

He pushed at my shoulder in a playful rebuff. Then,
smiling, his head drew nearer once again. His breath warmed
my cheek until his head burrowed down on my shoulder, silky
hair pressing into my neck.

"Mr. B,... Shel-donne,...  You can,... if you want,-" he
murmured.

Again, his lips nibbled on my neck before he lifted up
to kiss me again. As we kissed, soft then hard, I rubbed
his sinewy back. Alesha told me that other boys referred to
it as `swapping spit', pretending that any exchange of
bodily fluids was gross even while they willing partici-
pated in such acts with men. I resisted touching that part
of him that ached to be touched, nonetheless considering
whether I should do more than kiss him. I was not an exhi-
bitionist by nature, yet I relished the idea of other men
seeing me being intimate with Alesha.

"Please,-" It was an urgent whisper, a tone of yearn-
ing.

Hesitantly, my right hand moved from his back to his
front. I traced his ribs through the leotard, counting them
in my head until the lines stopped. Then that firm abdomen
of muscular covering, slipping ever lower, tickling his
navel. Then two fingers extended like the jaws of a pair of
pliers, easing downward, one finger on each side of his
erection, pressing into the stretchy leotard. All the way
down that hot resilient ridge, until the tips of my fingers
touched the junction of his penis and scrotum, that fleshy
mound that signified the place of attachment to his body.
And still no fat, just muscle. Nothing to excess, except
his dancing. Oh, to be like that.

He nuzzled my cheek with his nose, making sighing
sounds that reminded me of the cat's purrs when Alesha
stroked its belly. I suspected that with very little effort
he could get me to do anything he wanted.

"Your whiskers feel scratchy," he muttered.

"I shaved before we left," I apologized hastily.

"I don't mind. It's nice. Besides you're a man," he
said sternly. "You're supposed to have whiskers. I like how
you're rough and I'm not," he said, thinking aloud.

"So do I."

That made him giggle. "I know why men have such big
dicks," he announced in a voice that said a joke was on the
way.

It was difficult not to laugh even without the punch
line. Alesha seldom used vulgar words, and to hear him say
a word like that where other people might overhear him
amused me.

"Okay. Why do men have  big dicks?" I asked merrily.

He giggled and brought his lips close to my ear. He
did what I least expected. He stabbed his tongue into my
ear, swirling it around so there would be no question that
the answer was not supposed to be funny. There was some-
thing on his mind. My hands held his buttocks, fingers of
both hands stroking his small cheeks, daring to press ever
so slightly between them. Not for the first time in my life
did I marvel over that part of a boy's anatomy, that sensu-
ous roundness, underlying firmness merged with tantalizing
softness on the surface, similar in that way, yet very
unlike that part of his body that proudly stuck out in
front. To me, it was sculpture of the highest order, whose
sole function was to protect the inner sanctum.

"So they can,-" He suckled my ear lobe, then used his
tongue again before he murmured, "Make love to boys. It
takes a big cock to fuck a boy properly."

It wasn't funny, not in the slightest, but it was
never intended to make me laugh. It wasn't even accurate.
Still, I gulped at those faint words breathed into my ear,
at one word in particular. Where on earth had he heard it.
>From Roland, or little Ramon, or from Emile, who at that
moment was doing everything short of copulating with the
man who sat across the table from me. I was certain every
man in the room had heard him, and if not Alesha, then
surely my strangled sound of shock got their attention. Had
he really said that? Those words that meant so much to a
man like me, words that defined who and what I was.

"Oh?"

"Well, it's true isn't it?" Alesha mocked. There was
no hesitation, no uncertainty in that pure sweet voice. His
bluntness was disturbing.

"Perhaps,-" I tried to breath. "Would you like to do
that one day?"

Every thought, my very purpose in living, had suddenly
become focused on the single act.

He smiled. "Maybe.... With you?"

I detected a slight amusement that might have been
deliberate.

"Perhaps.  Well, yes,... I'm not completely mad," I
said. I almost added, `although I'm mad in love with you.'

"Sometimes,... I think it would be nice to do that with
you. Would you really put it in my butt?" he asked shyly.

Then, in my flurry of excitement I realized that his
voice suddenly had taken on a nervous quality.

Martin had been so eager to do that intimate act of
love with me that it had taken my breath away. In the rush
to intimacy it was as if he had been born to make love to
men, although as the years passed I gradually came to real-
ize that he was attracted to boys as well. That transforma-
tion occurred in a miraculous way for his desire for
someone younger grew stronger even as my desire for him
waned. I was sad, knowing that as he grew older my desire
would fade, yet our love stayed strong and our mutual
interests kept us friends. Our last few months together as
lovers were strange, both of us always watching other boys.
Once we lay on the beach at Cannes and ogled the nearly
naked suntanned boys who frolicked on the beach. However,
while we shared the same craving, the boys who fulfilled
our fantasies were somewhat different. Even then, so long
ago, I preferred those boys who were gentler, somehow less
male. Martin was also attracted to those delightful boys
who were effeminate, but in addition, tended towards that
certain something that said `exotic'. For that reason, Mar-
tin  pursued boys in their earlier teens, boys who were
sexually aware. Some of his companion were as young as he
had been when I first met him. By fifteen he was already
starting to show interest in the darker skinned boys who
were beginning to appear in Paris. His relationship with
Raffi came as no surprise to me.

"Alesha, darling, you don't have to do anything  like
that, not unless you want to,-" I said gently.

"They do it," Alesha said, nodding at the man and boy
who were sitting nearby. He moved his head closer to share
a secret. "Emile said so. He told me while we were dancing.
They do it in his butt all the time."

I stifled a laugh. Given how Emile was rubbing himself
against Antoine at that moment, frequent sex was only to be
expected. "I expect they do."

"Rollie said that,..." Alesha paused, his eyes shift-
ing nervously. "He said I wasn't to tell anyone, but I'm
sure he didn't mean you,...  They do it all the time too,...
And so do Matt and his father. Marius and Ramon do it as
well, only not that often because Ramon says it still hurts
a bit."

"I'm sure that's true. Marius might dress like a
woman, but underneath I'm sure he's as large as any man.
However, that doesn't mean you and I have to do it."

Alesha considered that. "Last night you said you
wanted to do it,... and I like it when you put your finger
inside me," he added self-consciously.

"Yes, I did. The thing is, Alesha, it's not up to me."

I almost added that if our having anal sex was
entirely my decision, more than likely his virginity would
be nothing more than a dim memory by the next morning. I
longed to have him in that way, to feel his body joined to
mine.

"I don't think I'd mind if you fucked me,... I mean if
you put it in my butt," he ended awkwardly. He reminded me
of Martin the first time we went all the way. He was awk-
ward, hesitant, yet still wanting that act of love. "It
can't be all that bad."

I smiled ruefully. It was not what I wanted to hear,
for at that moment I was entertaining fantasies of taking
Alesha into my bedroom and making love to him until dawn.
But that was the problem, just as it had been the problem
all along. I loved Alesha more than seemed humanly possi-
ble. I loved him so deeply that I could never do something
that he didn't want, especially not that. Slowly, I shook
my head, denying what I felt inside.

"Why not?"

"Because, well,... that's something very special, Ale-
sha- Darling boy,...  it's something that people should do
only when they are very much in love."

"Rollie loves Julian," Alesha said quickly, almost
brusquely. "He told me so."

"I'm certain he does. I for one, know that Julian
feels that way about him. Remember what I said when we were
at Marius' house, after you had danced and we went
upstairs? About waiting until the time was right?"

Alesha nodded.  "You said that some boys start young
and some boys need to wait a little longer."

"Yes, and I also said that I won't do anything that I
think you aren't ready for. The important thing is not to
rush into something."

Alesha breathed out as if a load had been lifted from
his shoulders.

I waited for nearly a minute, gently stroking Alesha's
bony back. He was content to lie against me, absorbing my
warmth and giving his in return. Beside us, Emile and Anto-
ine were hugging and kissing and slowly rocking against
each other. The sound of a boy when he approached orgasm
was unmistakable to any man whose ears were attuned to the
sound. I listened closely. The rapid breathing, almost
gasping. The rustle of clothing, the soft slap of a boy's
scrotum against his thighs, a drawn-out sigh. Just a little
further away and it would have been impossible to hear a
thing except the music. Alesha pressed harder against me.
His breath warmed my cheek.

"Oui, oui,... mon dieu,... Antoine,... oui."

The voice was labored, groaning, trembling in that
sudden ecstatic rush that in Emile's case probably ended in
wetness.

And then silence, nothing except for a few sporadic
muted sounds of others, the constant pounding disco beat
that distracted every thought and concealed the sounds of
men and boys. Cautiously, my hand circled around Alesha's
prominent hip. My fingers progressed slowly along the fur-
row of thigh and belly, stopping only when I touched the
still-hard mound in his leotard. Nothing had changed during
our long talk.

"Uhhhh," Alesha groaned. "Yes."

That was all he needed to say to give an indication of
his need.  Gently, my fingers caressed his sex organs, mar-
veling as I always did at the hardness of his penis, the
rounded of his scrotal pouch. The shaft was unyielding,
more like bone than flesh, but enclosed in  skin like silk.
He squirmed slightly as I increased the pressure, gripping
the thin shaft between two fingers and my thumb. Then I
began that timeless rhythm of up and down, going just a
little further each time until his foreskin retracted com-
pletely. My fingernails scratched against the thin black
membrane that separated skin from skin, toyed with the firm
little bulb that could be titillated to the point of becom-
ing sore if I touched it with my fingers. He quivered at
the suddenly increased sensitivity  of the exposed head.

"Put your hand underneath, Mr. B," Alesha sounded
urgent, not shy at all, almost like a different boy.

I complied, but only with difficulty because the cloth
was so taut across his belly. It was, I thought, a little
like trying to insert one's hand under a lady's stocking,
although I had never had that experience. My task was made
even more complicated because I had to work my fingers
beneath his skin-tight top and then inch backwards and down
to get below his tights. But finally, my fingertips brushed
against hot flesh. For a moment I was uncertain of what I
pressed against until I realized that the soft lump I had
touched was Alesha's foreskin. It had returned to its nor-
mal protective position. It was puckered to a point, and
very rubbery. My fingers slipped further along his shaft,
stroking tenderly until Alesha exhaled noisily.

"Oh yes," he sighed again.

His hips lifted up to push his penis against my hand.
I grasped the offering, grateful that he wanted me to touch
him there, holding his penis tightly while massaging his
testicles with my fingertips. He squirmed and wriggled,
moving his hips up and down as my hand rubbed.  And that
dancer's ability to time his movement to the disco beat,
entranced the beast within me. I found the same rhythm, not
pumping but vibrating for there was so little space beneath
his leotard that my hand could barely move, yet it would
have to be enough. The alternative was to expose his pri-
vate parts for all to view, and that, I would not do. It
did not matter what other men were doing to the boys beside
them. For me, the risk was far too great to do that in pub-
lic, although I was certain that Alesha would not have
resisted if I had voiced the suggestion.

Usually reserved and shy, it was clearly apparent that
he had been affected by the champagne he had been drinking.
As he shivered and trembled beneath my hand, I realized all
it would take was the suggestion to return home or go to
one of the private rooms that Bonbon equipped with beds and
clean linen for whatever purposes a man and boy might have.
And yet, as much as I longed to make love to him,  I would
never take advantage of him, not like that.

And so, with my awkward up and down motion, I mastur-
bated Alesha. The game of doing it to music amused me as
much as it pleasured him.  My attention alternated between
his penis and testicles, attenuating his pleasure. I tor-
tured him, again and again delaying his climax until he was
writhing against me, thrusting as hard as he could. Only
then, did I keep rubbing, his glans burning hot and swol-
len. He twitched and gasped, then clamped his hand over his
mouth and groaned as four dry spasms wracked his loins.
Barely has he settled down, than I resumed my playful tor-
ment. Song followed song until an hour had passed.  By
then, Alesha had climaxed three times. I was so tired and
my wrist was aching so badly, that I had to stop.



Act VIII, Scene V.



Like Martin's Chateau de Villeau, the Chateau Vienne
was a limestone castle that was built at a time when forti-
fications were about to be superseded by cannon and gunpow-
der. It was, as a result, situated on the top of rocky
summit that had been sculpted into terraces. It was sited
to overlook the River Saone, a trade route that was impor-
tant to the region.  It was unduly romantic, almost
fairytale-like with an element of fantasy in its abundant
towers and unnecessary crenellations.  The multitudinous
and steeply pitched conical roofs were decorated in the
patterned-slate style that was typical of buildings of that
era. Romanticism had overwhelmed functional necessity with
a grand gate and drawbridge, although the moat had been
reduced over the years until it was nothing more than a
lake that partially enclosed the castle. I had Dewon stop
the car a hundred meters back so that we could take in the
chateau in its setting. Alesha followed me out of the car,
a leased Mercedes 500, a vehicle that, according to Dewon,
made an excellent limousine.

Alesha grinned at me while my eyes moved from head to
toe. `Utterly divine', I thought to myself. I smiled. The
shorts he wore with considerable élan were particularly
becoming, even if they were loose on his hips. They showed
off his legs and narrow waist to great advantage. I had
purchased the shorts only the day before at a small fashion
shop on the Rue Faubourg. That purchase might appropriately
be termed impulsive, but it was money well spent in my
opinion. There had been an arrangement of clothes in the
front window that I would have passed by without a second
glance simply because the sign outside the shop announced
`Jeune femme' in no uncertain terms.  Still, a pair of
black leather very-short pants captured my attention while
I waited to cross the street. Unlike the elaborate leather
and polished metal clothing that was to be seen at Apple-
boys in New York, this was rather simple in design. The
sole attempt at decoration were two seams that curved on
either side of the crotch to emphasize the junction of
thigh and abdomen. It was shaped for a female body yet it
was reminiscent of the front flap on a pair of German led-
erhosen.  The brass zipper was uncovered, overtly suggest-
ing what lay behind was of great interest, but it was done
in a way that struck me as androgynous, and thus ideal for
Alesha.   The smallest size was intended to be tight on
woman with a 24-inch waist and 32 inch hips. Since Alesha
was attending the introductory session at the ballet
school, there was no opportunity for him to try the shorts
on, not that it would have been possible for him to do so
in a shop whose clientele was entirely female. Without more
thought than how I would enjoy seeing him wear them, I
bought a pair with the understanding that I could exchange
them if I had to. My shopping was completed with a pair of
silk panties which rather looked as if the owner belonged
on Mont-marte.

Alesha rolled his eyes, knowing full well what I was
looking at. The shorts had very little leg so that I could
see all but the last inch or two of his thigh. I smiled and
nodded appreciatively, which earned a blush form Alesha
before he shivered and turned away. No doubt he was feeling
the coolness of the wind on bare skin. Still, it had been
his idea as much as mine to wear the shorts on our excur-
sion, so I had little sympathy for him.

I stood quietly and surveyed our acquisition, sight
unseen until that first glimpse. Only a hour earlier I had
formally purchased the castle, gardens and a 100 hectare
forest for the paltry sum of a hundred francs from Martin's
company. It was done with the understanding that I would
restore the building and grounds to the appropriate stan-
dard. Martin had acquired the Chateau to take advantage of
its vineyards for his business, but he had little use for a
14th century castle in a bad state of repair. Even the
gravel road was badly pitted and in desperate need of work.

The Chateau was everything that I expected from the
label on the wine bottle, Chateau Vienne 1998 Chardonnay.
Like everything else in my life, it was both elegant and
very beautiful, but in an impractical way that should have
given me second thoughts. The heating bill alone would
cause most people to blanch even though the main building
was small by French chateau standards. Martin had provided
an extensive inventory of what repair work was needed, but
instead of worrying, I was filled with joy. This was the
first thing of any magnitude that I had acquired for Ale-
sha. By the time it was completed it would be an expensive
gift, an important part of my legacy to him. Not that I was
worried about how to pay for the reconstruction.  There
were ample funds in the dividends I received from my
investment in Martin's company to complete the work within
a year, but then Martin knew that when he made the original
offer. I smiled at Alesha, wondering what was going through
his mind. A chateau, even one in dire condition, was
impressive to behold.

"So, what do you think, dear boy?"

"It's beautiful." His voice trembled with awe, at the
realization that he had been an important part of the
acquisition, although he was still unaware that his name
was on the deed.

I nodded and began walking, curious as to what lay
beyond the drawbridge. Martin had told me some of its fea-
tures, but words alone were not enough. All that I knew of
the interior was that Martin's company had purchased the
contents along with the chateau and surrounding land from
the estate of the Marquis Dupille de Saint-Séverin, a self-
proclaimed homosexual who had died without heirs. After a
few steps, Alesha caught up. Without saying a word, he
slipped his hand into mind. That simple act warmed my heart
and made me think that he was beginning to enjoy being with
me.

"Martin's company still owns those," I said, pointing
out the vineyards. "And that too, if I'm not mistaken," I
added, indicating a large door set into a very long stone
wall.

"What's that?"

"Me thinks those are the cellars, Alesha," I
explained. "He said he needed additional vines and storage
for his wine so he bought the place. He didn't need the
chateau or the gardens other than for the picture on the
label, and the Chateau Vienne name of course, and that
isn't a problem as far I'm concerned."

"Didn't he sell you the forest, too, Mr. B?"

"Yes." I resisted correcting him, for in my mind, the
property belonged more to Alesha than it did to me. "Two
hundred hectares or something like that. I wouldn't have
been interested otherwise. We need somewhere to ride our
horses."

"Horses?"

I laughed. "There's not much else to do here. Some of
my best memories of growing up are of riding with my
mother. We used to go out every morning. We lived on Long
Island back then. Have you ever ridden a horse before, Ale-
sha?"

He gave me a smug look and nodded. "Mama took me to a
place in Connecticut last year for my birthday. It was
fun."

He leaned over and picked a flower, a dandelion that
he began to pull apart as he walked beside me. His voice
was sweet and fresh, like the notes of a flute.

"She used to ride when she lived in Kiev. She wanted
me to have horse-riding lessons.  Only, there wasn't enough
money for me to go more than a few times," he finished with
a sigh.

We crossed the wood-planked bridge and entered into a
courtyard. The cobblestones undulated where the ground had
changed level over the centuries.  In the center was a
fountain, a gurgling spout of water splattering into a mar-
ble basin below.

"Well, it seems that at least we have water on hand,"
I joked. "But from the look of it we can only hope the cha-
teau doesn't catch on fire."

Alesha grinned and looked around. To the right was a
line of stable doors, some wide enough for wagons or car-
riages, and hopefully, for Dewon to park the car. Above the
stables was a loft, judging by the beam protruding beyond a
large square window. Ahead and to the left, the adjoining
sides of the courtyard formed the walls of the main build-
ing, while to the right, a high stone wall encircled a
small herb garden before it rejoined the main building. I
completed the turn, coming back to a once-grand stair that
led to a balustraded terrace and a huge wooden door.

"It doesn't look that bad, does it?" Alesha remarked.
"Not like Martin made it sound. It isn't like it's falling
apart or anything."

I smiled, wondering whether he would voice the same
opinion in the heat of summer or during a frigid winter. It
probably wasn't any worse than where he'd lived in Kiev, or
New York for that matter, although more than likely the
apartment had the benefit of central heating. On the posi-
tive side, the exterior walls appeared to be solid and
without signs of cracking.

"Martin did say that it leaks like a sieve," I
laughed. "With all those tiles on the roof, it will be next
to impossible to find the leaks. It'll probably need a new
roof."

"But I love the tiles," Alesha complained. "I don't
mind a few leaks."

"Exactly, and neither do I, dear boy. I imagine the
tiles can be removed to rebuild whatever it is that needs
rebuilding, then put back so the roof is as good as new.
We'll have to hire an architect, I suppose," I mused. It
wasn't the sort of project that Marius would undertake, but
perhaps he could assist me in the selection process.  It
would be a good excuse to have him visit.

"Well, maybe it is a bit rundown," Alesha relented.
"But it's beautiful and I love it," he hastened to add for
fear of offending me. "Do you think we'll be able to visit
again during the summer?"

"Of course."

Alesha bounded up the stairs, taking them two at a
time and oblivious to the scalloped treads and plentiful
weeds growing in the cracks.

"Can we go inside?" he asked excitedly.

Dressed in his black leather shorts and a red and
white checked shirt that was open halfway down his chest,
he looked very much out of place in a 14th century castle,
and yet, he was so handsome standing on the porch that he
unquestionably belonged there. Indeed, I entertained a
notion that he was the young Marquis of sixty years ago,
just returned from riding his pony through the forest. How
appropriate that image was, for Alesha was also a budding
homosexual. And then I remembered that Martin had told me
that for the reason of his homosexuality, Marquis had been
persecuted by the Nazis during the Occupation. However,
that failing also made for his salvation. Apparently, he
barely avoided being sent to a concentration camp by having
a sexual relationship with the Gestapo commandant of Dijon.
>From that point forward, he kept a low profile during the
war, but he was later acclaimed as a hero of the French
Resistance when word got out that he had been assisting
British and American flyers in their escape westward and
away from Germany.

I smiled at Alesha. He bubbled with excitement, even
standing on his toes and pirouetting despite his sneakers.

"Indeed we can. I have the key right here."

The key was a ponderous thing. It weighed enough to
drag my pocket down. I hauled it out and fit it to the
lock. Alesha waited impatiently beside me, all but quiver-
ing with excitement. The key turned, making a noisy squeak
when the lock disengaged. I pushed against the door,
expecting it to swing open. It didn't budge until I pushed
with my shoulder. The door creaked and groaned and opened a
few inches. I laughed, finally noticing that the wrought
iron hinges were riddled with rust. It was a wonder that
the door could open at all. Alesha stepped up beside me and
pushed with me. With another creak and an even louder groan
of complaint, it opened far enough to admit my bulk if I
squeezed side-on.

Alesha scampered through ahead of me, shouting with
glee.

"Hey, Mr. B, you won't believe this! It really is a
castle."

He was correct in his assessment that I would not
believe what was waiting behind the door. By the time I had
squeezed inside, Alesha was well beyond the entry portal. I
passed through a vestibule rather like that in the period
mansion that the financier, Pierre Entenre, built in Paris,
but several centuries later. I happened to recognize the
similarity only because the American expatriate and heir-
ess who owned it, Sophia Havenstock, entertained with gru-
eling regularity.  As someone she considered to be a close
friend, I was particularly exposed to frequent invitation.
Not that I had ever complained, because like me, Sophia had
a tendency to overindulge in gastronomic delicacies. After
all, and as she often said, one thought first of food when
one thought of France. But more than food, Sophia was so
open-minded concerning sexual peccadilloes that she would
not have minded if I brought Alesha with me to her next
soiree dressed in drag or leather.

Indeed, Sophia had already extended an invitation for
the following week, as she put it, to `celebrate Alesha's
coming out'. She had laughed when she said, leaving no
doubt that it was intended exactly the way that I had heard
it.  I had mixed feelings on the subject because I'd always
taken pains to keep that part of my life private. However,
sooner or later Alesha would have to make his debut in
Parisian society. An encounter with the rich and famous
émigrés who gathered at Sophia's house was as good a place
as I could think of for a formal presentation by his
patron. And he was such a remarkable boy that I had no
doubt that his reception would not be undertaken lightly by
Sophia. It was something to look forward to upon our return
to Paris.



The vestibule was flanked with columns intricately
carved in helical spirals from limestone. A short flight of
steps led down into the great hall, for that was in all
likelihood what it was called. And the space, in accordance
with its name, was truly cavernous. It was sufficient in
scale and decoration to invoke images of rowdy knights and
youthful squires, of brocaded maidens and raucous forni-
cating wenches gathered before the vast fireplace.

The Great Hall was built of a local chiseled stone not
unlike the exterior, which gave it a coldness unbecoming to
a comfortable residence, but it was very poetic in its way.
In the fashion of the 14th century, the walls were adorned
with large faded tapestries, but here and there were gilt-
framed paintings, none of them outstanding by the standard
of my collection, yet still representative of the period
and region and therefore worth keeping. The floor was a
patchwork of checkerboard  cream and red variegated marble
that had seen better days, and an ill matched assortment of
moth-eaten Persian carpets, but which added to the antique
charm. The eclectic furniture of chairs and tables almost
appeared German in origin, covering several centuries. To
my eyes it looked very much the same although several
styles from ornate Baroque Rococo to ordered Neo-classical
were represented. Of course, I was never partial to heavy
dark furniture, although Scandinavian Modern would have
been equally out of place.

Above the huge mantle of the fireplace was a stag's
head complete with the largest set of antlers that I had
ever seen, including those in the Vanderstein's lodge in
northwest Canada. Other examples of past hunting successes
were distributed around the room in a macabre display of
taxidermy of species, some of which had long since disap-
peared from France.

"Those will have to go or Sophia will have a fit.
She'll have the animal rights people up in arms as soon as
she arrives," I joked to Alesha. "Remember, I told you
about Sophia a day or two ago. She's something of an animal
lover. I'm sure she picks up road kill to give it a proper
burial," I added.

Alesha laughed heartily and began a process of inspec-
tion that took him around the hall. The chateau appeared as
if its past owner had moved out and left everything in its
place, even to the silver-framed photographs on the table,
a cut-glass carafe that was half-full of port, and a tar-
nished goblet by itself. It was unsettling for it made me
think of my own lonely situation until Alesha came along. I
smiled ruefully, continuing on my way into the dining room,
all the while expecting the Marquis to appear at any moment
and demand what we were doing in his house. The dining room
was situated behind the hall in such a way as to share the
same fireplace.

Alesha ambled slowly after me, pausing to inspect
everything he passed. The table was large enough to seat a
small army, for there were at least two dozen chairs and
room for a dozen more without a squeeze.

He smiled, still bouncing around, not interested in
anything except exploring the castle. In that vibrant curi-
ous youngster, I saw myself as a boy. I regarded him
fondly. He was as good a friend as any man could want. He
approached the hearth and stood silently, his hands upon
his hips. Clearly, he was fascinated by a suit of armor
that was not much larger than he was. Then, he looked up to
examine the ad-hoc collection of knives, swords and pikes,
along with some other medieval instruments designed to
inflict bodily harm to anyone who got in the way.

"They're real, Mr. B," Alesha announced after a close-
up inspection that required he stand on the tips of his
toes. His hand barely touched the pommel of an ancient
rapier before he quickly jerked it away.

"Not only real, but original I think, although I'm
hardly an expert in weaponry," I remarked, noting that he
had taken to calling me Mr. B. again even when we were
alone. I wondered why. "If I remember correctly, Martin
said that the Marquis was the last known descendant of Yves
de Saint-Séverin, which is why Martin was able to buy the
chateau in the first place I expect."

"Who was he?"

"Ah, Yves. The famous champion of lost causes, I fear.
He led a number of the local land barons against a rather
unpleasant cardinal in Dijon."

Alesha shrugged. He was not about to encourage me to
engage in an extended discourse on Papal domination
achieved through the threat of excommunication. A good
thing too, because my knowledge of the local history was
far from complete.

"I wouldn't mind learning how to use a sword," he
mused aloud.

"You'd like to have fencing lessons, Alesha?"

He nodded, not eagerly, but thoughtfully. "I watched a
demonstration once in New York.  It's almost like ballet."

Then, I'm sure you'd be very good at it."

"What's through there?"

I turned around. Alesha was pointing at a small arched
doorway adjacent to the massive fireplace. "Probably the
kitchen and servants quarters," I suggested. "Although,
when this castle was built, it probably connected to the
captain of the guard's quarters as well. That would explain
all the chairs. We'll see what's through there later. Mean-
while, let's go upstairs."

I led the way back into the Great Hall, to a grand
curved staircase that had been added in the last century,
mimicking what Leonardo da Vinci had achieved at Chambord,
but on a much greater scale. We ascended together, hand in
hand. I enjoyed a private fantasy, that of conducting Ale-
sha up to the bridal chamber, then of carrying him across
the threshold and placing him in the conjugal bed. I smiled
at that, suddenly feeling envious of Martin and Raffi who
were about to `tie the knot'.



For the first time I saw evidence of water damage.
There were dark stains everywhere on the floor and walls
and an unpleasant pervading musty smell that would probably
take a long while to get rid of. The coffered ceiling had
deteriorated to the point where blocks of stone could be
seen where the plaster and lathe had peeled away. I pointed
it out to Alesha for the painted ceiling had been very
beautiful in its time.

"Do you think it will be expensive to fix, Mr. B?" he
asked timidly.

Already, the scale of the chateau was beginning to
daunt him, and by chateau standards it was quite small.

"I suppose so. The ceilings have been painted tromp
d'oeil," I observed.

He didn't ask for an explanation, but I gave one any-
way, pointing out how the sky had been painted to make a
realistic scene. A flock of pink-skinned cherub boys
cavorting in playful nudity provided grist for yet another
fantasy that indulged Alesha as a prince of boys. What a
way to live!

We followed that elaborately embellished if somewhat
deteriorated hall from one bedroom to the next. They were
color-coordinated to great effect, allowing the appropri-
ate use of the Green Room, the Blue Room, the White Room,
and the Crimson Room to identify them. At the end of the
hall, the Brown Room had walls of hand-tooled Spanish
leather, a mannish room that seemed out of place among the
rest. All but one of the bedrooms were not only furnished
in the same heavy Germanic style as below,  but were com-
plete with period decorations, most worthy of inclusion in
a museum. It was the largest bedroom that took my breath
away. In a way, it was the grand finale for we came upon it
at the end of our tour of the second floor. That we saw it
last was simply because it was on the other side of the
stairs where it could overlook the River Saone instead of
the courtyard and moat.

"It looks like Marius has been here too, Mr. B," Ale-
sha giggled as soon as he saw inside.

He had said the same for each of the other chambers,
adding emphasis in a squeaky falsetto until we both
laughed. He was something of a mimic, I was beginning to
learn. I suspected that he mimicked how I talked as well,
but only behind my back. Perhaps that explained some of the
giggles that he occasionally shared with Dewon.

"There's not nearly enough mirrors for Marius," I
remarked. "Although, I'd sure he'd certainly appreciate
the excess."

We both laughed. The room was decorated in the Chinese
style, an elaborate concoction of intricately patterned
red silk wallpaper, brightly lacquered furniture, and
bric-a-brac from the Orient that ranged from large vases to
intricate ceramic horses. The canopied bed was an antique
that any collector would be proud of.  It was covered with
a floral-patterned bedspread to complement the walls.
There was a single mirror in an ornate gilded frame that
was placed opposite the door. Like the other chambers, it
had a marble fireplace for warmth in the dead of winter.

"This will have to be your bedroom, Mr. B," Alesha
grinned.

"And why is that?"

He smirked knowingly. "You'll see."

"Hm,..." I wondered what he was thinking. However, I
had a thought of my own that I wanted to act upon. "Ale-
sha?" I began uncertainly.

"Yes."

"Um,... I have a favor to ask,..." I glowed when Ale-
sha looked up and smiled. "Could I,... do you think I might,...
don't laugh,... please. I'd like to carry you inside."

"Huh?"

"I'd like to carry you in, Alesha."

"Why?" He regarded me with something between inno-
cence and amusement.

"Um,... well, it's just that, -" I sounded very ner-
vous. "Well, I'd just like to do it, that's all."
"Isn't that what people do when they get married, Mr. B?"

How I hated being called by any name but Sheldon or
Mr. Beaufort, except by him and Dewon, for whom `Mr. B' was
his way to show respect. Perhaps for a boy of eleven some
people might thing he was discourteous. However, I had
crossed the line from being his patron to someone who he
considered as a friend. I loved it when Alesha called me
that.

"Yes,...  No,... I mean,... What I'm trying to say is that
you don't have to say yes, not if you think it's weird." I
sounded like a frightened child.

"Of course you can, but don't drop me," Alesha gig-
gled.

I bent down and scooped him up in my arms. It was not
the first time that I had been privileged to carry him. I
hoped it would not be the last time because carrying Alesha
was often the prelude to something more intimate than a
hug. As soon as his feet had left the ground, Alesha's arm
looped around my neck. He levered himself against me,
guilelessly, trustingly, looking up into my eyes. My ear-
lier fantasy came true as I carried him across the thresh-
old, a worn stone slab that was probably 600 years old.
Vaguely, I wondered how many men had carried their virgins
through that doorway. More than likely, Alesha was the
first boy to pass that way, although given what Martin had
said about the proclivities of the last occupant I was not
absolutely sure that there hadn't been other young men.

I stopped after a few steps and held him tightly in my
arms. We gazed at each other. I was lost for words. Such a
beautiful face. It was all that I could think of. The way
his blond hair curled on his forehead. The way his lips
were shaped, perfectly, defining his mouth as more passion-
ate than any woman's mouth. His thin eyebrows, and long
lashes, and eyes that were clear and blue and more intense
than any boy's eyes had ever been. That little nose, not
Slavic, or German, but entirely European. It was a face
that was his own, but equally the face of every beautiful
boy who had ever lived for Alesha combined the most desir-
able of proportions. He smiled coyly, just like a boy who
was trapped between innocence and desire.

"Are you going to put me down, Mr. B?" he asked teas-
ingly.

I pretended to drop him, but only by a matter of sev-
eral inches before I took up his weight again. He shrieked
and laughed and squirmed against me, tightening the arm
around my neck until I had to lean down. At that, he sud-
denly lifted up. It was a spontaneous kiss, one that took
both of us by surprise. Tender at first, until his lips
came back, then not as gentle as I would have liked. His
lips moved aggressively, urgently hot and wet and against
mine. After a moment of tasting each other's tongues, I
opened my mouth far enough that his tongue could slip
inside. There, my teeth closed carefully to hold his tongue
so that it could not pull back. I swirled my tongue back
and forth across his tongue, chewing lightly so it felt as
if I was nibbling on a delicacy like the finest liqueured
truffle. After a moment, Alesha's tongue slid back and our
mouths parted as quickly as they had come together.

"That was some kiss," I said in a shaky voice.

Alesha smiled, no longer bold, but meek and curious.
His wide eyes absorbed me, sharing something that we could
not say in words. There was love within him, love that was
struggling to get outside, to express itself with warm emo-
tions. Nervously, he licked his lips where mine had been,
and his head turned away to look around the room.

`What's wrong?" I whispered in his ear.

"Nothing,... It's just that you made me feel strange
inside."

"Strange?"

"The kiss. It made my heart feel funny, like it jumped
up and down."

"That's strange?"

Alesha smiled. "You know, Mr. B,-"

"I know? If it was me it'd probably be a heart
attack," I joked.

" It wasn't only that...  It made my dick get hard," he
admitted after a while. He sounded thoughtful, as if con-
templating both what had happened and what he had just
said. "Really hard," he added with faint emphasis.

"Oh that's all!" I said, pretending to be so relieved
that he laughed. "I thought perhaps you didn't like me nib-
bling on your tongue."

"I like making out with you."

"Making out?"

"That's what Roland calls it. Kissing and stuff." He
inclined his head. "Making out is nice."

"Oh, so you're saying that I should  do it some more
then?"

Alesha nodded in assent, still thoughtful. "Let's do
it on the bed," he murmured.

I carried him further into the bed chamber, skirting a
black-lacquered table that was inset with mother-of-pearl
and semi-precious stones to create a craggy mountain scene
of three all-but-naked boys and a man fighting a winged
green-scaled dragon. I approached the bed, barely taking in
the elaborate carving of the frame, the festooned shiny red
silk that formed the canopy overhead. The top of the bed
was almost at waist height, high enough that Alesha would
either have to jump or use a ladder if he was by himself. I
placed him down carefully so he would not fall to the
floor, but still managing to do it with a slight bounce.
That made him giggle. He began to wriggle away to make room
for me to join him on the bed, but I grabbed his arms close
to his shoulders, lifted him to a sitting position and kept
him still with one hand as the other gently stroked his
hair. He gazed at me submissively, our eyes almost at the
same level.

Again, my mind was flooded with the words I wanted so
desperately to say but could not dare utter for fear of
being rejected. What could this beautiful boy find to love
in me? My belly was bloated and tight against my belt,
although only that morning I had managed to use the next
size down. Instead of telling him how much I loved him, I
breathed out in silent admiration.

Seeing Alesha, that delightful turn-of-the-20th cen-
tury boy dressed in his simple yet enticing clothes sitting
on that very old bed, against a coverlet of floral-pat-
terned silk was a contrast that almost made me laugh. Yet,
the expression on his face was anything but amusing. He was
in serious contemplation, just staring at me, thinking
thoughts that I would never know. My hand gradually eased
from stroking his hair to caressing his cheek and ear. A
perfect ear, a whorl of ridges that was both delicately
soft and resilient, an ear that listened attentively to
everything I said. Alesha sighed softly.

He leaned forward, closing his eyes as he did so,
forming his lips to a shape that was all about kissing and
being kissed. He did not have to wait more than a second
for me to kiss him. This time, his lips opened immediately,
yielding his mouth, inviting my tongue back beyond his
teeth. Recklessly, I plunged my tongue into him, barely
realizing that his arms were wrapped around my neck, pull-
ing us together in a frenzied passion. The kiss did not end
quickly. Indeed, it seemed to go on and on forever. My
hands roamed over Alesha's  body, not just willingly com-
plaint, but eager for my touch. I patted his bottom, let-
ting him know that sooner or later I intended to pay that
part of him a visit in the way that both of us wanted, or
at lest I hoped that was the case. He wriggled his bottom
temptingly enough that my optimism became increasingly
confident. He trembled as he always did when my hands
unfastened the rest of the buttons on his shirt and eased
beneath to touch bare soft skin.

I stroked his lean abdomen with just the tips of my
fingers, using what Alesha called the `feather feel'. Some-
times, if I did it very lightly and tickled as I went, I
could make him erupt in a fit of giggles. At other times,
he purred like a cat being fondled, but without the static
electricity.  There was electricity between us, but of a
different kind. If a kiss had been sufficient to arouse
Alesha's penis to full erection, then that gentle touching
of his body could likely procure orgasm for both of us. He
shuddered, breathing in quick gasps, licking his lips as my
hands moved up and down. Sometimes, I abused his sensitive
armpits with sudden prods, turning them into small caverns
of hilarity, but only  when the mood was right.

This time I contented myself with his nipples. They
were pale and small and very hard to find. It was only the
comparative softness of the areola that revealed were they
were, and even that softness was transitory. Within moments
of my fingertips beginning to tease and pinch the tender
nubbins, they had hardened into tiny points. I could not
remember any boy whose nipples were as sensitive as Ale-
sha's. He trembled under me. Then he sighed, breathing
deeply before he leaned forward to finish exhaling into me.

With my right hand I pushed the shirt back away from
his shoulders, dragging the sleeve down one arm and then
the other until it was off. I dropped it on the bed beside
him, staring at the half-nude boy. His skin was pale even
compared to mine. The tan of the previous summer was long
since gone, but a few days on the French Riviera would
change that. As I looked at him with what seemed to me to
be nothing short of total infatuation, I contemplated tak-
ing him to Nice, staying at the Hotel Nicoise, or better
yet arranging to meet Count Guido of Terragni  at his villa
a few miles south of Monte Carlo. He would be able to sun-
tan nude for hours on end there without fear of what other
people thought.

"Is something wrong, Mr. B?" Alesha inquired ner-
vously.

"Wrong?" I shook my head. "You look so delicious sit-
ting there on the bed. I could eat you right up."

"Boys aren't part of the Alesha Diet," he replied
gaily. Then, he smirked as he suddenly changed his mind.
"Well, I suppose they are in a way,... I mean if you,... if
you sucked my dick or something then it would be,...  But you
can't eat me."

I laughed. "Don't you want to be eaten?"

"Hm, maybe What part would your eat first?" he
answered, still smirking. I grinned back at him and lowered
my glance meaningfully. He got the message. "My dick? You
can, if you want," he offered, giggling to himself.

"Hm,... I think I'll save that for later tonight. I was
thinking of something else," I teased.
"Like what?"

"Hm,-" I pretended to consider the possibilities.
"The arms look nice and tasty, but there's not much meat on
them. They look like their mostly skin and bone. And the
chest? Hm,-" I shook my head disparagingly, although the
idea of suckling on his little nipples was very enticing.

"My tummy then?"

He leaned back slightly so that I could see what was
being offered. When a boy was as lean as Alesha there
wasn't a lot to see, but what there I saw, was very desir-
able. The skin formed narrow ripples, perhaps a dozen, con-
centrating where his navel was, but otherwise there was no
sign of it. Still, that area of the boy's body was almost
more temptation than I could withstand. With a suntan it
would be nothing short of scrumptious. I licked my lips,
pretending to be hungry, and then I changed my mind
although I had known all along what I would eat.

"You're a scrawny little thing, aren't you, Alesha?
There isn't that much meat that I can see. Make that, there
isn't any meat, and I really feel like some!" I rushed my
fingers through his hair, cupping my hand behind his head.
"So that leaves,... "

"My legs?" Alesha suggested hopefully. He had diffi-
culty stopping himself from laughing.

I smiled. "I was thinking of something else," I said
suggestively. "It's not exactly plump, but it'll  have to
do."

"My butt?" He laughed nervously.

I nodded slowly, ponderously.

"You can't eat my butt, Mr. B," Alesha said mockingly.

"Awwhhh? Why not?"

"Meat's not on the Alesha Diet."

"It's not?"

He laughed and shook his head while I smacked my lips
and pretended to be hungry. .

"It really doesn't matter. I think I'll just rip off
your shorts and feast on butt of boy," I growled menac-
ingly.

Before Alesha could wrench himself away, I had grabbed
an arm and the calf of a leg and pushed him down onto the
bed. It was over in a seconds although he twisted and wrig-
gled and shouted out that he didn't want to be eaten. His
struggle served only to make both of us laugh. I dragged
him closer, tossing him like a sack of flour onto his back.
He was giggling so much that he was having trouble breath-
ing so I tickled him under the arms to distract him. While
he struggled to protect himself, regain his breath and get
away, I grabbed his crotch. Alesha jerked his hands down
protectively, but I responded by tickling him again. He was
torn between being tortured in his armpits or giving  me
access to his groin. He chose the former. As soon as his
hand was gone, I planted my hand over the big brass button
on his shorts. It was a simple matter to unfasten it and
the large zipper.

He complained, of course, but his effort to get away
was so feeble that it was apparent that he was eager to
play my game. Within a few seconds I had his shorts halfway
down his thighs and he was pulling his knees up to cover
what was becoming very close to be uncovered.

"Hey! No! I didn't say you could!" Alesha shrieked
while laughing all he could.

Until then, if Alesha said no, he meant no. But this
was different. He was having too much fun. Tears of laugher
wet his eyes. We both realized that our relationship was
rapidly moving into a new realm. I could see it in his
eyes. Curiosity and longing to discover what he wanted.
There was little I could do, or even wanted to do to stop
what was happening.  I was intensely aroused by the simple
act of being in control, not just of dominating him, but
knowing that he wanted to be dominated. I decided to make
it a game that he could bring to a close whenever he
decided it had gone too far.

"You're in my castle, wench," I barked sternly. "So,
that means you belong to me now. You'll do exactly what I
say, if you know what's good for you." I watched Alesha
carefully to see how he would respond. He was thoughtful,
just a little bit confused, yet visibly enthused. "Disobey
me and I'll turn you over to the Captain of the Guard. His
men will enjoy playing with your pretty little titties."

It took a few seconds before Alesha caught up to the
change in the game. Meanwhile, I flicked his nipples, then
pinched them lightly. He giggled suddenly, understanding,
relaxing back on the bed. His eyes sparkled as he gazed up
at me. I could see the excitement surging inside him, the
chance to pretend, to make his innermost fantasy become
real, even if it was in play. I had longed to do this ever
since the party at Marius' house, but never had I dreamed
it might actually transpire. Alesha playing the part of a
girl. Of course, it was logical that he would respond the
way he did. There had always been a feminine aspect in his
character. I had noticed it from the outset. It was a
potential that had never been fully realized, although we
had come very close several times. Indeed, I had first
noticed his preference for girlish things when he had taken
great delight in dressing up in the girl's clothes that my
mother had stored away in the attic closet. However, with
the sole exception of what had happened when we visited
Marius and Ramon, he never had he taken the next step of
acting like a girl. All he needed was the opportunity to
express his inner self.

"Lord Beaufort,... Please, don't do this," he
screeched in a falsetto that was the equal of any of
Shakespeare's transvestite boys.

"I'll do whatever I please, wench," I snarled. "You're
mine, now."

Alesha giggled again, getting ready to try a role that
had always been waiting for him. "But I'm just a little
girl, Sire," he squeaked, girlishly fluttering his eye-
brows.

"So I see. Do you know what I do to girls with tiny
little titties?"

Alesha shook his head, barely managing not to burst
into laughter. "No sir," he finally said in an almost seri-
ous, but still very feminine voice.

"That's probably a good thing, because you don't have
more than nipples," I continued in a solemn voice.  It was
time to increase the stakes. I wanted to see how far he
would go. "Now, the thing is, I like my girls to be vir-
gins. Are you a virgin, girl?"

Alesha stifled a giggle and nodded slightly. "Yes,
Lord Beaufort. I haven't had sex with a-n-y-o-n-e."

I couldn't help laughing the way he said 'anyone'. "I
don't believe you. Show me your pussy, wench. I'll decide
for myself if you've been naughty with a boy."

Alesha grinned. "My pussy, Lord Beaufort? Oh, but I
couldn't do that, Sire! No one's seen my pussy except my
mama."

"You'll do what you're told, wench, or spend the night
in the dungeon."

"The dungeon?" Alesha pretended to gasp in fear.
"Not,... not the,... dungeon. Please Sire, not that!"

"There are rats down there. Big mean rats that will
nibble on your toes," I said, grimacing with what I hoped
looked something like a barbarian.

Alesha shook his head wildly, doing his best to stop
from laughing. Luckily, he was a wonderful dancer, because
like his patron, he made a terrible actor.

"Enough talking wench! Off with your clothes!" I men-
aced.

I grabbed the top of his little leather shorts and
began to drag them down as Alesha assisted, screeching like
a girl who was about to be raped by a dozen men. Then, with
a final jerk I pulled the shorts to his knees. It was amus-
ing to see that Alesha had decided to wear the panties I
had bought him the day before. I had hoped that he would be
tempted, but in truth, I had not expected that he would
wear them quite so quickly. The panties were of black silk
and lace along the edges, delicate and very feminine and
probably not unlike the panties that he had seen his mother
wearing. And now, Alesha lay there on the bed, smiling
shyly as I gazed at him. His body was pale, contrasting
severely with the almost transparent sheen that covered his
genitals. He was very excited, although I had guessed as
much from the bulge that had formed in his shorts. His
penis lifted up the thin cloth, the little rounded head
pointing into the thin elastic waistband.

"Turn over," I ordered.

Alesha gulped, exaggerating every move as he posi-
tioned himself to lie face down, a task that wa made more
difficult by the shorts bunched at his knees.

"Not like that. I need to be able to see your pussy.
Get on your knees, bitch!" I ordered gruffly.

Alesha glanced over his shoulder to make sure that he
had heard me properly. He quickly looked away. I sneered
scornfully to make the case for continued obedience.

A few seconds passed before he complied. I stood back
and watched, feeling a peculiar pleasure in denying his
maleness. It was an intriguing game, but one that I would
have to be very careful with. I could see how it might eas-
ily get out of hand. It was too close to the truth for com-
fort. I had to stop and think and I used the break to
breath deeply. My heart was pounding. Martin would never
have allowed, or wanted me to treat him this way. But not
Alesha, his excitement at the prospect of being treated in
a sexual way like a girl was making him tremble.  His head
turned sharply in order to look back at me. His eyes flick-
ered, dancing with the thrill of what was occurring, from
anticipation of what would happen next, not from being
forcibly undressed before me, but what it implied for him.

"Now show me your virgin pussy," I ordered in a savage
voice.

"Mr. B, what if someone comes in?..." he began ner-
vously.

Of course, I had to nip that tense voice in the bud. I
wanted him to be obedient and meek, not a frightened boy. I
smiled at him, leaving silence to show that he had no cause
to be nervous. Besides, Martin had assured me that there
would be no one else at the chateau except for us. The
staff had been on unpaid leave since the previous owner
died. Most of them had probably obtained other positions by
now. We were alone.

He smiled shyly. Awkwardly, yet not hesitating as his
hands moved to his hips, took hold of the lace trimmed edge
of his panties and awkwardly pulled them down to expose his
milky buttocks. The pleasure I felt inside was unimagin-
able. His back was lean, gracefully flowing from his narrow
waist onto his behind, pinched and firm. The panties were
gathered beneath his cheeks, yet nothing was concealed. His
scrotum was squeezed between his thighs to make a shiny
little ball at the bottom of his crevice. And the crevasse
was partly opened, his cheeks far enough apart that I could
see the pink pucker of his anus peeking out.

I took a deep breath, disbelieving that my heart was
pounding so hard. Alesha shivered, still looking over his
shoulder. His face was pressed into the red brocade, his
blond hair disarrayed across the satin.

"What are you going to do, Sire?"

Again, that girlish voice, whiny, bashful, yet elec-
trifying. I tapped his thigh, signaling that he needed to
move his knees apart. Like that, his thighs were so slender
that his penis pointed outward between them. It was stiff
and swollen and definite proof of his arousal,  although
still ending in a little puckered nozzle. His scrotum was
relaxed, revealing the shape of both small testicles in the
hour-glass pouch. Behind his scrotum, his body bulged with
muscle tissue, just an inch before it became concave and
gave way to his crevice.

"Pull your cheeks apart so I can see your pussy prop-
erly!"

He smirked, replacing his hands on his buttocks. Such
long thin fingers, with perfect nails. His fingers squeezed
into the softness of his cheeks, whitening at the joints.
His hands pulled back until his cheeks were separated. I
salivated as I leaned forward. For once, I was not going to
finger his anus. I had another way to torment him with
pleasure, something that I had done with only two other
boys including Martin. My hand was on his back to reassure
him. He jumped when he felt my tongue swirl along his crev-
ice, hot and wriggling wet.

"Mr. B!" he exclaimed in a rush.

He gazed back at me from underneath his chest, his
expression revealing disbelief that I would dare to do such
a thing, that I would even want to lick his anus. Yet,
while our eyes continued to make contact, so did my tongue.
I licked back and forth, concentrating my efforts on the
little wrinkled dimple. It was easy to get the tip inside,
burying it just far enough that Alesha would realize what I
was trying to do. I flicked it in and out, then around and
around. The taste was not unpleasant despite my natural
apprehension.

What did it taste like? I pondered that question while
I savored the flavor of the uncertain boy. It was hardly a
gastronomic delicacy, yet I lapped hungrily, finding the
taste to my liking. It was not unlike something that had
been overcooked because of the acrid bitter flavor.  Even
the smell was not  unpleasant, an aroma that reminded me
surprisingly of a trattoria in the hills above Lucca in
Tuscany where I had spend a summer a few years earlier.
Fresh-baked tortini of castagnaccio spread with ricotta
cheese. The cake was a mixture of chestnut flour, pine nuts
and raisins, sprinkled with rosemary and cooked until the
top was cracked and scorched. Yes, it tasted just like
that, I decided. Then, I had so relished the taste, that I
could not stop from eating. This was no different, but
without the calories. I licked again and again, probing
deeper, adding saliva.

Alesha sighed as my tongue pressed further in search
of an entry into his body. His anus seemed to open up
before me. Deeper, feeling the opening compress my tongue,
making me tremble like Alesha. His hands came up, holding
my head just above my ears. He held me awkwardly, not
tightly, but clearly instructing me in what he needed.
Deeper. Harder. More and more, until he shuddered, until my
tongue was as far inside him as it could go. Only then, did
I lift away.

I wiped the back of my hand across my mouth. For the
first time I wondered whether my bristles had scraped him
because he whimpered quietly.

"Did I hurt you?"

"Hurt,... no,... Mr. B,... I,... I'm all shaky inside.
What did you do?" he was gasping for air.

"Other than licking your butt, I don't know."

Alesha giggled nervously. "You put your tongue inside
me," he said accusingly.

"Yes I did. Did you like it?"

"Um,... yes,... Of course I did." He giggled. "Are you
going to do it some more?"

"Would you like me to?"

"Uh huh."

"Okay, but only if you answer a question."

Alesha laughed. "What is it?"

"Why did you say this has to be my bedroom?" I asked.

"Because I want the room next door. Through there,"
he said with a bold smirk. He twisted his head to the side,
pointing to the door-sized mirror on the adjacent wall.
"I'm sure that's a connecting door, Mr. B., because there's
door on the other side."

I did not need further explanation, although I proba-
bly jumped to the conclusion that I sought. Neither did I
need further encouragement to resume what I'd been doing to
Alesha. Back down went my head, and out came my tongue, now
as far as I could get it. Straight into that gaping little
hole. Was it really so soft and wet? It had loosened in a
matter of a minute. It didn't feel like an anus at all,
more like kissing his lips, spongy soft, yet firm as well.
No taste, no smell, but the sensation of his slippery flesh
against my tongue was almost more than I could stand. My
tongue penetrated as deep as it could reach, but it was
still too short. For both of us, it wasn't enough.

Alesha's buttocks pressed back into my face and he
groaned from deep inside. Darting my tongue in and out,
then long slow licks as if I was eating an ice-cream, but
it was hot instead. So hot that we seemed to melt together,
becoming one being at last. Alesha's hips began to shake,
gradually changing to the rhythmic yet erratic pumping
motion that was associated with anal intercourse. It was
instinctive, born of the need that I had initiated deep
inside him. It was different to having my finger inserted
into his anus, bony and dry and demanding his body yield to
it wherever it went. My tongue was like his rectum, silky
soft, yet able to squirm and twist around. I was content,
yet at the same time I wanted so badly for it to be my
penis that I could think of nothing else.

"Oh, Mr. B,... Shel-donne,... don't stop. Please,...
Please don't stop. If feels so good," Alesha croaked from
above me. His voice was muffled by the pillow that now sup-
ported his head, face down. "I can't believe you're doing
this. Mr. B, I can't stop shaking."

My nose pressed into his scrotum. It was no longer
loose, but firm and rippled with little lines, like the
scalloped mussels I used to find on the beach when I used
to vacation with my mother on Nantucket. I did not hear the
footsteps in the hall outside, stopping at the open doorway
to the Chinese Room, then standing still and watching while
I brought Alesha to a writhing panicked orgasm.



End Act VIII.


Intermission