Date: Thu, 15 Aug 2002 10:39:48 +0800
From: dirge  <dirge@operamail.com>
Subject: The Hiders: (M/b) Part 1

Disclaimer: This story contains scenes of graphic sex between men and boys.
This story is copyright protected, If you have any questions or comments
regarding it please email me. Thank you.


THE HIDERS

by dirge (dirge@operamail.com)


PROLOGUE: 1974

The couple crossed the bridge that connected the little island to the cement
pier that continued into the fog. The man stopped the woman in the middle
and whispered something in her ear. She nodded and almost brought her
hand to her mouth, but remembered herself in time to know that any gesture
out of character could give them away. Instead she glanced into his eyes.
They were deep and blue and passed across her face in the same way he
saw the wooden planks underfoot, in the same mechanical manner he would
read a train schedule or watch for ruts in the walkway that could cause a fall
and end everything.

"Look behind us. What do you see?" He said. She hesitated then turned.
The walk was empty, the fog permeated the buildings and the wharf. The
boat ties lay like snakes curled into a dreamless slumber.

"Nothing. I don't see anything." She whispered.

"Good." He kept walking. She almost missed a step.

He was counting again. He always counted when he could; the number of
train cars, the rivets in a hard wood floor, the boats in the harbor, the sips of
gin he took at the bar. He pulled her close. He counted her steps; she missed
one; he paced her.

"We're almost there." He said. Her breath was coming shorter and shorter.
She wanted to look behind again, even too the side. Could that give them
away? The cold crept around in the dark, seeming to float in pockets of one
or two meters that she would walk through and feel every nerve in her
spine.

She saw the end of the bridge marked by two lamp posts that glowed in the
mist, sometimes dimming as a thicker patch of fog floated by. That was it.
She watched the two orbs levitate on their black bodies. That is the
doorway. Beyond that we are safe. The current beneath picked up. The
man's hand tightened on her elbow. He looked back. It was a quick and
agile movement. For a minute she wasn't sure he had actually made it.
Practice, years of practice. No it was survival, years of survival. She felt
him shift his arm lower. His hand rested on her waist.

"There's someone behind us." He said. Did she walk a little faster or stop
altogether? "Don't look back. Just keep going."

"How far?"

"About fifty meters."

"Oh God, How?"

"I don't know." He said. "Just keep going, we're almost there."

This was it. This was what he had talked about in Bangkok. This was why
he couldn't go back to the States. And it all came down to a little bridge in
Rotterdam and not enough time to think. Only time to run.

"Run!" He shouted. "Don't look back. Run!"

She bolted. Her agile frame leaving the warm embrace of his arms and his
long coat; floating free in the cold night like she was alone. And she was.
She did not look back. She did not need to. She knew what he would do so
she could get away. She knew where to go, she knew the words to say, she
remembered everything he told her. Now was the time to run.

Sam Huston watched the figured stop for a second, confused at the sudden
confrontation. Why didn't it charge? Was he mistaken? Was it just another
person needing to cross the bridge for any number of reasons? Veronique
was running. He heard her strides steadily lengthen. The shadow neared.
Did the fog thicken? Ten meters. He could still break and hide in the city. In
cities there were always places to hide. Five meters. It was not as tall as it
looked from a distance. It wobbled. It was frail.

The old man walked up to him and seemed bewildered at all the
commotion. He was returning from the thick night and a low catch.
"Evening to you." He said.

"Good evening." Sam replied

"The fog came in so fast I didn't have time to find all my nets. Where you
heading?" Asked the man.

"I'm going into the city." Sam said. There was a pause between them. Sam
felt a coldness that penetrated his coat, the passing of a draft but something
more. Something darker. A warning.

"She won't make it."

"Pardon?"

"Your lady friend," said the fisherman. "She won't make it."

He was cold. The sides of his arms bristled as the hair stood firm. In the
night there was glint of steel. Run fast, he whispered or thought, but in the
current of the night it was washed away as his body became limp. He
briefly saw a finger in the folds of the man's coat. And he was falling into
the freezing water.


BORDER LANDS

The village of Menton was built on a hill. The American stared down the
steps that twisted and turned into villas, went behind boulders, eroded
away, but always to some direction though no definite end. Lines of laundry
gently moving in the breeze were strung across the passages. The buildings
were yellow and earth. A big blue one stood out against its neighbors but
with the same cracked visage. The sun was rising to his right, up out of the
valley behind another hill called Mont Michel Servet making the buildings
glow and the Mediterranean sea shatter like a mirror.

"Bonjour Monsieur," Said a lady passing. She was dressed like a banker
with suit pants and leather bag.

"Good morning," he said. She turned quickly and smiled.

"English?" she stopped and looked at him.

"Yes. I only speak a little French."

"You are American?"

"Yes."

"That is fine, I speak a little English."

She seemed to be waiting for him. He hurried down and they descended
together. She was wearing thick leather shoes that looked classy and
comfortable. The Steps bean to angle steeper.

"You have a beautiful town." he said slowly so she could understand better.

"Thank you. Yes Menton is very old. We have a very famous chapel. Have
you been to La Chapel de Saint Michel?"

"No, I just got here last night. I have not had a chance to see very much."

"OK, so yes, it would be very confusing. Menton is built on a mountain and
the roads are like a maze. Are you here alone?"

"Yes, I'm staying at L'Hotel Dubin up on the very top. I had to walk around
for hours to find it, he said.

"OK, yes that is Madame Sylvie."

"She doesn't speak any English?"

"No, I'm afraid you will find very little English in Menton," she said.

"Well you speak it very well."

She smiled. "That is because I went to the American school in Paris." They
made another turn into an alley that was hidden from the sun. It was cooler.
He shoved his hands in his pockets.

"Comment apelle tu?" he asked trying his rusty French.

"Je m'appelle Jennie." she said, pronouncing it the French way.

"I'm Adam." he said.

"Like in the Bible?"

"I suppose. Are you going to work now?"

"Yes. I work at the Marie, um...how do you say, the Mayor's office?"

"You mean you work for the Mayor?"

"Yes. I only do that in the summer. In winter time I teach art at the school. I
teach an English class too."

As they worked lower the steps began to level out. Now there were only a
few and then a long stretch of street. The noise of a market could be heard.
He smelled bread and citrus. Jennie stopped at a large wood door that was
at street level.

"Come this way." She opened it and they walked into a street filled with
vendors. "It is market day, you should have lots of fun, there is lots to buy. I
work up here. I have to hurry but I think that I know how to make your stay
easier if you would like?" She looked at him. He shrugged. "Come this
way." She led him up a block past a lady selling cloth and turned at a truck
that was open with various meats hanging from the racks. Again the noise
of the market became a periphery. They were standing in a cul-de-sac.
Children were playing. Some boys were smoking on a stair that zigzagged
up the hill into more buildings. She shouted something to the boys, they
looked at Adam and laughed and pointed up at a window with blue shutters
sitting half open.

"I will get you a guide." she said. "Stefan! Bonjour Stefan! Leve-toi!"

"Quoi!" a small voice shouted back.

"Tu veux pratiquer Anglais ce matin?"

"English?" the voice shouted back

"Yes, I have a friend here who needs a guide." A boy appeared at the
window, naked from the waist down, then disappeared.

"He will help you. He speaks English very well."

"A boy?"

"Yes, you can trust him, he may seem grumpy, I think I woke him up. I
must leave now. I'm already late." She turned to go, leaving Adam standing
with wall all the French kids whispering and staring. "Buy him some
breakfast today, he won't let you pay him, but you can buy him something
to eat."

"Right, Ok." He said. She had gone into the market.

The boy emerged from a door across the little piazza and walked through
the other children. He was wearing a white t-shirt that said "Chicago" in
black letters and short pair of cut-off jeans. On his feet were just a thin pair
of flip-flops.

"Good morning," he said rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. "You are
American, huh?" he had a very slight accent.

"Yeah, I'm from the states."

"Which one?" the boy asked.

"Montana." Said Adam

"I hate Americans." the boy said as if it was the only natural thing to say.
Adam laughed.

"Really?"

"Yes. My father was an American sailor. He left when my mother became
pregnant."

Adam shrugged. "Not all of us are bad."

"I suppose you all can't be bad," the boy said. "How long are you here?"

"Until I decide to leave...maybe a week."

"Oh so you are a rich American." He smirked. "Come I will show you a
great place to have a coffee." The boy tugged at his hand. Adam jerked it
away and the boy looked at him as if he had been a dog that barked funny.
Guiltily Adam held his hand back out but the boy did not take it. He walked
through the large doors and into the crowd. Adam followed.

There were people walking in all directions. Some of them where very well
dressed, others were vendors doing a bit of their own shopping. An old man
shouted something at him in French from a bus selling an array of fish on
ice. He looked but kept walking. The boy called Stefan was nowhere to be
seen.

The narrow street opened up to a large square where tables were set up and
people were chatting and sipping coffee. Pigeons who had been munching
on bread flapped away from him.

"Hey American, over here!" shouted a small voice. At where the market
street became the coffee square The boy was sitting at a table out in front of
a cafe called Howard's.  Adam walked over.

"I thought I lost you." He said sitting down.

"No there's only one way you can come out of that street so I knew I'd see
you."

"Oh yeah, I had to get a table. 'oward's is very popular," he said the name
without pronouncing the H. Adam smiled.

A man came out and said hello, eyeing the boy suspiciously. He said
something else and Adam concluded that he had asked them for their order.
He looked at Stefan.

"What do you want?" The boy asked.

"Coffee, and I'm hungry." Adam said. "Are you hungry?" Stefan nodded.
"Well, order something for us both." The boy said something and the man
returned shortly with a large hot chocolate and a small cup of coffee. In a
basket were four croissants.

Adam picked up a croissant and bit into it greedily. The pastry was light
and warm. The taste of melting chocolate filled his mouth. "Chocolate." he
stated. The boy smiled.

"It's called Pain au Chocolat." he chimed, "The best breakfast in the
world."

"Well it ain't Lucky Charms," mused Adam. The boy looked a bit confused.

The coffee was rich and sweet. Adam sipped it slowly watching the people
in the square. He looked with a trained eye to see if anyone's gaze lingered
on him for a second too long. He thought he spotted one lady who was
walking a large German Shepherd. She kept looking his way, but he saw
that she was staring at Stefan not him. Perhaps she had a son who looked
like him. Adam relaxed a bit and let the atmosphere of the morning hide
him.

Stefan was a striking boy. Though his hair was tussled from sleep it was
endearing as it dropped in dark locks to the base of his neck. A few wild
strands came down to brush against his cheeks. He had a habit of taking a
particularly unruly bit and shove it behind a delicate little ear that almost
formed a point. He had large brown eyes. Adam could not stop thinking that
the boy was more animal, perhaps a fawn, than he was a real boy. His nose
was petite and flared just at the nostril whenever he opened his mouth to
munch on the croissant. His lips were perfect, red and full. The bottom one
a bit more voluptuous than the top. The boy's eyes met his, they had both
been looking at each other. The child bashfully looked down and sipped his
hot chocolate without lifting it from the table. He sat with one leg perched
on the chair so a scuffed knee poked up over his cup. His skin was tanned
deep by the sun, common among the Mediterranean boys. Adam thought
that If Stefan ever lived for a time in a colder region his skin would
ultimately turn a beautiful and milky white. He could see the child in a suit
and tie at a proper school. He quickly shook his head of the budding fantasy
and finished his coffee.

"What?" asked Stefan.

"Nothing." said Adam.

"Why were you looking at me?"

"You're beautiful," said Adam. The boy smiled his white teeth.

"Everyone says I'm too thin." he said.

"Why were you looking at me?" asked Adam, throwing caution to the wind.
It was his turn to smile. The boy licked his red lips so they shined. He
tucked the hair behind his ear. Now that Adam examined him he only
possessed one elfin ear. The other was round like a mouse's.

"Because..." the boy said pausing. "You have some chocolate on your
chin." Adam jerked his hand up and wiped the dark substance away. Stefan
laughed. Adam couldn't help it. He was charmed. He laughed.

They spent the morning walking around the market. Adam bought some
supplies like toothpaste and sampled a bit of new food now and then,
always buying one for Stefan and asking him questions about it as they ate.
Once Adam reached out and held the boy's hand as they were looking in a
window of a store. Another time the boy wanted to see over a gate so Adam
lifted him. He was feather light and warm to the touch. As he set him down
he ran a hand from the boys soft hip, to his calf. Stefan smiled and grabbed
Adam's hand, dragging him to another window. They were looking at a
display of Swiss Army knives. Adam's hands rested on Stefan's shoulders
and the boy pressed back into him. Adam tried to think of the last time he
had touched another human being so intimately. In the reflection of the
glass he saw a figure staring from behind them.

He cautiously turned his head from side to side but saw nothing. Stefan had
sensed something. he looked up and silently mouthed, "What's wrong?"
Adam could feel the boy's pulse quicken in his thin neck. He guided him
into the shop.

"Ask him what knives are the best." he said to Stefan. As the shopkeeper
went into a spiel Adam searched the crowd for that face. How many times
had he been in similar situations that were false alarms. How many times
had his gut been right? The faces that are familiar yet unrecognizable, that
linger in the mind's eye as mere impressions. Faces that are in every crowd.

Stefan was listening half hearted to the sales man. He kept gazing at Adam,
knowing something was wrong.

"Which ones are the best?" asked Adam.

"He says these two." Stefan pointed a brown finger at two small, silver
knives with the Swiss cross etched on the surface.

"Tell him we'll take two." said Adam. The boy did.

He paid for them and handed one to Stefan. "This is for you."

"I cannot except that." said the boy sadly.

"Why not?" asked Adam.

"It is too expensive, I could never repay--"

"Stefan, you have done so much for me." He said, "It is the least I can do."
He took the knife and gently put it in the boys left pocket. His fingers
instantly touched warm flesh, the slight mound of his pubic region.

"My pocket is gone there." said Stefan shyly. Adam's fingers lingered
feeling the heat and pulse of the child. Slowly he removed them. Stefan shut
his eyes.

"The other pocket?" He asked. The boy nodded. When the knife was secure
he whispered. "Stefan, I don't have many friends, but---" the boy hugged
him cutting off his words. He clutched Adam's neck with such force in his
arms that he thought he might blackout. Stefan's legs wrapped around his
waste. From somewhere deep inside was a desire to cry. Adam shoved it
back down. His arms encircled the small boy and squeezed.  The world
seemed to go away. Only when he realized the shopkeeper and another
patron were staring did he loosen his grip let Stefan's feet touch the ground.

"Come," said Stefan. "I will show you a place where it is quiet and I go
when I am scared."

...

La Chapel de Saint Michel was to be found by a roundabout direction up
cobble stone streets and steps to the center of Menton. They sat on a wall
looking down on shoppers and beyond them to where the sea began.

In the heat of the day Stefan used his shirt for a pillow and dozed cat like,
inches away from a fall. Adam photographed him with a small camera, his
lean torso speckled by shadows seemed like it emerged from the stone as if
the mason had become bored laying brick, and for his own pleasure built a
boy. He was handsome in the way his features were fine and his dark brown
hair fell to his chin.

"You are looking at me." Stefan said.

"Yes, I don't want you to fall." said Adam.

"So what if I fall. I will become a bird on the way down and fly away."

Adam returned his camera to his bag. "Then I will be lost." he said.

The boy smiled, his eyes still closed. "What were you afraid of back there?"

"It's not important." Adam said. "It was nothing." The boy seemed
unconvinced. Adam was mesmerized by the pure beauty of this boy.
Watching him rest was like watching a sun set, he could do it for hours,
days even.

"You can touch me." Stefan said. They were both silent and still like the
gargoyles overlooking the streets. Adam reached out his hand and gently
touched his leg. His fingers traced the bone to the boys knee and then up his
thigh. Stefan smiled. "You Americans come and think you can do what you
want."  He ran his thumb through the crease where the boy's legs pressed
together. Stefan dropped one leg to dangle over the wall. Adam continued
to where the ruffle cut of shorts met light brown skin. "What if someone
sees?" whispered Stefan. Adam removed his hand. "I didn't say stop," the
boy said. Adam lifted the leg of his shorts and filled his palm with the boys
stiff erection. Stefan dropped his other leg so he straddled the wall.

Adam palmed him roughly. He grabbed two small balls, dropped them and
slid the boys foreskin down his shaft in a quick move that caused the head
of his penis to pop out. Stefan grunted. Voices echoed off the walls of the
alley that led to the street.  When he removed his hand Stefan thrust his hips
forward and with his own small fingers rubbed himself through the fabric.

"What else is there to see?" asked Adam.

"Menton is not very large." smiled Stefan. "But we are celebrating the Fete
du Citron."

"The lemon festival?"

"Yes we can see some spectacles down in the old part of town."

On their way down they passed some nuns. When they saw Stefan they said
something to him. The boy laughed and shout back some sort of insult. One
big nun crossed herself and made as if to pray to heaven.

Stefan walked close to Adam. There were tourists in the crowds as they
approached the old portion. One building was still scarred from the wars.
All along the street were statues built of oranges and lemons. There was a
scene of Pinocchio and a donkey. There was a naked woman, her breasts
made from lemons and her nipples from dark oranges. A large crowd had
formed around a man who was pantomiming. American songs came from a
little tape player.

"I can't see," said Stefan. "Can I get on your shoulders?" Adam lifted him
up by his waist, holding him high until he settled him into position. This
caused the boy to giggle as his warm flanks wrapped the man's neck. Adam
balanced him by holding his knees.

The mime had struck a statued pose as his song ended. The crowd cheered,
he bowed, removing his hat in a graceful arc, waiting for the watchers to
search their pockets for change.

"He is good," said Stefan. "He has preformed here every year for as long as
I can remember."

"It must be nice," said Adam, pulling Stefan's legs forward so the his
crotch was pressed firmly into his neck. Stefan squeezed his legs together
causing more warmth and friction. "I would like to put a mask on and
pretend all day long."

"You are not like other Americans," said Stefan. He loosened his legs now.
Adam felt something warm against the back of his neck. The boy leaned
forward again crossing his ankles, forcing his freed penis into contact that
pulled his foreskin. "There," he breathed out in a whisper.

The mime back flipped and the crowd clapped. He reached into the air,
grasping an invisible rope and began to climb. He looked down then back
up quickly, afraid of the height. The crowd laughed. He put his palm to his
forehead searching , he stopped only when he saw Adam. There eyes met
for a moment. Adam looked into two dark orbs surrounded by white paint.

Stefan bobbed in such a way that caused his dick to bend. He squeaked
through his teeth. Adam reached back and quickly squeezed the little shaft
then returned his hands to the spot under the boy's knees. Stefan dragged
the sensitive little head back and forth across Adam's neck.

The mime reached out with a foot and caught an invisible ledge. He looked
back wiping invisible sweat from his brow. Locking his gaze at Adam he
started to walk toward him running flatly into a door that wasn't there;
opening it people parted his way.

Suddenly Stefan was still. His penis jerked five times on Adams neck, his
legs tightened and he arched his back. Somewhere a clock bell chimed. The
mime, a short man, stood looking into Adam's eyes.

"They know where you are." said the mime in a perfect American accent.
"If you stay you'll be dead by morning."

"Who are you?" Adam's voice had gone. But the mime was pretending he
was in a box and the crowd was clapping again. Stefan ran his fingers
around Adam's ears then cupped his hands under the man's chin.

"Mimes aren't to talk." breathed the boy heavily.

"Which way to the beach?" asked Adam.

...

They sat on a dock watching the yachts move over the water that was like a
sheet of metal reflecting the giant orb in the sky. Adam broke off a piece of
the baguette and ate it with a with some cheese. He tried to sit away from
the boy feeling that a dangerous bond was growing. He tried to look ahead
to the next day or the next week. It used to be where he could envision what
he might do in the future, but now it was uncertain. There were two
possibilities, he would either be alive or dead.

Stefan put a barefoot that had been dangling in the water on Adam's leg and
squeezed him with his toes. The boy's penis was soft and could be seen
where the material parted. Why he even wore anything was beyond Adam.
If the boy was hard he would stick out, if he was soft he would hang out.

"What did those nuns say to you?" asked Adam.

The boy chewed and swallowed, "They told me to leave you alone so only
one of us would go to hell." He smiled.

"What was that all about?"

"The nuns adopted me. I live in the abbey. But this is summer and they
cannot order me around. When it is school time I respect them more."

"Where is your mother?" asked Adam.

The boy shrugged, "Five years ago she went looking for my father. I have
not seen her since." Adam began to massage the small foot. The boy
giggled but did not pull away. "Jennie takes care of me as well but she will
not let me live with her. She is looking for a good husband and a boy gets in
the way of that. So I sleep at the abbey."

"What do you want to be when you grow up?" asked Adam. He was
looking at a gull that had landed to eat some bread he had thrown in the
water. He thought about his own question and how he would have answered
it when he was eleven. The boy looked at him like he did not understand.

"I do not think about growing up," he said. "But I would like to travel like
you."

"You do not want to travel like me." said Adam quietly. "I have to leave
Menton tonight."

The boy looked hurt. "You Americans." he said exasperated, and burrowed
his foot into Adam's crotch. Adam held it there, instantly hard as rock,
moving it up and down so the boy could tell the size of him. Stefan laughed
as the gull burst from the water sending little drops on to them. "Menton is
small but there is still more to see." he said.

"Maybe I will come back."

"Maybe you wont."

They were silent ,listening to the lap of the water. The streets were
beginning to clear. The beach was empty. The day like an old rag was being
put away. Stefan had spread his legs so that Adam could look right up them.
His penis, no more than the length of Adam's little finger, was erect and
bobbing in time to his heartbeat. Adam laid down so he was along side the
boy, running his hand on his leg from ankle to hip and into his shorts.
Stefan looked at him as if he had been invaded, pouting like a prince
without a crown. Adam kissed the boys forehead and squeezed the little
rod. This brought out a long breath and the boy closed his eyes like a cat in
the sun.

"Why do you let me touch you?" asked Adam. He kissed a soft cheek.
Stefan jerked his head away. "I have to leave because there are people
chasing me who will kill me if they find me." Between his finger and thumb
he be began to stroke the child. Stefan turned his head back and Adam
kissed him on the lips, dipping his tongue into the hot mouth, tasting bread
and the natural scent that the boy exuded. The kiss lasted longer than he
expected, the boy swallowing his saliva and he, in turn, drinking from the
boy. Stefan pulled away.

"I'll come with you." he said in a throaty soprano. Adam squeezed hard. He
put his thumb over the hot little head in his hand. Stefan groaned from deep
within his chest.

"No, you can't come with me." He focused his methods on the little rod. Up
and down, pulling the skin back, grabbing his testicles on the down stroke,
pulling them up and letting them drop.

"Ohhh mon Dieu... plus fort..." Stefan whispered. Adam jerked harder. The
boy arched his back as he came. Adam caged the wild penis in his fist
feeling it pulse like it was going to grow as Stefan tried to eject a fluid that
did not exist.

The boy pulled away with his hips. Taking his own hand he removed his
penis from the leg of his shorts and stroked it slowly in the aftermath. He
pulled down his foreskin revealing an enflamed head. His little fingers of
his left hand cupped his balls. Another gull squawked. His slow deliberate
pace picked up. He curled  his toes, stretching his legs, arching his back.
With his whole fist he pulled and pressed. He jerked his hips back again in
another orgasm that caused him to utter a high pitched moan.

Adam looked up, the streets were empty save for an old man picking up
garbage with a pointed stick. Not caring anymore about life or death he
planted a hard kiss on Stefan's mouth. He trailed his lips to each nipple, to
his navel, to where the snap of the boy's denim shorts pressed into
suntanned flesh. He tasted the natural salt on his tongue. He sucked and
chewed on the softness. Stefan moaned, encouraging him with little hands
on the back of his head. The old man and stood watching from the road. A
lady was standing next to him. It was Jennie.

"Please suck it!" he whispered. "Please...please..." quieter he said, "I need
it."

Adam gripped Stefan's shoulders, bringing his hands from the boy's thin
back all the way down to his hips. Not stopping he pulled the shorts. The
button came loose with a metallic click. The little cocklet was hard and
pulsing---red from previous stimulation. He tossed the shorts to the side and
admired the naked boy. With hands that held secrets he lifted Stefan by his
buttocks and covered his entire crotch with his mouth, sucking in balls and
dick. The boy moaned and spread his legs wide. Adam sucked like he was
drinking the life force from Stefan. With each gasp the boy uttered more
blessings or curses in a quiet French. Suddenly Stefan was still. Then he
began a rhythmic humping, his little fingers coming up to entice his nipples.
Frantic like a sea storm, like the rising of the waves he grunted, tossing his
head back and forth. Adam's thumbs found a clenched center and pressed
in. It opened. The boy went wild, his penis jerked and he was suddenly still.
Adam let him down. His own climax coming. He saw it like a distant fog.
He stood, dropping his pants, he knees buckled as he shot spurts of white
into the sea.

The man and Jennie had gone. They sat, Stefan and Adam, the boy curled in
the man's arms the man touching the boy, sometimes between his legs,
sometimes tracking a finger into the shorts to the center of the boy. He
kissed his salt smelling hair. Stefan leaned his head back and opened his
lips, Adam licked them, they were red like wine. the boy sucked on his
bottom lip and reluctantly pulled away.

"I have to go." Said Adam. The boy was silent. "I'll come back here at
sunset, that's a couple hours. Then I have to go. Will you be here?" The boy
nodded.

...

"Bonjour Madame." he said. Working his French he told Madame Sylvie
that he had to leave unexpectedly and he would pack and turn in the key.
She nodded agreement.

It was a little room that looked down to the beach. The sun was nearing the
horizon making the ancient buildings look like paintings of amber. The
people inside were the insects, frozen into the routine of their lives. He
didn't feel like an insect. He was not that alive. He was a dead man, only no
one had turned him off. There were trying though, a few more hours, days,
weeks. It didn't matter, it would happen.

He could still taste Stefan on his breath. The pure life of the boy. The future
of living and not hiding. He could feel the heat of the child, like warm water
running through his veins.

A knock at the door stopped his heart. He didn't breathe. No footsteps.
Another knock.

"Adam," said a female voice. "It's Jennie, Adam." He walked silently to the
door. Through the eyehole he could see Jennie looking at him. He opened
the door.

"Christ!" She shouted at him. "What did you do to him." She started yelling
in French.

"Jennie, slow down. What's wrong?"

"Stefan, what did you do to him?"

He put his hand to is forehead. "Shit, listen, um...about this afternoon. I
can't justify it--"

"If you hurt him I'll kill you!" She lunged at him. He jumped out of the way
and she hit the bed clutching sheets.

"Jennie, he's ok. What's wrong? Get yourself together!"

"He came to my apartment sobbing just now."

"You saw us on the dock Jennie, I know you did. What we did we both
wanted."

"Not that you bastard!" she shouted.

"You're leaving him. He's torn. You used him for one day and he's torn by
you."

"I'm sorry, I have to leave. I can't stay here." He said, continuing to gather
his things.

"You can't just make love to a boy and leave him." she said wiping her
eyes. "Not a boy like Stefan."

"I have to go. There is no option." He said.

"Stefan is special. He's been looking for someone like you. He's had no
family. Everyone has abandoned him to make for himself. And you, you
come and show him what tenderness is and you leave like he's a whore."

"I told him I'll try to come back."

"Why must you leave? If it is money you can stay in my apartment."

"It's not the money...I don't have time...I'm in danger, whoever is around
me is in extreme danger." Her eyes stayed fixed as he shoved his shaving
kit into his pack. In the passage a woman sang something he could not make
out. It was slow and somber.

"That is convenient for you." she said coldly. He wetted a towel and began
wiping down the bureau and windowsill. "He's never let a man close to
him." She shrunk to the bed. Holding her arms around her chest. Her eyes
were large and brown, like Stefan's with long dark lashes that made every
facial expression sensuous.

"How are you related to him?" He asked as he buckled the chest strap of his
bag. When he reached for the hip-belt she stopped him.

"Let me do that." Reaching behind she grasped the straps. The top of her
head came just under his chin. Her scent, too, was a mixture of citrus and
salt. The same color hair as the boy, the same skin tone. "I am Stefan's
aunt." As she snapped the plastic clip she kept her palms on his front. "Will
you fuck me?" she asked. He looked at her, not moving. she tipped up on
her toes and kissed him, licking his cheek with her tongue. "Please," she
begged. "Not for love. I want a child. No man will have me here."

"I can't," he whispered. He took her hands in his. She was not running for
her life, but she was lonely like him, hoping for the impossible encounter of
passion. "What about Stefan?"

"I love him, but for his sake no one can know he was my sister's child."

"Why don't you just leave?"

"It's not so easy. I have no papers. There are other things."

"I have to leave," he said.

She held him firm. "Close your eyes and pretend I'm Stefan. He made you
cum without even touching you." Her fingers fought with his zipper. He
stood numb as her hand grabbed his member and began to work it. He
thought of the boy on the dock. The way his body was a deep tan, the way
his ass could easily be felt through the thinness of his worn shorts. The way
he moaned when his body followed the course of nature, the search for
pleasure. The way he melded into him when Adam had held him letting his
fingers to touch any spot at all. He pictured that if he could live free for a
month he would never leave the boy, perhaps never leave the boy's room.
He could smell him and taste him, the hardness of his body and at the same
time the supreme softness of it. He heard Stefan's little whimpers of
pleasure. The cock that in a dozen strokes could cause the boy to jerk with
electric currents of lust. He was dizzy, the last year catching him in a
moment of turmoil. He jerked his hips and was laying on the bed looking at
the ceiling. His pack made it so he was forced to perch by balancing himself
on one elbow.

Jennie lay beside him. Her pants were around her hips and her fingers
rubbed his sperm into her vagina. She panted. "I'm sorry, thank you. Thank
you."

"I have to go he said."

...

Jennie walked  beside him saying nothing. The sun was very low causing
the cobble stone and steps to become hard to see. She guided him on a
couple of turns until he recognized the familiar places. After awhile she
must have left because she was no longer walking with him. He didn't think
much on it. He thought about Stefan and the way the boy's energy made
him want to live forever. He thought about what train he should catch,
about where he should go.

Menton was still. The shops were barred. The market was closed leaving
scraps of paper and morsels of food its only proof that the morning had
existed.

At the dock the boats were moored. The gulls sat on posts looking for fish.
On the water the setting sun had a twin image. It was bright and hot and
seemed to be pouring, like molten led, into itself. Stefan did not arrive.

He followed a series of signs that read "SNCF" indicating the direction to
the train station. Laughter drifted from a pub. A stray dog barked at the end
of a street and a girl ran out and shouted at it. The citrus floats were lined in
the middle of the street. Pinocchio's nose hung limp from the statue's face,
gently pushed by the wind. The streets were lined with orange trees, some
bearing fruit.

Being from Montana he had never eaten an orange directly from the tree.
He briefly wondered why these fruits had gone un-harvested. No doubt to
preserve the provincial atmosphere for the tourists. The tree he stood by had
a low branch bending under the weight of a clump of giant oranges. He
wanted to taste one. Slowly reaching up his fingers touched the orb like a
forbidden treasure.

"Non!" shouted a voice from behind. He turned seeing an old man
stumbling out of the bar. "Non." the man said in a drunk slur. "C'est de la
merde!." he gestured toward the tree. Adam removed his hand.

"Why?" he asked in French.

"it's shit. it's for jam." the man replied.

"Ok, ok." the man stumbled away, his duty for the evening completed.
Adam quickly plucked his fruit and continued up to the station.

There were some drunks outside. One with the toes of his shoes hacked off
approached. He had a grizzled beard and bad teeth. He his shirt was undone
showing a bony sternum. Tentatively he held out a large hand missing two
fingers.

"Des pieces si vous plait." he said, then in English, "Change please, sir."
Adam reached into his pocket.

"Desole." he said. "I have no money."

The drunk looked at him suspiciously with one eye cocked. His hand's
three fingers wiggled. "Some money please." Adam walked on.

The train station was empty save for a woman with a large basket and a
concierge behind a glass shield. There was a large board with the
destinations displayed. Every few minutes they would click through and the
trains and times would be advanced.

He looked out the window toward the sea. The sky's dark blue of after sun
was fading. The day already seamed a wash of colors, like it all had
happened but was merely a play where, at the end, all went home and the
script was forgotten. He thought about his destination.

"Pardon, Monsieur, Anglais?" he asked the concierge.

"Oui, yes of course." uttered the man in a half state of alertness.

"I need to buy a ticked."

"Yes, and where would you go to?"

Adam thought. How far could he get? They had come so close to finding
him. He wondered how the mime had known he was running. Was he one
of them? Why hadn't he killed him? So many questions, but he did not care
anymore. He couldn't run forever. Since he had fled he had come to expect
things not to make sense.

"I need to get as far away as I can." he said.

"To what city?" asked the concierge.

"I don't care. I just need to go."

"We have a night train to Madrid and one going to Rome." droned the man.


Adam felt the door to the station open. He jerked his head around. The
room was empty. The lady and her bag still were in the corner.

"I'll take both." he said handing over a 100 Euro note.

"Very well." The man gave his change and handed his tickets through the
hole cut in the glass. "You should decide soon. The trains arrive in five
minutes.."

Adam nodded, the man smiled. He had to think.

Walking out onto the quay was like entering a different world. It was a
place he had been  many times. They were all the same, France, Germany,
Chicago, London. They were all lonely and held the ghosts of those who
had lived their lives by running.

It was dark. Holding up the canopy were cement pillars. Only two lights on
the pillars were working. One over a bench dimly illuminating a sign that
gave the name of the town. Night insects were circling the source like
electrons looking for heat.

Farther down  on the other side towards the end of the platform was a
flickering bulb. It would dim to almost nothing then brighten like a sun
about to explode then dim away and flicker on the verge of vanishing from
existence.

Adam sat on a bench one pillar away from the steady light. He wondered if
in foreign lands, at night, in small towns, the only things that existed were
those directly illuminated by a light bulb. There were many times when he
had to wake in the dead of dark to run. Run! a voice in him would shout.
Run for your life! He would grab his bag. Heart pounding. Find the door.
The exit into the open world. He would run. And he would look out on a
city and see the lights. How he longed to bathe in their warmth.
Extravagance to him were those who could go out to a pub and dance in the
lasers that flashed to the music. They could let their bodies go and forget
the world. Never looking behind if a stranger pressed into them. They
would gyrate their hips in sexual innuendo, touch flesh to flesh, sinking into
a sea of  rhythm. Others would flock on the side walk. He had seen them in
passing. They were like the insects a few feet away. The embers of their
cigarettes glowing in contrast to the neon flashing of the pub sign. Their
laughter was taunting him to emerge from the shadows. He walked faster,
feeling something darker than what was pursuing him. He was feeling hate
for their freedom.

Adam slouched against the cool, grainy surface of the structure behind him.
The light faraway suddenly grew bright. His eyes jerked to attention, his
body relaxed, like a prey seeing its hunter. There was a dark figure standing
in the now ultra bright glow. He could feel his heart in his ears. This was
the dangerous time, when overwhelming sensation of his body begged him
to scream, but he had to force himself to calmness. All the world could have
exploded and he would not have heard it, so focused he was on who he
knew was his hunter.

Slowly the tracks began to rumble. The single eye of a night train blinked
its approach. The figure seemed to move toward the tracks. The trains
approached. The light dimmed almost to nothing. The figure dimmed with
it. Shadows became shadows. With a rush of air the trains screeched to a
halt. Sparks fell from the electrical wires above.

Adam grabbed his pack. The quay was empty except for him. The doors of
the cars opened. An old lady got off and waddled past. A young woman
with a scarf around her neck came next. Others had exited and were making
their way to the underground passage to catch the other train.

Which train? Adam's mind was numb. He had forgotten which direction led
to Madrid and which to Rome. His goal now was to avoid the dark figure.
Was it waiting for him in the underground passage? That was an obvious
choice. but he had eluded so many times before the obvious was no longer
the rule. The quay was now empty. A whistle blew. No time. He stepped
forward and into the car in front of him. The doors closed and the beast he
had entered began to move.


NIGHT TRAIN

The car was dark. The figure moved, an agile wrath, listening. A voice
came on overhead and said something about the ultimate destination. It
could not understand the words, no need ,it had one priority. The train
began to pick up speed. Where was the man! Faster, must find him faster!
Room by room. There! It saw him. There he was with his bag. It would be
easy now. The man was scared, not thinking straight. The figure screeched.
The man jerked his head up, their eyes meeting. For a split second it could
have reached out and cut his throat. It could almost taste the victory. Then
the trains accelerated and they were pulled apart. The figure snarled, headed
for Madrid, the man for Rome.

A little girl emerged from a booth. It reached out its dark finger and touched
her. The child dropped like rags to the hard floor of the passage. Just out of
rage, out of darkness, out of pure ability, pure immunity from any mortal
law it picked up the body and ripped her clothes off. Taking the naked girl,
still warm, under one arm it sat with her in the next car which was a
smoking car. The child was limp like a doll when its teeth  pierced her chest
and drank the blood directly from her heart, its dark hand cupping her
buttocks. It could wait to find him again. There were others on the hunt.


...


Adam's heart was in his throat. As the hunter was carried away the sweat
broke on his back. He wanted to vomit. Dropping into a seat he rested his
head against the window. The vibration of the train continued through  his
body like he was a metal element. He needed to sleep but the adrenaline
was coursing through him. It had been close, perhaps the closest he had
come to death in many months. His mouth was dry and his throat refused to
obey his brain's order to lubricate and swallow.

The night express picked up speed. From the corner of his eye he could see
the little town of Menton passing. The city lights gone as he raced through
the outlaying residential area, and then that was gone and every now and
then was a yard light from a farm that disappeared as hills rose like black
whales from the landscape then dived back into the ocean of the earth.

The train car he was in was empty. The overhead lights flickered now and
then. He sat hugging his legs trying not to think. He could see his reflection
in the glass like a ghost looking back at him. He reached his hand up to
touch the cold finger of his other self, the thing that lived in reflections. His
appearance was the last thing on his mind as he stared at what the world
around him saw when they chose to acknowledge his existence.

He had let his hair grow for the last year. Not in any show of style or vanity
but simply because the risk of sitting in a barber's chair was too great.
Barbers wanted you to hold your head still and look forward. He could not
risk letting  his guard down, he needed to be able to observe those around
him, to see who noticed him, to see if a face was familiar from somewhere
he had been.

...


About a year ago Josh had seen a young man following him in London.
From instinct he noted the man's weight and height. Stopping at a
newspaper stand the man stopped as well and bought a USA Today. Adam
recognized something in his eyes. The eyes were the key. That cliche about
the window to the soul was true. They were gray like the coming of a
summer storm, and just as turbulent. Yes, he had seen those eyes before,
but where? He walked on toward Market Street making sure to pace his
follower who had crossed to the other side reading his paper. The man
could actually be considered a kid, he looked to be about twenty years old
and in terrific shape. He had the build of a wrestler, though under his dark
suit and tie his frame was well hidden. It was his hands that gave his
physical ability away. While passing the newsman his money Adam noted
quickly the well defined veins. They were sinewy, his fingers long and thin
and on the underside on the last knuckle of his ring finger on his right hand
was a callus. Adam stopped at a lady selling flowers. The man stopped after
a few paces and stood in a doorway reading. He bought a rose and crossed
the street about ten meters from his follower. He entered a narrow alley.
The cloudy day vanished as tall buildings loomed overhead. The walk was
slanted so rain water could run off. He did not turn but felt someone enter
the alley behind him. He could hear the echo of his hard soled shoes on the
brick. He started to run, feeling the jolt of energy produced by the need to
survive. His strides were long and deliberate to carry him the maximum
distance with expending as little energy as possible, energy he would need
in a fight. Around a turn the alley suddenly narrowed. Where he thought
was a clean break into an open street was a newly erected brick wall. The
top was adorned with inverted coils of razor wire like lights on a dead
Christmas tree, like a cruel joke, like the chance card in a Monopoly game.
Stop, do not pass Go. Do not collect 200 dollars.

Panting. He could climb and chance the razor wire, he could turn and fight.
The footfalls were running now, closer. Adam jumped spreading his arms
wide. He flexed his arm muscles, slamming his palms into the brick and
mortar, feeling but not reacting to the sharp pain that jolted to his shoulders.
His right foot caught a notch, with exact timing he lunged up, then again
with his left foot, his arms working as the he heard a shout and the weight
of a body flung through the air knocked the wind out of him. As he fell, in
the split second of freefall, he calculated the pain would hit his chest, he
would skid and bruise his skin, but he would not black out. He would turn
and kill the man by ripping out his throat. One quick, fatal blow--then run.

The impact with the ground was all in slow mode and silence. He felt the
brick and slight cave of his chest. as he skidded he turned and raised his
hand to finish the assault-- "Adam!" Shouted the man. His hand stopped on
the man's throat. He felt the scared thump of his blood.

"Adam!" panted the man, his arms still around his waist.

"You're about to die!" Shouted Adam, kicking away, rolling over his
shoulder to his feet his hand still at the man's jugular.

"Adam, stop. Please!"

"Who the fuck are you?"

"You know me."

Adam jumped up rocketed his foot into his assailant's gut. He could hear
and feel the escape of breath as the man's diaphragm trembled under the
shock. There was no one else in the alley. Cars were passing the way they
had come. The man lay in a fetal position clutching his aching sides, his
mouth opening like a fish for air that his body would not accept.

He was about Adam's size, a kid really of twenty years, maybe twenty-one.
His hair was cut short and styled forward then flared up at the very bridge
of his forehead. He was wearing a black suit and tie. The shirt underneath
was white and now soiled by the fall. On his left lapel was a black tag with
silver lettering. It read, "The Church Of Jesus Christ Of Latter Day Saints:
Elder Brown".

"I don't know you." Adam said, ready to kick the young man's head in.

"You know me Goddamnit!" Shouted the man. He coughed and spit to his
side. He opened those gray eyes, squinting up. Adam backed off a little.
There was something about the man. It glinted in his head but he could not
recall. His mind listed all the names he knew, names he could count on his
fingers. Nothing. But those eyes. He had been so careful, his life lived on
the surface, shallow so he would make as little impression as he could on
those he came into contact with. He lived a life that could be stuffed into a
backpack and disappear in less than five minutes, quicker if need be.

"You know me, you have to," the man stumbled to his feet. Adam backed
off a little.

"I don't know anyone." Said Adam coldly. "You're mistaken, Elder." The
man looked at his pin and uttered a painful laugh.

"Maybe I'm mistaken."  said the man.

Adam nodded, "Now I'm going to leave. I'll forget this. You will never see
me again."

"Ok, I'm sorry." said the man. His eyes were tearing up like a little child.
Those eyes that held Adam with a power he could not understand. They
looked through him, past him, into him. They read him like an open book.
They were kind eyes. Like his--to the passer by--they were shallow eyes,
but to the one who knew there was a frightened desire that ran deep like a
river beneath the bedrock of a mountain. Adam began to walk away. The
secret was too dangerous too try and learn, the riddle too consuming for a
man who woke each morning thinking that at some time during the day he
was going to die. No, he would leave this and never face it again. It was an
error on the elder's part. A bit of confusion.

"Boothbay Harbor, Main!." The man shouted, his voice on the brink of
tears. "1993."

Adam stopped in his tracks. He did not want to look back. But the power
that moved his neck came from primal urges that were elusive, fluxuating
beyond his control. For the second time in a few minutes the wind in his
chest turned to fire and his eyes began to water. "January, 1993." the man
continued, his back slumped against the wall and he slid to his haunches.
Tears were running down his face, snot was building up under his nose.
Adam could not move. His mind, trained by years of fright, flight, fight
refused to take control. All his experience told him he must go, do not turn
around, not ever. That was how you survived. But he stood feeling the
world move under his feet as if he had been injected intravenously with
heroine.

"Adam Brant." Whispered the man. "Your name is Adam Brant, and you
fucked me for a month when I was a ten year old boy."

"Josh." Adam whispered. He remembered that winter in Maine. He was a
young and stupid kid, just barely old enough to walk into a bar and buy a
beer. Ten years came back like a movie on a wall. He remembered his
working for room and board at a fishing village. He remembered the blond
haired son of his employer. It was a cold winter in the New England . From
Boston to New York the storms followed him, the hunters close on his tail.
Tired of running he ended up in Boothbay with the sweater on his back and
twenty dollars in his wallet. He didn't care. He wanted to die. The work was
hard but nobody asked questions and he had a warm room where he could
build a fire and listen to the pounding of the Nor'easters.

The boy Josh was a seductive child. Weeks of gently worming his way
under Adam's wing by joking with him, working with him on nets and
lobsterpots, had paid off. One night during a winter storm Josh came to his
little room in the attic. It was the kind of storm that for some reason is
supernatural, the kind that hold people hostages in their homes, the kind
that will drive sanity out of every warm corner, cause the unstable mailman
to kill his dog or close family members to---for no better reason than
because---screw each other senseless.

The boy entered like a warm wind . He was wearing a pair of tight, thin
underwear and a blanket wrapped around his little body. They did not speak
once during the night. They just fucked. Fucked at first, made love later. It
was an urgent coupling, the boy moaned mostly from pain, but when Adam
tried to pull out he bit his neck and thrust his hips, driving the cock deeper
and crying more. His parents were asleep downstairs; the wind and snow
battling to enter the house. During the night Adam lost count of the orgasms
he had, he was greedy, insatiable. When before sex was an elusive idea,
now he had a live, warm, pulsating boy.

Sometimes they waited five minutes between sex, sometimes an hour.
When they were resting he always amused himself by sucking on some part
of Josh, a nipple, an earlobe. He was built like a young gymnast, hardened
by work on his father's boat, rough hockey games, the myriad of activities
in which boys partake in Freudian expositions of lust.

He remembered the point when the pain stopped for Josh and the intense
pleasure of the submissive role took over.  Adam was sitting on the bed. He
had just stoked the fire, the flames were growing like demi-devils, licking
the room in an orange hue. He sat on the naked on the edge of the bed,
watching the fire---trying to lose the turmoil of his life in the hypnotic
flames. His cock was engorged and pulsating. Josh stood in front of him.
With gentle hands the boy touched his neck and lowered himself onto his
lap, slowing only to let the large shaft slowly hilt to its base. Adam
supported the boy with his hands on his back. The coltish legs encircling
him, the small heels digging into his flesh. Josh kissed him as he fucked
himself on Adam. He moved his hips in short jerks letting the head and the
larger upper part of the dick inside rub against an unknown spot that caused
him to swoon. He was more animal than human, sometimes loosing control
and rhythm as he shook, knowing only that he had to move his butt a little
to make the pleasure continue. Semen from previous couplings oozed out
onto Adam's balls. As for Josh his own penis, that when erect was quite
large for a boy, hung limp---the head touching Adam's pelvis on the down
stroke. Adam lay back and let the boy grind himself to an intense orgasm,
his flanks quivering. The boy's mouth moved silently, his tongue licking at
his lips. Through the onslaught he leaned forward, bracing himself by
pressing down on Adam's chest in the position of a motorcycle rider. From
this he found that his spot was rubbed intensely when he forced the penis
out by pulling back and then shoving in hard. He moved his hips like a
rabbit, his dick dribbling urine onto the muscular abdomen of the man who
did not fuck him, but who he was fucking. And so the game went. At one
point, at the peak of another climax for Josh, Adam grabbed him and
playfully yet softly switched positions, Josh's legs still gripping his back.
Adam began his own pumping, long and slow, deep and hard. The boy
moaned as the penis in him worked up a friction that was unbearable. His
eyes closed only to open when Adam stopped or tried another speed. Adam
could feel the little rectal muscles twitching, the loosening of the boy's
tunnel with each new height.

The hours of the night were a journey. Orgasms were like food and the non-
penetrating rut between them like sleep. With a force he thought had been
drained from the sweating boy, Josh swung his leg around---up and over
Adam's head---turning himself on the dick that lived in him. He brought his
chest to his knees so that his cute little butt was in the air. Adam stood
kneeling as if in prayer, impailing the child, his strong  hands on the boys
hips, guiding, running them over his small back. The boy gasped, the ring
of his loose anus seeping a fluid that filled the room with a sexed, musty
odor. Adam felt his own pleasure rising. The boy grunted and screamed into
the pillow as his orgasm mixed with the spunk of the man. They collapsed
together both panting, both wanting more: a release from the tension of
'sin', a release from a sex-bond that intoxicated like a drug. They needed
sleep, but were afraid of what dreams would come to them. So they rested
and fucked more as they felt the need.

And so went the month. Josh coming each night, sometimes to talk,
sometimes to screw or play other games, sometimes they did both. As they
lay in spoon-fashion, Josh's leg over Adam's hip, Josh would tell how it
felt to have a dick in him. He talked about being at school and feeling very
loose and empty and just wanting to be back home and have his hole filled.
When a boyish orgasm was on the rise he would say the feeling was coming
and Adam would stop and until he calmed, then continue. They would
repeat this until Josh was incoherent and his head shook from side to side
throwing the sweat from fireplace to window. At this point the intense
peaks could last minutes as long as Adam was careful to constantly
stimulate the his lover's prostate. Once in a joke, when Josh was grunting--
about to climax, Adam pulled out and refused to continue screwing the boy.
Josh was furious. He pulled on the large dick trying to shove it back in his
ass to no avail. Finally he glared at Adam and with is own hand shoved
three small fingers into to the dilated opening between his cheeks. He was
so loose by now that half his hand disappeared, his fingers working hard to
find that special spot. He moaned when contact was made but could not
keep the rhythm. In a fit he jumped from the bed and picked an empty beer
bottle from the dresser. Shoving it in he fell back with his legs to his chest.
Adam was surprised at the lust of the boy, his need to be filled constantly.
The neck of the bottle disappeared and reappeared as Josh shoved it in and
out. With a wild frenzy he slammed it into him and jerked it up and down
like a jack. Afraid the boy would injure himself Adam took control. He
circled it inside the grunting child. "Just fuck me." the boy pleaded, tears
streaming his rosy face, the sweat of his brow causing his golden locks to
drip over his storm-gray eyes.  This was no longer a game for Josh. It was a
need. Adam removed the bottle with a pop and slipped himself into the
warm passage. Josh came instantly.

"Josh," Adam said, his mind returning to the alley in London. He half
stumbled over to the kid and fell against the wall. He was tired. Always
tired. It was the constant state of alertness. Now he let his guard down.
Alone in this alley with a young man he had known as a boy, a young man
who had been his only lover. He looked at the grown Josh and searched for
signs of the enchanting child who had seduced him.

Josh was a beautiful man. He had an athlete's build. His arms full and
strong, his jaw lean and chiseled, but still with a boyish air about him.  He
smelled good. The  man scent was strong like natural musk, something of
power whereas the boy smell was soft and agile, feminine yet rowdy,
something that needed to be tasted, really, with the lips and tongue to truly
understand.

Adam threw his head back and laughed up at a sky that was dark,
threatening rain.

"What?" Josh asked.

"It's all so FUCKING CRAZY!" Adam shouted, hitting his head on the
wall behind him. The sound of his voice echoed back through the buildings.
As if in response a car backfired.

"You kicked me really hard." Josh said. He looked a little shy now.

"I'm sorry." Adam rested his hand on Josh's knee. "It's really you." he
said. "You've grown a bit." Now it was Josh's turn to laugh, quickly
regretting it and gripping his stomach.

"You look the same as I remember you, Adam." Josh said a little hoarsely.
"Maybe more handsome."
Josh shifted a bit, Adam removed his hand. "This is weird as hell. I never
expected to see you again and now here you are."

"It is not what I expected to happen to me today." Adam said.

"Really what did you expect?"

"I guess..." he paused, thinking about how each day was started with the
idea of dying. "I don't know." he said.

"Adam."

"Yes?"

"I hated you for a long time for leaving me." Josh said in away that seemed
like it had been practiced for years.

Adam was silent. How could he explain the complications of his life to this
man? If they could go back in time to when they were lovers and words
came so easy, maybe then he could explain. But back then he had not really
determined his situation in the world. "I'm sorry." he said. Awkward
silences are only broken by awkward questions. "I didn't know your family
was Mormon?" said Adam.

Josh laughed looking at the name tag. "They're not. This is just a getup." he
removed the tag and put it in his pocket.

"What for?" Adam asked.

"Long story." Josh said.

"I'm in London for a week or two." Adam said. "Maybe we could get
together over coffee."

"I don't know how long I'll be here." Josh said. "Long story." he added.
"So how's life?" he asked trying break the somber tone.

"Long story." Adam said. They both laughed. "Lets get out of here, I don't
like dead allies."

"Touche." said Josh. They walked into the dim afternoon like two old
friends and, yes, maybe like a man and boy who had once been lovers. They
both remembered the nights of thrusting and moaning, the insane phrases
they whimpered into each others mouths as they gently kissed, rocking
toward the common goal of release. They knew that they were both strong
though one had played the submissive role and accepted the man as his
sometimes master though not always the case as Adam now felt. Josh
always had the power, but he always chose to offer himself up to his
desires. The byproduct was a sensation that few boys and men get to feel, a
sensation that when stopped caused a hunger that could not be satisfied.

As they turned a block a tall lady with jet black hair was standing next to a
black sedan. They both stopped dead in their tracks. Adam turned hoping
she had not seen him. The familiar feeling of dread gripped his chest, only
now it was worse. He felt responsible for Josh's safety. This made his life,
perhaps for a short time, ultimately more perilous.

"What's wrong?" Josh asked, walking the direction they had come.

"Um, I can't go that way. Doesn't feel right." said Adam

"I know what you're mean. It felt cold as we turned that corner." said Josh.
"Hey, I'll take you up on that coffee." he added.

"Now?" asked Adam.

"Yeah, I know a joint, it's cozy. And quiet."

Adam followed Josh as he wound his way through a maze of streets and
short allies. Exactly what Adam would have done to lose himself from a
follower or hunter.

London grew older as they entered a historic district. The foreboding sky
began a light drizzle. From his coat Josh produced a black umbrella and
held it over them. His arm encircled Adam and squeezed. Adam could feel
the warmth of the Josh's body. An older warmth, but very familiar.

"It's just up here." Josh said. They broke apart at the entrance to a Irish
coffee house called Danny's. Inside the air was dry and warm. The lighting
was dim. At a bar a pretty lady was making a drink. She smiled when she
saw Josh.

"Hey, Josh." she chimed in a slight Irish accent.

"Hi Amy." Josh said. "Is the balcony empty?"

"Sure is cutie. Haven't seen you for a long time."

"Great,...um, don't let anyone up until we leave, ok."

"No problem. Getcha anything?"

"Yeah, we'll have two of the Downunders with extra shots." They went up
a steel staircase that opened into a room with a couple of tables. Close to a
large window looking over the street Josh sank into a large arm chair. Adam
followed suit. The cushions were soft and begged him to sleep.

"We can see anyone who enters." Josh said. "Through that door over there"
He pointed. "Is a private stairwell to the roof and from the rooftops you can
walk almost anywhere in this area."  Adam would have picked the same
spot.

Amy arrived with their drinks. "Here you guys go." she said. "And who is
this hunk of a man?" she asked looking at Adam.

"Oh sorry, um, Amy this is Adam." Josh said.

"Well then, Mr. Adam," She said, "Nice to meet you." Turning to Josh,
"Brenton has been asking about you all weekend. I think you broke the little
guy's heart when you didn't show up to his swim meet."

"Oh shit!" Josh hit is head with the flat of his palm. "Oh fuck, I forgot!"

"Yeah, yeah," said Amy. "He'll get over it."

"Um, tell him I'll stop by and see him sometime tonight."

"Tonight's a school night." she said with a wink. "You better not keep him
up." Amy left with her tray; leaving not only drinks, but an ensuing silence.
Adam sipped the rich, sweat coffee.

"I don't know what to say." he said. "I've never been in a situation quite
like this."

"What, you mean you've never run into former boys you used to screw
senseless?" Josh asked dryly.

"Just you. But you were the only one."

Josh chuckled, "Right."

"I'm serious." said Adam in a tone that was indeed serious.

"That's too bad. There are a lot of boys out there who could use a good
screw."

"I really don't have time." said Adam. He sipped his coffee. Josh sipped his
and looked out the window.

"Are you gay or are your tastes cultured to the more realms?" asked Josh.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, do you want to fuck men or just little boys."

"You mean do I want to fuck you?" asked Adam intrigued by the line of
questioning.

"Well, in a roundabout way, if you wanted to do it with me I'd say yes."
Josh said. "Just the sight of you makes me horney. Which is odd. I think it's
a throw back from that winter."

Adam blushed a little. "But?" he asked.

"Brenton is 9 years old." Josh said.

"You have sex with him?" asked Adam.

"He fucks me." said Josh matter-of-factly. "But that's not the point. I love
him. I'm in love with him."

"I'm happy for you." Adam said.

"You don't even know me."

"I'm sorry."

"You fuckin' left me when I needed you most." Josh was trying to keep his
voice down.

"I can't explain." Adam whispered, his eyes focused on his coffee.

"You could try." said Josh. "You could bloody well try."

"My life is complicated." Adam said.

"Complicated? Complicated. Here's complicated: an eleven year old boy
finds that he's gay as hell, that the only thing that can calm him is a dick
being shoved into a well fucked ass. Only the only man he ever loved leaves
one night without saying goodbye. For the next few years the boy offers
himself to everyone from the High school soccer team to the perish priest.
He even goes as far as seducing his own uncle."

"I'm sorry." Adam said.

"Don't be, men don't turn me on. They haven't since I was fourteen."

Adam was silent. He remembered the craving boy Josh had been. He had no
idea that their short month had created such a bond. Or such a desire in a
little boy.

"Adam."

"Yeah?"

"I still love you, I don't hate you at all. I did. But I don't now. I hated you
because you stopped my pleasure, but more because I had no one to talk to.
I could never have been a gay lover for you, but back then I needed that
relationship. Before you worked for my dad I was an introvert. You set me
free."

"Josh, I left because I always leave." Adam tried to fight the tears. He was
exhausted from hiding. He never confided before because confiding would
change nothing. "If I had stayed you would be dead."

"What do you mean?" Josh asked softly. He reached across the table and
grabbed Adam's shaking hand.

"It's so insane. My life is insane. It's not important." Adam said.

"Tell me Adam. You helped me, I might be able to help you."

"It's weird, it's insane, but it's my life."

"What? Adam, you can tell me. We've shared much more before."

"Josh, I'll tell but it won't change anything, my life will be the same." he
sipped his coffee. "I've never lived in the same area for more than a year.
Usually I have to leave in a couple of weeks. I'm always running. There are
things chasing me, they want to kill me. I know this sounds crazy.
Sometimes there are monsters, sometimes people, you can never tell.
Strange things happen, things I can't explain"

"You're a Hider." Josh said. "So am I. When I was 17 I left home because
they came for me."

Adam was instantly alert. What did this mean? This was the most he had
ever considered his situation besides the instinct to run. A chill went down
his spine. Josh was like him. For the first time in his life he was looking and
talking to someone who shared the same fears, the same desires---a man
who ran from the same demons.

"I'm confused, Josh." Adam said as if a weight had been lifted off n his
chest and he could breathe the air like it was actually giving him life and not
crushing him.

"I don't know how much I'll be able to help you. It's all a mess." Josh said.

"Why do you call me a hider?"

"I don't know all the answers, or even a few the them, but I'll try." he
paused and shucked off his suit jacket. "When I have time I do some
research on the net. I started after they chased me to California. Adam,..."
Josh seemed to choke at little, his eyes watering. "They killed my parents---
"

"God Josh, I'm sorry. Fuck I'm sorry."

"Don't let it bother you it was a few years ago. As you know there is no
time to stop for sorrow, just---"

"Just time to run." Adam finished.

"Yeah." Josh said. Now knowing that the man who had brought him
through the denial of his sexuality, the man whose lips he had suckled while
his hips were thrusting, was indeed like him. "I wont bore you with the
details of the last few years---you've probably lived the same way---but a
year ago I started getting mad. I wanted answers. I've done internet research
with limited results. 'Hiders' seems to be the term they use to describe us.
Once there was a website that I thought was a crackpot joke, you  know one
of those things hackers put up."

"I don't know, I'm not too computer literate." Adam said.

"Don't worry about it, as you can understand there's not enough time for
anyone to really put anything on the web. There is a newsgroup out there
that is supposed to be a place where we can share information, I haven't
had the chance to see it though. Brenton is looking for me." Rain was now
sheeting down, turning the streets into floodplains. "Anyway there was a
website made by some guy in Texas. It talked about people mysteriously
disappearing. It had newspaper headlines and everything. He called them
the Vanished. Later when I looked at his site it had been turned off, hacked.
Adam, it was plastered with pictures of this man's dead body. He was
ripped open. At the very bottom of the page was one word, 'RUN'."

"You think he was a like us, a 'hider'?" Adam asked.

"Dunno, but I think he knew something, he knew enough to get him killed."

"But why?" Adam asked, not so much for an answer, but to verbalize---if
only to himself--- that he thought it was intensely unfair.

"I figured that out when I was hiding in Utah. To make a long story short I
made some connections with some Mormon missionaries and got hooked
up with this disguise. It helps me walk around the city so I don't look like a
drifter. Those Mormon boys you see around peddling their faith are in
contact with a lot of street people. If you ask the right questions they might
point you in the right direction. You can ask the right questions at tourist
offices, bars, hotels, hostels, but be careful. Questions get out and before
you know it the hunters are on your ass."

"Are you safe here?" Adam asked.

"For a little while. Brenton keeps me here. I don't think I can loose him. It
would kill me, then those things might as well get me. You have to have
something you love or you loose contact with reality. You forget the big
picture and that is to stay alive."

Fore the first time in his life Adam felt shame for something he did. The
devotion this young man showed for the boy he loved was genuine. He felt
ill for abandoning Josh those years ago. It was wrong. Something had
happened between them that was more than just sex. Their souls had
touched. Stay alive, he thought. Easier said than done.

"Josh, I understand how you feel about the boy. But the realist in me says to
run. You can't fight them, they're too strong."

Josh was entranced with the streams of water that blurred the window.
"There are more of us. You're running, I'm running. I'm sure there are
others. I was in a disco a couple weeks ago, I saw a girl sleeping in the
corner. To anyone else she was a another clubber who had drunk herself to
dreamland. I saw her bag, Adam." Josh said sternly. "She wasn't just euro-
trash that washed up in London." The room had grown cold. "In her own
sleep she felt me watching her. Before I could say a word she was gone."

"That's how it works." Adam said.

"We have to find a way to figure things out." pleaded Josh. "It is insane,
but we have to know." The day was approaching its end. In the gloaming,
lights of the city were being turned on. "When are you leaving town?" he
asked.

"I'm not here officially." said Adam. "Even by my standards."

Josh understood the reference. "When did it happen?" he asked.

"Yesterday in Wales. I don't remember the town, Brokeham, Brickham,
something like that."

"Brockenham." said Josh nodding.

"What's scary is that there were two of them."

"Two?" Josh breathed. "Two hunters?"

"Yes."

"Something's going down." Josh said. "Listen, we found each other for a
reason. I don't want to loose touch with you again."

"I don't see how we can keep contact."

"Friend, it's time to get you into the cyber world. As far as I know they
can't trace anonymous emails, but we'll be very careful just incase."

Adam stretched and yawned.

"Where are you crashing tonight?" Josh asked.

"I don't know. Don't worry about me, I'll find a place."

"That's nonsense. My apartment is small but the couch is soft."

"Josh, I couldn't."

"You will." Josh said firmly. Adam sighed. "I don't think we should walk
together. Here's the address." He handed Adam a business card with an
address written on one side. The other said Elder Brown. "Be there. If you
don't come we probably wont see each other again."

"I'll be there, Josh." Adam said getting up.

"Lets take the back door." Josh handed Adam his umbrella. In the same
movement he leaned forward and, like he did a thousand times when he was
a boy, kissed Adam on the lips. The world slowed but not drastically. Adam
kissed back, not out of sexual need, but out of a knowing that the man
who's lips were pressed into his was once the boy he loved. "I just had to
try." said Josh pulling away. Adam smiled. They descended the stair into a
back court with an old fountain.

"Adam," shouted Josh from somewhere in the rain. "I might have a plan."

London was like the movies and the calendars. It was damp and each brick,
each bridge, each road that led back on itself seemed to seethe with a
history that was forgotten, or at the least written in longhand on old
parchment in the cellar of someone's house or behind a widow's portrait of
her late husband.

It was well into the night when Adam found the street that Josh's apartment
was on. It was a bedraggled stretch with lampposts unlit or broken, graffiti
on the walks, and a stray dog that barked, a cat that hissed and a fat man
that emerged from his basement flat in a t-shirt and boxers to shout in
foreign Cockney to an old lady who lived across the street. She in turn
flipped on her light and shouted something of a onion soup recipe back.

Further in it was darker and quieter. Joshes apartment was the highest atop
the tallest building on the street. Adam entered, the lock on the door broken,
the buzzer broken. A sign that lay on the rotting carpet said KEEP OUT. He
didn't even try the elevator, instead taking the stairs slowly, listening for the
creek of a step, a creek that he may need to know existed if a situation were
to arise.

Josh's door was 3-86 at the end of the hall. Taking a look behind Adam
raised his hand to knock. Before he could make contact with the wood the
door opened.

A boy of about nine was standing before him with his hands on his hips. He
had a roguish head of strawberry blond hair with dyed streaks of black that
ran to his bangs. The was wearing a tight, white tank-top and a pair of
satiny white soccer shorts that made his slight tan seem even deeper tender
legs. His eyes were blue like one describes the sea as being blue. He was an
athlete for sure, with grace in every move. Even his stillness made his petite
body like an agile cat ready to prance.

"Well, ya commin' in er wot?" he said in an adorable Irish accent. "Y'aint
got all night."

Adam stepped in. The apartment was very small. The kitchen and the living
room were combined. A large window on the far side gave an excellent
view of rooftop chimneys. A TV on a milk crate. A couch that almost
stretched across the room. One door was the toilette, the other the bath and
the last was open to Josh's bedroom, the bed, this time, taking up the entire
room.

"Hey Josh," shouted the boy. "Yer mate s'here." The boy plopped on the
couch, folding his sleek legs beneath him. The light being as it was---more
located in the immediate kitchen area---Adam was able to see that he wore
no underwear. "He's stepping outda shower." the boy whispered to Adam.
"He stank somtin royal."

"I'll bet." Adam said. "Holding out his hand, "I'm Adam, um, Josh's
friend."

The boy took his hand and squeezed trying to make it hurt. Adam squeezed
harder. "Nice to meetcha." he said. "I know who yar. I'm Brenton. Ya call
me Brent."

Josh emerged from the shower with a small hotel towel wrapped around his
waist. "Adam. Great!" he smiled. "Just let me throw something on here."
Josh was beautiful. Even more muscular than Adam had first suspected. He
was suddenly glad that the confrontation in the alley didn't end up in a
brawl. His arms were well defined and actually large. His torso tapered to a
V and into the towel were more was hidden. In His room he climbed on the
bed and let the towel fall. Immodestly he looked around for something to
put on. His body was tanned and hairless, each muscle rippling of its own
volition. When he finally found some boxers and a t-shirt and turned to put
them on Adam saw that in he had a neatly trimmed patch of blond pubic
hair above a long uncut penis that dangled half alive between his legs.
Adam looked at Brent who was smirking at the show, he seemed to know
something Adam did not. How the boy managed with that animal was truly
a feat.

"Ok, there. Are you hungry?" Josh asked emerging.

"I guess, I haven't eaten in twenty-four hours." Adam admitted. In fact he
was famished. He looked for a place to buy something on his way over, but
the storm had closed up all the shops.

"I have some TV dinners, bread, and wine." Josh said. "It's not much but it
will give you energy."

"Fine by me." Adam said.

As Josh prepared the meal for three he started talking. "So I think we're all
running around like a bunch of chickens with our heads cut off." He said.
"But that's understandable since if we stay in one place for too long --
BAM, they nail us." He poured a glass of wine. Brent jumped from the
couch and brought it to Adam before going back to get one that Josh had
poured for him, though not as full. Josh bent and kissed him on the top of
his head. The boy giggled and sipped his wine (it making his lips a deep
merlot) and returned to the couch next to Adam where he watched him
intently.

"I agree." Adam said. "But I've been running and hiding my whole life and
you're the first hider I've met."

"Yes, you see. But how do you know for sure?" asked Josh. "Remember
the girl in the disco I told you about. Maybe we're just not tuned to pick
each other up." The aroma of the food was quickly filling the room. Josh
brought a large basket of buttered bread to the couch and topped off
Adam's wine glass. The wine was extremely good. Adam could feel it
coating his empty stomach and taking the headache from his temple. He
was a little nervous about letting his guard down but for the first time in
months he felt truly safe, if only for one night.

Brent held out his glass and Josh gave him just a tad more. "Take you and
me for example." Josh continued. "We met by random chance twice. We
both have the same problem. It's either a coincidence or it's not, but I'm
going to hedge my bet on the latter."

"Ok, be that as it may." Adam said. "But we're still running. And I think
you're suggesting we should group up or something."

"Why not? Power in numbers."

"Yes, but we have no idea the numbers or the power of our hunters."

"Of course, that's why this evening I had Brenton do two things. First, he
set up a newsgroup. It's a simple name and easy to find. But at the same
time anyone looking for us online will not be able to find it. Not at first and
not too easily, anyway. We simply leave a note etched on a bathroom wall,
something discreet that the quick mind will be able to understand but seems
gibberish to others."

"Maybe it'll work, maybe it won't." Adam said. "I guess we have nothing
to loose."

"Right. Second, Brenton set you up with an email. If you get a chance slip
into a cyber cafe and figure out how to use it." He handed a little piece of
paper to Adam.

The food was ready. Adam devoured the meal. The bread was fresh and
filling. He had one more glass of wine as did Brenton who, finished, now
lay with his head in Josh's lap. The young man ran his hand over the boy's
shoulders, down to his hip and back up.

The two looked extremely beautiful together. The boy lay in such a position
that his slight shorts barley covered the curve of his butt. Discreetly Adam
noticed that each time Josh's fingers traveled south they gently nudged up
the fabric exposing soft, young skin that was a little more light than that
beneath it. Brent's toes curled once and he arched his back forcing his rear
up and Josh's fingers to spot that everyone in the room knew existed. Josh
gave a light pinch to something under there and the boy yelped, scowling
incredulously at his lover and tormentor. Adam could not help but smile. It
was something he had done to Josh on more than one occasion. The soft
flesh-ring of a boy's anus is extremely sensitive. The right stimulation there
can easily excite every part of his body leaving him hypersensitive to touch.

"I'll stay in London as long as it's safe for Brent." Josh said. He now
lovingly stroked the thin neck of his young partner. The child had settled
his head back and seemed to be a little intoxicated from the wine.

"I'm scared." Adam said partly to himself. Josh touched his face with the
back of his hand. It was a gentle gesture, something he had done as a child
as they sat in that little room wrapped together. Adam closed his eyes. Was
it the wine, or the incredible events of the day? He wanted to cry. He
wanted to be alone, to curl into his own darkness and sleep.  "I should turn
in." He said. The boy seemed to be almost in dreamland. Josh stroked his
hair. He lifted Brent's head that had been resting on his engorged member.

"You'll be gone in the morning, won't you?" Josh asked, but it was more of
a fact. Adam nodded. "I'll let you get what sleep you can then."

"Yeah." Adam said. "Brenton is beautiful, Josh. You're lucky. He's
beautiful like you were." Josh worked his way from underneath the boy,
making no move to hide the giant organ that was pulsating between his legs.

"Thank you." he said. Picking up Brenton who instinctively wrapped his
legs around Josh's tight waist, letting his head rest against the man's chest.
"Don't forget." He said walking toward his room.

Josh stretched on the couch. The flat was dark. He wondered where he
would end up. Before this day had carried him back in time he would have
not cared much about dying, now he wanted to live. He wanted to love, he
wanted answers. Somewhere across the city a metro screeched its metal
brakes. He closed his eyes, feeling safe and slipped into a deep, dreamless
slumber. Blessedly dreamless.

It was the predawn time when he clawed his way up from his black rest and
opened his eyes. The living room was dark. Lights from the other buildings
barely cast a blue shadow. He listened for a time to the silence and the
natural settling of the floor. There was another sound. It was barely audible
but as his ears adjusted to the wake state it became louder and louder.

Adam stood donning his coat and his pack. There was a flicker of light
coming from Josh's room. He approached with practiced stealth, putting his
toe to the wood floor, testing for weakness that meant sound, then adding
weight to his heal. The sight he saw was one of beauty and extreme erotica.
There were candles lit at two points in the room throwing enough light
across the bed for him to see everything. The boy Brenton was on his back
on top of Josh. The man's strong hands were gripped behind the boy's
slender knees holding his thighs to his chest. In the light both the man and
the boy seemed to be the same color, a soft bronze. Brent's head was
crooked to the side so he could turn it to see Josh. Their lips barely touched.
Adam could see the lizard like flicking of two tongues, he could barely hear
the passage of saliva from one mouth to the other. Lower to where, at these
times, the center of existence for man and boy is crucial, He saw the tight
buttocks of Brent spread. They were small, for sure Josh could cup them
both in one hand if he tried, they were soft yet hard, clenching and
twitching in a heathen dance of acceptance to what his mature lover
possessed. That cocklet that Josh had had ten years ago was now the sturdy
master of his boy. It was the fire to Brent's hearth, the moon to his sky, the
dragon to a night pool of water, a thing that makes a boy like him crazy
when he is alone and crazy when they are together, the seven point five
inches of flesh that is, at times, tucked away causing the child to shift
uncomfortable as subconsciously his body prepares itself for acceptance of
the man. Brent, it could be said, was filled.

The hole God forgot or evolution overlooked was, Adam could see, tightly
accommodating it's attacker, like a medieval castle of poor estate tightly
accommodates a suitor; one who is foreign and wild, yet in his love brings
such gifts, such pleasures as to make the pain of entertaining a welcome
complication.  Brent the boy was passive, his abdominal muscles
clenched in time to the thrust of Josh's hips that drove his cock---man-sized
and then some in all regards---deep so that all of him vanished, eliciting a
quick squeak from the catamite, but muffled because the upward movement
of the lower level caused the lips of the upper level to contact; and, that
falsetto cry of lust, the cry that meant 'that felt good, do it again' echoed not
in the room, but into the throat, into the lungs, into the body cavity of the
man who, in return, in replying, grunted 'my small lover, the pleasure was
all mine' into the hungry mouth of the boy. And so the battle went.

Adam, himself, was erect. Did josh plan this lewd exhibition for Him? Was
it a gift or a bold marking of territory? Perhaps both, and more. On another
level it was a thank you to his mentor that he who had been loved was now
loving, he who had been taken was now taking.  The sex became rough, the
delicate hands of the boy grabbing his ass cheeks to spread them further in
hopes of increasing speed. The man who jostled the child increasing the
tempo. Their lips parted--no doubt red from a  mutual attention--tired from
the silent dialogue of love. Oh yes it was love, by any other name it was
love! Josh's head shoved back into the pillows as he arched his back.
Brent's head went forward trying to glimpse the battle that raged
somewhere beneath his scrotum. His mouth silently agape; probably
because Josh had told him they could do it quite so as not to disturb their
guest.

But what is a boy to do? The pleasures (that some say are only reserved for
adults) assaulting his--if the Bible is correct---temple, causing him to
shudder, and like some animal, grunt, like some bird, chirp. This was truly a
challenge for him.  He tried to think of something besides the dick of Josh
ramming into his butt, rubbing along his prostate that somehow (magically)
caused the end of his little penis to tingle like it was glowing in ET-esque
fashion.

So many people told him what he did was bad, not literally, but Father B--
would object, perhaps sentencing him to a penance; he did not know what,
but it would be big. Big like Josh! (Oh God! he gripped his flapping balls
so they wouldn't slam so hard onto the underside of Josh's dick.) Or those
preachers on Sunday morning TV who sweat and prayed and said that Brent
would get AIDS and go to hell. They didn't say this directly to Brent but
that is what he had thought. He didn't want to go to hell. Or the big boys of
the upper fifth who called him queer, not because they had any inkling into
his sex life, but because that was the epitaph that big boys used: Queer, Fag,
Dyke, boyslut. Josh would walk by and know that no one actually though
he was a boyslut (a boy who took men) or a faggot. But he was, he was!
And this scared him because, try as he might, he couldn't change it. He was
a boyslut who was going to hell because he had AIDS, or, rather, would
some day have AIDS. So he wrote a letter to his mother. Five pages of who
he was and how he felt, and that was why he was going to fill his pack with
two cinder blocks and jump into the duck pond in Marylyn Gardens. Not a
river, he was just little queer Brent and a river would be a petulant
statement.

It all happened so quickly and so perfectly. On the way to school he
detoured and saw the ducks sleeping on the lawn with their heads reversed
into their backs. The place was deserted and seemed a good metaphor for
his spirit. For a queer boy to die in the morning without being called queer
is a good thing. He had knotted the pack straps with nylon cord so he could
not queerly chicken out and float humiliated to the surface that contained a
world that did not want to contain him. The water was extremely cold and
knocked his breath out when he hit. It was deep though, which was good.
He was afraid, he had nightmares in fact, that the pond would be only waist
deep and he'd be a half-wet queer who couldn't even kill himself properly.
Again he thought about his mother reading the letter and him returning
home to her fear-cum-wrath because he actually couldn't do it. But now
here he was, under five feet of water in a silent world. A gay little boy
dying while the world above turned, driven by a man-fucking-woman
mechanism and all the more lubricated now that he was out of the picture.

Cold, so cold and his lungs burned for air and he was afraid of the hell he
was going to. He started thrashing, trying to get out, but it was too tight.
Air, air, air, AIR! But only water. He opened his mouth and it flooded in
like Noah's Flood, an angry god killing another incorrigible sinner. With as
much dignity that a boy who has resigned to drown can muster he forced his
body to go limp and accept the illusions of his oxygen deprived brain. He
saw a big fish swim by and remembered Jaws, but this fish just looked at
him as if to say 'Stupid little fag-boy'. And the man was sure to be a
merman. Oh what delusions! How fitting for a little fag like himself to
conjure a beautiful merman to accompany him in his dying moments. God
the world should be good to have him gone. The merman swam toward him
calmly and kissed him. How proper he thought, to the last, his gay little
head was pumping out another fantasy. So why not just humor himself and
slip fish-man a bit of tongue.

The AIR rushed into him. It was warm and scented and filled his half
waterlogged lungs causing him to cough it back into the pond, sending
bubbles flurrying to the surface. Fish-man ripped at the backpack trying in
vain to undo the chords. Finally he swam behind the boy and zipped open
the bag and pulled out the cinder blocks. And, like angels ascending toward
heaven, they floated toward the light above.

As Brent thought about this he loved Josh all the more. Josh who waited
three days at the hospital for him to recover. Josh who read the letter
because he had time to talk long hours with Brent's mom as they both held
his hands. It was Josh who Brent first saw when his body and soul thought
he was repaired enough to emerge from the dark tunnels of his comma. He
had hovered on the edge before walking through the door to the "real"
world and by some law--that edge gave him most senses, one of them smell.
He smelled the man and knew he was not a stranger; and how smell is
closely related to taste he knew the man was the merman but how could that
be? When he opened his eyes there was Josh looking at him. It was late,
somewhere between the set of sun and the rise of moon, as it was just
appearing over the skyline as seen from is hospital bed. The first thing he
had to do, because boys are very concerned with laws of the mythical
world--certain things being impossible, one of them mermen walking on
land, was to look and see how the merman actually accomplished this. Josh
had two legs and didn't really know what to think when Brent mumbled
something about fins and gills. But he had to laugh when the boy slipped
back into a light doze of dreams mumbling in his Gaelic-English accent,
"I'm sorry 'bout givin yer da tongue."

Brent squeezed his eyes tight trying to hold back a little puff of wind that
was caused by the pleasure he was subjected to. It rested behind his lips and
was threatening to escape in a audible moan, even though he had promised
Josh he would not make so much as a sound---he would feel really bad if he
were to break his word. That was when he felt the presence of the man
called Adam. Adam was standing at the door watching. Their eyes met and
there was a connection of sorts. Josh had told him that Adam had been his
lover many years ago so in a way this situation was not abnormal. The man
had a kind face. He was very handsome and muscular like Josh, though a
bit older. There was a quiet about him, a stillness of the mind. A deliberate
sense of duty to self and nothing else that made him seem neither harmful
nor particularly helpful. In a way he reminded Brent of the way Josh was
when they started to get to know each other.

Brent was not offended or embarrassed. To have sex in Josh's apartment,
whether his mom was there or a complete stranger, seemed perfectly normal
to him. It was simply the place where he and Josh did it the most. When he
walked through the door the boy was instantly aroused, it was if even the
old smell of the place was a turn on for him.

For an unknown reason Brent cared for this Adam guy. Maybe it was
because he could tell that Josh still loved him in some capacity. The gasp
that was on his lips escaped louder than he wanted it to. But what was the
harm? Adam was awake. Without breaking his gaze Brent shoved himself
down harder than ever on Josh's dick. There was a slap of flesh on flesh as
he was bottomed out and that was it! (Ohhh, God!) he was falling over the
precipice he had balanced for so many long minutes. All functions seemed
out of sink. His heart beat in the pauses when he did not gasp for air, his
little toes curled in tightly, his tummy contracted, he bit his lip and (as if his
body would disobey him more!)his bladder let loose a few teaspoons of
urine that dribbled onto his stomach and down his side.

This he wanted to show to the man, how much he loved and needed Josh.
He was the one who had waken early knowing Adam would be up
sometime. He was the one who nuzzled his impish nakedness into his lover,
who sucked the sleeping man until he was sternly erect, who positioned
himself on Josh and forced the shaft to part him and enter him. When Josh
fully realized the whimpering boy was not lubricated and stuffed to the
point of bursting he had made him promise to be quiet as his hips took over.
He turned the boy around so he could rub his stomach while in what he
thought, and was, a calming manner. If there was any doubt it was now
gone. Josh was Brent's man.

Brent closed his eyes--just for a split second--because the orgasm that had
died quickly returned and he had to take it with all of his attention. When he
opened them again the man was gone and with him Brent's need to be
quiet. Sitting up he focused to the task at hand, getting properly fucked. In
this position that spot in him was bombarded to no end. He grunted, and
whimpered like a wet puppy as his rectum quaked and loosened causing
him to tip, but Josh caught him, and held him steady, bouncing him like
men have bounced boys for thousands of years. Brent's pleasure was loud
and determined. What came from his mouth directly reflected what
happened in his bottom. Josh bucked harder lifting the light weight sitting
on his hips up in the air. The boy cried aloud and started jamming himself
down in quick motions, more pee coming out his penis, the smell of boy
and man and what they do together filling the room. Brent realized he
would not be getting to school that day. What was a boy to do?


...


Italian is an extremely poetic language. It rises and falls with mood. It is
soft like the cooing of a dove and before you know it has penetrated , by
way of the ear, into your chest so that your breath starts to match a pace
with the words. Italy is the country to which most English speakers choose
to expatriate. It is a wild land in Europe, not declaring itself as a unified
nation until after the rest of the world was well settled in tradition of great
imperial republica -- and still the modern Italian is a novelty to many
southerners, the older generations barely speaking it.

Moerta is the code of silence. Loose lips destroy strategically placed
government officials, they cause Union leaders to be found floating in a
river or laying in an olive grove. Italy, the birth place of artists and scholars
and western religion. All this because silence is the key to advancement.
Perhaps that is a reason the game of kings was so popular in its day; still is
on a somewhat mystical level---A small town, a lone boy running bare foot
home, late for dinner. The man now sleeping alone in his bed that once
shared the heat of another, smaller, shaking body.

"Vent-y-mee-ya, Ventimilla, *Italian phrase* Ventimilla." Had Adam slept?
He blinked his eyes. No, just dozed remembering something. What exactly?
he wasn't sure. It was a good memory though. Good memories were
nuggets of gold he kept safe and to which he sometimes returned; not of his
own will but something more abstract pulling him. "Ventimilla." The train
slowed. His car was no longer empty. A large woman with a shawl over her
head and a short man with a mustachio stood with baggage in hand at the
doors. The brakes depressed and the train slowed again, quickly. The lady
tottered but the man reached out his hand, clutching a leather bag, to steady
her. "Gracie," she said stepping down onto the small landing. A sign passed
in a blur as they entered the station. The next two were also distorted but as
the metallic beast spit air and slowed Adam could read them.
VENTIMILLA. He knew little Italian but from his French he surmised that
it meant a thousand winds.

The doors opened and the man and woman hustled out. A euro-trash girl
lethargically lugged herself on and plopped a few seats away from Adam. A
tall man in a sleek business coat that covered his gray suit stepped
gracefully up. He eyed the girl and then Adam before taking the place right
next to the door. Finally an old man got on. He was carrying a suitcase that
he put one seat behind the girl and sat directly behind that.

The train gave its resounding whistle and the doors slammed shut. As they
departed Adam watched the empty benches on the platforms--they were all
deserted. Nine more hours to Rome. He was thirsty, but was too tired to
search for his water bottle. He leaned back as best he could in the seat and
watched the lights pass and then the darkness that made the windows into
mirrors reflecting each passenger's likeness in gothic detail.

The tall man sat regal in his place. He held his bag on his lap with his wrists
and ankles crossed. He had a thin face and hallow cheeks that seemed to
have a shadow all their own. His head was balding in the front and on top
and was shaved close around the sides, emphasizing its angularity. His thin
lips pursed together tightly and his eyes shut just barely, as if they were
spring loaded to flip open on any number of transgressions against his
person.

The old man's neck was crooked onto the top of he seat, his mouth gaped in
a quiet snore. The girl sat with her legs crossed on the seat in front of her.
Her skin was pale as if she had powdered it. Her lips were outlined in dark
liner that matched her eye shadow. She had a silver ring on each finger and
in the window she was looking directly at Adam.

Adam averted his eyes as she said something to him in Italian. The tall man
was now looking at him. The girl repeated herself. Adam closed his eyes
hoping she would leave him alone. She turned and said the same thing to
the Tall man. The old man was still sleeping. The tall man said a short
phrase and the girl seemed to shut up for a minute. She grabbed her bag and
moved to the seat across from Adam. She said another long phrase in Italian
pointing her chin at the tall man. Adam was in no mood to be bothered right
now.

"No Italiano," he said and shut his eyes.

"Franchese?" she said. He shook his head. "Inglese? English?" She asked.

"Yes." Adam said.

"Finally!" said the girl in the Queen's English. "American?"

"Yeah." Adam said.

"I said I'll suck you for fifty euro."

"No thanks."

"For ten I'll let you feel me!" she pressed. "Hundred and we can find an
empty sleeper car."

"I'm broke." Adam said.

"Americans are never broke." she said.

"This one is." said Adam.

"Bloody Fuck!"

"You speak very good English

"You have to these days. I also speak French, German, Spanish, and some
other ones."

"Impressive." Adam said, trying to show the least amount of interest as
possible.

"Not so much." she said, assuming the same position with her legs that she
had in the other seat. Adam closed his eyes and tried to make sense of the
dark and light shapes that move around on the inside of his eyelids. "Where
you from?"

"America." Adam said.

"No shit, but where in America? California?"

"Sure, why not." he said.

"Fuck, what died in your ass?" she asked pulling out a cigarette from
somewhere. "Have a light?"

"I don't smoke." he said. She pulled out a shiny Zippo and lit her cigarette.

"This car is no smoking."

"That's only in France. In Italy no one cares." With that she took a long
drag and blew smoke across the isle at Adam.

"What's your name?"

Adam frowned. "Why?" he asked.

"I'm Isabella. My friends call me Izi, you can call me Isabella."

"Great Isabella. Thank you."

"Let me guess, your name is Tom."

"Nope."

"Are you sure? You look like a Tom. Like Tom Cruise."

"Right." Adam said. "It's not Tom."

"Fuckn'A, Jesus Christ, It's just a bloody name."

"My name is Adam." He said. "It is nice to meet you Isabella. I have no
money. I don't need a blowjob, and I don't want to feel your boobs."

"Why not? I think I have quite a nice rack. Where are you headed Adam?"

"Rome."

"No shit! me too. Hey you know what maybe---"

"Or I might get off before that." he said. She quieted down and stared out
her window.

"Why do you want to go to Rome?" she finally said. Adam was silent. He
really did not have an answer and the more he thought about it more absurd
it became.

He was heading to Rome because that was the last second decision. His life
consisted of running and hiding and running some more. He never really
thought much about it, that is until a year ago when he had run into Josh.
After that meeting he had been motivated to live. That fateful day he was at
rock bottom. He was tired. If they wanted him they could have come and
taken him. But Josh seemed so optimistic that there was a way out of their
mess, or at least a way to try and understand. But the year had been long
and he had not used the email Josh set up for him. For all he knew Josh
could be in China or America. Josh could be dead.

Slowly with  caution and at the same time a complete recklessness he said.
"I'm heading to Rome because yesterday I did not want to die."

Izi's mouth partly opened before she considered what she wanted to say and
shut it quickly. The girl was young, perhaps Josh's age. Her hair was black
but bleached white on the tips. There was a little orange around in there and
maybe some purple. It reminded him of the boy Brent and his cute style.
She wore a pair of green cargo pants with large pockets. On one pocket was
sewn the Italian flag. She wore a tight black t-shirt that did, in fact,
emphasize her chest. Adam could see her small, pert breasts rise and fall in
time with her breathing. On her shirt was the silhouette of Alberto Che. She
wore a pair of black combat boots that completed her tough-girl motif.

"It's too easy to die." Izi said. She seemed to have grown quite somber
from her first bubbly propositions.

"So how did you learn so many languages?" Adam asked. He might as well
be congenial. It was going to be a long night. Sleep had fled like bats into
the dark. Now settled the wakeful hours that were so familiar they acted
almost as a companion. Many times he and the night had coexisted, the
shadows---when there were shadows---moving like people across walls. His
thoughts so lucid he could pick a newspaper he had read years ago and re-
peruse it page by page as if it were in his hands. He remembered what Josh
had said about knowing to ask the right people the right questions. Things
were going to change, even if he had to force his hand a little bit. No more
running for the sake of living another month. Now he was running to
understand.

Izi did not answer right away. The tick tick tick of the train as it glided over
the seams in the rails added an atmosphere of suspense. "Ok Mr. American
so now you want to know all about me." she smiled.

"It's going to be some hours." Adam said.

"Do I get to ask you some questions?"

"Sure, but don't ask anything you can't handle the answer to."

"Ooo." She said in a sassy tone. "Mysterious train, mysterious man."

Adam had to laugh. "Not so mysterious."

"Well, I was born in Amsterdam." Izi said. "We speak English as a second
language there. Also German is easy for the Dutch. I lived in Spain for
three years and I've been in Provence and northern Italy for about two years
now."

"Impressive. My French is getting slightly better." Adam said. "Are you a
student?"

"No. I'm just a drifter."

"Well I guess I know how you make your money."

"Hah, very funny. I wouldn't have done anything, I'd have just taken the
fifty and split."

"And me without a blowjob."

"Something about you tells me you would have survived." she said.
Survived was the optimal term. The old man was  now snoring slightly, his
lips vibrating as the air expelled. "What are you doing here Mr. American
with one bag?"

"I'm going to Rome." he said.

"I know that, but why."

"Because I've never been there." He paused. The right questions led to the
right answers he thought. "Maybe I'm hiding from some part of my life."

"Maybe you are, Adam." she said, trying his name out on her lips for the
first time. "A name is a very powerful thing. On the right piece of paper
your name can free you or imprison you."

"Yes, but paper is not my problem."

"In a crowd of people it will make you freeze and turn your head."

Adam nodded. He thought about when Josh had shouted his name in that
alley in London. Such force behind the words as if he had willed Adam to
exist again, as if he had pulled him from some empty realm onto a surface
world where the winds were trying to blow him away to become just
another particle of dust.

"What are you running from, Adam?"

"I could ask you the same question."

"You said it was easy to die."

"It is. We could die right now." Adam said. He looked across the room to
where the tall man sat with his eyes lightly closed.

"He wont kill us." she said.

"How do you know."

"I just know, I think he's running just like we are."

"You believe too easy." Adam said.

"Don't you have to believe in something?"

"Like what?"

"Hope, love..."

"Fear." he said, his voice sounding cold.

"You don't have to believe in fear." Izi said. "Fear is a fact. It is there when
you wake up in the morning, it follows you to the market, it slinks around at
night until you fall asleep then it finds a way into your dreams."

"It's safer not to dream." Adam said.

"No," said Izi. "It's safer not to sleep." This last statement hung in the air
like an exploded moth whose wing dust takes hours to settle in a still room.
Adam looked at her. Her bottom lip was trembling.

"How much do you know?" he asked.

"Can I trust you?" she asked.

It was now or never. It was time to take that step into the void. To say what
he was no matter how crazy it sounded. There is a difference between
verbalizing yourself and living within, absent from outside sources. Most
people, he realized, could not begin to comprehend his life--how that
feeling inside gnawed like something was always watching him, and when
not watching was hunting him.

"Trust is subjective, but I'm going to Rome. If you want you can get off at
the next stop."

"There are these people chasing me." Izi said.

"They want to kill you."

"How do you know?"

"You can't remember when you first felt the fear, but it was during your
childhood." He paused. She looked at him as one looks at a grotesque
sculpture. "It probably started somewhere in your dreams. Dreams that were
always about running and hiding. You told your parents, but they kept
saying it was just and dream and they would go away. But they didn't. They
were always there; getting stronger and stronger, realer and realer. Until one
day, maybe in your teens, you couldn't tell the difference anymore. You ran
and before you realized it you'd been gone from home for years. It seams
like you wake up each day in a different location. And they keep coming.
Some places you can go back to, others you can't. It's like they marked
where you were and put up some sort of wall that you can feel, that if you
pass you know they'll find you. Is that how it is, Izi? The girl's eyes were
wide, her lips turning pale as her face.

"Who the fuck are you!" she shouted. The tall man opened his eyes, the fat
man shifted and continued to sleep.

"You don't know how it works." Adam continued. "They seem to find you
within a few days. Sometimes it's longer, maybe a couple of weeks, a
month, or a year. Then you start to feel the eyes. You don't go out at night.
You find someplace full of people and you don't want to leave. You stay
away from windows and doors. Every tick of the clock is louder and louder.
You pack and keep your bag close. Finally it's time. You feel it when the
all the little hairs on your neck stand on end. You run. Run! Run! You look
behind and you think you see the Hunter moving through the crowd."

"Shit." Izi got up with her bag and headed for the door to the next car.

"It's good to be scared, Izi!" Adam shouted getting up after her. She looked
back.

"Leave me alone." she cried.

"Izi."

"Stay back." She rattled the door. The latch was stuck. "Stay back."

"Izi. I'm not the one to fear." The girl was crying, shaking, her fingers
fumbling with the latch. "I know what you are, Izi. You're just like me.
You're just like another person I know." She was pounding on the glass
partition. "You're called a hider."

"Shit! Oh God, Oh God!" She screamed. She pulled a stiletto from her boot
and held it up at Adam. The old man was slinked into his corner watching.
The tall man was next to the girl but his eyes were fixed on Adam.

"They're called 'Hunters'." He continued. Years of suppressing his fear
had built to an uncontrollable mass. Of its own weight and viscosity it
seemed to be flowing. "Sometimes they're real people, sometimes they're
monsters and you can't see their faces. They can kill with a touch."

"Stay back." She said. "I'll stick you." Adam held up his hands so she
could see they were empty.

As Izi lunged the tall man reached out and grabbed the knife. She spun to
look at him and he shoved her into her seat with such force the wind was
knocked from her. Adam moved without thinking, flinging himself at the
man, knocking him into the wall. The man quickly regained his feet, lifting
Adam by the arms. For a slender body his strength was agile and intense.

"Do not move!" shouted the Tall man. He held Adam dangling. "Every-
vone shut up!" he shouted in a bohemian accent. "I am a hider too." Adam
jerked in his grip. The man lowered him and sat back in his seat, his bag
back on his lap as if what he had done had never occurred. Adam stood
panting, his muscles tensed, ready for the next attack.

"Who are you!" he shouted. The tall man looked at Izi then back at him.

"Maybe you should sit down, Adam." He said in his accent, drawing out the
word down like it actually was falling down.

There was a shuffle behind Adam. he turned to see the old man grab his suit
case and scurry as fast as he could  toward the next car, his case bumping
almost every seat as he went.

"There you see." said the tall man, "Und ve are alone. Now sit down,
Adam." Adam sat like he did when he was a boy, his back against the wall
of the train his knees pulled up to his chest.

"Der ist a reason ve are all on this train together. Der ist a reason ve are all
on this car." The man looked at Adam. His gray face unemotional, his thick
lips neither dry nor moist. Adam thought that the cool of his voice was
directly affecting the cool in his skin.

"Who the bloody Christ are you?" asked Izi. She, like Adam, was
scrunched up against the wall. The tall man handed her the knife.

"My name is Urkov."

"You are a hider?" Adam asked.

"Yes. Though somewhat different than the two of you---as you both are
different than each other." Urkov swallowed a dry swallow, closed his eyes.
Beneath the amphibian like thinness of his lids his pupils moved in rapid
manner. He opened them again. "I do not have much time. My hunters have
tracked me already and are approaching swiftly."

"I don't understand." said Adam.

"Ist impossible for me to tell you much. You call yourselves hiders. This is
true, how this word got started I do not know. Ist very old, some hundred
years I think."

"How are you different than us?" asked Izi. Urkov looked at her.

"I am what is called a teacher. I am not chased so much as you are."

"What do you mean a 'teacher'? Adam asked. "Why are we being chased.
Who are they? How do they find us?"

"I cannot possibly answer all of your questions, Adam. Zee links between
us are very weak. But we are all tied together. I am a teacher because I have
lived a very long, long time. I know certain things that I cannot tell you.
They are not meant for you."

"Why?" Adam tried to shout, but it came out like a question lost at sea.

"I do not know why, but it is so."

"You said hunters were coming for you, though." said Izi.

"They come now because the two of you have been very close for many
years. But I have been careful. I got on this train because I sensed a
disturbance here. I think that you two have made me known to my
pursuers."

"I don't understand. How?" Adam implored.

"Adam, your passion ist very hot. You move much, don't you? You think
you are always running. This is how it is with you. I cannot tell you why.
There can be a number of reasons. Perhaps you are particularly dangerous
to them. If this is so I do not know why. Perhaps you are a soldier."

"A soldier."

"We are at war." Urkov's statement echoed in the dim train car.

"What fucking war?" asked Izi.

"I do not know. But that does not mean it ist not true. Adam, if you are a
soldier you must know that you are at the front of the battle lines. You must
know when to fight and when to hide. They come after you because they
want you out of the way."

"Why?"

"Because with you gone they can start to hunt down the teachers and the
students. They vill start to kill the thinkers of our little resistance. In fact
they have already started. I learn some have died."

"Am I a soldier?" asked Izi.

"In a way you are." said Urkov, "But I think you are a chameleon. You do
not know it but you can hide better than you think. With practice
chameleons can actually live almost normal lives. That is if they don't slip
up."

"What do you  mean?" Izi prodded.

"He means you're a spy, Izi."

"How---" Izi started, but was cut off by Urkov.

"I do not have answers to this. Rome is a big city." he said, "There are
many dark allies and places for more answers to hide."

The train suddenly slowed. Again its air brakes hissed, sounding like a large
snake that somehow lived underneath.

"Cinqa Terra, *Italian phrase*, Chinqa Terra." Urkov propped his bag.

"Ah, my stop ist here. You must go on. If you both go to Rome be discrete.
When two beings of power such as yourselves are close it ist easier to
detect."

"How?" asked Adam.

"Der are rules, I don not understand them all. Remember that der ist
purpose even if it ist hidden to us. Adam," said Urkov, looking at him in the
eye. "One of our soldier's life ist not so much like a soldiers life. Ist good to
have a fighting partner. Eyes for your back like the Mafioso say."

"Cinqa Terra," repeated the overhead speaker. The train slowed. The
stations was dark without lights. Another hiss of the snake and the doors
pulled open. Urkov the teacher stepped out like a thin breeze and was gone.
Adam heard the faraway crash of waves.


...


Stefan sat in the very front train car a few seats behind the woman
conductor. He was in a couple of situations. First and foremost his hard
little dick threatened to escape from the fabric of this thin shorts. This was
not caused by any sexual arousal but by the fact that he needed to empty his
bladder, but was too timid to properly ask the lady. Not to say that sexual
thoughts didn't enter his mind. The advantage to a boy's erection is that the
prostate cuts off the path of the urine to the penis so he can sit (rigid) and
have the feeling of a piss a secondary matter to the sensitive chunk of flesh
between his legs.

He was dressed the same way he had been when he last saw Adam in
Menton. When Adam had played with him on the dock making him feel
like, for once in his life, he was loved. It did not occur to him that there
were different manifestations of love, some being guidance and acceptance,
others being lust; and that the one Adam chose to display was the latter.

It did occur to him that there was something about his body that men loved.
Being a clever boy he learned quickly that it was all of him. It was his soft
voice and his hair that was wild and sensual on its own. It was the way he
barely dressed in the summer, preferring to be able to shed his clothes at a
moments notice for a swim or some other fun that involved him being
undressed.

His first and only experience (until Adam) with a 'man' was a year ago
almost to the day. It happened when he was particularly lonely. Jennie had
gone to Paris for some sort of certification. He steered clear of the nuns in
fear they would impose some unusually cruel chore on him. Like many
times he drifted through the streets of the little town looking here or there
and as the heat of the day waged its protest on his young body he was lured
to the bay and its prospects of a cool swim.

He was sitting on the sand, his toes dug into the coolness and he was just
thinking about scraping away the hot top-sand so his little bottom would
also have a cool place to rest when a 'man' approached. He actually wasn't
a man but a youth, though to Stefan, anyone bigger than him was a man and
therefore contained so many secret possibilities as to make his mind swim
and his heart patter. The 'kid' was an English speaker and was delighted
that Stefan could communicate with him. His name was Ryan and his father
had a yacht that was docked on one of the long piers.

They played in the sand for awhile. Both having a time with Ryan's Frisbee
when Ryan said he was going to take a swim. He pulled off his t-shirt and
headed to the water. Stefan, like it was the most natural thing in the world
fell out of his clothes and hit the waves with a naked splash, leaving poor
Ryan gaping at the perfectly sun browned and (now in the later stages of
summer) ripened boy.

Ryan was light skinned and picked  Stefan up flinging him easily into the
waves. He did this again and again, his hands running over almost every
part of the French child. And once, when they were both almost tired and
ready to fall on the sand and bake Ryan picked Stefan up to throw him but
instead held him close to his body, one hand on his rump one hand on his
back. "Will you show me around Menton tonight?" the blond youth
whispered wetly, his lips against the small, pointed ear. Stefan nodded and
squirmed, his inner voice telling him that squirming would be a good idea at
this juncture.

That evening they met at a creperie by the wharf. Ryan was dressed
impeccably, gentlemanly in a white, cotton shirt with long sleeves. The
fabric was light and Stefan could see the contours of the youth's  body, the
ridge where a young man's chest was developing, and, when the wind blew,
the ripple of his stomach. He wore, also, white slacks that were trim on his
legs and a pair of (the only thing used) leather sandals. Stefan was dressed
like he was that afternoon. After all, it was summer. The only thing
different is that he had just showered and his long hair was still wet. He had
taken the time to comb it back, but already it was falling into his eyes.

When Ryan met him he smelled strongly of some flower (Stefan did not
know which) and cinnamon. The older boy shook the child's hand and
leaned in with is mouth. Stefan pulled away.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"I thought you kissed when you great in France." said Ryan. Adam thought
for a minute then realized.

"That is when you greet a girl." he smiled, proud of figuring out the
confusion.

"Well, I don't want to meet any girl so can I kiss you to see what it's like."
This proposition was odd, but in the way that boys think there was some
form of logic to it, and in the wild realm of adolescents (and their younger),
logic, no matter how twisted, was usually a good argument for  excruciating
(or pleasurable) experiments. Stefan turned his cheek and the boy kissed
him quickly. He turned the other one and the boy not only kissed him, but
he felt him quickly lick the length of it. Odd, but so be it.

Stefan took his new friend through the village street by street. It was a
weeknight so the tourists were settled leaving an almost sleepy spell over
the comings and goings of the locals. If the duo looked odd together no one
looked.

He showed him where the hidden passage was to the bell tower. Ryan
convinced Stefan to show him to the top. It was a long climb and as they
rose more of the city came into view. Lights were coming on and the streets
were silent, the sounds moving toward the outdoor restaurants and bars.
Half way up the spiral stair they came to a fence. Stefan had climbed it
before but Ryan insisted on helping. Instead of boosting him by his feet he
put his hands directly on the boy's rear and pushed. Stefan giggled at the
sensation, then squealed aloud as a hand cupped his naked scrotum. He was
over. Ryan leapt over with the grace of a cat. The rest of the way he made
an effort to touch Stefan whenever he could.

From the top the city slept in places and thrived in places. The boats on the
waterfront had various parties.

"That is my father's boat." said Ryan, pointing to the largest Yacht.

"It is big." Stefan said. "I wish I had a Yacht."

"They cost millions of dollars, boy." said Ryan. He reached over and pulled
Stefan to him, holding him in front, both arms draped around him. "You
smell nice." he said kissing the boy's head. Stefan smiled brightly, closing
his eyes so he could more readily register some feeling that had lain
dormant in his body since he was a baby. He felt the tautness of the youth.
He knew Ryan's dick was hard and it was because of him. That is why his
only protest when the hands fell to his waist was a sigh of contentment.
Fingers encircled him down there. They were squeezing, no, pulling, no,
pushing. Oh! What was Ryan doing? The youth's mouth coming to his,
filling him with his own saliva that tasted like cinnamon.

"I like the way your body feels." said Ryan. "You're ass is perfect. Just
what guys like. Don't get any older or they won't do stuff like this to you."

Stefan groaned and leaned forward clutching the edge of the tower, his butt
thrust out. His position so exposing, making him vulnerable to any sort of
torment. The hands were back there now.  Rubbing and moving apart and
moving together.

"You're sure a little fag." said Ryan. You don't even know what it is, but
you want it. Stefan couldn't help it.  He was raised alone by nuns, his spare
time spent doing whatever. If his body said sleep, he slept, If he was hungry
he found something to eat. And now, if somebody touched him, he opened.
His panting coming in spurts as his shorts were pulled down and something
moist on Ryan touched something moist on him. If only that beeping would
stop so he could enjoy it. Please don't stop, Ryan, he thought.

"Fuck." Ryan pulled the beeper out of his pocket. "Fuck. not now."

Adam looked behind him to see why the sensation had ceased and his
shorts had been replaced. "What is wrong?" he asked, genuinely concerned
for his friend.

"It's father. I have to go." Ryan stood next to him on the ledge. "I should
fucking jump." he said. He turned and kissed Stefan one more time. It was a
hard assault, savage as a youth to a boy can be. Stefan pulled away a bit
frightened. "You'd jump with me wouldn't you?" he asked Stefan. "Two
lovers falling." Stefan shook his head. The tower had suddenly become
cold. "I'd do anything to fuck you more, but I have to go. You stay here get
off. Meet me tomorrow by the beach if you want.

Stefan watched him descend. Then after a bit the little figure running
through the streets toward the yacht. He stayed until the stars where bright
like glowing dust. He wondered what else his small, traitorous body could
do to surprise him.

Stefan waited for hours on the sand. He swam a bit, for the first time
feeling different at being naked. It was not a bad feeling, no, it was a nice
feeling. He was stiff when he emerged, dressed, and dozed. It was the
shadow blocking his sun that woke him.

"Come see my father's boat." said Ryan.

The boat was huge and white with a satellite dish on top. It was also empty.
Ryan led the younger boy to his room which was very, very large, thought
Stefan, for a boat. It was also extremely clean. Ryan said this was because
his father who was a retired naval officer inspected the place randomly and
if it was not ship-shape this meant a certain punishment that Ryan would
not elaborate on.

His room had a skylight that made it very bright. Quite different from
Stefan's small chamber in the abbey. This was, Ryan said, the best thing
because he could lay on his bed and see all the stars in the world. He told
Stefan how he wanted to be an astronaut and was enrolled to enter a private
military school the coming fall. He said this gently, almost so that when he
touched Stefan's bronzed neck it felt like a slap.     Stefan looked at the
blond boy and smiled to be friendly but Ryan thought it to be an invitation
to kiss Stefan. This he did, and Stefan did not pull away, because what was
the harm to be had in a little kiss? "My father (who was his step-father) will
be back tonight after the bars have closed and he will kiss me like that."
said Ryan licking his lips to take every small taste of Stefan into his mouth.
"Did you like that?" asked Ryan. Stefan nodded. "I'm sure you did. Do you
want to look through my telescope?" Again Stefan nodded. Ryan led him
over to where the large eye sat staring out at sea. "This cost my father ten-
thousand dollars. I don't know what that is in your money, but it's more
than you will ever make." Stefan look through and saw a small boat on the
horizon suddenly magnified so that he could make out a woman sunbathing
on the deck. He giggled at this, not the nudity, but the magical invasion of
privacy. He flashed a conspiratorial grin at Ryan who stood behind him to
show him how to move it. As Stefan looked at other boats and the far away
peninsula Ryan's hands gently rubbed his tummy, slinking up under his torn
shirt to play across his ribs and his chest. Stefan who had rarely spoken to
anyone quite so exotic as Ryan the sun of a naval officer, basked in this
new type of attention.

The game continued wherever in the room Stefan went. At the computer
Ryan made him sit on his lap as he showed him how to turn it on and how
the satellite was directly connected to the internet. He showed him a game
and how to maneuver the mercenary fighter to blow aliens to shreds. As he
did this Stefan felt the hands, that he now knew to be warm, on his lower
belly. They circled down, touching with finger tips that made him tingle.
And then they were in his lap. He never wore underwear so had no extra
protection against the invasion that he probably would not have stopped if
he did know how. He was a very bright boy, and not naive and knew that
when the big boy's hand, for the third time now, rubbed the head of his
little totem it was a sexual invitation. Something Stefan had been thinking
about more and more. "Let me take you to the bed." said Ryan, lifting the
boy who was like a feather and laying him down so that he could examine
every part of him.

"First he touches me all over and I have to pretend I'm sleeping." said
Ryan, running his hands from Stefan's chest to his knees and finally
squeezing on the treasure in between that made Stefan's hips jump just a
little. "You like that, huh? I do to." The boy ran his hand up Stefan's leg,
under the fabric and started masturbating him. "He does this next until I
groan. That way he knows I like it." After a few minutes like Ryan was a
prophet Stefan grunted and tried to force his hips up so that the boy's hand
would make more contact. "You see. Then he," Ryan leaned forward,
exposing Stefan's uncut sex to the world, and sucked it into his mouth.
Stefan jerked back in surprise. Ryan giggled. The younger boy then groaned
aloud and closed his eyes when the mouth insisted. The feeling was warm
and tight at the same time. "And then he sucks me." said Ryan, pulling on
the brown little prepuce.

Stefan spread his legs as wide as he could and arched his back. Ryan's
hands cupped his ass as he slurped even the child's little testicles into his
mouth. He, more forcefully now, pulled Stefan's shirt over his head and
forced his legs closed to pull his shorts off.

Naked, Stefan tried to reach for his penis but the older boy pushed his hand
away. "No." he growled, "I'm not done. turn over." Stefan turned over and
watched as Ryan pealed out of his clothes. The boy was extremely white
where his shorts were. His penis was large with a small square of pubic hair
at the base. It was different than Stefan's, besides size, in that it was not
hidden in a neck of skin--like some mushroom ready for the picking. "He
never fucks me, but I want him to every night. He says it is queer to do
that." Ryan sat on the bed behind Stefan. "You're too small to do me."
With both hands he forced the boy's ass apart. "I'm going to screw you,
OK?" With lack of anything else to do Stefan nodded his head. "I read on
the net that it needs to be slick, so hold still." There was a pause and
suddenly Stefan tensed as he felt something cool press into him. The boys
finger slid to the base and pulled out quickly before Stefan could react. "It's
suntan oil. I though you'd scream. Why didn't you scream, it's supposed to
hurt?" Stefan shook his head not quite grasping the older boy's reasoning.

"I bet we look really sexy together." said Ryan, his hands massaging
Stefan's lean back. "Some men like boys like us. They think it's hot when
we do stuff. But there's no man here, huh?" Stefan was content, a little
nervous because he thought that something wasn't quite right with Ryan's
head, but for some reason his butt twitched from the boy's finger.

"I'm going to fuck  you now." said Ryan. "We're going to loose our
virginity to each other. You look real hot, you must swim naked all the time.
You've never done this before?" Stefan shook his  head. "That's strange,
you're gay you know. I can tell by the way you hold yourself. After this
you'll probably hunt for men." Stefan did not understand the boy
completely, but as his mass imposed itself he knew two things, (1) it was
very natural what Ryan was doing to him. He knew the boy's dick was
going to be put in his butt and he would love it. That was not so odd as, at
night, his fingers sometimes ventured down there to something inside. And
(2) Ryan was a very dangerous person that he had to get away from and
never see again. When he was free he would not come back to the beach
until the yacht was gone.

Ryan's penis entered Stefan slowly and painfully. That is until it was about
half way in and the boy stopped. "Ok then." he said. "Man you're tight.
How does it feel?" Stefan responded with a whimper of pain that Ryan
thought was pleasure so with one swift shove he was in and Stefan, quiet
like a mouse, was crying.

The older boy fucked like he had read about it on the internet and had seen
in movies. His trophy spread eagle, he doing half pushups, in and out, in
and out, slurp suck, slurp suck. The boy beneath him quivered now and
then, his rectum grasped and pulled and pushed and rotated. His back
arched and flexed. His little hands coming back to try and slow the
intrusion. Ryan's own butt bobbing into his dark friend like a buoy in the
ocean. He felt powerful. He felt like a man. He could feel each micron of
his shaft coated with the boy. He pictured his broad shoulders as his wings
and he as a bird of prey perched ravenously over his kill. He was no longer
the spunky boy his 'father' liked to touch down there; he himself was a man
in the only way a man could be a man--sexually. In fact, he was more of a
man than his 'father' he was screwing a native kid. He was going to cum in
the boy, he knew it. He was going to 'cum' and it was going to be hard. Oh
yeah, the kid was loving it! He was moaning like a gale and trying to make
him slam harder. So he did, driving the kid up into the pillows. Yeah this is
what sex was, not some obscene fondling over his pants or, at night under
the covers while he had to pretend to be asleep. The French boy wouldn't
wake up in the morning pretending this was just a dream. He wished his
'father' could see him. He'd like to take the boy with them when he left. He
imagined him sitting on the deck with the child on top, legs spread
accepting all of him. His 'father' watching, engorged. His 'father' fucking
him (Ryan). Oh hear it comes, this is the feeling. Smooth like glass, like a
hairless boy, like he was when his father told him to shave, but he didn't
have any facial hair. He was a man not a boy, he didn't want to shave it off
down there anymore. Oh yeah, what a tight little butt. How do you say in
French? "Tres fine."

Stefan yelped from pain and pleasure---mostly pain. Something in him
broke and he was shaking hard and for a second he actually was trying to
shove Ryan into him. Then he felt the weight collapse, all movement
stopped and the warm stuff being shot into his, stomach? When Ryan rolled
off he popped out, but not before his dick was shoved against something in
Stefan that made the little boy shake all over again.

Stefan got up and grabbed his clothes.

"You liked that?" asked Ryan. He was covered in blood. Bright red blood
from his tummy to his knees. His white sheets were also stained. Stefan
reached his hand to his butt where a tight hole had once existed in a life of
solace. It came away red. Like the little drops of the stuff that pattered like
rain at his tender feet. It was he who was bleeding. So he ran.

He ran naked off the docks onto the beach. He knew a place. He ran naked
through the restaurant part of Menton. Nobody really looking except a few
men who, for some odd reason, he now noticed; like they were characters in
fine wood standing apart from the grain. He ran as fast as newly screwed
agile French boys can run, which was pretty fast. Through an alley into a
park and jump--like a baby bird wanting to fly--into the pool of fresh, cool
water.

The abbey was cold and dark. He stayed most of his time in his room
reading. Twice he ventured up to Jennie's for a quiet dinner. She never
invaded him with questions that adults ask pretty, rogue boys in small
towns. This made him feel safe. From la chapel St. Michel he watched the
bay for the Yacht to leave. It stayed four more days and then on the next
morning it was gone. By now he was healed and ready to fight the world as
usual. The events of a week ago harming nothing but a boy's ego and
leaving him with a sore bum. Though he couldn't help but wonder why he
felt empty at times, mostly in the evenings before he slept and in the
mornings when he woke, the times when boys think the most about naughty
parts of their bodies and those of girls or, in his case, other boys and men.
And as he was soon to learn that emptiness becomes a yearning ache.

The yacht gone, he ventured down to a crowd of people at the pier. The
police where there and an ambulance. He worked his skinny frame between
the crowd and to the edge where divers were floating like gulls. "Here it
comes!" someone shouted. Of all the secrets that the sea conceals, it
chooses to give up the most tawdry and elicit, the disgusting and depraved,
the secrets that make no sense.

There, floated to the surface, was the naked body of Ryan. He slept
peacefully in his death. his shrunken penis flopping about as he was handed
up and laid next to Stefan and covered with a white sheet, whither than his
skin. The last thing Stefan saw were his eyes, looking blankly into the void
above the crowd. This disturbed him, so much so that he decided not to
think about it, ever, and went off to find Jean Luc who was as good a
swimmer as he.

He shifted his little leather backpack and wiggled. His stiffy was going
away now and he really needed to piss. He asked the conductor in French if
he could go and she looked at him and said no. He thought about peeing on
her. That would be funny.

It was now flaccid and he squeezed the head with his thumb and forefinger.
He tried to think of Adam so it would get hard again and the pressure would
go away. From Jennie's house he had run crying. He told her everything
about how he felt and that he knew he was a homosexual and he was sorry
and he would burn in hell but he didn't care because Adam loved him. She
shook her head and hugged him and said that Adam didn't really love him.
She said men like Adam didn't take boys like Stefan with them when they
left. He sobbed uncontrollably not wanting to believe her. He gushed about
how Adam had given him the knife (a very expensive knife) and how he
had touched him and kissed him. He had kissed him with his tongue the
way men are supposed to kiss women and that's how he knew Adam loved
him in a special way. She shook her head out of pity for him and he saw
this and suddenly realized something that most people don't understand
until they are old and all the world but them have died. He was alone.
Utterly, defenselessly alone. His mother was gone. He never knew his
father. The nuns tolerated him. Jennie pitied him. Stefan did what any boy
would do in his situation: he cried. The storm of hopelessness caused him
to wale into his bare arms. It made his chest right between his nipples ache
so deep it felt like it was coming out between his shoulder blades. His head
spun, the room tilted and he fell into a darkness that was unknowing and
silent.

When he woke, Jennie was gone. The sun was almost ready to fall into the
sea (boys on the Mediterranean believe that the sun actually does fall into
the sea where it sleeps). His eyes burned, but were empty and dry, meaning
his sole was empty and dry. He returned to his little room at the abbey. The
nuns saying nothing as he entered and likewise as he left with his old, used
worn pack.

At the beach he hid from Adam. He saw the man come and look for him.
He waited kicking the sand. He sat. He laid down. He looked at his watch
and left. To Stefan this meant that he really had to leave and though he may
not love the boy he cared enough to meet him one last time.

Stefan watched him pick an orange and could not help but giggle to himself
that he would have a sour surprise if he bit into it. He followed him to the
train station, and when he was not looking slipped through the door and
into a dark corner. Stefan had never had money so he had no way to pay for
a ticket. He thought about asking the man if he would take a very nice knife
for the fare, but this would draw to many questions.

As the train arrived Adam was acting very strange. There was a coldness on
the track. Stefan saw him back up like he was going to take another
destination, but boarded instead. Stefan walked a few cars forward to get
on, knowing that the he could not let Adam find him too soon into the
journey.

He was sitting in a car with two men who were reading a paper when the
lady conductor asked him for a ticket. When he tried to bolt she grabbed
him by his pack and drug him forward with her as she punched the tickets
of the other riders. At the front when he didn't give her his name she made
him sit and told him that at the next town he would have to get off and go
see the ticket master. He nodded agreement knowing he would just run as
soon as he could.

But now he had to go and it was getting bad. Suddenly the train slowed.
Stefan looked out the window to see what town they were at but he could
see only darkness. From somewhere up ahead he heard voices chanting
something in Italian. The woman conductor swore something he could not
understand and moved across the isle for a better view. The chanting grew
louder until it was around the train on both sides. She was shouting out the
window now and people were shouting back at her. Here was his chance.
Stefan bolted. The woman yelled at him as he passed through the first doors
toward the back of the train, toward Adam.


...


"What's going on?" Adam asked.

"I don't know." said Izi. She looked out the window. "We've just stopped."

"Do you think it's them?" he asked. She shrugged.

They waited in silence. The stillness of the car  becoming like a noise in
itself. From ahead they heard distant shouting. One voice than more and
more as a crowd of people neared.

"It's a strike." said Izi, sticking her head out the window. "Rail Workers
Union, we'll be going again soon."

"At midnight?" asked Adam.

"This train is due in Rome by six thirty this morning. If they hold it up here
it will make the morning rush late and the rail system will get complaints."

"I guess I don't have anywhere to be." Adam said, sitting back down.

"Ever been to Rome before?" Izi asked.

"No."

"I think you'll like it. It's a romantic city." she paused, looking at him. "It's
a place for lovers, especially in the heat of the summer."

"I've been in 'romantic' cities alone before. Nothing new." he said. His
mind turned briefly to Josh and Brenton. He wondered what had become of
them during the last year and cursed himself for not getting in touch with
the email address they gave him. He hoped Josh had found a way to stay
with his young lover in London. He thought about the boy he had met in
Menton and that special bond that had taken mere hours to form. He looked
at his fingers that had been blessed to touch the small spike of the boy's
sexuality. Then he tore his mind from the pleasant memory. It was over. It
was a passing need that they both had and they were both there to fill. The
boy was better and safer without Adam in his life.

"When you get there be careful of the train station. It's a poor
neighborhood that's famous for thieves. The kids wait for a tourist then
grab his wallet and run."

"OK, thanks." said Adam.

"What do you plan to do in there?" Asked Izi.

"I'm not sure. I was just going to hide out like I've done everywhere else,
but after what our tall friend said, I'm not sure anymore."

"I'm going to try and relax a little." She said. "I have friends who are there.
They'll let me crash for a week or two if I keep a low profile."

"I think we should consider what Urkov said. Maybe we should split up. I'll
go back  to the last cars, you go forward as far as you can."

"Good idea. Adam?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

"Sure. Good luck." he said. "Oh wait." with a pin from his pack he jotted
down his email address that he never used. "Keep in touch."

"Sure." she said and headed for the front.


...


When Stefan burst into the next car the woman was half way through the
last  and gaining on him. He had to stop once and grab a sandal that had
fallen off in his flight. People watched but nobody tried to grab him despite
the woman yelling something in Italian at them. Another car. He couldn't
look for Adam like this, not running from a conductor. What would Adam
think? He'd know Stefan was a common street child, poor, parentless,
pathetic. There was a woman blocking his way. She was pretty and dressed
like a ruffian with dyed hair and combat boots. At the last minute she
stepped out of his way and laughed and told him to run in French. "Merci!"
he shouted at her, turning to see that she had stepped in front of the
conductor, the two women shouting, buying him some time.

The next car was empty except for a man walking toward the back. He took
up the whole isle. Stefan thought he could duck between his legs if he had
to. He turned just in time to see the woman slam open the door.  He dashed,
but she reached out and grabbed his pack brining him to a halt. He yelled at
her in all the nasty French he knew, the man turned. It was Adam.

...


Adam saw the boy kicking and jumping in the clutch of the conductor. And
them he heard his name. The boy was shouting his name at him. He was
begging for help. It was Stefan.

"What's going on here?" he asked as calm as he could seeing the torment
on the child's face. The woman stared at him and answered in very poor
English.

"He has not a ticket."

"Stefan, calm down." he said. "What are you doing here?" The boy's hair
had fallen across his face, he looked like a shaken puppy. Adam wanted
nothing more than to scoop him up and hold him and make all the pain in
his life go away. He didn't understand this emotion at first, but it came from
deep inside.

"He must be arrested." said the woman. "He is a stowaway."

"That's nonsense." said Adam.

"Stay out, not your concern." scowled the woman.

"It certainly is my concern. This is my son."     Stefan's eyes grew bright and
wide at the lie. The wonderful lie. The most precious gift anyone had ever
given him.

"You American?"

"Yes, and he is an American citizen."

"Your papers!" she demanded, almost shouting.

"We don't have any papers. They're with my wife." She looked puzzled.

"This is not possible. I need your papers." She grabbed Stefan's arm and
tried to pull him back up to the front of the train. Adam grabbed his other
arm.

"Madame, please." Adam said.

Something in the woman caused her too look intensely at Adam, as if she
were deciding a very important matter, as if a battle was raging in her head
over the importance of this (minor) situation. She did not know the boy, she
did not know the man, she had tickets to stamp before the next stop where
she would get off and go home--but the darkness that had appeared when
she first encountered the little boy seemed to impress itself more on a
certain part of her head that in turn seemed to battle a reasoning she had
once possessed, a reasoning that would have brushed aside this incident
with a warning and nothing more. This was the same sensations that forbid
her to let the child go to the bathroom. This man (said the voice in her head
that was, she surmised, her better judgment) is a menace to all that is right.
This is disgusting (said the voice), the little boy is a danger to you. Grab
him by the neck and squeeze until you feel his throat crush. Do it fast so the
man can't stop you. She looked at the boy who's large, sad eyes seemed
like they belonged more to a baby deer than to a child. She thought about
her own son who was waiting for her so he could ask her to buy him a new
video game. No! she would go get some coffee in the bar and relax a bit.
She needed sleep. Yes, sleep. What was that? Oh the boy, the poor child.
He was peeing in his shorts. She watched the wet spot spread and as it grew
and dribbled down his legs on to the floor where it started to move in a
stream, running toward the door. Poor, poor boy. Why didn't he go to the
bathroom? His father should talk with him about this.

"Madame, Madame. Please!" The man was saying.

"You should not travel without papers." she said. "Look, the boy is crying.
What eyes! He is very handsome." She turned to go find that coffee.

Stefan was sobbing at his pitiful state. The woman was acting so strange
and he just had to do it and he couldn't help himself. He was embarrassed
that Adam, big strong Adam who could beat up anybody, had to see his
accident, his inability to control his bladder. It made him feel small and
useless and very foolish for leaving the safety of the abbey to chase after
some man who he didn't know. More important, Adam didn't know him.
Sure they had kissed and touched places where people who really love each
other only touch, but like Jennie had said--what did that mean? Now Adam
would only look at him as some boy who, with fancy thoughts, chased him
onto a train and instead of saying all the things in his little head, peed his
pants. Stefan wished the train would stop, it was hopeless, all of it. He was
really tired now and cold because the urine was on him. He needed to get to
the ocean so he could wash his shorts (the only pair he had) and swim. That
was what he needed, a good naked swim and then a long nap in the sun. But
the train was now moving, the voices of the protestors falling away. It was
dark and Adam, who he wanted to grab, who lied and said he was his son
(the closest anyone had come to claiming him) was standing like a statue
looking at him seeing only a problem. This made Stefan blush under his tan
and, being a boy, he began to cry. Tears coming down his face, his sobs lost
inside his throat and tender chest, making him shake.

If Stefan had been more than a ten year old boy Adam would have asked
him why he was there. But the fact that the child had wet himself, the fact
that the last year had made Adam want to live and thusly love, the fact that
the boy gave himself to Adam, the fact that they were two lonely creatures
made him stoop and gather the wretched little (beautiful) imp into his arms
and hold tight. He soon realized that he was weeping with Stefan, their tears
mingling, them both shaking from the utter cruelness of a world that would
give them such an ability to love--the process of giving and taking--yet
forbid them ever to consummate.

Stefan cried because he was scared and because the man holding him was
still crying. Adam cried because he was scared for a little boy who did not
deserve the life he would find with him. He cried because crying is a sign
you are still alive on the inside and that shell you show to the rest of the
world is not just a husk. He cried because somewhere between the boy
peeing himself and his first wale Adam had decided that he would take
responsibility for the boy who had believed in him enough to leave all he
knew to try and find him.

Stefan's legs wrapped around Adam's waist, his face nuzzled into the crook
of his neck as they walked to the back of the train. Adam passed the old
man who was again sleeping and snoring. He passed a couple reading a
newspaper and a big white dog who wagged his tail when he saw them. The
dog got up and padded mutely after them. He licked the salty child's feet
causing him to giggled. Adam turned.

"Hey boy."

At the very back the line of sleeper cars began. Most of the front ones were
filled. He kept walking until he found the empty ones and of these he chose
the very last and entered. The dog lay at the door watching as Adam set
Stefan gently down and flipped on the light.

"Stefan." he whispered, shaking the boy just a little. He'd fallen into a light
doze, drained from the wretched evening.

"I'm sorry." the boy said rubbing his large brown eyes with the back his
hand.

"Shhh." Adam calmed. "You're a very brave kid, you know. "I'm going to
clean you up, ok?" The boy nodded. Gently, like he was handling blown
glass, in a way he was, he worked the thin shirt off the boy and threw it to
the floor. "Do you have anymore clothes in your bag?" he asked. Stefan
shook his head.

Stefan watched him silently as Adam gazed at the beautiful torso before
him. The boy was perfectly proportioned. He had budding little chest
muscles and a faint crease where his abdominals were defined from his
ribcage. His arms looked like the arms of a young gymnast, though maybe
more slender. Adam could not help himself. He leaned forward and kissed
the center of Stefan's chest. It was not a lustful kiss. It was the kind of kiss
one places on the toe of a holy statue, or the way one kisses the soil of his
homeland after a long voyage. It was a kiss in complete celebration of
beauty.

"Turn around." He said hoarsely. The boy turned displaying his lean back.
Adam ran a hand up lifting his hair and kissing his neck, then lower, lower,
tasting the natural salt of the boy until his lips came to the base of his spine
and the little indentation at the small of his back. With fingers so gentle as
they were touching the purest diamond he pulled the moist shorts down
over the tautly formed buttocks.

The posterior of a beautiful boy is like no other sight in the world. Adam
gasped in sheer electric awe. "I need to clean your front, Stefan." The boy
turned. His penis was neither rigid nor flaccid, simply alive. Adam took a
bottle of water from a pocket on his bag and a small rag from another.
Carefully he wiped each inch of the bronzed still life before him.

"Adam, I'm sorry."

"It's OK."

"I didn't mean to pee."

"It's OK."

"Thank you for helping me."

"It's OK."

"That tickles." Adam was wiping on the inside of his leg. "No, don't stop."

"OK."

"Adam?"

"Yes."

"Thanks for saying you were my father."

"I wish I was."

"Me too."

"Thank you for the knife."

"You're welcome, Stefan."

"I won't get in your way." The boy moaned as Adam's hand gently cupped
his little balls to clean them. "Ohhh! Mmmm...." He thrust his hips forward.
Adam stopped. "Why did you stop?"

"I shouldn't do that to you?"

"Why?"

"It's wrong."

"I want it." Adam did it again and Stefan lowered himself a little by
bending his knees. "I don't care if it's wrong."

"I don't either." Adam said. Stefan leaned forward and kissed him on the
nose. Adam smiled. The next kiss landed on his forehead. And finally as if
the journey had, for Stefan, been ten years in coming, and for Adam thirty-
one years, the boy's lips, of his own accord, pressed into the man's. Adam's
hands held his rib cage feeling the rise and fall of his breath. Stefan grunted
into Adam's mouth with a push causing their teeth to bump.

"Stefan do you understand?" Adam asked, breaking the kiss. He looked into
the mad eyes of the boy and knew the answer before their lips met again,
this time with a hunger and mutual need that could never be satisfied. Their
tongues fought a battle. The boy mostly sucking onto the man's tongue,
drinking like an old king would drink from the fountain of youth.

Adam moved his hand over Stefan's chest. Breaking the kiss he said,
"Stefan, I can feel your heart pounding. Are you alright?" The boy nodded.
"It feels like it's going to jump out of your body. I need to finish cleaning
you." With that he dumped the rest of the bottled water over the boy's
shoulders and watched it cascade along the contours of his stomach, over
his thighs and down his legs. Stefan gasped and stiffened like a board, a
cute frown briefly crossing his face. Adam wiped the boy all over with his
bare hands then took the rag and wiped off the water the best he could. All
this time Stefan was trying to make contact with their lips again, but Adam
pushed him away to dry some more.

"Adam?" asked the boy.

"Yes?" Adam had once again turned Stefan around so he could dry his
back.

"Will you touch me down there?"

Adam reached around and let his fingers flutter over a rock hard cocklet
that was so blood engorged it  pressed firmly below Stefan's naval into his
lower belly. With two fingers Adam pulled the foreskin down over the
enflamed head. He realized that his commitment to Stefan came with much
more responsibility than feeding and clothing him. The boy's happiness
depended on Adam for everything. Stefan was awakening to his sexual
wants and needs and it was up to Adam to make sure the boy wanted for
nothing.

Adam shut the door of the sleeper car (the dog laying guard outside) and
pulled the drapes. He pulled down the chairs so they formed a bed.

"We should get some sleep before we get to Rome." He said looking at the
boy who was now laying on his back, one leg raised to his chest, his hands
working hard at a spot between his butt cheeks. There were many things
that Adam would have to do for Stefan. This was one of them.

Stefan lowered his leg and curled into a fetal position as he watched Adam
remove his shirt. His chest was large and muscled and his waist was tight
and lean. Stefan could count each defined ridge in his stomach. His heart
was pounding now and he could not understand why. It was so loud it was
in his ears and in his head. He watched as Adam released the button of his
pants and slowly opened them revealing the naked man beneath. He felt like
it was a school day and he had slipped off to find some elicit pleasure. Oh!
He's beautiful! He's so big! He must be part bull, thought the boy. Look at
his legs, he could run forever.

Adam wasn't hairy at all. Not like the men at the docks who worked
shirtless and who Stefan watched like a cat watches a bird. He knew the
men saw him looking. He knew they laughed at his infatuation with their
bodies, that some of them even flaunted their skin just for the satisfaction of
the boy. They called him names that made him blush. At times he even had
to leave and find a quiet place where he could touch himself.

Adam was harder than he ever remembered being. He watched Stefan's
curled and naked form. The boy eyed him with a look of wonder and awe
and something else, something carnal. He knew that if Stefan was a virgin
he would not leave the train car with the same innocents that he had when
he entered. From his time with Josh and what he had seen of Brent humping
in ecstasy he knew, it was a given, that Stefan would quickly become
addicted to him. Soon the boy would fall asleep wanting him and wake with
a desire--primal in its origin--to be thrust into, to be (and it was his right)
pleasured. Yes he could prevent it. He could abstain. But to what
detriment? To what end? He was not asexual, and neither would he torture
the sensual boy by being his sexless, puritanical unit of authority.

Boys in general go through their young lives ignorant of the capacities of
their bodies. A baby bird will not fly until its mother pushes it from the
nest; only then does it know freedom and the ultimate peril of its habitat--
and likewise---when a boy has experienced passion, only then has he eaten
from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. All is good until it is shown
to be evil, all is evil until it has shown to be good. The sun rises and sets,
the child grows from ignorance into arrogance. The man, his lover (his
luster, his protector, his chain, his ship, his liberator, his captor, his wings,
his warrior, his tears) watches it all and knows time passes like the growing
old of a child: slowly in his moment when he is erect and naked and
wanting to be invaded, to be suckled, to (lets face it) fuck for the sake of
fucking, for the feeling of his skin being the subject of the close inspections
of his elder: yet it (time) passes (in reflection and revelry) like the running
home of that same child after a long day's molesting by the world, fast and
ardent.

So Adam Brant's lips did not immediately kiss Stefan's flushed cheek nor
his fluttering eyelids. He was a man, and in being lifted the boy with small
effort and positioned him so he could look out the window at the--by and
by--passing of a village or farm, as the lips that were meant for his, started
(Oh! Ungh! What's he -- do-ing!? Umgh! ) at his anus.

In the darkness (Adam had turned out the light) Stefan lifted his butt in
reflex to Adam sucking at his hole then pulling back and away with a
smack. For some reason he couldn't stop thinking of sunshine and they
way, when you looked into it, it makes your eyes close of their on volition.
That's what happened every time Adam tongued him, firmly jabbing. (Oh,
ungh, mmmm, ungh, ungh!) It was a cruel thing he did when he held  his
little cheeks apart and blew gently into the depth of him until he had to jerk
his butt away and let it cool down, this causing his stiffy to rub against the
faux-leather of the seat, bringing the squeak that was in his throat out of his
mouth, making him sound like a mouse which he was not. He was boy and
Adam was a man and they were both tough. But (Oh God! Adam did it
again!) it was so complicated to have these feelings surging through him
like fire.

Stefan was partly on his knees, his backside jutting into the air. The only
thing connecting Adam to him was Adam's tongue. The boy wanted to
crumple, but his body was held by a stronger force. Suddenly Adam pushed
forward, driving his mouth against the nether orifice, that was like a mouth
and if it had a tongue it would kiss back. Stefan pushed, the feelings
building like a balloon expanding with water.

The room was filled with Stefan grunting. A thought passed Adam's mind
that people in other rooms might be able the hear the noises of sex. He
pictured them being carried away by their sounds, starting to make love of
their own. Such is the power of what comes from a boy's throat when he is
in the throws of passion. Adam backed off a little to let Stefan calm. The
boy jerked his head around at the disturbance of his pleasure. He turned
onto his back and lifted his legs, his small hinds grabbing his toes to hold
him in place, giving Adam complete access.

In the animal kingdom when the battle is over between two males for the
courtship of the females the weaker presents his rump to the stronger. This
is a submissive display of respect. It means that if the alpha-male wishes he
may mount him without retribution. This is how it seemed with Stefan. He
was not weaker (respectively), nor had Adam and he battled in any
recognizable manner, but he was giving himself to the desire of the man in
a hope that along the way his own desire would be fulfilled. Adam, as if a
gift of gold had been laid before him, worshiped the boy in his new
position. Placing one hand on each butt cheek he bent in prayer to bring his
mouth to the shrine. With his fingers he forced the small bud to open -- and
licked, allowing his tongue--which was getting tired--to sink deep.

Stefan moaned. Please, he thought, please! He was heading somewhere and
he was almost there. (Oh! It's too good!) He had to stop it or he might die.
(Ungh! Too late!) He thought he was going to expel something into Adam's
mouth. (OH!) He jerked way from Adam, away from the feeling. But it had
him. He scampered against the wall of the car and with his hands covered
the hole into him so it would not attack Adam. (Here it comes! eeeeee!) His
wide eyes stared at the man who had caused his body to do this. Adam was
sitting on his haunches watching the boy curiously as he began to shake.
Stefan felt  his bowels quiver. (Oh boy! Ungh, ungh uuhhhh!) It came down
from his heart to his tummy, through his hips and out that part of him that
had been chewed. The boy toppled. His hands feeling it: the anal spasm,
opening as if for air! (Oh! No!) Closing! (Why won't it stop?!) And it was
over, and he curled and wanted to sleep, but he needed it again. It scared
him, but he needed it...

Adam curled around the boy holding him as he journeyed through the realm
where he could not no longer trust his body to behave predictably. It was
warm in the car so he had opened the window a crack. Country hair gently
grazed over their bodies. Stefan tried to push himself into Adam. He turned
his head. Adam kissed him on the lips and did not pull away. Stefan
responded by flicking his tongue into his man. He responded by stretching
out his legs and letting Adam cup his penis that was jumping with the, now
increased, beat of his heart.

Adam varied the motion. He pulled back the foreskin, then pushed it
forward using it to masturbate the boy. He varied the speed and was careful
not to apply too much pressure to the sensitive head when it was exposed.
Stefan began to pump into his hand. Adam slowed and received a lip lock
for his effort. Very well, he jerked him harder, making sure to squeeze the
little balls once or twice. Stefan was shivering again at the approach of
another climax, this one focused on a different part of his body.

Psychologically the orgasm was different for Stefan than the last one had
been. This time his mind was focused up front while during the last he had
to think "back there". It was like using the left and right side of the brain.
This one was a fun feeling. An easy feeling. The last one was something
that he needed to contemplate. From his butt, it was like a precious drink of
water after thirsting in the desert. He didn't know why it happened, it just
did, and it left him loose and sluggish. If Adam persisted he thought it could
probably go on and on and on until he turned into pure light. But when it
came from his dick he wanted to laugh and kiss Adam quickly all over the
face. It was like a sugar drink, like honey on his thumb. It was a special
thing that he could do to himself (but really felt better with someone else)
time and time again. From the back it was all Adam. Adam was in charge of
that part of  him.

"Yeah..." sighed Stefan as his hips suspended in the air for the duration of
the spasm. He kissed Adam after it was over. They kissed for along time.
Adam's hands always seemed to find a new spot on the boy to touch. He
thought he liked it best when he cupped his ass as their tongues danced. It
made him feel special, it made him feel like that part of him was important.
In a way it was what defined him.

That is what Adam did now. His fingers found the target and played with it;
one diving in a little ways then pulling out quickly then diving in again.
Stefan was ecstatic, his whole body working to drive the fingers in farther.
Adam would pull away and the boy would kiss harder, urgent. When he
rubbed continuously at the opening, stuck a finger in and circled it, Stefan
stopped kissing and just breathed his sweet, warm breath into his mouth.

"Stefan?"

"Yes?"

"How is it? Are you ok?" Adam asked. The response was a deep kiss. "I
want to do something with you, Stefan."

"You want to put it in me." said the boy.

"Yes."

"Good." said Stefan. "I love you Adam."

"I love you too."

"But you don't even know me." said the boy. Adam answered with his own
kiss.

Adam found the small bottle of lotion in his first aid kit.

"Turn over, Stef." The globes of the boy's ass were perfect. Lower they
seemed to almost part of their own will in anticipation. Adam put a dry
finger to the hole. It was relaxed and spongy. Removing it he smeared it
with a little bit of the lubricant. This time it went in to his first knuckle.
Stefan didn't move, he didn't even breath.

"Stef?"

"Huh?" It came from him like a far away answer. Adam could understand
this. For a boy's first time this is a solitary experience. Not only for the
excited nerve endings inside, but for his ego. This was the "gay" part of the
fun. Actually, here, about now (one more knuckle inside) it becomes
serious. In the homophobic world (the every day world) this is why boys get
into fights, why they quit kissing their daddies on the lips, why they kick
dogs and chuck rocks at pigeons. This is why they form fraternities and
pledge one or two pretty boys. It is why later in the dark of some clubhouse,
or under some bridge, or in the rich member's bedroom (his parents are
gone, or are they?) they take that boy and bugger him good; each to his
station, each to his ability.

Stefan's heart growled. He didn't want to be a fag. He didn't want to be
weak and feel passive whenever a man was insight. Oh he was an agile and
tough kid, but some men--not all--did make him feel dizzy. Adam was
different than all the rest. He was special somehow. There were men that
when they looked at him made him want to run and hide until his heart quit
pounding. With Adam he was alive and warm. The only thing he wanted to
do around him was to take off his clothes, hold up his arms and wait for
Adam to pick him up and take him to where he wasn't scared anymore. Not
to say he was ever scared, just if he was he wanted you-know-who to be the
one to find him. He guessed he didn't care if, with him, he was gay 'cause
Adam was probably the strongest man in the world. (Oh!) The finger was
turning in him.

Adam knew when the change happened in Stefan. It was when his back
muscles relaxed he brought his hands to rest under his chin.

"Stef?"

No answer. Adam continued. He could feel the natural resistance but when
he tried to pull back little inner-muscles contracted. The walls of Stefan's
rectum were smooth and clean. Where was it? He needed to show quickly
how much pleasure there is to be derived from this brand of sex play. With
a little sense of urgency Adam put a constant pressure and hilted his finger,
bending it forward toward the back of Stefan's penis he--

"AHHHH!" Stefan moaned trying to pull his butt away.

"Stef?"

"What did you do to me?" Adam pulled his finger back then pushed it in
hard and bent it again. "Ungh." This time the boy spread his legs wide,
angling his butt upward. If a boy was  freer to understand the possibilities
of his body, he would know that this erotic thrust, this half hump, this
presenting is a subconscious supplication to the stimulation of having that
part of him touched; that it was an aligning of muscles and internal organs,
a putting in place of sorts, a preamble to the inevitable, to the coming
assault. (That's how it is this far in the game. Adam was that much
consumed by the chemical attraction to the boy and the boy was that much
consumed by the bubbling sensation of his body.)

Adam withdrew his finger and felt (holding the cheeks apart) the hole wink
a goodbye then close. This time coating two fingers he gently massaged the
doorway.

"I'm going to have to push harder."

The boy nodded. Adam worked his fingers in to the first joint and spread
them apart. Stefan responded by wiggling his ass. Deeper?

"Yeah..." whispered the boy. (Mmmmm...) It was hard to think on this side
of the brain. Actually there wasn't much thinking involved. It was hard to
have pleasure on this side of the brain. This was his logical side. The side
that dealt with things like numbers and names and times and places.
(Ouch!) No don't stop! And Adam's fingers made it impossible for Stefan
to figure out where and when exactly he was. He knew he wasn't in the
abbey. He wasn't in Menton. (eeeee!) There's that squeak again. I'm not a
mouse, I'm tough! (eee!) Oh bother, he couldn't help it. No he was on the
train. But going where?

 Suddenly Adam had nothing left to insert. The boy lay still. He began
vibrating his fingers making the inner walls of young rectum jiggle, the
sphincter gasp, the boy pant. That is what it was. Right? Stefan was panting
like a dog. Adam felt for the little button, the pea, the lump, the bump.
When he hit it the panting switched to silence the little butt shoving back.

"Adam?"

Adam stopped. "Yeah?"

"Please stop, I cannot go on."

"OK, kiddo."

"No! Don't take them out! Just don't move."

"OK." But Adam could not, not move. He actually wanted to see the little
kid beg to be touched there, in that way. This time in a circle but slowly.
You have to start out small and get bigger. The muscle was contracting. He
could feel the outer flesh of Stefan gooseflesh and jiggle firmly. The circle
was a character in their world. On the up stroke towards his back he
breathed in blessed relief. On the way down he pushed back. And at the
bottom (at the lump) it was still. He lingered there gently rubbing. Stefan
shook his head from side to side. Then up so breath could be drawn in.

"Stefan. Are you ready?"

The boy nodded.

"Lay on your side."

The boy turned facing the window. The breeze dusting his hair. Adam
positioned behind him in such a way that was necessary. He kissed the
small back, his lips detecting a fever. Then he kissed the small shoulder.
Stefan turned his head to try and see.  Settled, Adam reached around and
cupped the penis that was semi-hard.

"Put your leg up over my hip."

Stefan lifted his leg but Adam had to position it. What a position! What a
marvel of the human body to be able to occupy so many standards for
coitus. The boy was vulnerable like a crystal carafe on the edge of a table.
Adam's penis was between the splayed legs, pressed firmly into the crack
and nestled up against the smaller scrotum, jutting out like the boy had
grown another appendage. His arm was around the slender midsection.

"Stef?"

No answer.

"Stef. If you want this you have to put him in you."

Stefan jerked forward and up ward. His little hands grabbing the penis they
shared. With a cringe he tried to shove it full force into his body. Adam
held back and kissed his cheek.

"I'm sorry. I didn't know." Adam whispered. He was in awe at the boys
want for him.

First he the head against the opening and the feeling is like fire licking a
pond of water. When the head is in you wait and before the count of twenty
the lad is already mad for some-thing to happen.

(Oh shit!) Stefan was shaking from holding himself up above the
impalement. He felt that something was on the cusp of being lost forever. Is
this what it was all about? Is this why men looked at him when he was
barley dressed, or standing in the square a certain way as to make  his thigh
the figment of the picture, jutting nakedly from his shorts? Is this what the
ultimate goal was? (Ouch, it went just a little deeper!) He felt like he was a
vampire and the thing going into him was actually a stake and his center
was a heart. He was going to transform the only way a naive child can
transform: he was going to get deflowered, and he wanted it.

Adam felt the child pushing so he pushed and the head was gone. No, it was
reborn! Now inside the quivering tunnel. He placed a hand on Stefan's
flank at where the pulse was beating and streaming. Gently he rubbed back
and forth until he came to a stop and rest under the boy's balls. One more
inch.

(Ooooo! ouch.) It hurt just a little. Now I will end it, he thought. No, I need
to pull out first and rest. But his body, the mutinous little thing, the thing
that got him into so much trouble in the past, decided that it needed
something now.

Adam felt a point inside burst as Stefan dropped and consumed.

(Oh God! Umph,! Ungh! OUCH!) He quivered without order to where he
would feel the pinpricks. His sphincter protested by clamping, all things
drawing closer. His prostate rubbing against the shaft that so possessed him.

Adam watched as the moon rose over the hills. It cast light on the child in
his arms, making him seem like silver. The boy child who turned to kiss
him lightly then, also, watched the moon. Adam's teeth nipped the pointy
ear in what would become a tradition for many similar acts of love. It was
love! Not fully realized by either boy or man, but it was love!

...

Stefan bore down causing the older spunk in him to slush around.  He
bobbed his little ass in such a way that only it moved; and even to him it
was erotic, sexy, wonderful that he could do it and so expertly. (Ungh!
More! Yes! Harder! No! Stop! Slow it! Oh God!) Adam had called it
cuming. This was it! He tipped over and his butt exploded in quivers and
grunts and his toes were curling and his fingers in his mouth didn't help a
bit as his eyes closed to take it all. Just got to breath! Rest now. Sleep. But
Adam was still Rock Hard and now starting his own rhythm! (Yeah, Oh
he's hitting it!) I need to sit up for this one, he thought. He remembered
once being tired but now he just wanted to push down harder.


ROME


Adam carried the sleeping Stefan from the train. The boy's legs wrapped
around his waist, his arms around his neck. He needed to find a hotel room,
one with a view. He needed it before his precious cargo woke up and
wanted more.

To be continued...