Date: Wed, 10 Apr 2013 12:28:31 -0400
From: George Gauthier <georgegauthierdc@gmail.com>
Subject: Andrew Jackson High: Sprout

				Sprout
				Andrew Jackson High 2
				by George Gauthier

				1. Plant Boys

"Hey, Sprout! You back there?"

"Sure thing, Zach. Get naked, pull up a toad stool, will you, and park your
bare bum."

Just one of my bad puns. Almost any subject was fair game for one, but as a
budding botanist, anything to do with the plant kingdom earns extra points,
even a pun as feeble as that one. So Zach came around back and joined me in
my herb garden, already starting to peel off his clothing.

Zach is Zachary Taylor, no relation to the president, my neighbor,
classmate, and best friend. We met in kindergarten at age six and bonded
instantly, as only the very young can. In the ten years since then we have
become inseparable. Our houses are just minutes apart by bicycle and we are
always going over to visit one another. We go to the same school, Andrew
Jackson High, and have pretty much the same classes and teachers.

Our interests overlap, and we share a fascination with the world of
plants. Zach is aiming for a career in forestry with an emphasis on IT
support since he is a real whiz at IT. My goal is to be a research
botanist. Zach and Sprout, the "Plant Boys" they called us at school.

My real name is William but almost no one calls me that or even Billy. My
teachers call me Will. Everyone else, except my pops calls me "Sprout", and
my botanical interests are only part of the reason for it. One look at me
and the reason is obvious.

I am a little guy, a sprout that stopped growing too soon at five foot two
(158 cm). Only six extra pounds keep me from being that proverbial 98 pound
weakling who gets sand kicked in his face. Except no one would really call
me weak or soft. That phrase "hard body" could have been invented for me.
I have a wiry physique from all the running and swimming I do. My body fat
is like two percent and I do taiqi for flexibility. Think Eike von
Stuckenbrok only blond.

My full name is William Pierpoint Tagliaferro, IV. It really should be the
VI except the middle two of us William Ps took it into their heads, right
after the Civil War, to Anglicize the name and spell it the way it was
mis-pronounced: Toliver. The following generation decided to honor
tradition and resumed the original spelling. We claim to be descended from
one of the First Families of Virginia who settled there in the seventeenth
century, though I have my doubts.

I know. The name looks Italian, doesn't it. Well it is. Tagliaferro means
"iron cutter" in Italian. The Italians pronounce it as four syllables not
five; the silent g combines with lia to sound like the y sound from the
double ll in the English word million. Forgive me for showing off. With two
years of Italian and a whole lot of home study, I can follow the television
news on the RAI.

Anyway, just like with the Eisenhowers (German for iron cutter), ours is
really just another prosaic surname taken from a trade, no better really
than Baker, or Smith, or Butcher. Or Taylor, come to think of it.

So why did my many times great grands not just call themselves Iron Cutter
or maybe just Cutter? My guess is that those names might be good enough for
tradesmen but not for aspiring aristocrats. So those men of yore who
crossed the Atlantic so long ago, kept their foreign names with their
exotic spellings, only yielding somewhat on the pronunciation, either from
practicality or because the family had abandoned the Italian language, just
as they had abandoned the old country itself for England in the sixteenth
century.

All this made me wonder how many US Presidents had surnames taken from
trades. It turns to be only three:, Taylor, Eisenhower, and Carter, and
only the middle one was a success. So maybe my many times great grands were
on to something.

Now what I wrote just now about trades as presidential surnames was on
point, with some relevance to my family history. As I looked up the list of
the presidents, I made several other observations that interest a brainy
kid like me with a lively curiosity, but are not for everyone. If you do
not care to indulge me in a digression, skip the next few paragraphs on
Presidential trivia.

Did you know that no less than fifteen chief executives had surnames that
just mean "son of so and so":, Adams, Jefferson, Madison, John Quincy
Adams, Jackson, William Henry Harrison, Hayes (I think), Andrew Johnson,
Benjamin Harrison, McKinley, Wilson, Johnson again, this time LBJ. Even
Nixon (Nick's son or son of Nicholas), and I will bet you didn't know that.

Eight surnames were derived from places; Washington, Van Buren, Garfield,
Cleveland, Theodore Roosevelt (original family surname was van Rosenvelt),
FDR, Ford, Clinton.

And I don't know about Obama. There are several places with that name but
all of them in Japan. Wrong continent.

Back to my story.

Zach walked over by me then shucked his shirt, shorts, and sandals, getting
naked like I already was, like I always was while gardening. It was early
summer in South Florida, time to work on our tans even as we work the
land. Well my garden. Neither of us care much for tan lines. They are too
much of... well too much of an interruption, if you know what I mean. The
deep even tans we develop by the end of summer testify that most of the
time we spent in the sun, we were stark naked, something we actually want
folks to know. I know that is terribly naughty of us, but that is who we
are.

In truth. Zach and I go about nude just about every chance we get: at my
home and in the back yard, at the unofficial nudie beach which lies beyond
the jetty, and as naughty nature boys in nearby nature preserves, our
woodsy retreats where we can take it all off and get away from the cares of
civilization.

With my moms gone and living with just my pops, it easier for me to lead a
clothing free lifestyle. Whether because he is a social liberal or because
he had read one too many child rearing guides, he doesn't mind my habitual
nudity, except at meal times. Easy going he might be, but when he lays down
the law, we minions snap to attention and to obey. So when we sit down
together as a family around the table, my bare bum has to be covered if
only in a pair of bumming around shorts, no pun intended. No, really.

All over bare is how I like to do my gardening, getting close to nature, no
clothes no gloves, no knee pads, maybe just a straw hat atop my head. So
what if my hands, knees, legs and even my face get streaked with dirt. It
is good dirt, topsoil, mother earth. A quick douche and scrub under the
outdoor shower out back soon gets my skin shining and squeaky clean.

Sometime I work alone, a slender nude youth, bent over at stoop labor,
planting, weeding, and hoeing. Often it is the two of us together, me and
Zach, two bare-assed youths kneeling on the ground, brown cheeks resting on
our heels, lithe torsos leaning forward, genitals dangling between slender
thighs, ribs and spinal bumps prominent as, trowel or short handled hoe in
hand, we bend to our mundane tasks, firm muscles playing under our
skin. I've got video of us working together like that, two naked youths
exuding wholesomeness and vitality, fine specimens of the human animal,
bronzed and bare-bottomed.

By now you must be wondering about my looks. I didn't say much about them
earlier. If I do skip around in telling my story, mark it down to the
natural flightiness of gay guys, especially super cute twinks like
me. There, I said it straight out, and that is straight talk, no brag.

In all modesty, I would have to describe myself as an athletic boy with a
slight build and an impossibly cute face, blessed with delicate features
including a chiseled jaw line and killer cheekbones. I am a green-eyed
beauty my orbs set wide apart under finely arched brows, with lashes too
long to have ever have been meant for a boy. I was always glad my eyes were
the color of growing things, so totally appropriate for a gardner and
botanist.

On top, I can boast a head of close-cropped blond hair the color of corn
silk. A person less long-winded than myself would describe me as "an
earthly vision of youthful male pulchritude" or "a walking wet dream close
enough to touch if only you dared". Think Richie Stringini at my age.

As to my physique, as I mentioned I stand only two inches over five feet,
and only 103 pounds (47 kg) So I am small, skinny, and smooth muscled, with
the face of an angel and skin like porcelain out of the sun. Entirely free
of body hair too, even at the fork of my legs, thanks to the application of
the new depilatories which put hair follicles permanently into their
telogen or resting phase.

Some guys automatically assume that anybody that cute and sexy has got to
be insufferably vain, someone far too much in love with himself to
acknowledge lesser mortals. Not true. And just as well. The last thing AJHS
or South Florida needs is another vain pretty boy cutting a swath though
high school society, hanging with only the in-crowd of beautiful people,
snubbing anyone who cannot make the cut. Cliques are the bane of a
teenager's existence, so I try not to make things worse by becoming the
center of one myself.

If I don't seem to have as many friends as some, it is because I value
quality over quantity.  Like really, who needs four hundred "friends" on
Facebook.

I like to think that I have a friendly and outgoing personality. At Andrew
Jackson High I chat with everyone, from nerds to jocks. I am a closet nerd
myself, if the truth were known, one of the brainier kids at AJHS, with the
marks to prove it. Over the years, I never joined in the cheering when
school let out for the summer. I like school.

Oh I do look forward to the end of the school year, not because of what I
can get away from but what I can get away to. I love the hot weather of a
Florida summer. It allows me to run around starkers outdoors, letting the
sun turn my skin that tawny shade that goes so well with my blond
hair. Then there is the delicious feel of the sun's heat on my bare bum,
incontrovertible evidence that I am out in public in a state of nature. And
it really is a nice bum too, twin globes of firm boy flesh, a deep cleavage
in between, the buttocks flexing and twitching and dimpling as I walk or
run.

And I so love to run the back trails in the rude nude. Nothing makes me
feel more naked than knowing that several miles lie between me and the
nearest clothing. I could be Tarzan in Africa or maybe Mowgli in India or a
denizen of the Hyrcanian rain forest. I would like to swing on vines, but
they don't really grow that way, hanging free like in the movies. They have
roots, like most plants do.

Robinson Crusoe got it all wrong on that desert island of his when he sewed
himself an outfit from goat skins: trews, shirt, high crowned hat and even
a parasol to keep the sun off him. Old Rob there shoulda ditched the
threads and worshipped the sun, like me and Zach.

The fact is, I have an exhibitionist streak in me. I love to show off this
sexy little body I have so recently grown into. Don't get me wrong. By
exhibitionist I don't mean rain coats and flashing old ladies. I would
never do something so offensive or so crude. Not only am I Mr. Nice Guy, I
don't get turned on by old or by female either.

Fact is, I am gay, fey, and okay with it. I think my pops is okay with it
too. I am sure that, even without the big announcement, definitely not a
"confession", he knows and likely has known for a few years, that his
oldest and only son is as queer as a three dollar bill. Actually I keep
hoping they will issue that denomination, now that the dollar bill is worth
only thirty cents on the dollar of a decade ago. Meanwhile I do what I can,
asking at the bank for any two dollar bills they have in the drawer. I have
made it my mission to get them back into circulation. I don't like those
dollar coins at all, too much like a quarter, you ask me.

Anyway, enough of me. Back to Zach.

Now Zach is quality folk, though maybe not to look at. Unlike me, all out
there on the surface, Zach has hidden depths. Outwardly he is pretty much
medium everything: medium height, 69 inches, medium weight, 125 (OK that is
on the light side), hair so black it looks blue, cut medium length, of
course, and hazel eyes. Zach has ordinary good looks; he is a nice looking
boy with a pleasant face but not one to turn heads. Not like me.

Sometimes people ask me what I see in so ordinary a guy. I find that hard
to answer. Our friendship is not something I have ever felt I needed to
justify, especially not to myself.  Zach is Zach, my friend, my lifelong
friend. What do they say, friends are the family you choose for yourself. I
chose Zach and have never regretted it. Zach is special.

First he is super smart, smarter even than me, and that is saying
something. Zach has the kind of mind that sees outside of the box and makes
the breakthroughs. Look how last year when he was fifteen and working all
alone on a science project, he improved the algorithms in software used in
satellite forest surveys. Zach more than tripled the accuracy of species
identification. He got recognition for himself and for the
school. Recruiters from some of the better technical colleges came to
recruit. Zach had really put Andrew Jackson High School on their map.

I think Zach would be wasted in forestry, very much an applied science. He
should work with me on basic research. Actually with his abilities, I
wouldn't be surprised if there were multiple masters and doctorates in his
future.

You would never take him for a jock but he has brown belts in several
martial arts. That is one area where our interests do not overlap, though
he has shown me some basic moves, probably all I would ever need in a
confrontation, enough to break loose and take to my heels. He good enough,
he doesn't have to go around proving it. No chips on his shoulders, just a
level head.

And he is loyal. I watch his back; he watches mine. Anyone takes after me
takes after Zach too and vice-versa. We absolutely love being in each
other's company, whether to study, to work in the garden, to surf the web
or watch the wall screen TV we have at my house. Pops is pretty well off,
so we subscribe to a hell of a lot of content providers. Often Zach and I
sit idly and chit chat. We are on the same wavelength, often finishing each
other's sentences. He is, as the Italians say, molto simpatico.

Lately though another dimension has developed in our relationship, physical
attraction. I have always loved Zach but now I am in love with him, in a
way I yearn to express physically. In short, I have the hots for him. I am
just not sure how he would react were I to "plight him my troth" (I got
that out of a book.) I am sure he has noticed that when we rassle around
out back or at the old swimming hole, that I sometimes spring wood. We
laugh and pass it off as of no significance, something that happens to
horny teenagers. The truth is my body aches to make love to his. It is all
I can do to restrain myself and not smother him with kisses, feel him up,
grab him down there, or mark him as my own with love bites and hickeys.

And yet, he says nothing. You see, the one taboo subject with us is
sex. Meaning girls. For us they just do not exist, not the way they do for
most teenage males. He never takes a girl out on a date. Neither do I. We
say we are too busy. We fancy we are like those studious Asian boys who
have no social life. We never gossip about the physical attributes of the
local beauty queens at Andrew Jackson High or about which cute boy is
currently boffing which pretty girl.

What to do?

				2. Jungle Boy

As I said, I often run the back trails stark naked, like some jungle
boy. Now it is just possible to sneak from my house, thread your way
through the unbuilt-upon parcels of land around us, cut across school
grounds, and reach a nature preserve. I only wished I could stop right
there on the school grounds and circle the track, but good old Andrew
Jackson High is not quite ready yet for its male athletes to emulate the
ancient Olympians and train and compete in the nude.

More is the pity. I would have no problem circling the track, running past
the stands, waving to folks I know, putting my trim little body totally on
display. Would I arouse lascivious thoughts in the heads of the student
body (or is it student bodies) at Andrew Jackson High? All the better. I
like to think that I am not only incredibly sexy but physical poetry in
motion when I run.

Admittedly the genitals do look silly bouncing and jouncing and
flip-flopping when you run nude, though that is still no excuse for the
invention of the athletic supporter, a torment devised by perverse folks in
the nineteenth century alarmed at the outline of male members visible
through the cloth of athletic uniforms. It's not like any amount of
jouncing about will shake things loose. Look at that Athenian kid who
carried the word of the Greek victory at Marathon back to the city. He died
because his heart gave out, not from damage to his dangly bits.

Alas I was born too soon. Public attitudes toward nudity are changing but
not in time for my generation. At least the boys on the swim team get to
train naked. Coach Conlon insists on it. I had thought to try out for the
team but realized that I would be naked only indoors. No tan. No public
nudity. Not for me.

I do like the super skimpy swim briefs the kids wear in competition. Wow!
Those things are so exiguous as to be more of a suggestion than a garment,
leaving a boy next thing to naked as can be. The guys on the team were all
attractive, but the one who caught my eye was the little guy, the towel boy
Alex Conlon, who is the coach's nephew, the one they call Squirt. I go to
swim meets these days just to ogle Alex and that huge tallywhacker of his
barely contained by his briefs.

If I don't have much time, the closest nature preserve is where I go for a
nude run, but that all too familiar ground gets old very soon. For the sake
of variety, I take off along roads or streets or trails barefoot but in my
onionskin running shorts. Made of an ultra-lightweight, very thin, but
strong parachute fabric, very low rise across the hips, and split all the
way up the sides, the back barely covers the ass cheeks and the split sides
allow glimpses of the tiny white panties supporting my manly parts. So I
start off maybe ninety percent naked.

Depending on where I am running to and how far, and whether I can get a
drink along the trail, I sometimes carry a bottle of water. When I get into
the woods, the jungle of my imagination, I stash the shorts and water
bottle, if any, and take off running, reveling in my closeness to nature,
nothing man-made or artificial on my person. There is just me, a slender
nude boy out for a run, no clothing, no ID, no keys, no money, no map, no
phone, no nothing. Just prime leg of boy on the hoof. (Or am I mixing
metaphors, again?)

I am not always entirely alone on those outings. Sometimes I meet another
runner. If he is naked like me we giggle and run along together, smiling,
joking, and feeling terribly naughty, especially if it is a kid I know or
have seen in the hallowed halls of Andrew Jackson High.

The law is much more relaxed about public nudity these days especially at
designated beaches and such. It is not automatically an offense
anymore. The authorities take into consideration the totality of the
circumstances in the light of prevailing community attitudes. More likely
than not they don't prosecute. Naturally there are limits. You wouldn't
want to try walking into a post office to buy stamps while in the rude
nude.

Another favorite outdoor past-time of mine is botanizing, preferably in the
nude, often in the same nature preserves though I don't stay on the trail
when I hunt plant specimens. The borders of the trails are all picked
out. So to find specimens I must literally go off the beaten path. Some I
collect. Others I photograph in place. I use the GPS function of my phone
to document the exact location.

The price for going off-trail without the protection of clothing is
inevitable close encounters between naked boy flesh and injurious plant
life like blades of sawgrass, nettles, prickles and thorns. Poison ivy,
oak, and sumac aside, I really don't mind the minor damage to my bare skin
that occurs. Not that I seek to mortify the flesh, heaven forbid, I am no
masochist, but minor hurts like cuts, punctures, and tears are no big
deal. The fact is that I take a degree of perverse delight in these minor
injuries, visible reminders of my own adventures as a naked "jungle boy".

For now the closest I can come to that lifestyle is my botanizing
expeditions, even with all the heat, sweat, bugs, and minor injuries. I
proudly bear my wounds like so many badges of honor, attesting to my
fortitude and commitment to the advancement of botanical knowledge.

You are probably thinking that last remark was total bull-shit and you are
right. I am a brainy kid, and I like to play around with the language.

I once read a novel set in the seventeenth century. A Dutch sailor boy, a
pretty blond of thirteen, is shipwrecked on the coast of Ceylon. He swims
ashore, the sole survivor, equipped with just a knife and pair of canvas
trews to face the dangers of the jungle: tigers, panthers, and headhunters
to name just a few. One scene is unforgettably engraved on my mind. When a
bear attacks the boy, he scrambles for safety up a tree and does get away
though at the cost of his trews. During the attack the bear snags the
canvas of the trews on his claws and rips them clear off the lad's narrow
hips, de-pantsing him at the start of six years of life as a naked jungle
boy.

The book had an illustration of the incident, the frightened boy pulling
himself up into a tree while looking forlornly back over his shoulder as he
loses his pants, his last link to civilization. The angry bear has his
claws hooked in the fabric of the legs of the garment and has pulled the
waist band to the top of the thighs, baring the boy's buttocks.

Another scene has the eighteen year old hanging from a vine against a
cliff, collecting honey from a hive while the bees buzz all around the nude
and utterly vulnerable youth.

I have always wanted to be that naked jungle boy.

I wanted to run around nude not just for hours but for years at a time. Not
just to have my clothing our of reach but to have none at all. To reduce
life to its essentials, not food, shelter, and clothing but to just the
first two or maybe just the first one. After all what need was there of
shelter from rainfall. Far from being an inconvenience, in the hot jungle a
rain shower would cool and cleanse the body. Plenty of shade in the jungle
under the canopy. I could just sleep up a tree.

That Dutch jungle boy was the inspiration for some of my best masturbation
fantasies.

When I am on one of my jungle treks, I carry a pack hung from a stick hobo
style. It holds my notes, camera, specimen glossies, pen-knife, magnifying
glass, and water. Not my clothes. Those get stashed. Why carry my gear hobo
style? It is not only handy in itself, it keeps the pack away from my
sweaty back and leaves my body totally unconcealed. I mean, if you are
going to do the naked jungle boy thing, do it right.

The stick provides a modicum of protection. Thanks to Zach, I am getting
pretty good with the single stick but I would not carry one around daily,
like to school or around town. It is too awkward, too provocative on the
street, and looks too much like a cane the old folks lean on.

				3. Sir

Came the day, I emerged from the woods, a bit scratched up from thorns, to
head across a dirt road. The pond on the other side, really a drowned
sinkhole, looked inviting in the heat. I could hear folks were there
already, but I figured no one would much mind a little skinny dipping by a
skinny little sixteen year old boy.

Stopped right in the middle of the road, still astride his propped up
motorcycle was this cyclist. I stared mesmerized. Here was someone out of
my wet dreams and masturbation fantasies. Six feet tall (183 cm), maybe
one-sixty (73 kg), muscular but lean, he carried himself like a predator, a
great black panther. Neither young nor old, I pegged him at his early
thirties.

The cyclist was dressed just the way he ought to be: laced up boots, tight
jeans ripped in strategic places, visored cap and dark glasses, leather
jacket open all the way in the heat to expose a ripped torso. Chains,
leather wrist band, and a pair of handcuffs dangling from his belt

Boing! I was in lust, instantly and totally.

"Like what you see, kid?" He said, a grin on his face. He had me pegged
right off.

I gulped and managed to get out a strangled: "Yessir."

"Care to go for a ride?"

"Yessir."

"What's in the hobo pack?"

I told him.

"No clothes?"

"Nossir. Stashed a couple of miles from here."

"Why?"

I flushed, reluctant to admit that my sexuality was so perverse that I got
a charge out of knowing that several miles lay between me and the nearest
clothing. It was not enough to be out and about stark naked, but in a
situation where I couldn't do anything about it. But I couldn't bring
myself to own up to that right off.

The man stood there, staring at me evenly, one eyebrow raised
expectantly. I could see that my silence was not acceptable, that the man
insisted on an answer to his question. I got the impression that here was a
man who wouldn't take sass from a kid naked as a jaybird. He confirmed it
by sliding his wide leather belt out of its loops and folding it in half as
a strap, snapping it to emphasize its menace.

"Out with it boy, why?"

I turned red and stammered out my confession, even revealing my fantasy
life as a naked jungle boy, while the rider looked me up an down, taking in
my nudity and my lack of body hair, even at the fork of my legs. I clutched
myself down there, shivering with the frisson of my own naughtiness.

"Sounds like you're telling the truth boy. Good. You don't ever want to lie
to me, boy."

"Nossir."

"Of course, I shouldn't have had to ask you twice. You need to be punished
for that. Now if you really want that ride, you'll lay yourself over the
seat and take a strapping. You do want that ride, don't you boy?"

We both knew that the ride he was really talking about wasn't me on the
motorcycle but him riding my ass.

Trembling, I let my pack go and laid myself over the seat. He felt up my
buns then gave me three good whacks with the leather belt. It stung but
perversely made my bum tingle in anticipation.

"Anything in the pack you cannot afford to lose, like ID, keys or phone?"

"Nossir."

"Good. Leave it all behind and hop on."

By this time he was standing next to his machine. I climbed aboard the seat
and slid back thankful that my beaten butt didn't hurt too much. Meanwhile
he clipped his phone to the front of his jacket.

"Should I put my arms around your waist to hold on?"

"What, you think I would present my ass to a punk like you? Not
hardly. Here grab the bitch bar just behind you."

Meanwhile the motorcyclist reached into a saddle bag and came up with
several zip ties. Before I knew it, he had fastened my right wrist to the
curved metal upright just behind the seat, the bitch bar.

"What are you doing?"

"That's, what are you doing, sir? Understand?"

"Yessir, I understand, sir. What are you doing sir?"

"Strapping you in, kid, just like a three point seat belt only safer
because it's got four points."

Those four points were my wrists and ankles. Soon I was helpless, in
bondage and naked astride the seat of a motorcycle. I should have been
scared witless, and I was, trembling with fear. With lust too.

This was a dark fantasy come to life. The leader of a motorcycle gang
captures me and carries me off to who knew where to be his sex toy or
better a sex slave for the whole gang. My fate would be in his hands as he
trained me to give him pleasure or tormented me for perverse thrills. I
would be passed to his friends or pimped out. Those are the sort of things
that happen to young innocents, who fall into the clutches of brutes who
use and abuse them in appalling ways to gratify their bestial and perverted
lusts. Suddenly I was the protagonist of one of Aaron Travis' hyper-thermal
stories. (If those screeds can't get your blood pumping, then you are
either dead or straight.)

"The way you started trembling just now, I wasn't sure whether you were
frightened or glad to see me. Now I understand it is both. Good. We are
getting off on the right foot. What is your name, kid. I can't keep calling
you kid, can I."

"My name is William Pierpoint Tagliaferro, IV, but everyone just calls me
Sprout. Sir."

"That is right. I am always Sir to you, Sprout. Now let's take a good look
at you."

He straddled the seat only this time facing backward. He smiled as he
studied me visually and tactilely, running his hands over my torso,
starting at the shoulders, the deltoids, pausing at the pectorals to circle
the aureoles with his thumbs and to pull on and pinch the nips. Satisfied,
his hands slipped lower, over the chevron of my ribs, lightly fingering the
corrugations of my abs, gauging the sharpness of my hip bones, his hands
perilously close to the fork of my legs.

Blood and heat rushed to that region. My face was aflame as he toyed with
my painfully hard erection, slipping back the foreskin, pinching the piss
slit open as a drop of pre-cum oozed out. He scooped it up on the tip of
his finger and motioned for me to stick out my tongue which he coated with
a circular motion. He did that twice more, the last time, using his pinky
to coat the inside of my nostrils with my own juice."

"Pheromones to keep you in the mood during the long ride." He explained. I
was harder than ever, responding to the way he had taken charge of my body,
doing what he would with it. And why not. Hadn't I surrendered myself to
him and meekly let him render me helpless. I shivered with the thought of
my own helplessness. He smiled as if he could read my thoughts and bent my
stiff prick forward almost horizontal then let it spring back and slap my
belly with a thwack.

"I can see you are really into this. Good because there is plenty more
where that came from. Well that is settled. Just a few final preparations
and then we take off."

"Take off? Where to? What are you going to do to me. Sir?"

"Whatever I want to do to you, son. I mean Sprout."

He got a large butt plug out of his saddle bag. It was much larger than the
one I had sent away for along with assorted dildos and anal beads. All
stuff I had read about in that sex guide, what was the name, "Gay Sex for
Dummies." Their first X-rated offering, actually.

"Get this wet, kid," the man said putting it to my mouth. I complied,
slobbering it, knowing where it was going next. He put a hand in front of
my face. "Spit".

"Now bend forward."

I did so trembling with the fear that someone might walk in on us, see the
leather man playing with the twink, a twink in bondage and trembling with
lust for that very reason. I am afraid I was thinking more with my balls
than my brains at that moment. Embarrassed as I was and as nervous about my
helplessness, I wanted this scene played out. The truth is, a bondage scene
like that turns me on unbearably.

Sir applied my own spit to my boy hole and worked the butt plug in. He took
his time doing it. I hoped he was trying to minimize my pain rather than
just being careful not to tear my anal ring. Anyway, he finally got it
fully inserted as my sphincters closed around the stem. The T bar running
fore and aft kept it from slipping inside me entirely.

I felt stuffed, like I had a good sized one up inside me. Having addressed
my nether hole, Sir turned his attention to my mouth. Loosening the buttons
of his fly, he pulled out his cock and presented it to me for oral
service. We were right out there on a dirt road, me the naked teenager in
bondage, bent over, one hole plugged with cock of flesh and blood, the
other with a cock made of rubber or plastic, Bound hand and foot as I was,
I should have been trying to free myself. Instead I was slobbering over the
cock head in my mouth, while the man played with the artificial cock up my
anus and my own cock of flesh and blood, standing rampant between my legs.

Despite the urgings of my sex drive, my brain had not yielded entirely to
my balls. I began to realize how much peril I was in or at least might
be. I knew nothing of his stranger, nothing about what he might do to a
naked and horny teenage male who had so fortuitously fallen into his
clutches.

I wasn't exactly sure where this was all leading, but it clearly was not
the scenario I had imagined in which I'd lose my cherry. No help for it
now. Unless the cavalry came riding over the hill very soon, I was Sir's
for the duration. I kicked myself for yielding my body up to him without a
struggle, letting him bind and plug me. I tried to protest, to say that we
were moving too fast with this whole enslavement scenario, to demand he
release me. A length of clear packing tape across my mouth and cheeks
enforced my silence. Finally he put a spare helmet over my head and lowered
the tinted visor.

Smiling with immense satisfaction he pointed to the camera clipped on the
front of his jacket.

"You are a natural, Sprout. And the good news is that every moment of your
subjugation is being captured for posterity. You will be able to relive
these exciting moments again and again in the months ahead. As will
thousands of others on a pay per view site behind a secure pay wall. I am
going to make a lot of money off you boy, as well as take great pleasure in
your ongoing degradation."

Months? Videos? Public degradation? OMG. I suddenly realized I had made a
terrible mistake, allowing myself to be taken captive. I cursed myself for
a fool, thinking with my balls as I had, and me such a brainy kid
too. Tears began to roll down my cheeks as the enormity of my predicament
sank in. No one knew where I was or even where I had headed toward. I had
left no itinerary. And except for a few spots like the pond, not many folks
visited these parts.

				4. Slave

I wondered how he planned to carry me to his lair on the public road. It
gave me some hope of delivery till I realized that the only outward signs
of my captivity were the inconspicuous zip ties on my limbs. As for my
nudity, he could probably pass that off as bitch kink, pulling up at an
intersection and letting folks ogle the hyper-sexed kid on the bitch seat,
his soldier standing tall. Give them a laugh or two, then ride on.

That is exactly what happened, and more than once. It was the most
humiliating experience of my entire life, especially since my erection
never flagged, partly due to the constant stimulation of my prostate by
that butt plug, which conducted the vibrations from engine and road right
to my inner joy spot.

What was wrong with me? If we stopped for a traffic light, sir would reach
back and tweak me for a moment, both nips and cock head. I could only hang
my head in shame and in self-reproach as he pointed down at my groin with a
smirk when passers-bye wondered about how voluntary my presence was.

"Hard and plugged in back as well", he assured the curious. Several
actually explored my cleavage and my hole to confirm this news. It only
made me redder and harder. I could not help but wonder what kind of a slut
I was turning into. Or being turned into.

I tried to keep track of the route we took, but Sir kept to back roads and
I could not see very well through the tears in my eyes. We finally stopped
at a driveway with a bar across it, which Sir opened then locked behind
us. We were somewhere along the spine of Florida, a country of firm ground,
pine forests, fast dwindling orange orchards, and cattle ranches. This
looked to be an old cattle ranch.

Sir saw me taking it all in and said.

"That's right Sprout. An old cattle ranch. Went of out business a while
back, but it is still a livestock operation, in a manner of speaking."

Meaning me. He laughed at his own bad pun. I was hoist on my own petard, as
they say.

After he cut the ties around my wrists, he ratcheted handcuffs around my
wrist behind my back. Next was a leather lined collar made of stainless
steel. As he locked it around my neck with a luggage lock, he mentioned he
just might rivet it closed permanently. Sir then pulled my crossed wrists
up to my shoulder blades and connected their chain to a D-ring on the back
of my collar. Leg shackles completed my new look. Finally he ripped the
tape off my mouth but warned me not to say anything just yet. The time for
questions would come soon.

Standing me under a skylight in the surprisingly modern barn and locking my
collar to a chain dangling from overhead, Sir examined his new acquisition.

"Hmmm, I see you must have used the new depilatories that put the hair
follicles to sleep permanently. Good. No beard and nary a feather anywhere
on your body. The smooth glabrous look the ads describe it. No jewelry. No
studs or rings in the ears. None here in you nips, nor lower down either. I
think we can improve on that."

He pulled up a stool and sat down to examine my groin. He said he was a big
fan of ringing his boys and went into detail about the rings he had in mind
to install over the next few weeks. First simple golden rings in the ear
lobes and tits, nothing too large, nothing like those grotesque slave rings
in porno flicks, two inches across, which just got in the way. For now he
would hold off on a nose ring which interferes with kissing. No belly
button ring either. He thought that would interrupt the lines of a boy's
torso. In the porno I have read masters run a triangle of chain through
rings on nipple and navel. Sir was satisfied with easily removable tit
clamps and the chain connecting them which he could tug on or hang small
weights from.

Sir had ideas for lots of rings for the groin, though he admitted it would
not be safe to install all of them, so he wouldn't try. Too much chance of
infection. Over the next two days, Sir installed by rings.

The first was a pretty standard cock ring, initially partly open as he drew
my gonads through and clamped it shut with a pipe wrench forming a really
small cinch around my package. The cock ring served to lift my manly parts
away from the shelter of my groin and present them for use and abuse.

Next was a Prince Albert. An open end was pushed through a hole punched
through the flesh at the bottom of my cock just behind the head and out
through the piss slit. Before he closed that ring, it interlocked with two
more. One was at the upper end of the shank of a stainless steel sound
inserted all the way up the urethra, the second to a small gold ring
inserted through the skin near the bottom of the scrotum. Taken together,
the metal locked the shaft and head of my cock to the scrotum, making an
erection impossible.

"I want you to focus your sex drive on your holes, Sprout, not on your
cock. Cock is my department."

Finally there was a quiche, a ring which pierces the fold of skin that
makes a line between scrotum and anus, a small ring just big enough to
insert a finger, a small chain dangling from it, drawing the eye to it by
its jingling motion. Besides its decorative purpose, the quiche controls
arousal. Tugging on it early in sex arouses; tugging later interrupts
climax. Sir didn't mind if I had an internal orgasm as long as long as it
was his cock rather than my hand that stimulated it. And of course, he came
first even if that meant he left me unfulfilled, my engorged cock trapped
painfully in its bondage.

With both my limbs and genitalia shackled, I was a sex slave indeed. And
from the way Sir was talking, this would be no weekend lark. I would be his
captive indefinitely.

As it all sank in I started to cry in earnest, chest heaving in great sobs,
unashamed of the tears which ran freely down my cheeks. You just try being
brave when you are only sixteen years old, a mini-flyweight, alone, naked,
shackled, and facing the rest of your life as the sex slave of a man
grown. This was not what I wanted from life. Silly sex fantasies aside, I
wanted a normal life. I wanted Zach, not Sir.

Experienced in the art of breaking a boy, Sir first gave me a drink of
water to prevent dehydration, then walked off leaving me to my crying
jag. He knew that this job required patience.

Sir left me alone for a while to give me time to think, maybe to lose
hope. Over the next few days, I came to realize that resistance was
futile. Sir was simply too strong, too wily, and too experienced in
livestock management for me to escape. He took my cherry, right there in
the barn, me standing up, collar still attached to the chain hanging from a
rafter like some flesh puppet. He took me from behind and later from in
front, impaling me on his very large cock.

As with the butt plug, he was careful not to cause permanent damage, but he
played rough. He liked foreplay with a whip or a paddle. He did not strike
so hard as to leave permanent marks, but the man did like to leave
temporary welts on a boy's body. Sir never took me to a real bed for a
fuck. It was either hanging in chains, belly down on a bale of hay, or
locked into his home built rape machine.

This was a contraption made of metal bars fixed flat to heavy table. One
long rod, two cross-pieces, with cuffs at their ends for wrists and
ankles. He would put me on the table on knees and elbows and lock my wrist
and ankles. A metal collar atop a short vertical member closed around my
neck. When I was ready, he fucked me doggy style. To this basic approach he
could add refinements like nipple clamps and ball weights or drip candle
wax on my back or on my manly parts, pulled back and through the legs for
that purpose. And of course, my bum was available for strap, paddle, or
whip.

He was a fiend at getting the most fuck and humiliation out of his captive
without inflicting permanent damage or leaving ineradicable marks. Not so
much from mercy as a preference to start with a fresh canvas each
session. As he was screwing me particularly hard on day, he expressed his
satisfaction.

"Ah yes, the sound I love to hear from a boy when I break him: that soft
whimper of defeat and resignation with trickle of tears to add the note of
sincerity. Here boy, lick your tears off my fingers. Now you know, really
know, that this is your fate. You will never again know freedom, dignity,
or choice. In a few months, your earlier life will come to seem like a
dream, something that happened to someone else."

I saw no one else I could identify but I knew some few others had come to
visit, to check me out. A couple of times I heard trucks drive up and
footsteps crunch on the gravel. Sir used tanning cups over my eyes to
blindfold me while I was being shown like a prize colt in the barn. The
white cups covered so little of my face, the visitors could see that I
really was exactly as advertised, just like the teaser videos Sir had sent
them.

I cannot complain too much about the conditions of my captivity. My
quarters were a cell with tile floor and walls, like a bathroom or kitchen,
and smelling faintly of Pine-Sol. One of my tasks was to keep my quarters
clean enough to satisfy my strangely fastidious captor. The cot was
comfortable enough. I slept locked in my cell with one shackle around an
ankle. My cell was provided with running water and one of those
prison-style steel plumbing fixtures. I supposed the facilities could have
been much worse, say a horse stall with straw for bedding and a slops
bucket.

Sir fed me well, providing home cooked meals which he told me was what he
fed himself. He made me keep fit with regular sessions on an exercise cycle
and calisthenics. The comfortable quarters and decent food were really for
his own benefit, not mine. He wanted me looking good: healthy and fresh and
perky for his sex games.

From the scope of the facilities, he kept only one boy at a time, though I
could not have been the first. At least Sir was not part of a ring that
trafficked in humans. His aim was to keep me for himself and make me earn
my keep with those videos he would eventually offer, though not till the
heat had died down.

				5. Angel

Two weeks later, as I hung exhausted from my chains after a brutal fuck, I
had a vision of Zach standing in a pool of light, calling my name. Figures
in uniform moved around him, but all I focussed on was Zack in the guise of
a guardian angel. Was this an hallucination or a near death experience? It
was incredibly vivid and realistic, like the very best CGI in the movies,
whatever it was. I wanted it to go on forever. In my confusion, I called
out.

"Pray guardian angel, tell my Zach that I was in love with him. I never got
to tell him so myself."

"He already knows, Sprout. He... I am standing right here in front of you,
and yes, I am head over heels in love with you too."

When my hallucination physically embraced me, it broke the spell and I
realized that Zach really was there with me in the flesh. I shouted, a cry
of relief and happiness then fainted dead away.

The cops used the key hung on hook to free me from my collar and neck
chain. Their own standard cuff keys freed my limbs.

I learned later that I owed everything to Zach who was not only my guardian
angel but also an avenging angel of justice. He did not give up even though
an initial check of traffic cameras had provided no clues. Zach couldn't be
sure, but he thought it likely that my image had been caught on camera,
there were so much surveillance these days. It was a matter of filtering my
face out of thousands and from images taken from many angles under
differing light conditions He asked the authorities for access to the raw
data, explaining why he thought his own visual search software could do a
better job than theirs. The police refused. Departmental business. Civilian
amateurs need not apply.

Now if there is one thing I know about Zach is that he does not give up
easily. To get what he needed from the Department he needed leverage, so he
hacked into their computers. Now the data he sought were off-line, but a
lot of really sensitive stuff was not. He penetrated both operations, the
police department and the office of the district attorney, analyzed their
security, then wrote a devastating report.

I only wish I had been there when he met with the authorities and cooly
blackmailed them into cooperating with him, letting him have access to the
data he needed. They did not realize it, but Zach made an audio recording
of the meeting. This reconstruction of that meeting is based on that
recording and Zach's memory.

"Gentlemen," Zach began. "I know that your position is that, as a civilian
without any official status, I cannot be granted access to the data I
need. Today I am going to change your minds about that."

"That sounds like a threat, young man. You might want to reconsider your
position." the district attorney replied stubbornly.

"We know why you feel you must stick your oar in son." the Police Chief
said. "But no way we are going to turn those files over to some lovesick
teenager pining for his boyfriend."

"What? I never said anything about that. I wasn't even sure myself till
just recently. How can you know that I am in love with Sprout, er Will
Tagliaferro?"

"You forget son," the Chief replied patiently. "First, that we are
detectives and second, just how much the kids at Andrew Jackson High
gossip."

Zach flushed, but held himself in check. He knew an emotional appeal based
on his love for his lifelong friend would get him nowhere. So he laid his
bombshell on the two lawmen, handing them the first part of the report he
had written, the executive summary. Its basic message was that security at
Police HQ and the Office of the DA was a bad joke. The facts outlined in
the executive summary were appalling. Two millions dollars for IT security
had been thrown away for nothing. The good news, according to Zach, was
that the fix would not take big bucks. Many of the changes were procedural
or easy tweaks. See his recommendations.

"I get the data, you get the rest of my report. Otherwise I go to the
papers and CNN."

"That's blackmail!"

Zach smiled evilly. "Blackmail? That has such an ugly sound. I prefer to
think of my approach to negotiation as 'creative persuasion'".

"He's got us Chief. Anything else you want Zach?"

"Complete immunity from prosecution. Local, State and Federal."

"Agreed. We will have to get the Feds aboard on that, of course. In return
you agree to keep your mouth shut and not take credit for the improvements
to security. And you won't get paid for the work either. We will implement
your recommendations all right. We would be fools not to, and we are not
fools. But we will make it look like it was our own idea. Chief Hendricks,
make the arrangements."

Which is what lead, in due course, to my liberation. A search of the video
data lead to witnesses of my motorcycle ride who eventually lead to Sir.

The doctors said I was basically all right, though my anal ring was a
little strained. They cut off my hardware. Good riddance. I don't know how
a man could be so cruel as to want to imprison a teenage boy's
sexuality. Surely that is one of the chief glories of being sixteen in the
first place. A carefree existence was another, but Sir had taken that from
me, though only temporarily.

Sir was arrested and implicated in the disappearance of two other boys over
the last decade. No bodies turned up despite a through search with ground
penetrating radar. The FBI later tracked down one of those boys. Now a man
grown, he was working at a leather bar in San Francisco. Sir had let him go
after the youth had passed the upper limit of his age preference,
twenty-five. Whether from embarrassment, Stockholm Syndrome, or a skeleton
in his own closet, the man refused to testify against Sir. The other kid
has dropped below the radar.

Still Sir faced a mess of charges in connection with me. Against my
testimony, the surveillance cameras, and his home video, the best he could
do was take a plea which the State offered to save the cost of a trial. I
hear he is going to get consecutive sentences adding up of 8 and one-third
to twenty-five. Fine by me, I am not out for blood, only justice. It's not
like Sir killed anyone. When he gets out, he will be a registered a sex
offender. My lawyers expect to collect several million through a lawsuit,
though that will still leave Sir a rich man. I do feel sorry for any kid he
turns into his punk in prison, but nothing I can do but about it.

Sir's videos were a terrific embarrassment. I cringed watching that dumb
kid, me, act so heedlessly, utterly clueless to the danger he was in. I
acted like one of those idiotic teenagers in a slasher movie. You know the
type. The bodies start to pile up and the distraught girl asks herself what
she should do. Suddenly a light bulb goes on and she announces to the
world:

"I know! I'll take the path through the dark woods and go skinny dipping in
the lake, by myself, at midnight!"

The video of my capture and torments went viral despite the best efforts of
the authorities to quash them. I suspect Sir's business partner was at
work, trying to make what money he could from the advance footage Sir sent
him. I got a lot of sympathy though everyone agreed I had foolishly stuck
my head in a noose. If I could take back those few minutes, I would. At
least most of the critics acknowledged youth, naivete, and hormones as
mitigating factors in my blunder.

Not all the feedback was positive. I did not much care for the creeps who
wanted me to reprise my role in the videos. Some offered to pay me. Others
expected me to do it for free, just for the kicks. I wanted to kick them,
and Zach offered to help me do so, but of course we didn't.

Zach was there with me, step by step as my physical and psychological
wounds healed. Three days after my release he laid his first kiss on my
lips. My heart soared. I returned it, but we both knew it was too soon for
intimacy. Still we smiled, giddy with the thought that we both wanted this
new kind of love between us and would soon have it. I did kid him about
what he had said to me when he found me in chains.

"Why do we always say 'Head over Heels in Love' when we actually make love
with our heels over our heads? Or at least I plan to. Am I missing
something here?"

Zach and I pledged to each other our hearts and minds, our bodies and our
souls. We were far too young to think of formalizing our union, but it was
and is a very real thing in our young lives.

We are even more inseparable now, Zach and I, since we share a bed. Our
lovemaking is energetic, enthusiastic, and acrobatic. We can do loud and
boisterous or gentle and sweet. I am more of a bottom and Zach more of a
top, but we are versatile and readily switch roles. I like it best when
Zach puts me on my back and rolls me onto my shoulders, draping my legs
over his shoulders, as he addresses my fundament.

Did I describe Zach as medium in everything? Wrong! There is nothing medium
or mediocre about his endowment. Zach has a big one. Even flaccid, it
dangles hugely. I like to think my own manhood is more than adequate but I
won't be scaring the horses. It takes both my small hands to cover an
erection, but only one when I am soft.

Zach also likes me to play all submissive, to get down on my knees between
his legs as he towers over me, my face turned up worshipfully, my pouty
lips around the fleshy tube that connects us. He ruffles my short hair and
stares at my face, drinking in my beauty, as he likes to put it. As I work
on his cock with tongue and lips and even teeth, he plays with my erection
with his big toe.

One time just recently, I was so horny Zach's foot foreplay brought me off
before he himself was anywhere near orgasm. Fists on hips, he glared down
at me as I rocked back on my heels and shuddered and spit, while he
promised to punish the miscreant who had abandoned him to attend to his own
lusts. I got a spanking for that infraction, though just hard enough to get
my buns red, foreplay for the main event, my ass. So Zach did get his rocks
off, after all.

Ours was one of those rare teenage love affairs that promises to become a
lifelong commitment. Guys do sometimes marry their high school sweethearts
and live happily ever after, as I fully expect we will too. That was the
most important lesson I drew from my ordeal. I found out the difference
between lust and love. With Sir it was all give and take. I gave and he
took. With Zack, love is a sharing between partners who want the best for
their counterpart as much as for themselves.

I decided that the second lesson to be learned from what happened was not
to avoid bare ass hikes in the woods. Just don't go there alone. So now two
nude teenagers can be seen running the trails of the local nature preserves
or botanizing, Zach and Sprout. We have a whole new reputation as the
Nature Boys. Depending on the tone it is said in, it's a nice nickname,
cute and endearing. It had better be, we don't take shit off anyone. We
have our single sticks and we know how to use them.

Should any hikers stumble upon two gay teenagers making love in the open
air, they should just count themselves lucky, sit back, and enjoy the show
because we really are two beautiful people, especially Zach.

My pops is really cool about Zach's frequent sleep-overs at my house. He is
grateful to my lover and will forever respect him for the way he had let no
obstacle keep him from rescuing his son. Pops allowed that he knew all
along that I was gay but was never sure of Zach's orientation, though he
always hoped that we would extend our bond as a couple, lest different
sexuality drew us apart.

Zach's folks were clueless beforehand, but their love for their son swept
aside all other considerations. Soon I was welcome to sleep-overs at Zach's
house. His moms adjusted admirably to the new situation. Maybe Zach will
not be giving her grandchildren, but at least he has provided her with a
good-looking son-in-law.

			Author's Note

If you have enjoyed this story and others like it, I hope you will consider
making a donation to the Nifty Archive. It is so easy. They take credit
cards.

This tale was inspired by my recent story 'Squirt' and is the second in an
emerging series set in and around a fictitious Andrew Jackson High School
in South Florida. For some reason, a story that I had intended to be
another light comedy turned darker for a while. I am not sure why. Stories
sometimes surprise their authors.

Meanwhile, good news for readers disappointed at how few stories I have
published of late. Folks, help is on the way. I am writing my first
novel-length story, which is already at 110 thousand words.  Mostly I
publish novelettes of 10 -15 thousand words.

The novel is in the genre called heroic fantasy. Like so many stories in
that genre it is set on an imaginary world in an imaginary universe where
wizards and druids and others work real magic, a world populated by several
sentient races including humans, elves, giants, and dwarves. Unlike most
such worlds, this one has an awful lot of cute young guys running around in
the skimpiest of costumes or even nothing at all, and taking every
opportunity to hop into bed with each other and to switch partners.

Sorry, no dragons, but I'll bet you never read a tale that featured a naked
teenage druid leading the charge of a herd of brontotheres against an army
of Amazons. What is a brontothere? Look it up, but not in the
dictionary. Try the Wikipedia instead.

Look for publication of my very first novel this summer on most of these
same stations.

Readers who like this story might want to try my two series 'Daphne Boy'
and 'Naked Prey' in the Gay/Historical section of the Archive or my 'Jungle
Boy' series of Hollywood tales, posted in the Gay/Authoritarian section.
Also available are my older 'Track and Field' stories in Gay/College and my
'Mer-Boy' stories in Gay/Beginnings. For links to my stories, look on the
list of Prolific Authors on the Archive.

Comments and feedback welcome.